Chapter 1
Worcestershire, England
Miss Rebecca Lane quaked at the thought of returning to Swanford after more than a year’s absence, even though her heart had never really left.
Inside the jostling post chaise, she prayed, Please don’t let him do anything foolish before I get there.
Lines from their housekeeper’s recent letter echoed through her mind.
Your brother’s behavior has grown more alarming. I fear what he might do.
I could not in good conscience wait any longer to write. I pray I have not waited too long as it is.
Dread filled Rebecca again, as it had when she’d first read the words. Was John threatening to harm himself, or someone else, or what . . . ?
Rebecca sighed and leaned her throbbing temple against the vehicle’s smooth, cool window. Outside, the rolling countryside lay draped in March mist, its fields dotted with white sheep and new lambs.
Soon the tower of All Saints Church appeared above the treetops, and there, the tall chimney stacks of the Wickworth mansion.
Rebecca gestured out the window toward the village. “There it is. Swanford.”
Beside her, the French maid slept on, but Lady Fitzhoward, their employer, gazed out as directed. “Ah yes.” The older woman looked at her. “Are you glad to be home?”
Rebecca summoned the expected smile and nodded, though it was a weak effort. Inwardly, she thought, Where is home?
With her parents passed on, the vicarage, which was never actually theirs anyway, was occupied by the new vicar and his family.
The underkeeper’s lodge where her brother lived belonged to the Wilford family estate.
And except for a brief visit the Christmas before last, she had spent the previous two years living out of trunks and bandboxes in one inn or hotel after another as a lady’s companion.
Perhaps in time, she could learn to be like Lady Fitzhoward and enjoy endless travel rather than longing for home. But she had not managed it yet.
The chaise turned off the main road and made its way past farmyards, cottages, and the village itself. Beyond it, imposing Swanford Abbey rose from the misty ground like an ancient headstone.
Before the sight of the old abbey-turned-hotel could rouse its customary trepidation, the chaise rumbled under an archway and into the adjacent stable courtyard.
A porter appeared to help them alight. Miss Joly, the lady’s maid, awoke and climbed out first to direct the care of their employer’s belongings. Lady Fitzhoward stepped down after her, leaning heavily on the porter’s hand until her cane reached the ground.
Following her out, Rebecca asked, “May I leave my trunk with you?”
The maid looked annoyed at the request, but Lady Fitzhoward agreed.
“Yes, of course. Joly shall have it stowed for you.”
An old man in coarse work clothes hobbled into the stable yard, spade in hand. He paused, faded blue eyes fixing on Lady Fitzhoward.
“Purty flower . . .” he murmured.
The porter shooed him away.
When he’d ambled off, Lady Fitzhoward turned to Rebecca. “If a week with your brother is not sufficient, let me know. If I am not here at the hotel, leave a message at the desk. As I mentioned, I hope to visit friends while I’m in the area.”
Rebecca nodded. “I shall, thank you. And thank you again for changing your plans to accompany me.”
Seeing her preparing to depart, the porter offered to summon a fly to take Rebecca the rest of the way.
She politely declined. The distance across the village and through the wood to the lodge was more than a mile. But the day was fine and her purse light, so she decided to go on foot.
She retrieved her valise and bandbox from among the pile of baggage, bid the two women farewell, and turned to go. After a few steps, her valise felt heavy, but it was nothing to the guilt she carried.
Rebecca walked up Abbey Lane, past the busy High Street, and along the village green framed by thatched cottages on two sides.
Reaching All Saints Street, she turned right and walked by half-timbered houses hugging the cobbled street, and the Swan & Goose, the tang of sour ale emanating from the public house.
She crossed the river bridge and walked out of town. It would have been faster to continue past the church and vicarage, but she was not ready to face those poignant memories just yet.
As she followed the river toward the wood, a child’s wail pierced the air, followed by heartbroken sobs.
She glanced around, trying to locate the wee sufferer, and there, under a sprawling English oak, stood a boy of four or five in long pantaloons with high waist buttoned to a jacket above.
A wide, frilly shirt collar rested on little, heaving shoulders.
Rebecca set down her things and hurried over to him.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
Eyes wet and nose running, the boy pointed up into the tree.
There, high above, a kite lay snared in the branches, its tail and string entangled in the gnarly limbs.
“Oh dear. That is a pity.” Rebecca looked around for help. “Where do you live?”
He wiped his sleeve under his glistening nose and pointed over the river, narrow here, to the back of the vicarage.
“And are you out here alone?”
He shook his head and began sobbing again.
A girl a few years older appeared, carrying a long stick.
“Do hush, Colin. You are not a baby anymore. I will try to get it down for you.”
Seeing her, the girl hesitated, then explained, “He was given that kite for his birthday and breeching. I was supposed to help him fly it, but the wind grabbed hold and would not let go.”
“I see.” Rebecca surveyed the tree and considered the situation. “I shall go up for it,” she offered. “You stay here and watch over your brother, will you?”
The girl’s eyes widened, then swept over Rebecca’s neat carriage dress and hat. “You, miss?”
Rebecca nodded and unpinned the ornate hat—Lady Fitzhoward’s choice, not her own. The feather would only get caught in the branches. Then she tied her petticoat between her knees to keep from showing more than she wished.
She looked around again, glad there was no one but these two children to witness her unladylike act.
Seeing a cracked wagon wheel abandoned beside a nearby tree, she rolled it over and propped it against the trunk to form a sort of step stool.
The lowest branch grew almost horizontally before curving upward.
It had always reminded her of an elephant with its trumpeting trunk, like the one she’d seen at Astley’s Amphitheatre.
The branch was too high for the children to reach, but with the help of the wheel, she managed to lift one foot to the Y between it and the trunk, grasp the branch with gloved hands, and half swing, half lift herself up, the bark rough against her delicate stockings, which would no doubt be ruined.
From there, she righted herself and began the relatively easy feat of climbing the remaining branches as one would a ladder.
Below her, the children clapped, and she felt rather like a performer at Astley’s herself.
Rebecca had never been afraid of heights and had happily scrambled up trees, including this one, as a girl, heedless of scraped hands and knees. But she was a woman now, out of practice and condition, and was soon breathing hard as she scaled the great oak.
Nearing the kite, she sat on one accommodating branch and propped her half boot on another for support. Then she began the tedious task of untangling the kite tail and string.
She looked down at the waiting children. The canopy of branches hid the girl from view, but the teary boy was in plain, vivid sight.
“Can you get it?” he asked. “Can you?”
Unexpectedly, her vision tunneled, and she felt strangely dizzy.
The scene and plea were all too familiar, and upon its echoes she hurtled back through the years, looking down from a similar perch to a tearful John below, although several years older than this boy.
“May I?” he’d pleaded. “Please? Just this once?”
He’d wanted to climb up the tree with her.
Begged to. Her parents had charged her with keeping an eye on her little brother—keeping him safe.
She knew John was too young. Too unsteady.
But he kept begging and whining and finally she’d relented, thinking if she kept him close, all would be well.
She’d helped him up to the lowest branch and he’d climbed up from there, ignoring her warnings and entreaties to wait for her and not climb too high.
Heart pounding, she’d hurried after him but before she could reach him, he slipped and fell, landing on the hard-packed earth below, where he lay deadly still. . . .
“Are you all right, miss?” the girl called up, scattering her dark cloud of reverie.
“Em, yes. Just taking time to untangle.”
Rebecca lowered the kite, freed at last, to the outstretched hands awaiting it, then dropped the string as well.
She climbed carefully down, finally sitting on the lowest branch and preparing to jump. It seemed higher now for some reason.
Rebecca took a steadying breath and pushed off, stumbling to the ground. Getting to her feet, she saw the grass stain on her gown and inwardly groaned. Lady Fitzhoward had an exacting eye. She reached down and swatted ineffectually at the stain. Hopefully, Rose could help her remove it.
The little boy threw his arms around her knees, adding snot to the brownish-green stain.
The girl bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you, Miss . . . ? May I ask your name?”
“I am Miss Lane, and you are most welcome.” Rebecca gathered her things and straightened. “May I suggest the village green for your next kite-flying adventure?”
Grinning sheepishly, the children nodded in agreement and waved her on her way.