Stupid, puerile hope. Nothing could help. Nothing could change the past. His sister was gone and there was nothing to be done for it; over the last five years he’d learned the impossibility of wishing otherwise.
It seemed de Winter was waiting for him to speak. “It wasn’t our time,” Grantham said of the notion that they had all escaped being roasted alive on Christmas Eve. The empty words barely squeezed through the tightness in his throat. There was nothing about the thought of burning that didn’t singe him to his soul.
De Winter shrugged. “I should have kept the thought to myself.”
It was Grantham’s turn to shrug. “One can’t hide forever.”
De Winter inhaled deeply. The breath whooshed out of him. “And yet I try.”
Grantham nudged his horse forward to pull in front of de Winter’s. He knew the other man had demons of his own, emotions he perhaps wanted to share now that Grantham’s had been laid bare. But Grantham hated to be reminded of that day. It was one thing to lose one’s parents. Certainly, he grieved for his father. And every so unexpectedly, the reminder that his mother was gone struck him so hard it knocked the wind out of him. But his baby sister, only fifteen years old, should never have been taken from this earth.
If only he’d reached her before she’d succumbed.
It seemed Miss Conley’s trail went on for miles. No one had been able to say what time she’d left, but he deduced it must have been directly upon leaving the dining room. Else, he would have come across her resting the horses. Even with the snow coming down in gusts, the beasts would need to be rubbed down. Perhaps more so because of it. Their sweat would otherwise begin to freeze.
When the trail took a sudden turn along a path marked by the rut of carriage wheels and a handmade sign, Grantham sat up straighter. Wasn’t this—?
“Mrs. Rebmann’s house?” de Winter shielded his eyes from the glare bouncing off the bright slush. “I’d recognize that upside down shoe if it hung from Lucifer’s gate.”
“Agreed.” Grantham nudged his horse’s flanks with his heels and trotted ahead. He’d heard whispers the famous actress lived in the area, now that she’d left the stage. “Perhaps Miss Conley needed to rest.”
De Winter drew abreast on his own mount. “What if her aunt is Millie Rebmann? You did say she was making her way to tend an ailing relative.”
Grantham slowed his horse as they came to a picket fence with its gate firmly latched closed. He hadn’t expected to track Miss Conley all the way to her destination. Now he wasn’t quite sure what to do. Whether her aunt was Mrs. Rebmann or not, if he presented himself at the door and asked after the young woman who’d just been brought in, a woman who had fled what must have been a terrifying circumstance to drive her into the dead of night on a winter’s eve, he’d destroy any chance of leaving her reputation intact. If he planned to do that, well, then, he might as well ask her to marry him while he was at it.
Perhaps he ought to do that anyway.
He held out an arm to slow de Winter and shushed the others with his hand. He drew his horse around so that he faced the search party. “I can’t think of a way to approach Miss Pearson that doesn’t end with my being shackled to her immediately. With my luck, I’ll be held accountable even if I don’t chase her inside. We’ve seen that she’s safe. We’ll ride back and, once my house is cleared of leeches,” he looked at de Winter and Tewsey by turn, “I’ll invite Mrs. Rebmann to take tea.”
“So you’ll go about this the proper way, rather than the half-cocked way?” Mr. Tewseybury asked. “That’s a much better start to a marriage than public ruination.”
“I’m not courting her,” Grantham denied, even though he did seem to be making a plan to do just that. “Have it your way, then. But if I do find myself on the way to the altar, none of you will be invited to
It seemed de Winter was waiting for him to speak. “It wasn’t our time,” Grantham said of the notion that they had all escaped being roasted alive on Christmas Eve. The empty words barely squeezed through the tightness in his throat. There was nothing about the thought of burning that didn’t singe him to his soul.
De Winter shrugged. “I should have kept the thought to myself.”
It was Grantham’s turn to shrug. “One can’t hide forever.”
De Winter inhaled deeply. The breath whooshed out of him. “And yet I try.”
Grantham nudged his horse forward to pull in front of de Winter’s. He knew the other man had demons of his own, emotions he perhaps wanted to share now that Grantham’s had been laid bare. But Grantham hated to be reminded of that day. It was one thing to lose one’s parents. Certainly, he grieved for his father. And every so unexpectedly, the reminder that his mother was gone struck him so hard it knocked the wind out of him. But his baby sister, only fifteen years old, should never have been taken from this earth.
If only he’d reached her before she’d succumbed.
It seemed Miss Conley’s trail went on for miles. No one had been able to say what time she’d left, but he deduced it must have been directly upon leaving the dining room. Else, he would have come across her resting the horses. Even with the snow coming down in gusts, the beasts would need to be rubbed down. Perhaps more so because of it. Their sweat would otherwise begin to freeze.
When the trail took a sudden turn along a path marked by the rut of carriage wheels and a handmade sign, Grantham sat up straighter. Wasn’t this—?
“Mrs. Rebmann’s house?” de Winter shielded his eyes from the glare bouncing off the bright slush. “I’d recognize that upside down shoe if it hung from Lucifer’s gate.”
“Agreed.” Grantham nudged his horse’s flanks with his heels and trotted ahead. He’d heard whispers the famous actress lived in the area, now that she’d left the stage. “Perhaps Miss Conley needed to rest.”
De Winter drew abreast on his own mount. “What if her aunt is Millie Rebmann? You did say she was making her way to tend an ailing relative.”
Grantham slowed his horse as they came to a picket fence with its gate firmly latched closed. He hadn’t expected to track Miss Conley all the way to her destination. Now he wasn’t quite sure what to do. Whether her aunt was Mrs. Rebmann or not, if he presented himself at the door and asked after the young woman who’d just been brought in, a woman who had fled what must have been a terrifying circumstance to drive her into the dead of night on a winter’s eve, he’d destroy any chance of leaving her reputation intact. If he planned to do that, well, then, he might as well ask her to marry him while he was at it.
Perhaps he ought to do that anyway.
He held out an arm to slow de Winter and shushed the others with his hand. He drew his horse around so that he faced the search party. “I can’t think of a way to approach Miss Pearson that doesn’t end with my being shackled to her immediately. With my luck, I’ll be held accountable even if I don’t chase her inside. We’ve seen that she’s safe. We’ll ride back and, once my house is cleared of leeches,” he looked at de Winter and Tewsey by turn, “I’ll invite Mrs. Rebmann to take tea.”
“So you’ll go about this the proper way, rather than the half-cocked way?” Mr. Tewseybury asked. “That’s a much better start to a marriage than public ruination.”
“I’m not courting her,” Grantham denied, even though he did seem to be making a plan to do just that. “Have it your way, then. But if I do find myself on the way to the altar, none of you will be invited to
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