Chapter 18
By the time weak morning light painted a thin line on the horizon, Juliet was halfway through the woods to Aunt Margaret’s.
Leaves crushed beneath her pounding steps.
The sting of an October mist against her cheeks was a welcome annoyance.
Better to focus on the cold than relive the taste of Henry or the feel of his warmth, as she had done all through the long night.
What a trollop he must think her! Had she not cleaved to him?
Matched him passion for passion? Allowed his advances when she knew she ought not?
But oh, how she could have spent eternity there in his arms.
Bah!
She upped her pace, putting as much space between herself and Bedford Manor as quickly as possible.
Her fingers curled into tight fists, nails digging crescents into her palms. She would not—would not!
—bring them to her lips again, touching in wonder where his mouth had so perfectly pressed against hers. Not again.
Pausing at the cottage gate, she held herself still, every muscle taut, thoroughly vexed with herself. With Henry. With the mess she’d allowed to happen. Stars above! Had her life not been complicated enough?
And now this.
She yanked open the gate, surprised at the easy give and nearly losing her balance because of it.
Pulled from her morose thoughts, she gaped at the freshly painted fence.
There was now a neatly curving cobblestone path leading to the front door—the new front door with a brass knocker.
Recently glazed windows sported lacy white curtains on the inside.
The eaves had been repaired, without great gaping pieces missing.
And over it all was a tightly shingled roof with nary a spot of moss or mould.
Many a happy fairy tale could be written about this snug little house, all dressed up with crisp whitewash.
Juliet pressed her hand to her heart. My! No longer was this a shack of desperation but a cheerful haven, one that promised warmth and laughter, not chills and dread. Henry was to thank for this.
The very man she’d struck full in the face.
Heart aching, Juliet made her way to the door, faintly knocking before letting herself in. If Aunt Margaret were yet asleep, she’d not wish to startle the old dear. She’d simply put the kettle on and have some hot tea ready for when she awakened.
“Juliet?” Seated at the table in front of a worn Bible, Aunt Margaret glanced up. Her brows furrowed. “It’s barely morning, child. What are you doing here so early? Is all aright?”
“All is fine with me.” She smiled, the fabrication prickly on her tongue as she shrugged out of her pelisse and hung it on a peg.
A new rug adorned the floorboards, soft beneath her feet as she crossed the room to buff a light kiss against the crown of Aunt Margaret’s head.
“And you … are you well?” Retreating a step, she studied her aunt’s face.
Her skin, once pale and pulled tight over sharp bones, was now vibrant, her cheeks plump and rosy.
Juliet’s smile grew into a large grin. “You look like a new person.”
“I feel like one too. Actually”—Aunt patted her belly—“I feel like a stuffed sausage what with all the good food I’ve had of late.”
“I am happy to hear it.” Juliet beamed, gratitude welling towards a man who had every right not to speak to her again … but better not to dwell on that right now. “Shall we have some tea?”
“That would be lovely. There are also plenty of eggs and bacon to be fried. Will you stay for breakfast?”
“I would like to, but I cannot tarry long.” She strode to the hearth, thoughts straying to the basket of tinctures she ought to be packing for Charity right now. She couldn’t afford to chat overlong, but oh how good it was to see her aunt so hale and hearty.
Grabbing a densely woven cloth, she removed the kettle and poured two cups, then returned to the table.
“Here you are.” She set down Aunt Margaret’s steaming brew before sinking into the adjacent chair.
Cupping her hands around her mug, she peered at her aunt over the rim.
“I was wondering what you would recommend for bilious fever.”
“So, there is a purpose to your visit after all. Who suffers such an ailment?”
“Charity Russell. I have three days to prove that your remedies are superior to Dr. Branch’s bloodletting.” Setting aside her mug, she squeezed Aunt Margaret’s knee. “Which I know they are.”
“Hmph! I should say so.” The old dear lifted her nose in the air. “We shall pack you a basket after our tea and put Miss Russell back to rights without spilling any of her blood.”
“I knew I could count on you.” Juliet saluted her aunt with her mug.
For several cozy moments, she enjoyed the warmth of the tea, the crackle of the hearth, and the fact that no more draughts crept in through the windows.
But deep down, turmoil mixed with her drink.
She needed to return to Bedford Manor and not only see to Charity but also face Henry.
She set her mug down, then said with a smile, “You would have howled to see Miss Potter at service last Sunday. I swear her hat had half the parish garden atop it—berries, blooms, even what looked like a velvet turnip.” She gave a soft laugh.
“If eccentric millinery were a weapon, that woman could conquer armies.”
Aunt Margaret chuckled, the sound like a balm.
But the smile faded from Juliet’s lips almost as quickly as it had come. The image of the hat disappeared beneath the weight of memory and regret.
Aunt Margaret angled her head, her sharp eyes narrowing.
“How are things at the manor? Is your … business, as you call it, with Mr. Russell nearly finished? Not that I wish to take you from him if you are yet occupied, for he has been overly gracious in fixing up this old place and providing for my needs, but … well. The truth is I miss you.”
“I miss you too.” She reached for her aunt’s hand, pleased to feel life pulsing beneath the older lady’s skin. “I wish I could give you an answer, but I—I do not know how much longer I shall be there.”
Especially not after last night’s kiss in the study.
Heat flushed her face at the memory. Pulling back, she reclaimed her mug and stared into the brew, anything to keep from fingering her lips yet again.
“Hmm.” Aunt Margaret studied her as if she were a puzzle to be solved. “What troubles you? And don’t say nothing. Your chin always quivers when you are unsettled. Is it Mr. Russell? He has not harmed you, has he?”
Charity jerked up her head, alarmed her aunt would even think such a thing.
“No! He has not harmed me at all. Rather … I—” She shot to her feet, the chair wobbling from her abrupt departure, and paced the small room.
Cowardly, yes, but the only way she could admit to her abominable behaviour. “I struck him, Aunt.”
“You what?” The older lady gaped—then burst into laughter, sloshing tea onto the table.
Alarmed, Juliet circled back to her. “Aunt Margaret! Have you gone mad?”
Her aunt waved a hand in the air, tears dampening her cheeks as she tried to catch her breath. “Oh, Juliet, my impetuous girl. Forgive me. It’s just that the image of you slapping that poor man is too much.”
“It is not funny.” Juliet stamped her foot. Churlish, but not to be helped. “I have made a complete wreck of things, I’m afraid.”
“Now, now. It cannot be all that bad.” Pulling out a handkerchief, Aunt Margaret dabbed at her eyes while patting the vacated chair. “Come. Tell me what happened.”
Huffing a long sigh, Juliet sank and then tossed back the rest of her drink for fortification. “He kissed me. Last night.”
“Did he?” Aunt’s smile faded, replaced by an inquisitive pinch to her lips. “Was it unwelcome?”
Unwelcome?
She choked. She’d never felt so whole as she had in Henry’s arms, like she’d been broken all her life until his embrace had mended and moulded her into a new being.
He’d stolen her breath, her heart, and given both back in ways she couldn’t begin to describe.
This time she couldn’t stop the press of her fingers to her lips, a vain attempt to hold in the taste and feel of him.
“No,” she whispered. “It was not.”
Aunt’s face softened with compassion, a faint smile curving her lips. “Then why did you strike him, child?”
“I … I do not know. There were so many feelings, so many thoughts.” She hung her head, even now unable to sort through the snarl of emotions balled up in her chest. Having been courted before by Colin Chamberlain, she should be no stranger to such a wild flux of passion.
But Colin had never moved her so deeply.
At length, she peered up at Aunt Margaret. “Henry said I undo him. I cannot begin to understand what that means. Is it good? Bad? He sounded angry but then he pulled me into his arms.”
A twinkle lit Aunt’s eyes. “Oh, my dear, it means the man is in love with you.”
“Love?” She blinked, her hand rising to her chest. The word voiced aloud hit harder than she expected, stirring a whirl of emotions she wasn’t ready to name.
“Why such surprise? You are a lovely young lady, but more than that, you are a determined survivor, a woman capable of enduring hardship without breaking. That kind of strength is irresistible.”
“I am a thief who stole game from his grounds!” She slammed her mug on the table, rattling her aunt’s in the process. “I am not of his station.”
Aunt Margaret chuckled. “The heart does not care about society’s limitations. I am certain Mr. Russell forgave you the night you were caught, or he would not house you beneath his roof.”
“But I slapped him, Aunt Margaret. How could he ever forgive such an affront?”
“You underestimate the power of a sincere apology … that is, if you are sorry.”
She folded inwardly, shame curling through her like smoke. “I am,” she mumbled. “But I doubt he will believe me. He barely trusts me as it is.”