reply died on her lips. Honesty had been too strongly instilled.
‘Yes, it was Lord Langford. He is visiting at Eavensham,’ she said.
‘A gentleman. I should have been called. It is not seemly that you entertain him alone. We do not wish people to think you sinful. And why would he visit you? This Lord Langford?’
‘He was on an errand for Lady Eavensham.’ Honesty only went so far.
Mrs Crawford nodded, a look of childlike confusion clouding her face.
‘I’ll get the tea. You’ll be all right for the moment?’ Sarah asked.
‘I am not a child.’
‘I know.’ Impulsively, Sarah bent and pressed a kiss against the older woman’s forehead. Mrs Crawford smelled of carbolic soap and her hair was sparse with the dryness of the elderly.
‘Good gracious. What was that for? I do not hold with emotional displays.’
‘Merely a thank you,’ Sarah said.
‘Humph, a hot cup of tea would suffice,’ Mrs Crawford replied, with a return to lucidity.
‘Which I will provide immediately.’
* * *
An hour later, Sarah trudged towards the barn. As always, she felt a sense of relief as she exited the house, but today the need for respite was immense.
She felt filled with high-strung, restless energy which made her movements abrupt and her thoughts whirl. Nothing could distract her, not the familiar fields, the soothing rustle of tree branches or even the homely dank scent of animals and manure.
Straightening, she opened the gate so that Portia and Cleopatra could enter, their bells clanging as they shifted with easy ambling movements.
If she married Langford, she could go to London.
That thought emblazoned itself across her mind like fireworks at Vauxhall.
It dominated her thoughts as she patted the cows’ rumps, dragging forward the three-corner stool and placing her fingers with practised ease on Cleopatra’s warm udder.
And in London, she might find her sister.
The words thudded through her consciousness with the regularity of her own heartbeat. Even the squirt of the milk seemed to echo with its rhythm.
Closing her eyes, Sarah visualised Charlotte as she had last seen her after their mother’s death: a tall girl of fifteen, her blonde hair and white face starkly contrasted against the dense blackness of her mourning clothes.
Cleopatra shifted under Sarah’s lax hands. The bell clanged.
‘Sorry, sweetie, did I fall asleep on you? It’s just I have an enormous decision to make—although truly I cannot believe I am even entertaining the notion. I mean, could I really marry him? What do I even know of him? He hardly seems pleasant or enjoyable company. And certainly not flattering.’
The cow swung her head around, blowing moist, grass-scented breath into Sarah’s face.
‘I’d miss you.’ She stroked the animal.
A mouse scurried into the corner, burrowing into the straw. How did animals know instinctively what to do? How did they know to build a nest, burrow and find food?
Was it easier to lack intelligence and follow instinct? And what would she do if she had little intellect and only instinct?
But that was easy to answer. One need would supersede all else.
* * *
Sarah had not forgotten the rabbit or her few belongings which she had neglected to take when she had left so precipitously to rescue the foxes. Therefore, after milking the cows, she set out along the familiar route to Eavensham.
The path was unchanged from yesterday. It still smelled of grass and leaves, the earth was spongy and birds twittered, unseen, within the woods’ greenery.
Irrationally, Sarah felt a confused anger that all could remain so unaltered while her world had been turned upside down and shaken like a child’s toy.
She’d felt the same after her mother’s death when the routines of London continued amidst her own tragedy. It was egotistical, she supposed, but we are all the hero of our own story.
Upon arrival at Eavensham, she found that Orion had escaped the cook pot, largely thanks to the scullery maids who had kept him in a crate under the sink which served as a makeshift hutch. Sarah cleaned this out. Then she wrapped the rabbit in a scarf, carefully keeping its hindquarters immobilised.
Normally, she would not have minded seeing Lady Eavensham or her guests, but today she found herself as eager to return to the Crawford home as she had been to flee it.
Therefore, she picked up both the rabbit and her valise, thanked the maids and exited into the park.
‘Miss Martin!’
‘My lord!’ Sarah jerked to a stop.
She had been so engrossed she’d almost collided with the man, who appeared to be coming from the stables. ‘You pop up at unexpected moments.’
‘And apparently you always clutch an animal to your person. It has escaped the stew pot?’
‘Yes.’
‘May I escort you home or are you staying for dinner?’
‘No, the vicar’s wife is making up numbers, the vicar being away.’ She clutched the rabbit more closely, shifting her weight awkwardly while trying to think of suitable conversation.
What did one say to one’s suitor?
Of course, Miss Hardcastle and her lover had discussed Petunia’s eyes at length. Or gazed wordlessly at each other. She doubted Lord Langford wished to comment on her eyes and already the wordlessness had become uncomfortable.
‘May I walk you home?’ he repeated.
‘I’m certain I can manage.’ She sounded ungracious, Sarah realised belatedly.
‘I’m certain you can as well, but this would give me the opportunity to know you better.’
‘You might have been advised to do so before proposing to me,’ Sarah said. Then bit her lip. She’d aimed for humour, but realised that had sounded even less gracious than her previous comment. So absolutely not what Miss Hardcastle would say.
‘Indeed, but then I seldom take advice.’ His lips twisted in a smile, suggesting that despite his brusque manner he was not devoid of humour.
They turned towards the woods, walking in silence across the spongy green lawn until Lord Langford ventured a question. ‘So, Miss Martin, other than rescuing animals, might I enquire about your interests? Needlepoint or the pianoforte?’
‘Neither, actually.’
‘Watercolours?’
