Page 25 of A Convenient Fiction

“Why not? There’s nothing objectionable about a gentleman driving a lady in an open carriage.” He held out a hand to her. “Come. I insist upon it.”

Laura gave in with a defeated sigh, her shoulders sagging under the weight of it all. What difference did it make in the end whether she walked or rode? She’d have to go home eventually. She grudgingly put her gloved hand in his and allowed him to help her up onto the seat. “Whose carriage is this?” she asked as she placed her valise at her feet.

“It belongs to the vicar.” Mr. Archer vaulted onto the seat beside her and gathered up the reins. The dozing chestnut sprang to life. “He couldn’t spare a manservant to come to the station.”

“The vicar keeps on very few servants.” The gig started forward with a lurch. Her hand clenched around the padded seat. “You’ve met him, I assume.”

“Monday night when George and I returned from dining at the Park.” Mr. Archer’s mouth hitched again. “He read me the parable of the prodigal son.”

“How appropriate.”

“Indeed.” The horse plodded along at a leisurely pace. Mr. Archer seemed little inclined to urge him on.

“George can’t have liked being sermonized at.” He never had in the past. It was one of the reasons he’d left Lower Hawley.

“He wasn’t in any fit state to object.”

“Oh.” Laura felt a flicker of disappointment. It shouldn’t have come as any surprise to her. George had always had a propensity for heavy drinking. Two years away would have only worsened the habit.

She wished, all at once, that he’d never returned home. That he’d never brought Mr. Archer with him. It was a distraction she didn’t need—couldn’t cope with.

“Haven’t you anyone to come and fetch you?” Mr. Archer asked. “A groom or a manservant or someone?”

Laura looked out at the passing scenery. Trees, shrubs, and stray patches of wildflowers lined the deserted road. The railway station was closer to Edgington Park than to Bramble Cottage. In the distance, she could just make out the dense overgrowth of Talbot’s Wood. She longed to be there. To submerge herself beneath the cool surface of the pond. There was nothing of the world underwater. No unmet expectations. No burdens too heavy to carry. Nothing save herself and the sound of her own beating heart.

“Miss Hayes?” Mr. Archer said.

She cast him a distracted glance. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“I asked why no one was here to collect you.”

“We don’t keep a carriage any longer,” she said. “Nor a coachman to drive one.”

“How did you arrive at the station yesterday?”

“I walked.”

“And you intended to walk back today? Alone?”

“It’s perfectly safe.”

“I don’t doubt it. All the same, it seems rather ramshackle for a young lady to be traipsing about unaccompanied.”

“It’s unexceptionable in the country.” She paused before adding, “And I’m not a young lady, Mr. Archer. I shall be five and twenty soon.”

“And therefore, at your last prayer.”

Her lips compressed. “Some people hereabouts might say so.”

“Then some people hereabouts would be foolish beyond permission. You’re a long way from an aged spinster, Miss Hayes. And an even longer way from being able to wander about unremarked—either here or in London. You should have taken someone with you.”

“It’s no concern of yours, sir.”

“No, it isn’t. And yet…” He fell silent a moment, his expression thoughtful. “I suppose I feel responsible for you.”

“I can’t think why.”

“I did all but save you from drowning on Monday.”