Chapter 12
Free—did she dare believe him?
Lifting her skirts, Kyra climbed over the stile and picked her way down to the country lane leading into the village.
She had fled her workroom, too agitated to continue painting, and decided to seek solace in the mundane task of visiting the local apothecary in order to purchase some needed supplies.
The fresh scent of the meadow grasses and cheerful birdsongs that riffled through the back pastures were always calming.
Looking up at the clouds scudding across the sky, she drew in a lungful of the sun-warmed air. Free of fear? Free of recrimination? Free of self-torment? Oh, surely it couldn’t be as easy as Rafael described.
He didn’t know the full depths of her depravity.
A playful bark from Hero, who was thrashing through the brambles, merrily chasing butterflies, reminded her that she had vowed to put aside her worries for the moment.
“Come, Hero,” she called. “Let us not dawdle.” Mr. Rawlings was wont to shut up his shop early if the spirit moved him and she didn’t want to miss replenishing her stock of camphor.
Kyra and the hound reached the lane as it climbed up a sloping rise and swung around to pass through a glade of oaks. As she approached the trees, a lone rider emerged from the leafy shadows, moving at a sedate pace.
“Jack!” she exclaimed as she caught sight of his face. “I am surprised that Dr. Laskins has given his permission for you to be in the saddle just yet.”
“He hasn’t. But don’t grass on me.”
“As if I’ve ever landed you in the suds by telling tittle-tattle, no matter how richly you deserved it,” she huffed.
“True. There was never a more loyal comrade-in-mayhem.” Her childhood friend dismounted gingerly and waited for her to join him. “Lud, we were hellions, weren’t we?”
“Those days are over,” she said.
Wrapping the reins around one hand, Jack offered his arm and turned to walk with her. “One still needs to keep a little fire burning inside.”
“Fire is dangerous.”
“So is turning into a pile of cold gray ashes.”
“That’s unfair,” said Kyra after several silent strides.
“Is it?” he shot back.
Stung by his words, she kicked at pebble in the road. “You don’t understand.”
“You suffered a terrible tragedy,” he pointed out. “But that does not mean you have to give up on Life.” He flicked a fallen leaf from his sleeve. “The Kyra I’ve always known had more bottom than that.”
“It’s easy for you say!” she blurted out. “I know you have suffered much, too—but your pain was honorably won! While I . . .” She bit her lip, unwilling to let her voice give way to a sob.
“Honor? Is that what you think?” he said in a low, tight voice. “We all have inner demons to live with, Kyra. That day on the battlefield . . .” He paused to inhale a ragged breath. “The truth is, I was a coward that day. I saw the French hussars attack Rafael, and I hesitated.”
He looked away, the canopy of leaves casting dagger-like shadows over his still-gaunt profile.
“Here was the cousin who was like an older brother to me. During my summers in Spain, he had taught me how to ride, how to fence, how to drink port. And in his moment of need, I was afraid—afraid for my own worthless hide.”
Pain came in many guises.
She reached for his hand and twined her fingers with his.
“It was the flash of steel that roused me, I suppose,” he went on.
“I saw a sword rise and then start to swing down, and in that instant I managed to move. Then everything became a blur. There was blood and sweat and smoke everywhere. I saw him fall, and as I tried to reach forward, I felt a jarring pain in my chest, as if I’d been smacked with a cricket bat.
That’s all I remember . . . until much later. ”
A bleak smile flickered on his lips. “So you see, you are not alone in feeling guilty. The French hussars who found me informed me that no other English officers had survived, and so I knew that my cousin had died because I had been too selfish, too weak to save him. For weeks after I woke, I had no desire to live.”
“But somehow you found the inner strength to survive.” Her words were half statement, half question.
“Only because of the kindness of a French hussar’s wife.
She tended to my wounds, and made me talk about my childhood, and all the good memories of my family, my friendships, the estate lands that I cherished.
” Jack blew out another breath. “It was she who made me understand that I owed it to Rafael to live, to do my very best at fulfilling my dreams in honor of all the things he would never have a chance to do.”
Kyra bowed her head, feeling a little ashamed of herself. “You must think me a willful, spoiled chit,” she said in a small voice.
“I think you the same strong, courageous, wonderful hellion you’ve always been,” he replied. “All I’m saying is that if I can come back from the dead, so can you. You just have to believe in yourself.”
In his tactful way, Rafael had implied much the same thing, she mused. It sounded so simple, as yet . . .
“What you are suggesting is easier said than done.”
“True. But most things worth having take struggle and sacrifice. You have weathered the hardest part of the journey, and have learned the most difficult lessons. The rest is, well, up to you.” Jack released her hand, and drew his stallion close.
Thrusting a boot in the stirrup, he pulled himself into the saddle.
“I shall leave you to your peregrinations, for I find myself growing a trifle fatigued. The spirit may be willing to ride neck and leather through the hills as we did in our youth. But alas, the flesh is not yet up to the challenge.”
“You are making great progress,” said Kyra, noting that his coat no longer looked like it was hung over a bundle of sticks.
He winked. “I can say the same for you.”
“I—”
“Oh, and one last thing. I wouldn’t give my childhood sweetheart to just anyone. I would have come back from the grave to chase off Matherton. Rafael, however, is the best of men. He is worthy of you—and you of him.” With that, Jack touched his heels to the stallion’s flanks and trotted off.
The leafy shadows flickered in the breeze as the sun ducked in and out of the scudding clouds, the ever-changing hues adding their own reminder that life was rarely painted in stark shades of black and white.
Lost in thought, she made no move to be on her way until Hero gave a small whine and pushed his nose against her still-curled fingers.
“Yes, yes, you are right. We ought not dawdle. Mr. Rawlings will be shutting up his shop shortly.”
But despite hurrying her steps, Kyra found her thoughts straying far from apothecaries and medicines for the rest of the walk into the village.
She passed the butcher shop, nearly tripping over a crate of chickens, and was about to turn down a side lane when a tentative hail brought her back to the moment.
“Forgive me, but aren’t you Lady Kyra Sterling?”
She turned warily, wondering what subtle snub or snide comment might come next. The voice, soft and with a hint of an Oxfordshire accent, sounded vaguely familiar. But so-called friends had quickly sided with Polite Society in savaging her name.
“I met you at the beginning of last Season,” went on the young lady. “Though I doubt you would remember me. I was one of those painfully shy girls who end up clustered against the back wall of the ballroom, like a forgotten flower left to wilt.”
Kyra shifted just enough to see beneath the brim of the young lady’s chip straw bonnet. Chestnut curls framed a heart-shaped face dominated by a long nose and pert mouth, which was just now forming a hesitant smile.
“You were very kind to me.”
Miss Harriet Farnum. The name came to her after a moment. She was the eldest daughter of a baronet who served as a senior diplomat in the Foreign Ministry.
“I do remember, Miss Farnum. You had just returned to London from Stockholm, where your father had spent six months heading negotiations with the Swedish king on the war efforts,” said Kyra.
Harriet’s smile grew more pronounced. “I felt like a nobody, and didn’t know a soul. You took the trouble to introduce me to several of the other ladies making their come-out.”
“I daresay any number of people would have done the same.”
“You were the only belle of London who deigned to speak to a stranger.” Harriet paused.
“I am staying at Grantley Manor with my good friend Lady Theodora Bingham—an acquaintance made because of you—as we’ve both been invited by her aunt to the celebration ball for Lord Leete.
I was hoping to have an opportunity to see you and thank you for your thoughtfulness, so please forgive my forwardness in accosting you today.
I wanted to seize the chance, in case it didn’t come again. ”
Frankness deserved frankness, decided Kyra.
“That’s very considerate of you, Miss Farnum, however you may want to reconsider any public acknowledgement of me in the future.
These days, I am a pariah in Society, and any association will not reflect well on you.
” Careful to keep the bitterness out of her voice, she added, “And as you know, a lady can’t be too careful in guarding her reputation. ”
“To the Devil with my reputation,” replied Harriet softly. “Let the hypocrites say what they will. I’ve always been taught that an honorable person values friendship and loyalty above spiteful gossip.”
Kyra needed a moment to swallow the small lump that had formed in her throat. “Miss Farnum?—”
“Oh, please, won’t you call me Harriet? I should like to think of us as friends, that is, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all. Indeed I would be honored.”
“Then it’s settled!” exclaimed Harriet. A shop door opened and closed, setting off the tinkling of a bell and flutter of sprigged muslin.
“And here is Theo, who I know would love to make your acquaintance. I’m being presumptuous, I know, but she shares your interest in the art of watercolors, and I think you would like her. ”