The Death of Jane Lawrence(22)

None at all. Augustine touched her hand briefly, then went to the door.





CHAPTER EIGHT


JANE LINGERED IN the study for over half an hour, hoping Augustine would return to her, but it was the maid who came to fetch her.

She followed Mrs. Purl down to the dining room, where Augustine greeted her with a faint smile. He pulled her seat out for her, and she sat, gazing up at him. But shutters had closed across his features. The openness from before was gone, and she realized, when Mrs. Luthbright entered with the first course, that they had an audience. When he commented on the weather, and the likelihood of an autumn storm that night, she picked up the thread.

Mrs. Luthbright set out roasted river eels and fennel soup and a host of other dishes, made small for only the two of them but no less sumptuous for it. They spoke of nothing of substance as Mrs. Luthbright bustled in and out, and as they heard murmurs behind the door, Mrs. Purl commenting on their comportment.

“I hope dinner was to your liking?” Augustine said, when the dishes had been cleared. “I should have asked what you preferred.”

“No, it was delicious,” she said. She searched his face, waiting, hoping for an invitation to repair upstairs, or to another sitting room. An excuse for them to be alone again.

“It’s been a long day,” he said instead.

“It has,” she agreed. She thought to say more, to be more forward, then caught sight of her reflection in the window. The sun sank low on the horizon, and the growing darkness outside, combined with the bright gas lighting, made the polished glass nearly impenetrable.

They’d run out of time.

Augustine rose and came around the table, offering his arm to her. She took it, reluctant and eager all at once, unsure of when she’d get to touch him again. Together, they went out into the main hall. The carriage was waiting outside, and Jane could see her traveling case safely loaded onto the back already.

He paused at the door, then looked at her, a myriad of emotions dancing over his face. What happened now? Did they shake hands? Did they kiss like amorous newlyweds? She wanted to reach out and touch him, wanted to beg him to let her remain just one night.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” she said instead.

Augustine nodded, summoning up a small smile. “I’m looking forward to it,” he said. “You’d best get going.”



* * *



AS JANE WATCHED Lindridge Hall recede behind her, its unkempt grounds and lowering gables fading into shadow, an acute loneliness settled around her. For the first time since her early childhood, she wouldn’t be sleeping under the Cunninghams’ roof, and though she liked Mr. Lowell well enough, she hardly knew him. She hardly knew Augustine, either—but he was her husband, and without him, and without her guardians, she was a woman under her own power, and at her own mercy.

She would have to get used to it. It was, after all, exactly what she’d asked for.

Jane rested her forehead against the window as her carriage rattled along, hoping its movements would jar the sentimental, almost fearful thoughts from her head. This was not the first time she had been left alone, she reminded herself. Her parents had joined the volunteer forces when the war had reached Camhurst, and then they had left her. They had sent her far away, to the home of one of her father’s old friends, Mr. Cunningham. For those long hours in that crowded carriage into the heartland, still trembling from the shelling that had stopped only a few days before in a temporary cease-fire, she had been without a single person in the world.

She had survived then, and she could certainly survive a wedding night on her own.

They were only a half mile along the dirt road back to Larrenton when the rains started. At first, it was only a few scattered taps along the top of the carriage, but within minutes it was pouring, hammering on the roof and sheeting down the small glass windows. The water blotted out the hills they traveled through.

The carriage lurched, slowed abruptly, and listed to the left.

Jane reflexively pressed herself against the opposite wall of the carriage, but her weight wasn’t enough to stop it from tipping, wavering on two of its wheels, and finally crashing over.

Outside, the horse screamed.

The impact threw her against the seat, and she curled up, trying to protect her head. Even on its side, the coach continued to move, sliding. Were they on a relatively flat portion of the road, or on one of the many ridges that wound their way through the hills?

Another inch. And another. She pulled herself to her feet, hunching almost double to stand in the much shorter width of the cab, and scrabbled for the door handle.

The carriage driver’s shadow fell across the window and he hauled the door open from the outside. He leaned in, hat dripping and greatcoat-clad shoulders slick with rain, and grabbed her by the arms. With his help, she heaved herself from the cab and tumbled out onto the ground below. Rain swiftly plastered her hair to her face, destroying the careful coiffure Mrs. Cunningham had arranged for her that morning. And it was cold, so cold.

The driver left her side, and as she pulled herself to her feet in a tangle of wet silk, she saw him struggling to free the horse. The road had been washed out by a mudslide coming from the hill to her right, and the carriage was within a foot of the drop off to the dale below. The horse’s every spasmodic lurch dragged it closer to the edge, the swift flow of water and crumbling earth promising disaster.