The Removal
The footmen came for her at half past nine.
Not Frederick. Footmen. Two of them, young and efficient, positioning themselves at the front and back of the wheeled chair with the careful coordination of men who had been given very specific instructions.
They lifted her—chair and all—and carried her down the stairs whilst Florinda counted each step out of habit and tried not to think about whose arms should have been around her instead.
Fourteen stairs. She had counted them dozens of times over the past fortnight, held against him, close enough to feel his heartbeat through layers of wool and linen, close enough to breathe in sandalwood and soap and a warmth underneath that was simply him.
Fourteen stairs that had become the most dangerous part of her day—and the part she had looked forward to most.
This morning, Frederick had not come.
He had not appeared at breakfast. He had not sent word. He had simply... not been there, and the footmen had arrived in his place, and Florinda had understood the message perfectly: too close. Too much. This must stop.
She had not expected it to hurt quite so much.
Four and a half weeks she had been at Carthedge Hall.
The first fortnight confined to the blue guest chamber, seeing no one but Martha—whom Margot had dispatched from Ashbourne the moment she received word of the accident—and Lady Penelope, who visited daily with books and gossip and the particular kindness of a woman who understood confinement.
The Dowager had looked in every other day, as propriety demanded of a hostess, her visits brief and coolly correct.
Frederick she had not seen at all during those first two weeks. There had been no reason for him to visit an invalid in her bedchamber. No excuse. No opportunity.
Then she had grown strong enough to be carried downstairs, and everything had become infinitely more complicated.
Two and a half weeks of chess games and whist evenings and formal dinners.
Two and a half weeks of being lifted and carried, of counting stairs, of conversations that said nothing and meant everything.
Two and a half weeks for the gossip to spread from the Carthedge servants to the village to the surrounding estates.
And now, apparently, it was over. Whatever it had been.
The footmen deposited her in the morning room with professional care, bowed, and withdrew.
Florinda sat in the thin winter sunlight and told herself the ache behind her ribs was merely the strain of being jostled about.
Nothing more. Certainly nothing to do with the empty doorway where a duke should have been standing.
She had been staring at that doorway for perhaps ten minutes when she heard the carriage—the familiar rumble of wheels on the gravel drive, accompanied by the high, excited shriek of a child who had been confined to a vehicle for far too long.
Hope.
Which meant Margot.
Which meant trouble.
"Your stepmother has arrived," Penelope observed from the window, her voice carrying the particular brightness of someone who had not yet experienced Margot in full protective fury. "How lovely. And she has brought the most darling little girl."
"Hope is four," Florinda said. "She bites when vexed."
"Surely not."
"She bit the vicar last Easter. Drew blood. Percy was immensely proud."
Penelope turned from the window with a look of delighted horror. "You are inventing this."
"I am not. The vicar's sermon had gone on for two hours. Hope was merely expressing what we all felt." Florinda adjusted her position in the wheeled chair, trying not to think about the empty doorway, about footmen where Frederick should have been. "You ought to hide. Margot shall be in a temper."
"Why ever should she be in a temper? You have been convalescing from an injury. It is all perfectly—"
The morning room door opened. Margot swept through it like a force of nature wrapped in travelling clothes, her dark eyes taking in everything—the wheeled chair, Florinda's splinted leg, Penelope's concerned hovering—in a single comprehensive glance.
"You," she said to Florinda, "managed to break your leg in the one place that would create maximum scandal. I am almost impressed."
"Margot—"
"The entire county is cataloguing how many times His Grace carries you up and down staircases.
" Margot removed her gloves with sharp, precise movements.
"Mrs. Pemberton informed me—in excruciating detail—that her cook's sister's nephew works in the Carthedge stables and has been providing daily reports on the situation. Daily. Reports."
"I have a broken leg. I cannot walk. Someone must carry me."
"Someone. Not the Duke. Not the engaged Duke." Margot's gaze swept to Penelope, and her voice softened marginally. "Lady Penelope. Forgive my rudeness. I am Lady Raventhorn—Florinda's stepmother."
"I had surmised as much." Penelope's curtsey was graceful despite the awkwardness of the situation. "Your stepdaughter speaks of you with great affection."
"Does she? How unusual." Margot's lips twitched. "Florinda, I have brought a wheeled chair—I had one made in the village the moment I received word of your accident. You shall ride in it to the carriage. The footmen shall lift you in. We shall depart within the hour."
"Within the hour?"
"I have arranged for a surgeon to attend you at Ashbourne House.
Dr. Blackwell—he treated Percy's brother's hunting injuries.
Competent. Discreet." Margot's voice carried the clipped efficiency of a general marshalling troops.
"You shall convalesce properly, in your own home, without—" She stopped herself. "Without complications."
Florinda understood what she meant. Without Frederick carrying her. Without the gossip spreading further. Without whatever had been growing between them having the chance to bloom into full scandal.
Margot was right. She hated that Margot was right.
"I should like to say goodbye," Florinda said. "To the household. To—to everyone."
Margot's sharp gaze softened, just fractionally. "You have half an hour. Then we leave."
* * *
Penelope found her in the blue guest chamber, Martha helping her into her travelling clothes—the same dress she had been wearing when her horse had thrown her and her entire life had become impossibly complicated.
"You cannot leave," Penelope said from the doorway, her voice thick. "Not yet. Not like this."
"Penelope—"
"Who shall I talk to? Who shall understand about—" She stopped, glancing at Martha, who was industriously folding a shawl and pretending not to listen. "About everything?"
Florinda reached for her hand. "You shall write to me. Every week. And I shall write back, and we shall be the most devoted correspondents in the kingdom, and when you are—" She hesitated over the word. "When you are married, I shall come to visit."
"Promise me." Penelope's fingers squeezed hers. "Promise you shall not forget me."
"I could not forget you if I tried." Florinda meant it. In these weeks, Penelope had become the friend she had not known she needed—someone who understood what it was to want the wrong thing, to be trapped by circumstance, to smile when every instinct screamed otherwise.
Penelope embraced her—carefully, mindful of the splinted leg—and Florinda felt a knot loosen behind her ribs. Not relief. Grief, perhaps. The particular sorrow of leaving someone who had seen her clearly.
"Take care of yourself," Florinda murmured. "Write to me about everything. Even the dull bits."
"Especially the dull bits," Penelope agreed, her voice thick. "The dull bits are the best parts."
* * *
The wheeled chair Margot had brought was sturdier than the one at Carthedge—wooden wheels reinforced with iron bands, a cushioned seat, clearly commissioned the moment Margot had learned of the accident. Practical. Thoughtful. Devastating in its efficiency.
Florinda sat in it in the entrance hall, waiting to be wheeled out to the carriage, whilst Margot conferred with the Carthedge housekeeper about sending the remainder of Florinda's belongings by separate conveyance.
Hope had been deposited in a corner with strict instructions not to bite anyone; she was currently engaged in a staring contest with a suit of armour that appeared to be losing.
Frederick emerged from the study.
She had not seen him since the previous evening—since the dinner, the staircase, the moment on the landing when his arms had tightened around her and neither of them had spoken.
He had sent footmen this morning instead of coming himself, and she had understood.
But understanding did not make it easier to look at him now.
"Lady Florinda." His voice was perfectly controlled. "I understand you are departing."
"Yes." Her own voice emerged steady. She was proud of that. "My stepmother has arranged for my continued convalescence at Ashbourne House. It is—" She swallowed. "It is more appropriate."
"Indeed." He stood three feet away from her. It might as well have been three miles. "I trust the journey shall not overtax you."
"Margot has arranged for frequent stops. She is—" Florinda's throat closed. "She is very thorough."
"Lady Raventhorn's reputation for efficiency precedes her."
They were speaking in platitudes. Polite, meaningless phrases that filled the space where actual words could not go.
Florinda wanted to scream. She wanted to weep.
She wanted to reach out and touch him, just once, before she left—to feel his hand in hers, to have some physical confirmation that these past weeks had been real.
She did none of these things. She was an Ashbourne. She knew how to suffer elegantly.
"I thank you," she said, "for your hospitality during my recovery. Your household has been most accommodating."
"It has been our pleasure." He paused. His jaw tightened. "I hope your recovery continues without incident."
"I am sure it shall."
They stared at each other. Three feet of marble floor between them, and an ocean of things neither could say.