Chapter
Ten

Will Harvey stood and waited, not too many paces into the kitchen from the back door, hat in hand, uncomfortable. In the years he’d been at the abbey, he’d hardly ever come inside the main house, even if it was just the kitchen. He hardly knew any of the staff, outside of other stable workers, except on sight, and only a few like Mrs. Owen and Fanny by name, and he didn’t like being here now. In fact, he’d tried to talk himself out of coming today at all. But his sense of what was right and just had prevailed, and so, here he was.

As he observed the hustle and bustle of the kitchen, he saw the earl enter the room. This, he’d expected. What he hadn’t expected was that the earl would have his eldest daughter with him.

Unlike with much of the staff, Will knew who all the family members were, by sight and by name, for they regularly came to ride the horses he tended.

And of course he knew who Lady Kate was, better than all the others. He still remembered that first time he’d met her, when they were both but three years old, that one day of friendship between them. When he’d returned to the estate four years later to claim his job as junior stable boy, he’d seen her again, and almost every day since then. But they’d never once spoken of that first day—he doubted she even remembered it as he did—their relationship settling into one of young lady of the house and worker on the estate, their only rare bond an exchanged glance and mutual smile in appreciation of something one of the horses had done. When he was seven, he’d initially felt stung by the change in her behavior toward him, so cool compared to his warm memory of her. Then he’d become resentful and, finally, resigned. After all, wasn’t this the way their world was supposed to be? There was no point in wishing it different.

As the earl strode up to him without hesitation, Will hoped they couldn’t see the evidence of the tears he’d cried the night before, anguished sobs he’d muffled with his pillow after he and his aunt had retired to their separate bedrooms. In the morning, Will had washed his face thoroughly, but you never knew. No matter how careful you were, you never knew what someone else might see in you.

“We were all so sorry to hear about your uncle’s death,” the earl said solemnly, a sincerely sympathetic expression on his face. “Such a horrible business, that. Ezra was with us for so many years. I cannot imagine this place without him.”

Will could remember no particular closeness between his farmer uncle and His Lordship—indeed, it surprised him that the earl knew his uncle’s given name. Still, he was willing to accept good wishes on the face of it.

“Thank you, my lord. I’m grateful for your kind words.”

“Yes,” Lady Katherine said. “We are all so very sorry.”

He met her eyes briefly. Even with her face partially obscured by the black veil of her hunting costume, those extraordinary blue eyes were so piercing. Not to mention that while he was accustomed to village girls and farmers’ daughters looking at him in a certain way, none had ever looked at him as boldly as this. Immediately, he looked away from that gaze.

“Thank you, Lady Katherine,” he said. Then he added, “You’re very kind,” not sure he meant it.

“Mr. Wright said something was wrong,” the earl prompted.

“Is it Wyndgate?” Lady Katherine put in. “Is he all right?”

“He’s fine,” Will said. “It’s nothing to do with the horses. I came to talk to you about my uncle.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” the earl said. “We’ve already said we know what happened and that we are all very sorry.” Realization dawned in the earl’s eyes. “Are you here about getting time off? Because if you are—”

“It’s not that, either!” Will said, beginning to feel impatience with these people.

“What, then?” Lady Katherine demanded, forcing him to look at her again.

“I came,” Will said, “because I felt it my duty to warn you.”

“Warn us?” she said. “That sounds ominous!” Strangely, she didn’t appear disturbed in the slightest at the idea of something being ominous. He had to give her some grudging credit: unblinking bravery was a fine thing in a person. Or perhaps, he thought, she is just being foolish. “Do tell!” she urged with a smile and a flash of those blue eyes.

“The circumstances of my uncle’s death were most unusual,” Will began.

“Yes, we’d heard all about that, too,” the earl said, practically brushing him off. “An unfortunate business… Your poor aunt… But what has any of that to do with a warning for us?”

Something in Will grew angry then. These people! As if strange tragedy could only come to the poor while they were above all that.

Still, he had to warn them.

“My uncle was dead,” Will said, “and then he wasn’t, and then he was again.”

“I really must stop you there,” the earl said. “We have heard all about this, but surely even you must realize that to suggest such a thing is insane. It could never happen!”

“With all due respect, I don’t think you understand, my lord. I’m not sure even I understand! But here is the thing: people go through their lives believing a thing could never happen. But never is only never until a thing does happen.”

“But it never happened in the first place!” the earl said with some exasperation.

“My aunt saw it with her own eyes.”

“Then she is delusional!”

“Are you calling her a liar?”

“Of course not! Did you not hear me use the word ‘delusional’? The poor woman is grief-stricken. Of course she is imagining all this.”

“I don’t believe so, and I do believe her. Which is why I have come here and why I am concerned. Whatever this is, it’s already happened once—to my uncle. What if it happens a second time? What if there is a danger of recurrence? So I thought it my duty to warn—”

“Yes, yes,” the earl said brusquely now, all sympathy seemingly gone. “Now you have. And now I shall warn you. Were it not for the debt I feel I owe to your uncle and aunt for being such good tenant farmers all these years, and were it not for the even greater fact of you being better with horses than anyone we have on staff, I would dismiss you right now. No, let us have no more talk of this insanity.” He nodded sharply. “Please extend our condolences to your aunt when next you see her. Good day.”

“Good day to you, too, my lord,” Will said, unable to keep a slight sneer from his voice as he addressed the earl’s retreating back.

“You know,” Lady Katherine said in a surprisingly soft voice, “we really are all so very sorry for your loss. If there is anything…”

She put one hand out, as though she might touch his arm, before letting it fall to her side. Perhaps, he thought later, it was the look on his face that made her drop that hand.

“And I thank you for it,” he said stiffly, feeling a confusing combination of emotions: outrage, hurt, a rare vulnerability, “but there is nothing anyone else can do. My aunt and I—we take care of ourselves.”

Will didn’t particularly care to have anyone feeling sorry for him. And did she really feel genuinely bad for his circumstances or did she feel bad that, if the stable boy were insane, he might be sent away and then who would take best care of her favorite horse?

With no more words said on either side, Will watched Lady Katherine follow her father from the room.

Well, Will thought, at least I tried.