moments, they were headed to the countryside. Fox leaned forward, giving Rusty a pat on the neck. Rusty’s ear twitched his response.
Foxworthy looked around him as he rode. The sunbeams warmed his face. Servants with baskets under their arms walked along the road. A few carriages here and there.
He’d just been in a mood when he was at home. Probably from all the soirées and all the nonsensical talk he did. Damn. He got tired of his own voice sometimes. All the pretty words and all the right things to say. The ladies would flutter and he’d continue and he’d wonder why they didn’t slap his face. And they’d chuckle and brush up against him, and he’d spout even more nonsense.
* * *
The saddle was getting a bit smaller and Rusty’s ears had lost their joie de vivre when the horse stepped onto the road that would take him only one turn from his father’s estate, leaving the commerce of London behind them. He had to be thankful the road wasn’t mud soaked. The clouds had darkened and he hoped the weather wouldn’t trap him at his father’s house. The chilled air bit into his face.
He noticed the tracks in the road. Definitely well travelled. More so than usual. When he raised his head, he saw a man with an old, wide-brimmed hat that flopped over his face, standing, holding the reins of a horse in one hand and a cane in the other.
‘Ahoy.’ The man spoke. His clothes... His clothes were sewn by a fine tailor. Fox recognised the gold buttons. He’d seen them before.
Hooves thundered from the woods and, before he could turn his horse, a club thwacked at the animal’s rump. Rusty bolted forward. The man in front raised the cane. The horse surged to the gold-buttoned man and the man stepped aside, swinging the stick. He knocked Fox backward, breaking the club. Another stick caught Fox as he tumbled from the horse. When he slammed into the ground, he noted the face of the man who’d been behind him and the other one charging forward with both fists gripping the broken club.
It wasn’t a good sign that they didn’t have their faces covered.
* * *
Rebecca pinched the frond of the thorn bush, moving the long strand aside carefully so it didn’t prick her fingers. She stepped forward on the trail, then released the briar, and one thorn scraped along her skin as the stem swung back into place. The handle of her basket slid on her arm and the eggs she carried jostled, but barely moved, cushioned by the cloth. She checked her arm for blood, but only a white scratch marked the skin.
She continued along the path, listening to the chaffinch and knowing Mrs Berryfield would appreciate the eggs. She imagined Mrs Berryfield’s children, chirping like hungry baby birds, their dirty hands reaching for her basket to see what she’d brought. Eggs. They’d be disappointed. But one did the best one could. And the eggs would surely gain her a promise from Mrs Berryfield to attend Sunday Services.
Eggs were not as plentiful now that the weather had chilled. In fact, she moved to the trees lining the road so she’d be out of the wind. The dark clouds threatened, and she hoped to make it back home before the rain.
Stepping up to the road, she crossed, planning to take the short path to the woods to reach the furthermost tenant on the old earl’s land.
Then she saw a bundle of clothing lying on the ground. No one tossed the wash about like that. She moved one step closer, staring.
Brown. Brown hair. Still looking fresh from a morning comb. But it couldn’t be, because the rest of him—the rest of him splayed about. His head was face down. And blood, brown. Dried.
She couldn’t move.
Another funeral for her father to perform. Another widow needing courage and someone to listen to her pain. Rebecca didn’t want to walk forward. Then she’d discover if it was Mr Greaves or Mr Able. They were the only two men with a head of hair that colour, except theirs always stuck ragged from their hats. She needed to know who it was. The family would have to know.
The dead man groaned, just the tiniest bit, and she dropped her basket.
‘Mr Greaves? Mr Able?’ she called out, voice screeching into her own ears.
He didn’t move.
She took a step forward. No answer. Oh, my. She’d forgotten about Mr Renfro and he had eight children. ‘Mr Renfro?’ The words wobbled from her mouth.
He was quiet as a tomb. She was going to have to turn him over and she hated the thought of touching Mr Renfro, even dead. He smelled worse than a sweat-soaked draught horse. She didn’t know how Mrs Renfro did it.
She clamped her teeth together. Putting her boot solidly on the ground, she stepped forward.
His big bare feet tangled in the grass. His boots had been stolen. Shivering, she darted her eyes to the trail, fearing the thought of someone watching her.
The birds still sang and a breeze wafted through the air.
Moving forward, she nudged her own boot against the muddied toe. ‘Pardon.’
She was going to have to touch him. It wasn’t good for a man to touch a woman unless they were married, but women were granted no such favours where men were concerned.
She knelt on the ground, took in a deep breath and pushed at his shoulder to move him over. He didn’t budge. She tried again and then looked the length of him. He wasn’t Mr Greaves or Mr Able. Mr Renfro overshot the door frame and had to duck when he stepped inside, but the stranger looked too precise for Mr Renfro.
She leaned in. He didn’t smell like Mr Renfro. Even covered in dirt and mud, this one didn’t have an odour. She touched the one bit of skin she could see, near his neck. Cold.
Instead of pushing, she reached across his back. She grabbed his shirt shoulder in one hand and the waist in the other and pulled. He flopped over onto his back, and she plopped to her bottom. She shut her eyes when she saw his face. She took two deep breaths before she could look at him again. His nose was to the side and so was his jaw. His eyes—she didn’t know if he could even open them or not. His face could have once belonged to Mr Renfro, Mr Greaves or Mr Able. Then she looked him over again. He only wore a lawn shirt and his trousers. His clothing had been stolen. Or, it had been taken so he would freeze to death.
His eyelid fluttered and one eye opened a slit. She didn’t know if he could really see her. Then his hand reached up and touched her wrist.
She didn’t know what to do. She clasped his fingers. He squeezed, then relaxed his grasp.
‘I must get you help,’ she said. ‘I must. I’ll only be gone a moment. I can find a cart.’
He squeezed again. She hated to leave. But she had to. Both his eyes opened now. And she could have sworn he winked at her before shutting his eyes again.
But she didn’t want him to die in the brambles. She didn’t really want him to die in the vicarage either, but it wouldn’t be the first time someone had.
She stood, took off her coat, put it around him and ran, whispering prayers under her breath.
Mr Renfro’s house would be her best choice. He could carry the man to the vicarage and he’d have no trouble straightening the man’s nose back in place, something her father could never do. One
