that filthy pallet. Oh God. She never woke up to beg forgiveness . . .”
James gathered her into his arms. “Shh,” he breathed against her hair, the softness of it caressing his lips. She had left her bonnet somewhere, he thought irrationally. “Shh, Miss Dunne. It isn’t your fault. I should have been there.”
He gathered her closer, drew her head against his shoulder. You don’t need to cry. It did no good. People died whether your heart broke for them or not. He murmured to Rachel, nonsensical words and sounds to ease the sobs that echoed in his own body. Please, don’t ache like this.
“It isn’t your fault,” he repeated, feebly.
“No. It is God’s fault.”
Dr. Edmunds crooned soft reassurances, his embrace strong and secure, propping her up. Rachel wanted to stay there, have his arms tighten around her until the feel of them blocked out the thoughts of Molly fading, sinking into the pallet, her last breath easing out of her to be followed by eternal stillness. Hearing the sound of keening in the room, the shrill noise emanating from the throat of Molly’s friend.
“Don’t cry, now.”
He pressed his lips to her hair, feather-light, quick as the drumming of hummingbird wings. She longed for that kiss to lower to her face. Her previous pride vanished in the face of sorrow and helplessness, wanting his lips to draw away the tears streaming from her eyes. In a meadow in Finchingfield, he had claimed to care for her. She needed that caring more than anything right now.
However, all that had passed between them since that summer-ripe afternoon made her fear she’d lost any chance at having him care for her.
A passerby uttered a rude remark and Dr. Edmunds released her. He swiped a finger across her cheek to dry her face. “It doesn’t do to be standing in the roadway, Miss Dunne. I should take you home.”
Home? Home was Ireland and she could no longer go there.
With strong yet gentle hands, he lifted her onto his mare and took the reins. Rachel peered down at him, the brim of his hat shielding his face. I am in love with him. A man she could not have. A good man, after all. A decent man.
At the house, Joe waited for them. She caught his fretful gaze and knew her expression told everything as readily as a placard carried by a newspaper boy. Molly was gone.
“Tell Mrs. Mainprice to come and help Miss Dunne, Joe,” directed Dr. Edmunds, handing over the horse’s reins.
He helped Rachel down from the saddle. His hands lingered at her waist for a few seconds.
“I want to tell you, while I have the strength, that I regret sending Molly away. I thought I was serving justice with my actions, but the beggar I’m supposed to clothe and feed was right inside my house, at my doorstep, and I rejected her. Gave her to someone else to take care of her. I made a terrible mistake, and because of my actions, I exposed you to danger.”
Rachel blinked at him, standing so close. “You did what you thought best.”
“I did, and I was wrong.” Something gave way in his eyes, his emotions bared, his remorse exposed like rocks scraped clean by relentless winds. “I can’t ask for Molly’s forgiveness any longer. I need someone’s. I need yours.”
“I wonder,” she murmured, “if the forgiveness you truly seek is your own.”
Dr. Edmunds let her go without another word and Rachel wandered through the dark garden, heading for the lamplight shining through the rear door that Joe had left ajar.
Mrs. Mainprice met her just inside the doorway.
“Molly . . .” The name was all Rachel could manage. If she uttered another word, she would shatter.
“Joe told me you went to her. Come down to the kitchen, lass, and we’ll get something warm into you.”
Would something warm help? She wasn’t cold; she was vacant. Soup or heated cider would not fill the void. Still, she let the housekeeper slip a comforting arm around her shoulders and guide her down the stairs, through the hallway where, not so many days ago, Rachel had huddled and overheard Molly’s first condemning words. The memory stung, sharp as the thorn of a rose. Molly—vengeful, desperate—had been alive then.
Mrs. Mainprice lowered her onto the bench fronting the kitchen table. The bench was firm, the table solid as ever, yet the room seemed to twirl about Rachel’s head, a spinning top in her brain. She sucked in a breath to stop the