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Chapter Eleven
She ought notto feel impatient just because Mr. Mason was not there when she awoke. Or a few hours later after a kind apothecary had left. Mr. Maclean was there to keep her company, but she fast discovered that he could not put her at ease.
He also did not interest her, but that was another topic she did not wish to examine until she was certain it might lead to some good. Neither brother was married, so that was not a concern. There were no wives to offend by simply existing and being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Given the time of year,she thought, remembering stories of charity and miracles,perhaps you were in therightplace at therighttime.
“He should be back soon,” said Mr. Maclean. “I suspect we’ll just end up staying here, but that’s better than a jab to the face with a sharp stick.”
“What if someone comes looking for me?”
“We won’t let anyone do anything against your will.”
Florence noticed that Mr. Maclean did not say she wouldn’t be found. In a way, she appreciated the lack of false reassurance. “Fine. Thank you.” She sat up against the pillows, thankful that she was not squeamish about men—well, most men—and women sharing the same spaces. It was different for a lady and would even be different for her young former charges. They would not be taught to think this sort of situation was all right under any circumstances.
Her situation was somewhat extraordinary, to be sure. Most women would not exhaust themselves into fainting in an inn in a village to which they’d fled.
But any scenario with an unchaperoned, unmarried man and a woman in a roomwith a bedwould spell disaster—was what she knew the wee Danvers girls would be told. While she understood the need to have caution and discretion, she thought it was a rigid way to view the world.
“You’re welcome,” said Mr. Maclean from his chair by the window. She gathered that they were at the top of the inn.
It was dark and Harriet would probably bring up a tray soon. Florence was too nauseous to eat much but had been pronounced relatively fit. She merely needed to bolster her strength, apparently, which she could have told anyone.
“It is starting to look frosty,” said Mr. Maclean as he looked into the dark sky beyond the glass. “I do hope Charles returns soon.”
“I hope he does, too.”
“What are youdoing here, Mr. Lester?” Charles asked. He released a breath. “Has Miss Doyle worsened?”
He crossed his arms from where he stood before the bookshelves, surprised he had to steady himself as he asked.
“I wanted to speak to you in private.”
“That is not an answer.”
“She is fine,” he said.
Charles relaxed. “Then what did you wish to speak to me about?”
If he was to be honest, he would admit that the innkeeper provided a welcome distraction. Unlike the other rooms, the library felt personal. Too close to his father.
For some reason, his questions seemed to prompt Mr. Lester to reach out and touch him on the arm. “You will have to forgive me, although I am sure I do not deserve it.”
“I have… no idea what you are talking about.”
Mr. Lester was not nearly old enough to have lost his wits. Charles wondered if he had, though. His eyes were earnest and avid. “There was never a duel.”
“No, well, I had gathered that,” said Charles, tilting his head.
“I do not know who might have started such a rumor,” said Mr. Lester. He frowned. “One of the young people who left years ago, perhaps. Who knows how stories start? I should not have repeated it to you.” He took a large breath and let it out. “I ruined your father’s happiness and, for that, I am sorry.”
Charles did not follow. Perhaps he was not speaking sense at all. He did not smell of drink. He did not have the telltale sway or slurred, slow words of someone who had taken opiates. “Why don’t you tell me more of what you are thinking?”
“Of course,” he said. “I was home for the new year.”
“Yes?” Charles wished he had something heavy in hand, just in case Mr. Lester chose to rush at him. He did not know if the man would, but one could never tell.
“Your parents, they were… as good as married. Perhaps not by England’s standards, but…”
