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Bess. Of course. Bess needed care and attention. Hart stumbled to his knees, grateful that his driver did not reach out to assist him. He heard her coughing before he'd walked halfway across the yard. "Have you given her water?"
"Yes, sir."
Knowing what must be done, Hart stopped in his tracks and looked back at the site of Emma's home. He let his eyes roam over it, memorizing the scene before he continued toward the carriage. "We must go then. She'll need care and rest. A comfortable room."
"I'll see to the room, Your Grace."
Hart stepped into the coach and took the seat opposite the nest of blankets that made up Bess's bed. "Bess, can you hear me?"
He wrapped his hand around hers and felt her squeeze weakly back. "Bess, do you know what's happened?"
"Fire," she rasped, and the word tore another fit of coughing from her throat. Tears leaked from the corners of her clenched eyes.
"Yes, a fire. You're not burned though, just stunned by the smoke. I'm taking you to an inn where you can rest."
Her hand clenched his fingers harder. She tried to clear her throat, but only coughed again before subsiding into silence.
"I am sorry . . ." He should do this now. Get it over with quickly. "I'm sorry, Bess. Your mistress, she . . ."
Her eyes opened, bright with fear.
"She did not escape the fire."
No, her lips said, though she made no sound.
Hart was overwhelmed by the urge to agree, to join her denial with his own. But he owed her the truth, not stupid hope. "We searched everywhere, Bess." He swallowed back the emotion that tried to crack through his words. "She's gone. I'm so sorry."
Her fingernails dug into his skin as she squeezed, but the pain provided distraction from the sheer panic in her eyes. She shook her head and tried to rise.
"Calm down. Don't injure yourself." He leaned forward to press her shoulders down, but she grabbed his wrist with her free hand and held him tight.
"Listen" she rasped. "Please. Listen."
"Yes, of course." The coach jerked forward as it moved out of the soft ground and back to the lane.
"She's not . . ." The wheels drowned out her tortured words, forcing Hart to lean close to her lips. "She's not there. A man . . ."
"What?"
She began to cough again as a strange, brittle pressure formed in Hart's chest. He forced himself not to grab her. "What are you saying?"
"Not there," Bess choked out, her face reddening with the effort. She let go of his wrist and pressed her hand to her throat as if to push the words out. "A man took her. Someone took her."
His heart stopped and held itself still, not daring to believe. "You saw this?"
"Yes. I saw him . . . pull her away." "Who?"
"I couldn't tell, but she . . . she said 'Matthew.'"
His heart burst back to furious life as he raised his fist to the roof. He wanted to race back to Emma's home, but he could not give chase in the carriage. He'd let the whole damn day pass. They must have gone miles.
"Stop!" Hart slammed open the door and hung himself out the opening again. "Lark! We need to get back to Whitby as quickly as possible. She's not dead. Someone took her, a man named Matthew Bromley. Get me back to Whitby before sundown and let's find out if he's been seen."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"I'll need you to get me the swiftest horse you can. I have to find her."
"Of course. Hie!" He yelled to the horses before Hart had even snapped the door shut. He was jerked back to his seat and the force slammed cold fury into his veins.
