Vicarage…no, it was fifteen miles. Fenby Hall was only ten. Even if she got a lift part of the way, she couldn’t possibly go to the Vicarage tonight. She would go home and slip into the house for the night. No one need know that she was there. She could go to the Vicar tomorrow.
Plodding on down the increasingly muddy road between the dry stone walls, she gradually became aware that she was crying, her tears mingling with the rain on her cheeks. Never in a life of loneliness had she ever felt quite so abandoned. At least this morning she had had the prospect of employment in a respectable household. Now she was literally out on her own.
Briefly she considered going to Lord Rutherford, only to reject the idea. No, she had refused his offer of assistance. She could not now go back and beg. Besides, in the past ten years she had not confided in anyone. She wouldn’t even know where to start. A sensible little voice suggested that she was being rather silly. After all, she liked Marc…he was kind…gentle…he would look after her…Perhaps he wouldn’t care about her history…her parents…?
She thrust the thought away. How could he not care? Besides, Marc was really Lord Rutherford. He did not exist beyond her feverish imaginings. She plodded on, pretending that the salt mingling with the rain was seawater. She had never seen the sea…but she had heard it was salty.
A yell from behind her broke in on her gloomy reflections. She swung around hopefully and saw a farm cart with a familiar field hand driving it. At least she wouldn’t have to walk the whole way home.
Marcus came in late from his day’s business, his heavy frieze cloak dripping. It had kept out the rain, but he was definitely chilly. He went to the parlour and rang the bell for Barlow, thinking that he would have a bath and then see Meg. Try and talk some sense into her. He’d been too abrupt with her earlier, too dictatorial.
A fire had been lit and he stood in front of it, warming his hands. Meg’s determination to make her own way impressed him as much as it surprised him. Not many girls in her situation, he thought, would have refused what he had offered. Cousin Samuel must have really rubbed in her status. Parsimonious old curmudgeon!
Barlow appeared and started talking immediately. ‘Thank God you’re back, me lord! It’s Miss Meg!’
A chill stole through Marcus’s heart. What the hell was wrong with Meg? Was she ill again?
‘She’s gone.’
‘Gone!’ Marcus exploded. ‘What the devil do you mean? Where has she gone?’ Then he realised. He’d thought she was just a bit too meek this morning. Obviously she had decided to act before he could inform her employer of any change in her plans. She had thought thereby to forestall him, putting herself beyond his reach. Well, she would learn her mistake! And then, stealing through his anger, came a surge of admiration for the little vixen. She’d hoaxed him completely with her agreement that there was nothing more to be said on the matter of her future. Little devil, he thought ruefully.
Barlow watched him in some trepidation. ‘Aye. Gone to Mrs Garsby. Agnes and I knew nowt. She slipped out and got young Judd to drive her over in the gig. I’m that sorry, me lord! She sent this back for you.’ He held out the letter.
Marcus took it. ‘Thank you, Barlow. Is the water ready for my bath?’
‘Aye, me lord. Shall I draw it?’
Marcus had already opened the letter and simply nodded, beginning to read as Barlow withdrew.
Dear Lord Rutherford,
I hope when you read this letter you will understand why I did not feel capable of fully explaining myself this morning and the reason why I must decline your generous offer of assistance. When I tell you that I am the daughter of Sir RobertFellowes and his wife Lady Caroline, I think you must realise why. You are old enough to recall the scandal of my parents’ deaths. My mother was a connection of Cousin Samuel’s wife, which was
Plodding on down the increasingly muddy road between the dry stone walls, she gradually became aware that she was crying, her tears mingling with the rain on her cheeks. Never in a life of loneliness had she ever felt quite so abandoned. At least this morning she had had the prospect of employment in a respectable household. Now she was literally out on her own.
Briefly she considered going to Lord Rutherford, only to reject the idea. No, she had refused his offer of assistance. She could not now go back and beg. Besides, in the past ten years she had not confided in anyone. She wouldn’t even know where to start. A sensible little voice suggested that she was being rather silly. After all, she liked Marc…he was kind…gentle…he would look after her…Perhaps he wouldn’t care about her history…her parents…?
She thrust the thought away. How could he not care? Besides, Marc was really Lord Rutherford. He did not exist beyond her feverish imaginings. She plodded on, pretending that the salt mingling with the rain was seawater. She had never seen the sea…but she had heard it was salty.
A yell from behind her broke in on her gloomy reflections. She swung around hopefully and saw a farm cart with a familiar field hand driving it. At least she wouldn’t have to walk the whole way home.
Marcus came in late from his day’s business, his heavy frieze cloak dripping. It had kept out the rain, but he was definitely chilly. He went to the parlour and rang the bell for Barlow, thinking that he would have a bath and then see Meg. Try and talk some sense into her. He’d been too abrupt with her earlier, too dictatorial.
A fire had been lit and he stood in front of it, warming his hands. Meg’s determination to make her own way impressed him as much as it surprised him. Not many girls in her situation, he thought, would have refused what he had offered. Cousin Samuel must have really rubbed in her status. Parsimonious old curmudgeon!
Barlow appeared and started talking immediately. ‘Thank God you’re back, me lord! It’s Miss Meg!’
A chill stole through Marcus’s heart. What the hell was wrong with Meg? Was she ill again?
‘She’s gone.’
‘Gone!’ Marcus exploded. ‘What the devil do you mean? Where has she gone?’ Then he realised. He’d thought she was just a bit too meek this morning. Obviously she had decided to act before he could inform her employer of any change in her plans. She had thought thereby to forestall him, putting herself beyond his reach. Well, she would learn her mistake! And then, stealing through his anger, came a surge of admiration for the little vixen. She’d hoaxed him completely with her agreement that there was nothing more to be said on the matter of her future. Little devil, he thought ruefully.
Barlow watched him in some trepidation. ‘Aye. Gone to Mrs Garsby. Agnes and I knew nowt. She slipped out and got young Judd to drive her over in the gig. I’m that sorry, me lord! She sent this back for you.’ He held out the letter.
Marcus took it. ‘Thank you, Barlow. Is the water ready for my bath?’
‘Aye, me lord. Shall I draw it?’
Marcus had already opened the letter and simply nodded, beginning to read as Barlow withdrew.
Dear Lord Rutherford,
I hope when you read this letter you will understand why I did not feel capable of fully explaining myself this morning and the reason why I must decline your generous offer of assistance. When I tell you that I am the daughter of Sir RobertFellowes and his wife Lady Caroline, I think you must realise why. You are old enough to recall the scandal of my parents’ deaths. My mother was a connection of Cousin Samuel’s wife, which was
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