The Widow Of Pale Harbour. Hester Fox

       9

      I know. I know. I know.

      Sophronia’s footsteps clipped along in time to the words. They spun through her head, imprinting themselves on the back of her eyelids. How could anyone know? They could have their rumors and suspicions all they liked, but the people of Pale Harbor did not know the truth, or her version of the truth, at any rate. The note with the candles was meant to scare her, rattle her. Well, it had succeeded. The question was, why now? Suspicion had followed her about like a cloud threatening rain in the four years since Nathaniel had died, so why send her this now?

      After Sophronia had ordered Garrett to dispose of the candles somewhere out of sight, she had paced about the house, as restless and on edge as a caged animal. By the time dawn had broken, some of her fear had faded, replaced by anger and indignation. How dare somehow violate her Safe space? How dare they threaten her with their cryptic messages?

      When she couldn’t take the racing thoughts anymore, Sophronia had told Helen that she needed to go for a walk to clear her head. Helen had pressed her lips tight as if she wanted to caution her against it, but ultimately let her go without a fight.

      It had been ages since Sophronia had taken a walk by herself without Helen insisting on trailing behind her like some sort of medieval lady-in-waiting. But Sophronia was only going up to the hill anyway.

      The hill—which was really more of a gentle slope—was Safe because no one else ever went there, and Helen had told her that she’d designated it as the outer edge of the ring of protection. It rose up alongside Castle Carver, and while it was part of the parcel of Carver land, it was so ambling and expansive that it could hardly be considered private property. It was the farthest that Sophronia would ever go, and at the top she would still be able to see Castle Carver, safe and snug, tucked into the surrounding trees.

      The leaves under her boots were satisfyingly crunchy, and it felt good to let her legs stretch out under her layers of petticoats. The September breeze was crisp and cool, holding the promise of colder winds to come. Soon, the candles and the reason for her walk in the first place faded from her mind.

      She walked without a bonnet, relishing the wind in her hair. Nathaniel had disapproved of her walking, especially without all the gloves and hats and cloaks that kept her proper. Without them, she’d be no better than a common housemaid in the eyes of the townspeople, he’d said, and it was their job as the most prominent family to set the standard for polite living.

      Oh, everyone had loved Nathaniel. He’d been tall and just aloof enough that people deferred to him, but had penetrating blue eyes that made one eager to please him, to win one of his rare smiles. He was distinguished and well dressed, and everything that a wealthy man should be. Sophronia alone was privy to the streak of cruelty that had made him a monster to live with.

      Now that she was free of him, she could walk without any time spent fussing over her appearance. But her world had shrunk down since his death. The people of Pale Harbor had worshipped Nathaniel, the wealthy businessman who had donated generously to charity and had given their little town a cosmopolitan flare. The first time she had ventured out into town after his funeral, there had been hissing, spitting and even whispered threats. The cold looks, the eyes flared with hatred, had eventually driven her back to the house, where she took sanctuary. Helen had cossetted her, making spells and charms that she claimed would keep Sophronia safe. It was all right, though; she had no need of the world beyond the grounds of Castle Carver. For all the bad memories that those walls held, there were a thousand more outside.

      But when she got to the top of the hill, Sophronia found that she was not alone. She stopped in her tracks, her heart freezing in her chest like a rabbit stumbling across a fox. A man stood with his back to her, hands in his pockets, staring off across the misty landscape.

      Sweat sprang to her palms and her throat tightened. What if it was the writer of the note, come to attack her somewhere no one would hear her scream? She turned to run back the way she had come, but tripped on a branch, snapping it. The sound rang out in the hollow air, giving her away. Unable to regain her balance, she went sprawling face-first and landed hard on her hands.

      The man’s head jerked around at the sound. This was it. Squeezing her eyes shut, Sophronia braced for an attack.

      But nothing came.

      When she opened her eyes again, she recognized the tall, hatless man striding toward her. Her pulse slowed, but only a little.

      “Mrs. Carver,” the minister said, his surprise nearly equal to her own. His coat had been slung over one arm, but when he saw her on the ground, he dropped it and offered her his hand. As he leaned over her, she could see the concern creasing his brow. “Are you all right?”

      She let out a long, unsteady breath, and her fear dissipated into embarrassment. Now he would think she was a flighty, clumsy mess of a woman, as well as an eccentric. For all that she was used to being disliked, for some reason it cut her to the core that this man might share in those opinions of her.

      Her dress was heavy and cumbersome, but she wouldn’t accept his hand, not when she was so vulnerable. With considerable effort, she scrambled to her feet, nearly tripping on her hem.

      He stood, hand still out as if he didn’t quite trust her to manage on her own. She teetered for a moment, swaying into him before regaining her balance. Before the breeze wound between them, she caught the faint scent of sandalwood and whiskey. It had been so long since she had been touched, at all, by anyone, never mind an astonishingly attractive man. She found herself wishing she could take his hand. “Quite all right,” she said briskly when she finally found her voice, taking a good step back.

      He gave her a look of lingering concern but only nodded. “I didn’t think that you—” He stopped himself, though Sophronia knew what he was going to say: I didn’t think that you ever left your house. Clearing his throat, he just said, “The path up was overgrown, and I didn’t think I’d see another soul.”

      She pretended she didn’t notice. “It’s the highest point in Pale Harbor. In the summer, the blueberries will be ripe, and in the winter, when the trees are bare, you can see clear across to the old lighthouse beyond the harbor.”

      “I should like to see that,” he said.

      She gave a grim little laugh. “You say that now, but you’ve yet to experience a winter here. Bleak doesn’t begin to describe it.”

      “And yet you brave it to come up here.”

      “Well,” she said, bristling, feeling the need to defend her home, “there’s a beauty in the bleakness. If there wasn’t, the endless months of snow and gray would be enough to make one go mad. Besides, it’s part of my property.”

      She wasn’t sure what perversion made her say that, other than she felt he should know that she did exert some control, that she was not a completely ridiculous person.

      She waited for him to redden and stammer an apology, but he only leveled a curious look at her. “Is it now?”

      “It is.”

      He nodded without further comment, squinting out into the distance. The shadow on his jaw she had noticed the other day had lengthened into the beginnings of a beard. It became him. Parlors and manners and polite society didn’t suit him, and his broad