Chapter 6 #3
By the time she escaped to her own chamber after their midday meal, she had still not recovered.
She pressed the letter flat on the desk, staring at it as one might a venomous snake, half-convinced it would strike if she dared look away.
She knew there could be no peace at Blackfen so long as that letter existed.
For the first time since her arrival, she doubted whether she had outrun her past at all.
She forced herself to re-read every word, line by line, not daring to skim for fear she might miss something vital.
Dearest Verity,
I hope you will forgive me for writing in haste, but I am troubled by a visitor who came not two days after you departed.
Mr. Robert Fynn called unannounced in the afternoon.
He asked after your whereabouts in a most forward manner.
I told him only that you had secured a new post in the north, but he pressed me for details, asking after the name of your employer and your intended address.
His manner was polite enough, but there was something beneath it that unsettled me.
I did not know how to refuse him entry, so I invited him in for tea, thinking it would end the matter quickly. I regret this now.
He remained for nearly half an hour, asking questions about your health, your plans, and your new circumstances.
He seemed particularly eager to know how you had come by your position so suddenly, whether anyone had recommended you, and whether you had written to any old friends. I answered as vaguely as I could.
I am ashamed to admit that, during his visit, I left the morning news-sheet on the table. The one with the advertisement for the post at Blackfen Castle, which I had circled in ink for your reference. When Mr. Fynn left, I found the page gone.
I do not wish to alarm you, dearest, but I fear he may have taken the paper. If so, he will have the name of the estate and may deduce your destination. I do not think he will come all the way to Northumberland, to Blackfen. He is a lazy man, for all his bluster. But I feel I have failed you.
If there is any way I may be of help, you have only to write. I am proud of you for seeking a new life, and I will do anything to protect it, but I beg you to be cautious.
Write soon, if only to tell me I worry for nothing.
With love,
Aunt Martha
Verity set the letter down with shaking hands.
The images tumbled in, bright and real. Robert Fynn’s heavy jaw, his slow smile, the way he once held her wrist so hard she feared the bone might snap.
She could almost hear the tenor of his voice, each syllable dipped in oily charm, each question a hook baited with false concern.
She thought about the day of her departure, the coach’s lurch, the sense of running out of time. She had told herself then that she would never look back, that the past could be left behind by sheer force of will and speed. Now, it stalked her up the length of England, a muddy, persistent shadow.
If Robert Fynn had the address, he could write to Blackfen Castle, or worse, arrive in person, even if Aunt Martha did not think he would.
He could tell Lord Blackfen or the dowager everything.
He could twist the truth into any shape he pleased, and even if he could not harm her physically here, he could still unmask her, ruin her again.
She paced the room, each turn shorter than the last. She tried to recall every detail from Aunt Martha’s letter, every hint or warning. She remembered his last words to her, “I always get what I want in the end, Abby.”
The knowledge that he might find her here, at Blackfen, among people she had come to like, in a life she was only beginning to enjoy, was intolerable. Her hands curled into fists at her sides.
She would be dismissed before supper, sent back down the long road in disgrace.
Aunt Martha would take her in, of course, but the parish would remember, everyone would.
The whispers, the turned backs, it would all begin again the moment she got back.
She would spend the rest of her days being shunned.
The cold that radiated from the window was nothing compared to the chill in her blood.
Lord Blackfen had shown her nothing but kindness, ensuring his hounds became familiar with her, then taking the entire blame for that wonderful kiss, as though she had been an innocent bystander to his own desire.
He had even apologized with a humility that still astonished her.
Despite his high animal spirits, as Lady Blackfen put it, he had behaved like a gentleman afterwards.
If anyone deserved to hear the truth, it was he, spoken plainly from her own lips before Fynn could twist it into something fouler.
Better that he hear her shame in her own voice.
She owed him that much honesty, and there was a chance, her heart stuttered at the thought, that he would not flinch, that he would believe her when he heard it.
The risk was terrifying, but the alternative was worse. She would not wait around like a cornered hare for Fynn to arrive and destroy the fragile peace she had only just begun to taste.
Verity resolved that she would find Lord Blackfen alone and tell him everything.