“I have abandoned myself to the providence of the Lord. And I’m not leaving you here.”
She sensed that Henry had reached the limits of his own patience with the world. She rather liked this devil-may-care side of him.
“There’s a coaching inn at Ennesbough where the mail coach stops,” she said. “If you take me there, I’ll can return to London on my own in the morning.”
Her sister Eliza walked out of the house holding a milking pail, saw them, and came running.
“Ally, you’re filthy! Where have you been?”
“Church,” she said merrily.
Confusion and concern flashed in her little sister’s eyes, chastening Alice’s good humor.
“I lit a candle for Papa,” she explained, trying to ease the worry from her sister’s face.
But her sister winced. “Vicar Helmsley is in town this week. I hope you didn’t—”
“I did. He’s as awful as I remember.”
Eliza just sighed. “Come in and wash up. Mr. Evesham too. I’ve been heating water on the stove.”
Alice shook her head. “I don’t wish to see Mama.”
“She’s not here,” her sister said in a tone of perfect misery. “She went to the public house with William. Said you’d driven her to drink.”
Alice turned to Henry. “Shall we wash up before we go on?”
“Go on?” Eliza cried. “You’re not leaving. You just arrived.”
She looked at her sister sadly. “If I stay, Mama will hector me until I lose my temper. I will return some other time, under happier circumstances.”
Her sister’s lip trembled. “Ally, I’m sorry I lied to you. I felt awful about it but Mama was convinced you’d be so thrilled by the surprise it wouldn’t matter. I should have known better.”
Alice put her arm around her sister’s shoulders. “I’m sorry too, Liza, Come, let’s get water for Mr. Evesham.”
Liza sent Sally out to carry a warm pot of water and a cloth to the barn so Henry could clean up as best he could. She warmed more water for Alice over the fire, and gave her a gown to wear in place of Alice’s filthy one. Alice let her sister brush out and pin up her hair.
“Thank you for looking after me,” she said, kissing Liza’s cheek. “You were always the best of us. I’m sure you’ve had your work cut out for you, looking after Mama and Sally.”
Liza squeezed her tight. “I’ve missed you. I was so worried when you didn’t come. Was there really snow?”
“Yes. Oh, Liza, I promise, I was on my way the very hour I got your letter. I will always come if you need me. Always. No matter what.”
Liza stepped back, her face rigid with concern. “Ally, are you certain you won’t marry William? I know you’re angry at Mama for the trick, but I’m worried for you.”
She kissed her sister’s cheek. “Please don’t worry. I will write to you when I return to London. We’ll always take care of each other. I promise.”
Her sister did not look reassured.
She knew what Eliza was thinking: that life for an unwed girl alone was perilous. That bad things happened to girls like that. Their mother had raised them to believe that marriage was the only means to guard their futures, never imagining that there might be another path for them.
If someone was to imagine such a thing, it would have to be Alice.
Chapter 27
As soon as they were on the road Alice closed her eyes and began humming a sad song.
He didn’t know this one. He didn’t try to harmonize. Her head drooped as they drove on, until it rested on his shoulder. Soon enough, she was asleep.
He tried very hard not to feel bereft that he would likely never experience the comforting weight of her touching him again.
He felt more like a shipwreck than a man—like shards of splintered wood casting about a roiling sea.
He tried to formulate a prayer to steady himself, but nothing came, and it was terrifying, for he could not recall the last time he had lacked words to offer God.
Once, during a revival in Yorkshire, he’d helped a farmer tie a rope between his cottage and the barn before a snowstorm. When the blizzard came, the farmer explained, he would follow the rope to feed his animals, even if he could not see a foot in front of him.
Henry had often used the story as a metaphor. Whenever you are plagued with uncertainty, he had preached so many times, you can find your way back to God through prayer. Prayer was the rope.
But on this awful day, he felt like he had dropped the rope in the middle of the storm, and lost it. He was casting about blindly, fumbling in a haze for something he knew must be close at hand, but that he couldn’t grasp.
All he had were questions. Most pressingly, what had made him kiss Alice in the church? And what was she to him? And if the answer was nothing—must be nothing—why had he abandoned his principles, his faith, his decency, pawing her in a consecrated place with no thought other than the way she made him feel?
And why, when he was guilty of this, when he had failed himself so deeply, was it not shame that lingered queasy and churning in his gut, but this voracious, restless, hunger, chanting more, more, more?
(He was not being disingenuous. He truly didn’t know. It terrified him, because he really, truly, didn’t know.)
He steered the horses into the inn’s stable yard. The sudden loss of motion roused Alice. “Oh, pardon me,” she said, moving away from him.
Don’t ever ask pardon for that, he wanted to object. His shoulder felt lonely without her head on it. He had to restrain himself from pulling her back into the crook of his arm, and pleading. Just a little longer.
Instead, he shifted, so as not to crowd her. “I didn’t want to wake you. You looked so peaceful asleep.”
She yawned. “It’s been an exhausting day.”
“An exhausting week.”
Alice nodded, glancing up at the sky, which was low and dark and wet. “You won’t drive on in this, will you? I don’t want you getting stranded again.”
(He had not planned to stay, but now that she had raised the possibility, it was decided.)
He shook his head. “No. I’ll stay at the inn and return to my father’s in the morning.”
(One more night with her. One more.)
She smiled at him. “Good. I hate eating alone.”
Inside, there was a crowd of people milling at the innkeeper’s desk. The innkeeper looked harried, handing out keys to a large travel party who, Henry gathered, were on their way to a horse race.
“My sister and I would like two rooms for the night, please,” he said, when it was finally his turn.
“No vacancies,” the man said, too exhausted to even seem apologetic.
At Henry’s stricken face he reconsidered. “Well, there’s a small room off the attic. It’s for servants but has a bed big enough for one, if t’other of you don’t mind the floor.”
Henry stared at him in disbelief. Why was it that whenever he set out with Alice, everything went wrong?
Looking at Henry’s face, Alice burst into laughter.
The innkeeper squinted at her. “Is something wrong, miss?”
She put a hand over her mouth, and shook her head, her eyes sparkling with mirth.