Soundlessly Laura crept through the dark hall. Having rehearsedâand usedâthe route before, she knew every carpet, chair and cupboard in the passageway, each twist of the twenty-nine steps down the servantsâ stair to the back door. Even were their old butler Hobbins and his wife not snoring in their room just off the corridor, the winter storm howling through the chimneys and rattling the shutters would cover the slight rustle of her movements.
Just once she halted in her stealthy passage, outside the silent nursery. Leaning toward the door, she could almost catch a whiff of baby skin, feel the softness of flannel bunting, see the bright eyes and small waving hands. A bitter bleakness pierced her heart, beside whose chill the icy needles being hurled against the windows were mild as summer rain, and her step staggered.
She bent over, gripping for support the handle of the room where a babyâs gurgle no longer sounded. Nor ever would againânot flesh of her flesh.
I promise you that, Jennie, she vowed. Making good on that vow could not ease the burden of guilt she carried, but it was the last thing she would do in this house. The only thing, now, she could do.
Marshaling her strength, she straightened and made her way down the stairs, halting once more to catch her breath before attempting to work the heavy lock of the kitchen door. She was stronger now. For the past month sheâd practiced walking, at first quietly in her room, more openly this past week since most of the household had departed with its master for London. She could do this.
Cautiously she unlatched the lock, then fastened her heavy cloak and drew on her warmest gloves. At her firm push the door opened noiselessly on well-oiled hinges. Ignoring the sleet that pelted her face and the shrieking wind that tore the hood from her hair, she walked into the night.
The crisp fall breeze, mingling the scents of falling leaves and the sharp tang of herbs, brought to Laura Martinâs ear the faint sound of barking interspersed with the crack of rifle shot. The party which had galloped by her cottage earlier this morning, the squireâs son throwing her a jaunty wave as they passed, must be hunting duck in the marsh nearby, she surmised.
Having cut the supply of tansy she needed for drying, Laura turned to leave the herb bed. Misfit, the squireâs failure of a rabbit hound whoâd refused to leave her after she healed the leg heâd caught in a poacherâs trap, bumped his head against her hand, demanding attention.
âShameless beggar,â she said, smiling as she scratched behind his ears.
The dog flapped his tail and leaned into her stroking fingers. A moment later, however, he stiffened and looked up, uttering a soft whine.
âWhat is it?â Almost before the words left her lips she heard the rapid staccato of approaching hoofbeats. Seconds later one of the squireâs grooms, mounted on a lathered horse and leading another, flashed into view.
Foreboding tightening her chest, she strode to the garden fence.
âWhatâs wrong, Peters?â she called to the young man bringing his mount to a plunging halt.
âYour pardon, Mrs. Martin, but I beg you come at once! There were an accidentâa gun gone off â¦â The groom stopped and swallowed hard. âPlease, maâam!â âHow badly was the person injured?â
âI donât rightly know. The young gentleman took a shot to the shoulder and there be blood everywhere. He done swooned off immediate, andââ
Her foreboding deepened. âYouâd best find Dr. Winthrop. I fear gunshots are beyondââ
âI already been by the doctorâs, maâam, and heâhe canât help.â
âI see.â Their local physicianâs unfortunate obsession with strong spirits all too frequently left him incapable of caring for himself or anyone else. âTwas how sheâd gained much of her limited experience, stepping in when the doctor was incapacitated. But gunshot wounds? The stark knowledge of her own inadequacy chilled her.