he could no longer bear his childhood home or those associated with it.
Still, she had no reason to complain. He had paid off her father’s debts, Allington was profitable and the Duke remained largely in London. Thank goodness. She still shivered when she remembered their last interview.
‘I must go,’ she said to Jamie, diverting her thoughts. ‘I promised Edmund I would look in on a few of his tenants during his absence.’
She sighed. Mere weeks ago, Edmund had gone to war. She wished desperately he had not done so and knew he had been driven more by grief than patriotism. His father, his wife and their unborn child... Too many losses crammed into too few years.
‘A sight more than his brother will do,’ Jamie said.
‘His life is in London,’ she said. ‘We always knew that.’
* * *
The road to Graham Hill was a winding, meandering path through shaded woods and across open pasture. She had brought Arnold today, but even without her groom Beth knew her way. She could easily differentiate between sounds—the muted clip-clop of hooves on an earthy path was so different from the sharper noise of a horse’s shoe against a cobbled drive.
In some ways, her father had lacked moral fibre. In others, he had been remarkable. He’d helped her to see with her hands, to learn from sounds and scents and textures.
But it was her mother who had taught her independence and, more importantly, how swiftly such independence could be lost.
Lil, short for Lilliputian due to her small stature, slowed when the drive ended. Beth leaned forward, stroking the mare’s neck, warm and damp with sweat. Arnold swung off his mount to open the gate. She heard its creak as it swung forward and, more through habit than need, counted the twenty-one steps across the courtyard.
Lil stopped and Beth dismounted. She paused, leaning against the animal, her hand stretched against Lil’s warm round barrel of a ribcage. She heard the horse’s breath. She heard the movement of her tail, its swish, and Arnold’s footsteps as he took Lil from her, the reins jangling.
Except... She frowned, discomfort snaking through her. There was a wrongness, a silence, an emptiness about the place. No one had greeted her; no groom or footman had come. She could hear nothing except the retreating tap of Lil’s hooves as Arnold led her to the stable.
The unease grew. Dobson should be here opening the door, ushering her inwards, offering refreshment. Beth walked to the entrance. The door was closed. She laid her palm flat against its smooth surface, reaching upward to ring the bell.
It echoed hollowly.
Goose pimples prickled despite the spring sunshine. Pushing open the door, she stepped inside.
‘Dobson?’ Her voice sounded small, swallowed in the emptiness. ‘Dobson?’ she repeated.
This time she was rewarded by the butler’s familiar step.
‘Ma’am,’ he said. ‘I am sorry no one was there to meet you.’
‘It’s fine. But is anything wrong? Has something happened?’
‘Her ladyship is on her way, ma’am,’ he said.
Beth exhaled with relief. ‘That is all right then.’
Granted, her mother-in-law was a woman of limited intelligence and considerable hysteria, but her arrival was hardly tragic. Besides, Lady Graham would not stay long; she loathed the country almost as much as Ren and spent most of her time in London.
‘No, ma’am that is not it,’ Dobson said, pausing as the clatter of carriage wheels sounded outside. ‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ he said.
After Dobson left, Beth found herself standing disoriented within the hall. She had forgotten to count her steps and reached forward tentatively, feeling for the wall or a piece of furniture which might serve to determine her location. In doing so, she dropped her cane. Stooping, she picked it up, her fingertips fumbling across the cool hard marble. Before she could rise, she heard the approach of rapid footsteps, accompanied by the swish of skirts: her mother-in-law. She recognised her perfume, lily of the valley.
‘Lady Graham?’ Beth straightened.
‘Beth—what are you doing here?’ Lady Graham said. Then with a groan, the elder woman stumbled against her in what seemed to be half-embrace and half-faint.
‘Lady Graham? What is it? What has happened?’
‘My son is dead.’
‘Ren?’ Beth’s heart thundered, pounding against her ears so loudly that its beat obliterated all other sounds. Every part of her body chilled, the blood pooling in her feet like solid ice. Her stomach tightened. The taste of bile rose in her throat so that she feared she might vomit.
‘No, Edmund,’ Lady Graham said.
‘Edmund.’
A mix of relief, sorrow and guilt washed over her as she clutched at her mother-in-law, conscious of the woman’s trembling form beneath her hands. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Edmund was Ren’s brother. He was a friend. He was a country gentleman. He loved the land, his people, science and innovation.
‘He was a good man,’ she said inadequately.
Then, above the thudding of her heart, Beth heard the approach of quick footsteps. With another sob, Lady Graham released Beth’s arm and Beth heard her maid’s comforting tones and the duet of their steps cross the floor and ascend the stairs.
Again disoriented, Beth stepped to the wall, but stumbled over her cane, almost falling. The wall saved her and, thankfully, she leaned against it. Her thoughts had slowed and merged into a single refrain: not Ren, not Ren, not Ren. Her breath came in pants as though she had been running. She felt dizzy and pushed her spine and palms against the wall as though its cool hardness might serve as an anchor.
That moment when she’d thought...when she’d thought Ren had died shuddered through her, sharper and more intense than the pain she now felt for Edmund.
And yet, Edmund had been her friend. Good God, she had spent more time in his company than that of her husband. Ren was but a name on a marriage certificate—a boy who had been her friend, a man who had married her and left—
‘Beth?’
Ren’s voice. Beth’s knees shook and tears prickled, spilling over and tracking down her cheeks. Impulsively she stretched out her hands. For a moment she felt only emptiness and then she touched the solid, reassuring bulk of his arm. Her hand tightened. She could feel the fine wool under her fingertips. She could feel the hard strength of his muscles tensing under the cloth and recognised the smell of him: part-cologne, part-fresh hay and part his own scent.
‘You’re here?’
His presence seemed like a miracle, all the more precious because, for a moment, she had thought him dead.
Impulsively, she tightened her hold on him, leaning into him, placing her face on his chest, conscious of the cloth against her cheek and, beneath it, the steady,
