Free Yorkshire by Lynne Connolly Page B

thing you can properly do. I know it’s not incurable. Do you remember Mr. Jameson, last year?” The previous year Lizzie had been encouraged and then let down by a callow youth of our acquaintance. Martha had had hopes, but he dropped Lizzie in favour of a richer prospect. I wished him joy of it now, as only I knew how much Lizzie had suffered from this humiliation. She’d held her head high for months afterwards. I nodded, to show I remembered him. “Well, though I thought I would die of love for him, it passed in a month or two. I might be rather shallow, I suppose, but I’m not the only person this has happened to. Truly, Rose, life does go on afterwards. Now, all I want is to flaunt myself in front of him as Lord Hareton’s sister and show him what he turned down. I will, you know.”
    I didn’t doubt it. “He deserves it.”
    “Try to retain your own self in his presence. It will pass, I’m sure of it. Despite Lord Strang being contracted to someone else, he’s trouble.”
    I had to agree with her. It sounded as if the brothers were trouble. I should fight to overcome my stupid weakness, keep it to myself. There would be plenty of opportunities to come, and this one was foolish, not to be thought of.

Chapter Six
     
    I awoke early the next morning. I dressed, careful not to disturb Lizzie where she lay with her arm flung out on my pillow, the epitome of sweet disorder. I’d promised to help Martha after breakfast, but I needed some fresh air first. Mainly because it was the least overgrown part of the gardens, I took the path of least resistance to the stables.
    The double doors to the coach house lay open, and the groom was about, busy about his duties in one of the loose boxes. I heard him singing softly, though I couldn’t distinguish the song. I went to look in the coach house, at the end of the run of horse boxes, and there, in the dim light, was the ruin of the family coach.
    My curiosity got the better of me as it so often did, and I went in to take a closer look. I examined the vehicle carefully, curious to know what had caused such a terrible accident. It was easily the worst carriage accident I’d ever seen. I walked slowly around it.
    It had been put back on its wheels, but the rear end reeled back drunkenly on its chassis and tipped the front end high into the air. Clearly, the suspension had given way. Like the rest of the late earl’s possessions, it had been allowed to deteriorate by simple neglect. The once proud monogram on the doors had been all but obscured by the passage of time; the leather seats inside were cracked and split in places, the discoloured stuffing protruding. The floorboards were scuffed and there were none of the usual items to help with comfort on a journey one would expect to find in any family vehicle, much less one which belonged to an earl.
    A gaping hole in the roof showed where Mr. Kerre and the coachman had broken through to the casualties on the previous day. I peered inside, up through the hole to the roof of the coach house, and then at the ruin within. Bloodstains, splashed about the interior, added to the general dilapidation, adding a gruesome touch.
    I moved to the rear of the coach, where the body sagged back on the chassis.
    The heavy leather straps that had supported the body of the coach hung by its side, useless now. I assumed they had given way under the strain of the passengers. Four grown men, one of them overburdened with avoirdupois, must have been too much for the worn leather. It was neglectful of the late Earl not to have them checked properly before they used the coach. Then I bent to pick up the end of the strap nearest to me. I fingered the severed end and felt the sharp edges.
    Dear God. The strap hadn’t given way at all, it had been cut.
    There was no mistake. I examined it closely, saw the clean break. It wasn’t frayed or split; just that nice, fresh severance of one side from the other, nearly all the way through. The end was as an