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“Elizabeth, it is me.”

At Fitzwilliam’s call, I patted Sarah’s hand. “Come in.”

My husband entered and closed the door behind him. He took a position behind me to address Sarah. “Is Mr. Price a relation of yours?”

She winced, and her mouth wrenched downwards. “He is my husband.”

His hand rested on my shoulder. “When we reached Mr. Price, he was unconscious. He suffered severe physical trauma in the fall. We took him to the nearest building, a cabin. I am sorry to inform you that soon after we arrived, he succumbed to his injuries. Please accept my condolences.”

Good God. I ought to be regretful or at least sorry for the man, and yet I could not bring myself to be so.

Sarah’s breath rushed out. “Are you certain? I mean to say, is he truly…dead?”

“Yes, I am afraid so. When we found him, he had this in his hand.” Fitzwilliam handed her a tiny portrait in an oval silver frame.

“Oh, thank you.” She peered at the miniature. “Then I am…free.”

I gave her an intent look. “Sarah, is it not time you told us the entire truth?”

She nodded. “Yes, I owe you that.”

“Of course, perhaps we ought to call you, Mary.”

She frowned. “Although that is my true name, I have come to prefer Sarah. I shall answer to either name.”

“In that case, I shall continue to use Sarah.”

Fitzwilliam stepped closer to her. “Before we go any further, would you be agreeable to allowing Mr. Winston to join us? He is waiting in the hall.”

“Oh.” Her brow crinkled. “Yes, by all means. He deserves to hear this as well.”

My husband called Winston to the room and moved two chairs so we could all sit together.

Winston took the seat beside Sarah. He reached his hand out as though to touch hers but withdrew it. “Joe related what occurred today, and I wanted to ensure your well-being.”

She directed her shiny eyes at him. “I am quite well.” She shifted to view Fitzwilliam and me. “However, I am very sorry for having been dishonest. My true name is Mary Price, nee Grant, and I spent most of my years in Ludlow. The winter before my sixteenth birthday, my parents succumbed to typhus. By then, I had been employed at the Angel Inn in Ludlow for a year. The manager, Mr. Jones, had always treated me like a daughter. After my parents’ deaths, he provided me a room below stairs at the inn.” She glanced at Fitzwilliam. “Mr. Jones is a gifted artist. He painted the miniature of me as a wedding present.”

She crushed her handkerchief in her hand. “Three years ago, Mr. Jones hired Mr. Price to replace our elderly hostler, who retired to reside with his son. At first, Mr. Price was kind and generous to me, and we formed a close friendship. When he proposed marriage several weeks later, I made the mistake of accepting the offer. Although I did not love him, I yearned to have a family. Within two weeks of our marriage, he became jealous and controlled every aspect of my life. He saw any man who spoke to me as a threat and accused me of flirting with them. He often overindulged in liquor and lost his temper, which led to his striking me.”

An audible inhalation of air came from Winston. He maintained a stiff bearing, his face twisted in a depiction of outrage.

Sarah’s head dipped. “Mr. Price resented anyone whom I considered a friend, even the female workers. Then one day, he announced that we were leaving. Of course, I had no say in the matter. We departed without any advance notice to Mr. Jones. Mr. Price managed to obtain a position at a coaching inn outside of Leominster. A week or so later, they hired me on as a maid. But as before, Mr. Price found reasons to accuse me of improper behaviour and within a year, he decided we would leave again. This pattern continued, and we moved at least four times over the past couple of years. By the time we reached Sheffield, I had determined to leave him by any means possible. I packed my few belongings and departed in the night after another of his drinking binges when he fell unconscious.”

Her sight flitted between my husband and me. “I am so very sorry for the deception.”

Fitzwilliam met my gaze, giving me a slight nod. “Under the circumstances, I do not blame you. You acted to escape an intolerable situation. There is little I despise more than a man who raises his hand to his wife, or any woman under his care.”

“Mr. Price was despicable.” Winston grimaced. “He could not even be called a man.”

At the knock upon the door, my husband called out, “Enter,” and Rutley came in.

“Sir, Mr. Hunt has arrived. He awaits you in the front sitting-room.”

“Thank you. I shall be there shortly.” Fitzwilliam stood.

The memory of Rollo’s actions sparked a sudden concern, and I rose as well. “I shall walk you out.” We paused just past the open doorway, and I leaned close to him. “Am I correct in thinking that there are visible signs of Rollo’s attack on Mr. Price’s face?”

His mouth tightened. “Yes.”