Chapter 7 #3
He studied the road in front of them, but his mind was entirely on the woman beside him.
She’d lost a brother—and apparently the rest of her family save for the aunt she lived with.
Her manner of speech, the grace of her movements, how she’d properly greeted his sister, all led him to believe she was a lady of some social standing.
Yet there she sat in one of his sister’s old gowns after having been caught red-handed with stolen game in her sack.
“Tell me, how is it”—he slipped her a glance—“that you have left behind a life of refinement for that of a thief?”
“Perhaps you can first tell me, Mr. Russell, how it is you mistake desperation for thievery?”
He faced her full on, admiring the lift of her jaw and appreciating even more that she would not be cowed by him.
There was strength in this woman, and that he could respect.
“Desperation, you say? I suppose that is one way to justify your actions. Yet that does not explain how a woman with your poise and breeding finds herself in such a predicament.”
“Sometimes life has a way of falling apart without a written invitation to do so.”
Defiance crackled in her tone, a layer above bitterness. He didn’t like the idea that misfortune had touched her in ways he couldn’t yet understand, and he gripped the reins all the tighter. “What happened? What was it that caused your life to come undone?”
She focused on the horizon as if the answer to his question might be found in dirt and gravel. “I mean no disrespect, Mr. Russell, but I do not wish to speak of it.”
Frustration twisted in his gut. He wasn’t accustomed to being shut out, especially not by someone under his care—or scrutiny.
For reasons he couldn’t quite articulate, it mattered to him, her story, her pain.
Yet Juliet Finch seemed determined to keep him at arm’s length, and while that infuriated him, it also attracted him.
Bah. What was he thinking? He urged the horses onwards with another flick to the reins. She was here for one reason only—to help catch Charity’s tormentor.
An uncomfortable silence stretched between them, broken only by the sound of air hissing in through his teeth as he rounded a bend in the road and the cottage she shared with her aunt came into view.
Sweet mercy! He pulled the horses to a stop in front of a broken gate hanging onto a rotted post like a crooked tooth.
This was where the woman and her elderly aunt lived?
The place was naught but a collection of boards leaning against one another like drunkards, each seeming to hold up the other by sheer accident.
The roof buckled in places, and the rest looked ready to give way to the next gust of wind.
Patches of moss and rot covered the walls, creeping like a cancer, while the few windows were blocked by threadbare curtains.
His jaw tightened. The contrast between Juliet’s resilience and her circumstances was a testament to the steel in her spine.
He had seen women of means wilt under far less.
And yet here she was—thin, hungry, a thief by circumstance—and still, she held her head high.
It unnerved him how much he admired that.
Juliet climbed down before he could set the brake. “I will not be long.”
“I will go with you.” He pulled on the brake and jumped to the gravel.
“No.” She shook her head so sharply, a curl broke loose and dangled against her cheek. “My aunt is frail. It would not do to startle her.”
Cornering the carriage, he strode up to her. “And yet I will not have you slipping out a back door.”
“There is none. That”—she tipped her head towards the front door—“is the only entrance.”
“A window, then.”
“Neither are there any windows on the back side. I assure you, Mr. Russell, I am no liar.”
“But you are a poacher.”
A rugged sigh whooshed from her. “I am also a woman of my word. I will not run. I shall merely see that aunt has a pot of tea at the ready and the last slice of bread to go along with it. Then I shall pack up my belongings and return to you. It will not take long.”
His gaze flicked between her and the dilapidated cottage.
His instincts urged him to go with her, to make sure she didn’t run off.
And yet, there was something in her eyes—an honesty, bravery perhaps, but sincerity nonetheless—that gave him pause.
She had every opportunity to lie, to spin some tale, and yet she hadn’t. She’d faced him head-on.
“Very well.” He ground his teeth, hardly believing he’d give her such a freedom. “But if you are not back in five minutes, I will come in after you.”
She nodded, though he could tell by the way her lips pinched his words had stung. She walked towards the warped door with steady steps, leaving him standing by the carriage, hands clenched at his sides.
As the door creaked shut behind her, he let out a long breath and leaned against the carriage, eyes fixed on the cottage, thoughts churning.
Had he made a mistake? Should he have gone with her?
His instincts said yes, but his gut also told him that she wasn’t the type to run.
Not now. Not after she’d made a deal with him. And yet, the nagging doubt remained.
She could still surprise him.
A few minutes later, the door creaked open again and Juliet reappeared, approaching him with a wary look in her eyes. “My aunt would like a word with you.”
He quirked a brow. “Would she?”
“She … insists.”
Intrigued, he followed her inside. Despite the general shabbiness of the place, it was a tidy home, smelling of herbs he couldn’t begin to name.
Across the room, a small woman with steel-grey hair and a keen gaze sat propped up in a chair, fingers twitching as she gestured to the other chair.
She didn’t speak until he and Juliet sat. “You’re the master of Bedford Manor.”
He inclined his head. “I am, madam.”
“I suppose that makes you responsible.”
“For Miss Finch?” he asked, unsure where this was going.
“Indeed. I want to know what sort of man you are, Mr. Russell, before I entrust my girl to your fine estate.”
So, this was to be a reckoning. Not of title or means—but of character.
He hid a smile. She reminded him of Juliet, only older, frailer, and twice as immovable.
That same fire in the eyes, the same iron will wrapped in politeness.
No wonder Juliet was the way she was. The pair of them could stare down a magistrate without blinking.
And somehow, an hour later, he found himself promising to see the roof mended before the first frost.