Bound by Duty. Diane Gaston
watching. She was entirely too impetuous and plain speaking for her own good.
Tess changed the subject. ‘I do not think Lord Tinmore has anything planned for us until dinner.’
The guests, all closer to his age than to his bride’s, were in need of rest after travelling to Lincolnshire the day before. Tess supposed they had accepted the first invitation to Tinmore Hall in thirty years because they wanted to see what sort of woman caused Lord Tinmore to finally open his doors.
Tess dreaded their second meeting of the guests. The ladies’ travelling clothes were finer than her best gown. Their dinner gowns took away her breath. The new gowns Lord Tinmore had ordered would not be ready for a week, but Tess could not bear for her and her sisters to look so shabby in the meantime.
‘Would you like to walk to the village with me?’ she asked.
Genna looked surprised. ‘Why are you going to the village?’
‘For lace and ribbons. I believe I can embellish our gowns so it does not appear as if we are wearing the same one, night after night.’ They might be charity cases, but they could at least try not to look like ones.
‘You are being foolish to go out.’ Genna gestured to the window. ‘It will rain.’
Tess glanced at the overcast sky. ‘The rain should hold off until I return.’
‘Well, I am not chancing it.’ Genna dipped her brush in some paint.
‘Very well. I can walk alone.’ Tess always walked alone to Yardney, the village that once had been her home.
But it was only a few short miles from here. Obviously Lorene had walked the distance often enough to get married. Why not walk to Yardney instead of the village nearby? It would take only a little longer. If she went to Yardney she could call upon Mr Welton’s aunt. If Mr Welton was still her house guest, she could tell him about having her dowry restored.
‘You should take a maid or something,’ Genna said. ‘Is that not what wealthy wards do?’
If she wanted someone to know where she was bound, perhaps. Besides, Lord Tinmore was not their guardian. They’d not been appointed a guardian after their father died. There had been no property or fortune to protect. They were under Lord Tinmore’s protection, though.
‘Lord Tinmore will not care if I walk to the village when I’ve been walking the countryside my whole life.’ At least Tess hoped he would not care. She and Genna had hardly seen him, only for a few meals. She opened the door. ‘In any event, I am going.’ With luck she could change their dresses by dinnertime and see to her future, as well.
Genna did not look away from her watercolour. ‘Well, if it pours and you get soaking wet and catch your death of a cold, do not expect me to wipe your nose.’
That was much how their father had become ill. Surely Genna did not realise.
‘I never catch colds.’ Tess walked out of the room, closing the door behind her.
* * *
The rain did not begin until Tess left Yardney and was already on the road back to Tinmore Hall. The first drops that splattered the dirt road quickly grew to a heavy downpour. Moments later it was as if the heavens had decided to tip over all their buckets at once. In mere minutes Tess’s cloak was soaked through. Even her purchases, wrapped in paper and string and held under her cloak, were becoming wet.
‘Genna, you are going to gloat,’ she muttered.
But it had been worth it. Tess discovered that Mr Welton had indeed left for London, but he knew about Lorene’s marriage. She told his aunt about her changed circumstances.
He would find her when Lord Tinmore took them all to town for the Season. Only a few more weeks.
Mud from the road stuck to Tess’s half-boots, and it became an effort merely to lift one foot in front of the other. Water poured from the drooping brim of her hat and the raindrops hit her face like needles of ice. She had at least two miles to go before she’d cross through the gatehouse of the estate.
The mud grabbed at her half-boots like some devious creature bent on stopping her. Trying to quicken her pace was futile, but at last she spied the bridge ahead through the thick sheets of rain.
But the stream now rushed over it.
‘No!’ Her protest was swallowed by the wind.
What now? She did not know of any other way to reach Tinmore Hall. There was no choice but to walk to the nearby village as she ought to have done in the first place. The rain was cutting into her like knives now, not needles.
She glanced at the wooded area next to the road. If this were home, she’d know precisely how to cut through the woods and cross the fields. She might be home already, sitting in front of a fire, letting the heat penetrate instead of this rain. Here she did not dare leave the road that she knew led to Tinmore Village.
Do not think, she told herself. Just put one foot in front of the other. Despair nudged at her resolve.
She walked and walked until she thought she saw a vague outline of the village church tower. She hurried on, but up ahead water was streaming across the road. She could not go forward. She could not go back.
But she could go home, home to Yardney, at least. Perhaps she would seek shelter at Mr Welton’s aunt’s house. Or knock at the door of Summerfield House.
She turned back, retracing her steps, passing the road leading to the blocked bridge. A short distance from there, the road was flooded. Turning back again, she walked until she found another road, not knowing where it would lead her.
If only she were closer to home. She would be able to turn in any direction and find someone’s house who would welcome her, but she no longer knew where she was or how to find her way to anywhere familiar. She was lost, wet and terribly cold.
Marc Glenville cursed the rain.
Why there must be a downpour while he was on horseback on his way to London was beyond him. Unless the gods of weather somehow caught his mood.
Returning to London was never a joy.
But there was nothing else for him to do. His business in Scotland was complete.
His horse faltered and his head dipped. A stream of water trickled down his back.
Business in Scotland. Ha!
That was the fiction he told his parents and would tell anyone else who questioned his whereabouts these last long months, but it was not the truth.
He’d been to France. Paris and the countryside, mixing with Bonapartists and others discontented with returning Louis XVIII to the throne, keeping an ear tuned to whether discontent was apt to erupt in insurrection.
All for king and country.
Unrest was not widespread. The French, like the British, were fatigued with war. Mark had made his reports. No more would be asked of him.
It was time to face more personal matters.
Time to face again the fact that his brother would never again grin at him from across the dinner table and his best friend would never again come to call. When he was pretending to be Monsieur Renard, citoyen ordinaire of France, he could almost forget that Lucien, his brother, had been gone for four years and Charles, not quite three. Whenever he returned, though, he half-expected to see them walk through the door when he was home.
Grief shot through him like a bolt of lightning.
Foolish Lucien. Reckless Charles. They’d died so needlessly.
Marc willed his emotions to cool, lifting his face to the rain that was already chilling his bones. Best to keep emotions in control. When deep