Yorkshire by Lynne Connolly

finished his work, the valet regarded me appraisingly. He must have seen my state of shock, because he made me sit by the fire and drink a smaller measure of the undiluted brandy. I didn’t feel it as it went down, but the strong spirit improved my resolve. Busy winding a clean, white bandage around the wound, he turned his head to say, “You must go to your room and change, madam.”
    I looked down at my new riding habit, now grimed filthy with dirt, saturated with blood, and torn in one or two places. I doubted it could ever be put right, but hadn’t even noticed it until now.
    I took my leave, but not before I looked back at the bed to ensure my patient was comfortable.
     
    I went wearily back to my room to find a simple gown I could struggle into without help. I needed time to reflect, to try to absorb all the things that had happened that day. After I had changed, I sat on the bed, and tried to think.
    The emotions sweeping over me overwhelmed me, nothing like anything I’d ever felt before. They were just recognisable to me as desire, and maybe, love. But that way lay madness.
    I must, at all costs, stay calm, keep my feelings to myself. They might well pass in a week or two, indeed they might even be the result of today’s events. I stared at my ruined riding habit, cast on the floor ready for the maid to take away for rags or burning, not seeing it, thinking, thinking.
    The intensity of all this, the helpless feeling, the confusion finally knocked the last nail in the coffin of my infatuation with Steven, so some good had come of it. I scolded myself for being so foolish. I had always been known for my sensible outlook: I should call on it now.
    After a short mental struggle I managed to persuade myself my new feelings were only the result of shock. When I tested my theory, I found I could live with it. Mentally armoured, I went back downstairs.
     
    I found James and Martha in the parlour, tucking into a hearty breakfast, together with a man introduced to me as Mr. Fogg, the family lawyer. He had come over from York that morning to draw up the marriage contract, the one which would not now take place. He’d kindly agreed to stay on for a while to clear up the current situation. With the earl dead, and the next earl lying unconscious upstairs, matters could change at any time. One glance at my brother’s genial, handsome face told me he knew exactly what that meant. I instinctively trusted Mr. Fogg, neatly but expensively dressed, and of an age my father would have been, had he lived.
    I couldn’t eat much, but I was glad of the hot, strong coffee that restored some of the warmth to my chilled bones. I watched the others as they ate, having what might well have been the first decent meal to grace that table for many years. Mr. Fogg seemed to have no problem, and made a hearty meal in between telling us what we needed to know.
    He studied James dispassionately. “The late Lord Hareton made a standard will, which he drew up while his father still lived. After his wife’s disposition, the rest of the estate would pass to the next earl, with the title.”
    James looked interested but said nothing, so the lawyer continued. “However, last week Lord Hareton asked me to visit. I replied that I would arrive today, if that was convenient to him.”
    “You didn’t see the overturned coach, sir?” I asked.
    “No, ma’am.” He turned his friendly grey gaze to me. “I came from York. That’s the other way. The bend in the road would have prevented me seeing it.”
    I nodded while he continued with his narrative. “His lordship informed me he was desirous of changing his will.”
    “Did he say in what way?” James held out his coffee cup for Martha to refill it, not looking at her until she had finished. His smile of thanks clearly showed his affection for his wife of ten years. People had wondered why such a handsome, well-off man as my brother should have married the plain daughter of an Exeter gentleman