shawl.”
Coming to Lady Lovell’s side, Miss Barrows moved with precise and overly courteous movements, removing the previous shawl and replacing it with a formality and care that was due a queen. Before Miss Barrows could take another seat, Lady Lovell spoke again.
“I would like some marzipan.”
Miss Barrows’ solicitous smile faltered, and she stared at the lady for several quiet seconds. “Do you not recall that you ate the last of it yesterday?”
Turning to Finch, the young lady added in a whisper (though not one quiet enough to keep Lady Lovell from overhearing), “I fear her faculties are failing her, Mr. Finch. Perhaps we ought to call for the apothecary to see if he has some means of restoring her wits.”
Lady Lovell coughed, though Finch swore it had been a snorting chuckle. He stared at the pair.
“Felicity, dear,” said Lady Lovell, not hiding the humor in her tone, “I had thought you might go into the village and fetch me some.”
Miss Barrows’ smile tightened, but loosened when Lady Lovell added, “Perhaps Mr. Finch might accompany you.”
Not waiting for another invitation (or for Finch to agree), Miss Barrows leaned down to bestow a kiss on her aunt’s cheek and herded him out of the parlor. She had the pair of them bundled up and out the front door before Finch could question what insanity was rife in Lady Lovell’s household.
Chapter 19
“Are you happy in your situation?” asked Finch.
Miss Barrows sent him a puzzled look, the wide rim of her bonnet framing her face. Tucking her cloak’s hood more securely around her hat, she shook her head before adding with a smile, “You sound so terribly ominous.”
“Lady Lovell seemed intent on torturing you. She does love a good jest, but I hadn’t thought her cruel.”
Miss Barrows let out a barking laugh. “Yes, she was torturing me, but it was not malicious. She has been exceptionally kind and generous to me.”
Finch tucked his hands behind him. “Good.”
People often said that snow crunched beneath one’s boot, but that was not the proper descriptor at all. There was a hint of a scrunch, true, but the snow squeaked and squealed, as though protesting the abuse. The sound followed them as their lazy steps meandered around the gardens and in the vague direction of the stables.
Miss Barrows turned her gaze to him, examining his profile. “You seem out of sorts today.”
Tapping his fingers against his clasped hands, Finch wondered if he were truly going to confess the truth. He’d longed to do for some years, but one did not speak of such matters. Certainly not to a person whom he’d met only a few short weeks ago—even if it felt as though he’d known Miss Barrows much longer.
But even as he thought to toss out a flippant reply, Finch recalled all the reasons he’d escaped to Buxby Hall. Perhaps more than anyone else among his acquaintance, this lady knew the struggles of straddling the great divide between the lower and upper classes. Raised in comfort, yet reduced to low circumstances. Having neither wealth nor the capacity to earn it. Miss Barrows could do more than merely sympathize. She would understand.
Not allowing himself another thought, Finch snatched Annette’s letter from his breast pocket and shoved it into Miss Barrows’ hands.
“Do you ever feel hopeless about your life, Miss Barrows? Seeing the years stretching before you in a vast string of nothing? Trapped in a position you didn’t choose and cannot change?”
Speaking those words aloud was like taking a particularly difficult jump atop a horse. Positioning himself in just the right place as the beast’s muscles bunched and launched them into the air. And then that exhilarating moment when rider and horse were in flight, their fates set as hope, glee, and fear all battled together, promising that this would be magnificent or a disaster.
Thrilling and terrifying all at once.
*
Felicity smoothed the crumpled letter and glanced between it and the gentleman at her side. He continued to stare down the path, his profile showing none of the turmoil rife in the words he’d spoken. As she turned her attention to the missive, Felicity’s breath caught in preparation for whatever terrible news it contained. Her eyes flew through the lines, never wavering until she reached the end.
And then she straightened.
“It sounds as though your family are doing well,” she said, slanting a glance in his direction while struggling to see the connection between this innocuous letter and his current state of agitation.
“They are doing perfectly well,” he mumbled.
Felicity’s brows furrowed.