24. Chapter 24
Kitty sat up and rubbed her eyes. What time was it? It must be nearly the dinner hour. She hadn’t meant to sleep so long, but the emotion of the day had exhausted her.
For William to hint that they could have been more than friends, if he were free to speak, had been like offering her paint without a canvas.
Goodness! That man had got under her skin so badly she was even thinking in artistic metaphors now.
Anger had been her only defence, but once in the safety of her bedroom, she had cried until she fell asleep.
The rest had calmed her soul. As she dwindled into old age, she would cherish the knowledge that once she had been loved. Tempting though it was to hide in her chamber, she would need to confront William and Laura at some point. Better to get it over and done with as soon as possible.
She poured water into her washbowl and splashed it over her face, hoping to remove any sign of grief.
A glance in the mirror showed she hadn’t quite succeeded.
Her eyes were still somewhat red and puffy, but she doubted anyone would notice.
Except William. She would not be able to hide from him how much pain he had caused her.
Kitty left her bedchamber and went downstairs to the drawing room. It was empty. She was the first to come down for dinner. Seated in a chair facing the doorway, she picked up a copy of La Belle Assemblée to flick through as she waited.
A few minutes later, Hugh came in. He gave an audible sigh and smiled at her. “No sign of the happy couple yet, I see.”
Kitty didn’t know what to say, but it seemed no response was required. He beamed at her and sat down on the end of the sofa nearest her. What a relief she had chosen not to sit on the settee. It would be nigh impossible to cope with Hugh’s attentions while her mind was full of William.
The door opened again, and Kitty braced herself for the sight of the man she loved and his bride-to-be entering the room together, but Laura was alone. She looked pale and drawn—not like a lady who had just got engaged to be married.
Her father’s brow creased. “Where is Lord Droxford?”
“I don’t know, Papa. I thought he would be back by now.”
“Didn’t you come home with him?”
“No. I was sent on ahead.”
Laura put her forefinger in her mouth and chewed on the nail. That didn’t bode well. She only did that when she was nervous.
Kitty rose from her chair. “Shall we look for him? Perhaps he is painting and has forgotten the time.”
“I already checked the Long Gallery. He’s not there.”
“Then maybe he was sketching outside and got distracted.”
“I would not expect him to be late for dinner today,” Hugh said, giving his daughter a pointed look.
Neither would Kitty. What could have kept William? “Could he have suffered an accident?”
Laura blanched. “Oh dear. I left him talking to Mr Jenkin and their conversation was not friendly. You don’t think—”
She broke off and hurried from the room.
“What was that man doing there?” Hugh said with a grunt. “Doesn’t he have work to do?”
Kitty could not suppose Mr Jenkin’s presence was coincidental. Sutton must have told him where her mistress would be. How unhelpful! The poor fellow would be distraught to discover his sweetheart was marrying another. Could he have forced a quarrel on William? Called him out?
She banished the image of Mr Jenkin leaning over William’s inanimate body from her mind. “I need to go after Laura.”
Without stopping to fetch her bonnet or pelisse, she hurried into the garden and out the gate, with Hugh close behind her.
She could see her friend ahead of them in the gloom, standing near the path down to the beach, peering over the side of the cliff. Someone was with her. Relief washed over her as Kitty recognised William’s tall form.
But before they could reach her position, Laura let out an almighty scream and pointed an accusing finger at him.
“You…you…murderer! You’ve killed my husband!”
Murder? The relief Kitty had felt at seeing William unhurt dissipated. What had her friend said—he’d killed her husband? What husband?
Hugh’s face turned an ugly puce. Marching up to his daughter, he grasped her by the shoulders and shook her. “What are you saying, girl? You’re out of your mind.”
“I’m not. My husband is dead—and it’s all your fault. If you hadn’t pushed me to marry Lord Droxford, David wouldn’t have got into a fight over me. And now he’s gone. I hate you.”
Realisation struck. She was talking about Mr Jenkin. They must have married in secret and hoodwinked them all. But where was he? There was no corpse at William’s feet.
Kitty was propelled into action. “Where is he?”
Head averted, Laura pointed over the edge of the cliff.
Kitty leaned forward and then jerked back again.
A man’s body was lying splayed out on the path below them.
How had he got there? Had William pushed him over, or was it an accident?
Those questions could be shelved until later. Mr Jenkin might still be alive.
Of their own accord, Kitty’s feet hurried down the track to where his crumpled body lay. She knelt by Mr Jenkin’s lifeless form and put her head close to his mouth, praying over and over that he might not be dead. A tiny breath of air warmed her cheek.
“He’s alive!” she called out to the group at the top of the cliff. The undergrowth must have broken his fall and saved his life.
Her words released a flurry of movement. Laura came hurtling down the path toward her, followed by William, leaving Hugh standing alone, petrified with shock.
Her friend would have thrown herself onto her husband if Kitty had not restrained her. “He still lives—but he’s hurt. You don’t want to make his injuries worse. Hold his hand. Talk to him.”
Laura took Mr Jenkin’s hands in her own, stroking her thumbs over his knuckles. “Don’t leave me, David. Please wake up.”
Kitty could feel William staring at her, but she refused to meet his eyes, afraid of what she might see there.
“I didn’t—”
“Not now, Will. Get help. We need a means to carry Mr Jenkin back to the house. And a doctor. As soon as possible.”
He sped off up the path, and not long after, Blake and another servant appeared, carrying a makeshift litter. Under Kitty’s guidance, they lifted David onto the board, but he still didn’t wake up. Was he nearer death than she’d hoped?
Once inside, Laura insisted that Mr Jenkin was laid in her own bed. She pulled up the covers over her husband’s battered form and took up a vigil by his bedside.
The doctor arrived soon after, and Kitty waited outside with her friend while he examined his patient.
When they re-entered the room, it was a relief to discover he was a practical man, rather than a physician who refused to get his hands dirty.
With the aid of his assistant, he had already set the broken bone in Mr Jenkin’s leg and fixed it with a splint.
“I’ve done what I can for him, Mrs Jenkin. God willing, his leg will heal, as will his cracked ribs, but this won’t benefit your husband if he doesn’t regain consciousness. Pray he wakes up soon, or you’ll be a widow before the month is out.”
The ladies were left alone by Mr Jenkin’s bedside. Laura caressed her husband’s hand. “Is he going to die?”
The situation looked bleak from every angle, but Kitty clung to the possibility that he would survive. “While there is breath, there is hope. All we can do now is pray.”
That was all any of them could do, and she prayed as fervently as her friend that the man would live. And that Laura was wrong and William hadn’t pushed Mr Jenkin down the cliff.
William had thought the nightmare was over, but it seemed it had only just begun. Freed from any need to marry Mr Barrington’s daughter, he had been rejoicing in being able to confess his feelings to Kitty. To make her his wife.
But then he’d been hit from behind. The last thing he remembered before losing consciousness was the shock on the riding officer’s face and his cry to look out. Which also meant that when William had been attacked, he was still at the top of the cliff.
But who was going to believe in his innocence if Mr Jenkin didn’t wake up? The woman to whom he had been about to propose was the injured man’s wife, and she’d left them on the verge of a fight. He couldn’t blame her for thinking he had pushed her husband over the edge.
What hurt more was that Kitty wouldn’t look at him. Did she think he was guilty too?
As soon as the preventive officer had been handed over into the doctor’s care, William quit the house, eager to get away.
He could not face Mrs Jenkin again while her husband’s life hung in the balance.
Nor could he bear the thought of seeing the question in Kitty’s eyes.
As if she believed him capable of such a heinous act.
To his annoyance, Mr Barrington followed him into the garden. William supposed he would have to stay and talk to him.
“There’s no need to run, Lord Droxford. It was just an accident. You were overcome. A man in love, shocked by Mr Jenkin’s deceit—as was I. Perfectly understandable. You do not have to fear retribution if he dies. I will see to it myself.”
Mr Barrington’s words tasted as bitter as lemons. If he believed him innocent, why was he so keen to help him escape justice?
“Please rid yourself of the notion that it was an accident. Someone hit me over the head and then attacked Mr Jenkin.”
The man laid a heavy hand on William’s shoulder. “If that’s the story you want to tell, I will support you. Who shall we blame—smugglers? Unlikely that they would attack you, but probably the best we can do—”
“It is not a fabrication,” William said, from between clenched teeth. “It’s the truth, though I don’t know who is responsible. Mr Jenkin saw my attacker—I observed the shock on his face. I think it was someone he recognised.”
The pressure on his shoulder increased. “Let us say that it was smugglers, then. As long as it is not you who hangs, that is all that matters.”
Why was Mr Barrington so desperate to excuse the crime he thought he had committed? Even if the worst happened and Mr Jenkin died, he couldn’t expect him to marry his daughter now…could he?
“I assure you that should Laura be freed from her foolish marriage, you still have my blessing to wed her.”
Was the man serious? How callous to give his daughter’s hand to another when her husband was fighting for his life.
“I pray with all my heart that Mr Jenkin recovers, but you can be sure of this. If he dies, I will not marry his widow.”
As if he would offer for her now, when it was obvious she was not—and never had been—desiring his proposal.
Mr Barrington nodded his head, his eyes full of sympathy. “Ah, your pride is hurt. I understand. No one cares to be second choice. But mark my words. You will come around soon enough if the situation arises.”
Frustration bubbled to boiling point. Why wouldn’t the man listen to him? William wanted to stay to argue his case. To force Mr Barrington to accept his innocence and that he would never marry his daughter.
Afraid he might do or say something he would later regret, he cried out to God in prayer. As he opened his mouth to speak again, his conscience prompted him to leave. There was no point in staying. The man was twisting all his words to serve his own purposes.
William stepped back, dislodging Mr Barrington’s grip on his shoulder. With a stiff bow, he strode across the grass. He didn’t know where he was going. He just knew he needed to get away before he did something he would regret.
Halfway down the garden, he recalled the ruined church where he had once found Kitty praying and veered off to the right, thinking that the place well suited his mood. A place where God had once been regularly worshipped, but now stood in ruins. Like his life.