Chapter 24
Chapter
Twenty-Four
M atilda had not made it far from the D’Estel estate before her driver was forced to pull over at the Crown and Stag Inn, a well-kept but modest establishment perched at the edge of the London to Dover road. Heavy rain had turned the road into a treacherous quagmire, and a flooded causeway several miles ahead had rendered it utterly impassable.
The innkeeper informed her that with such relentless rain, it might be a day or two before the waters receded and the road became passable again. Fortunately, she had arrived ahead of other stranded travelers, securing rooms for herself and her staff before the inn’s yard became inundated with carriages, horses, and desperate drivers seeking refuge.
Matilda stood at the window of her small but tidy room, watching the chaos unfold. As grooms scurried to tend the horses, lanterns bobbed through the rain-soaked courtyard. Drivers shouted orders, their voices nearly drowned out by the relentless drumming of rain on the cobblestones.
The faint scent of damp straw and wet earth drifted in through the cracks of the old window frame, mingling with the aroma of wood smoke from a roaring fire her maid, Margaret, had diligently stoked. The warmth of the flames did little to thaw the cold knot of despair that had taken up residence in Matilda’s chest.
Christopher.
His name echoed in her mind, conjuring the memory of his anguished expression as she’d left the D’Estel estate. She had wanted to believe his promises, but her heart had told her otherwise. A man bound by honor—and by an engagement, no matter how ill-conceived—could not be hers.
Margaret bustled about the room, laying out her nightclothes and setting fresh wash water on the stand.
“I shall be next door, my lady unless you require anything else for the evening. Your dinner has been ordered and will be brought up shortly.”
“Thank you, Margaret. That will be all for now.”
Her maid dipped into a curtsy and left, leaving Matilda alone with her thoughts. She turned to the window, her fingers trailing over the cool glass as she gazed at the rain-drenched landscape. For a fleeting moment, she considered returning to the D’Estel estate. But what would be the point? Christopher had made his choices—choices that no amount of protest on his part could change.
She sank into the chair at the small desk, her hand trembling as she reached for pen and paper. She needed advice, and there was only one person she could confide in without fear of judgment.
Dearest Charlotte, she began, her writing slow and deliberate.
I find myself stranded at the Crown and Stag Inn due to the flooded causeway. The innkeeper believes it will take at least two days for the waters to recede, perhaps longer if the storm persists. I write to ask your counsel. Do such storms often damage the causeway? Should I abandon my journey to Genevieve’s altogether and return to the estate?
Her pen hovered above the paper as she debated whether to write more. She longed to tell Charlotte everything—the truth about Christopher, her despair at losing him, her shame at being drawn into such a hopeless tangle. But how could she, when Charlotte was so delighted by her brother’s engagement to Lady Delphine?
A light knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.
“Your dinner, my lady.” A young maid stepped into view with a tray laden with roast beef stew, fresh bread, cheese, and a steaming cup of tea.
“Thank you.” Matilda smiled in thanks. “The dinner looks delicious.”
The maid curtsied and placed the tray on the table. “If there’s anything else you require, please ring the bell, my lady.”
“Wait,” Matilda said, holding out the folded letter. “Please have this sent to the D’Estel estate posthaste.”
The maid’s eyes widened at the mention of the duke’s estate, but she nodded eagerly. “Of course, my lady. Posthaste.”
Alone once more, Matilda sat at the table and slowly ate her meal, savoring the warmth and richness of the stew. The bread was soft and fresh, the cheese sharp and tangy, and the tea soothed her frayed nerves. Yet even the comforting meal could not lift the heavy weight pressing on her heart.
After dinner, she moved to the armchair by the fire, cradling a glass of wine as she stared into the flames. The flickering light cast dancing shadows on the walls and the rhythmic drumming of the rain against the window provided a melancholy accompaniment to her thoughts.
Christopher , she thought again, her chest tightening. How foolish she had been to let herself hope. The memory of his touch, his whispered promises—they had felt so real, so achingly perfect. But reality had come crashing down around her at the picnic, and she could no longer deny the truth.
He was bound to Lady Delphine by honor if not by love.
Tears pricked at her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She was stronger than this. She had to be.
The following day brought no respite from the storm. Rain lashed against the windows with unrelenting fury, and the wind howled like a mournful specter. Matilda remained confined to her room, the inn’s common areas overrun with travelers and coachmen seeking refuge.
Margaret joined her in the late morning, carrying a small, wooden playing card box. “The weather shows no signs of improving, my lady. Shall we pass the time with a game?”
Matilda hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, I suppose that’s as good a way as any to occupy the day.”
They sat at the small table near the window, the cards spread out before them. The patter of rain and the occasional creak of the inn’s timbers were the only sounds as they played hand after hand, their conversation light and inconsequential.
Yet Matilda’s thoughts remained far away. Each time she glanced out at the gray, rain-soaked yard, her mind conjured the image of Christopher standing in the foyer, his expression torn between desperation and regret.
“Are you all right, my lady?” Margaret asked, breaking the silence.
Matilda forced a smile. “I’m fine, Margaret. Just tired.”
Her maid nodded, though her eyes were filled with quiet concern.
By the time evening fell, the storm showed no sign of abating. Matilda dined in her room again. The meal was as well prepared as the previous night but offered little comfort. She felt trapped—by the weather, by her circumstances, by her own heart.
As she lay in bed that night, listening to the relentless pounding of rain, she cried for the first time since leaving the D’Estel estate. Silent tears slid down her cheeks, soaking into the pillow as her chest ached with a grief she could not shake.
She had lost him.
She had lost the one man who had ever made her feel truly alive. And no matter how much she wished it were otherwise, there was no escaping the truth.
When sleep finally claimed her, it was fitful and plagued by dreams of Christopher—dreams in which he reached for her, only to be pulled away by the shadowy figure of Lady Delphine.
A true nightmare, even in her wakeful hours.