AllFreeNovel
Share Us
My stomach clenched, but I refused to allow him to see he was ruffling my composure. “Mrs. Fuller would not recognize me, so it hardly matters.”
“I could toss flour on your face to help her memory along.”
I scowled at him dramatically, fighting a smile. “I never met the Fullers. I stayed down in the kitchen. If I was to see them in London, they would not know I used to knead their bread.”
Benedict leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “And before that? What did you do?”
“Before kneading their bread? That was actually not something Cook trusted me with often.” My cheeks warmed. “I was more often cutting vegetables or washing dishes.”
“No,” he said, a curious smile on his lips. “Before the Fullers’ kitchen, what did you do?”
“I worked for a seamstress at a shop in Upper Trumby. My stitches weren’t small or even enough for her, but she gave me a fair chance before sending me to the market to find other employment.”
Benedict looked thoughtful, his blue eyes interested but the remainder of his face placid. If this was an effort on his part to gather information to share with his mother, he was wasting his time and efforts at his attempted covertness. I was happy to share all of this with Lady Edith when I arrived at Chelton. I did not wish for her to wonder over the nature of any of my situations.
“But I did not go to the seamstress directly from school.”
“No?” His curiosity was again piqued, but I allowed that morsel to dangle a moment longer.
I stretched my legs ahead of me and leaned my head back against the whitewashed wall, waiting for Benedict’s curiosity to snap. He was handsome—I could admit as much in the quiet of my own thoughts, of course—with a constant disarray of curls and a rakish smile. His lips were now flat, angled in such a way as to try and make me believe he did not care to learn where I went when I left school.
“How long were you looking for me?” I asked.
Benedict’s gaze broke, and he looked to the simmering fire in the hearth. “I took multiple trips.”
“More than one? I do not know what I did to warrant such generosity.”
“It was not for you,” he said to the small fire.
Of course not. I knew that. He would never do anything for my sake alone. My gaze sought the empty plate and discarded utensils on the small table beside the bed—evidence of the lie I had just told myself. I looked away.
Benedict ran a hand through his riotous curls. “It took me a good deal of time to discover that you’d gone to Gallingher Park from the school, but when I questioned the housekeeper, she told me you’d left and they did not know where to. It was difficult to piece together where you went after that.”
“Yet you found me in Brumley,” I said. How had he made that leap? Gallingher Park was the home of my governess position. It could not have been pure coincidence.
“A little luck, and a great amount of searching.” His hand moved as though it meant to fetch something from his pocket, but he stopped himself. He looked to the darkened window. “We ought to go to sleep soon so we can make an early start in the morning.”
“Not yet,” I said, my gaze riveted by his pocket. Something was in it that he did not allow himself to fetch. “You mean to have me believe that luck landed you on the lane behind the Fullers’ garden?”
“Not entirely, no. There was a good deal of searching involved too.”
“In what way? Did you knock on every door in Yorkshire? Inquire at every inn?”
He looked up sharply, his expression almost turning sheepish. He could not have knocked oneverydoor . . . that was fairly impossible.
“How did you search for me, Ben?” I asked, leveling my voice. It became extremely important for me to know this, though I did not know why I cared so deeply.
Benedict stood. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, oval miniature in a gold-painted frame. My breath caught when I recognized the tiny painting. It was me, and it had been done just before my mother died, when we had shed our mourning clothes and were just dipping our toes into Society again. Though I was fifteen when I sat for the portrait, I did not look so very different now. Mother had commissioned it with the intent to send it to my godmother, unknowing that I would arrive myself on her doorstep only months later.
My heart squeezed, and I reached for the painting, the warmth of its frame evidence of how long it had lived in Benedict’s pocket.
“I showed that to many innkeepers, and it was a great help in pointing me in the correct direction time and again.”
The depth of his efforts was apparent, though his motivations remained less so. He had explained that guilt incited his search, as he felt responsible for my discomfort in going to Chelton. But to remain on the hunt for so long could not have been easy. What had maintained his motivation?
“I sat for this portrait while my mother prepared herself for her first ball after coming out of mourning, and I was so eager to join her. I only had another year or so to wait, and it was with great impatience that I did so.” At that time, I had still been able to hope that not all men were like my father. I’d still believed there were a few left who would speak only things they meant, who were honest and true.
Benedict had quickly proven that he was the type of man who doled out compliments and flowery speech to anyone bearing a smile and a skirt, and the reminder of our first few months together at Chelton was made bitter by the way he had seemingly sacrificed in order to find me. My emotions were wavering. The embarrassment of thinking he’d cared for me, only to learn that he was nothing but a flirt, that the way he spoke to me was in no way singular or special, still brought the fire of humiliation to my cheeks, and I ducked my head.
