Death of a Lady by Laura Martin

Author:Laura Martin [Martin, Laura]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-04-27T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Jane and Lord Hinchbrooke walked side by side in silence for some time, the magistrate leading his horse beside him. They skirted the edge of the fields, heading downhill towards the Westworth estate.

“Mr Tinker has a good view of the rest of the estate from his farm,” Jane said. From up here you could see the vastness of the lands belonging to Stanmore Hall stretching out in front of them. The main house was resplendent in the middle, but the gardens and wider estate stretched on for miles in each direction.

“There’s the folly,” Lord Hinchbrooke said as they began the final gentle descent into the estate.

They had to climb over a low wall to gain access and Lord Hinchbrooke paused to tie his horse to a nearby tree. Jane picked up her skirts and clambered over, landing squarely on her feet, turning back in time to see Lord Hinchbrooke struggle over the wall.

For a moment she regarded him, trying to work out his age. His hair was thick and silvery but his skin was not particularly wrinkled. He had an air of assurance about him, as if he knew who he was and what his role was in life. She would place him perhaps in his late forties or early fifties.

She glanced down at his hands. At present, with him in motion, there was no sign of the tremor that plagued him so much of the time. Initially she had thought it was just the tremor that troubled him, but the more time she spent with Lord Hinchbrooke the more she began to understand about some of the struggles he faced. Although he hid it well the viscount had a certain stiffness about his movements and sometimes a slowness. It was as if he knew what he wanted to do, but it took a little longer than normal for his muscles to respond.

Jane had seen something similar before in one of her father’s parishioners, but that was a man well into his eighth decade who had been overcome by stiffness in his muscles and tremors in his hands.

“The doctors say I am unusual,” he said, catching the direction of her gaze. “Most people who develop my condition are older.”

“They have told you what it is?”

“A shaking palsy. I am told it will get worse.”

Jane nodded. It seemed to be the way with these things to build up gradually.

“For now, I can walk, I can ride. There is nothing wrong with my mind. I have to remind myself to be thankful for all of this.”

“Are you in pain?”

“No. Only from the indignity of not being able to do everything I could a year ago.”

“I think you do remarkably well.”

“You are kind to say so, Miss Austen. I made a promise to myself that I would continue to be useful whilst I could.”

She wondered how many of the other little habits she had noticed were due to the disease taking hold. She knew his handwriting was affected; she had noted the tiny scrawl, barely readable, in his notebook when she had first offered herself as his scribe.

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