The Ring by Sylvia Halliday

Author:Sylvia Halliday
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781626815438
Publisher: Diversion Books
Published: 2015-01-13T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

Ross stroked her tangled hair with gentle fingers. “Tell me everything.”

She shook her head. She was still too torn by grief to respond. Jamie was gone. And she would never see her sweet child again. She pressed her face against his chest, sobbing out her misery. “I don’t…I don’t know what I would have done if you…” she managed at last.

“Foolish child. We parted as friends. Where else would you go, if not to a friend?” He held her securely until her weeping had subsided. It was the first comfort she had known for days. That long, terrible coach ride back from the Potomac…her heart breaking, her tears suppressed for fear that once she started to weep she would never stop.

She lifted her head from his breast and sighed mournfully. “I’ve drenched your waistcoat.”

He smiled in toleration and understanding. “A worthwhile sacrifice. Tell me what happened.”

The recollection brought fresh tears. “I…I was less than a day from his plantation…We stopped at an inn. I asked the proprietor for directions. He told me that Jamie…God save me! He had sold the plantation. And returned home.” She choked back a sob, overwhelmed by the bitter irony of her life. “He left for England before the end of May! If he came looking for me in my village when he arrived home, I had already gone to London. And no one to tell him where I was.” She began to weep again. “My life is over,” she moaned.

“Over? Where is the sunshine child who had such bright hopes for the future? And chided me for my darkness? Your life is scarcely over. Your happiness is merely delayed for a little longer.”

“I have no strength left to hope.”

“Then take my strength for a while, if you need it. Come. You’re chilled to the bone. Sit by the fire.”

He peeled off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders, then led her to a chair before the hearth. He knelt at her feet, lifted her skirts to her knees, and removed her shoes and stockings. “Your toes are like ice,” he said, rubbing them briskly between his palms. She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. Her body was beginning to warm after the coldness of the carriage, but her heart was still frozen, chilled by the enormity of her disaster.

“Where are your boxes?” he asked.

“I left them below.” The coachman had refused to carry them up for her. She had counted out her last coins to pay for the carriage ride back to Williamsburg—and nothing left for a tip; he wasn’t about to serve her further without compensation.

“I’ll fetch them later. Have you had supper?”

“I’m not hungry.”

He rose to his feet. “I have a bit of bread and cheese. And you’ll take a glass of Madeira to warm you.” Despite her protests, he pressed the food and drink on her, assuring her—as a physician—that she would feel better. Then he took the warming pan beside the fire, filled it with glowing coals, and turned to the door of his bedchamber.

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