Page 5 of The Duke Who Loved a Widow
Months of planning had worked. Escape.
Soon, they would be safely in Yorkshire, hoping for a brighter horizon.
***
Ten days later
“Henry, hurry up. Aunt Grace and Emma are waiting for us in the carriage. The service starts soon, and the vicar won’t like it if we are late.”
“Coming, Mama,” he called.
“Where have you been?” asked Arabella. “Tabitha was looking everywhere for you.”
“I heard a cuckoo.” He pointed to the trees in the orchard at the far side of the garden. “ Cuck-oo, cuck-oo. I’ve never heard a cuckoo before, but I knew its call. I went to the garden to investigate.”
“Well, you need to tell Tabitha or me where you are going. You know we worry about you,” she told him.
Henry almost rolled his eyes in frustration. “Mama, I’m eight years old now. Do I have to go to church? I want to write up my observations of the cuckoo.”
“Indeed, we must go to matins at the church. The Reverend Nathaniel would be very sad if we stayed at home.”
Her heart melted as she looked at her tiny son, so confident at eight years old, his light brown hair falling around his shoulders, and such a look of intense concentration on his face. He reminded her so much of Edward, looking up at her with those same big blue eyes, asking her questions, and telling her about his wildlife observations.
He enjoyed exploring the countryside and learning about nature. Sir Joseph had been teaching him about the birds in the garden and woods at Horton Park. He’d promised to take Henry on a walk onto the moors the next day.
She smiled, knowing their arrival had greatly pleased Sir Joseph and Lady Thraxton. She should never have worried about being a burden on them; they were happy to give her and Henry a home for as long as they needed one.
Only six days had passed since their arrival at Horton Park, tucked in a remote corner of the North Riding of Yorkshire. The journey along the Great North Road had been exhausting but without incident. Much toHenry’s disappointment, they had not encountered even one highwayman.
An early spring gave sunshine and warmth, and as each day passed, Arabella had begun to relax. She realized she had been lonely for a long time. Now she had Aunt Grace and her young cousin Emma, Aunt Grace’s daughter, to talk with or take a walk to the village.
I’ve been on my own for so long. I don’t need to be brave here or wonder how I’m going to pay the butcher without writing to Christopher and begging for housekeeping money.
As they queued to speak to the vicar, she noticed a glance between her aunt and Emma.
“Is something wrong?” she whispered to her aunt.
“No, my dear, nothing at all, except perhaps a little romance. Watch them …”
“Emma and …”
“Yes, she is sweet on our parson,” she whispered back.
As they exchanged pleasantries with the Reverend Nathaniel Colbrooke, Arabella noted his handsome, chiselledfeatures and engaging almost infectious smile. Emma smiled at him, saying little, although her eyes hardly left his face.
“Now come my dear, let me introduce you to some of our friends and neighbours. There’s Lady Starling, who lives close to Horton Park, and Mr and Mrs Belway, who have Maybourne Hall.” Arabella smiled and nodded as introductions were made and invitations to call exchanged.
Glancing behind her, Arabella noticed Emma engaged in quiet conversation with the Reverend Nathaniel Colbrooke.
A rather elegant carriage waited immediately beyond the lych-gate of St Mary’s Church, and she couldn’t fail to notice a very elegant, somewhat aloof woman making her way towards the carriage. The woman looked briefly in her direction but did not acknowledge her presence. A young woman and little boy, who looked about the same age as Henry, accompanied this grand lady.
A friend for Henry? I wonder who that is? Arabella thought.
She saw the young lady smile in her direction before being hurried along by the older woman, who clearly had no interest in talking with her neighbours. She stood with her aunt, a little distance away, looking at the facade of the ancient medieval limestone church built almost eight hundred years ago by a team of stone masons from Normandy.
“Who’s that?” she whispered again to her aunt, knowing they were at a safe distance and could not be overheard.
“Ah, that’s Helena Musgrave, the Dowager Duchess of Montbury. I know her well, as we were girls together and had our first London season simultaneously. She’s become very grand. That’s her daughter, Elinor, Lady Rathby, and her son, little Frederick.”
