Page 6 of Miss Ashbury and the Anatomy of Mending a Heart

They’d warned him India would be hard. He’d believed them, but his own determination had been enough to see him through, until the debacle with Samantha.

It was cold comfort that a fresh-faced doctor arrived to take his place only days before Stephen left. Stephen had abdicated everything—his years of notes, his supplies, several linen shirts that would be ill-suited to England.

Under the condemnation of the new Dr. Jules’s judgemental stare, Stephen packed his bag of physician’s tools and a small knapsack and left. He did not know whether he wished the man well, or wished for some misfortune to fall so that Jules might not view Stephen so harshly.

The whole way home, Stephen wondered if he’d ever loved India, or only Samantha.

Certainly without her there, his passion for healing felt hollow. All the inconveniences that had once felt trivial swarmed him like a flock of street children. He was a fraud. His ideals—what he’d set out to do—nothing more than wisps of dreams that disappeared in the frothing wake of the ship ushering him back to England.

At the London docks, he’d hired a hackney. He delayed in the city only to visit a tailor and a bootmaker to place orders, then headed straight to the station. From there he took the stagecoach, travelling in increasing discomfort toward Devon.

Stephen could have sent notice he was coming. He could have hunkered down in a London hotel and waited for his mother to send their coach. But he’d spent six years in India—certainly he could handle a few days on a hard bench next to the good people of England. Besides, the entire trip home was a kind of self-imposed punishment for him. He didn’t deserve comforts—not when he’d abandoned his post so abruptly.

Except, he’d forgotten how much the good people of England stank.

Just like the people of India, actually. Three months on a ship with nothing but crisp ocean breezes had cleared the memory of body odor from his sinuses. He’d also forgotten just how many good people of England they crammed into one coach. And how cranky he got, travelling without proper provisions.

The coach rocked, rapping his head against the window. Stephen barely refrained from elbowing the woman next to him. She was a tiny thing but had somehow managed to claim the lion’s share of the bench seat, defending her space with scandalously spread knobby knees beneath worn muslin skirts and elbows that she wielded like vicious, pointy cudgels.

Stephen reconsidered elbowing her—he was certain he could get away with such a thing without being recognized. He was wearing worn black trousers and a formerly white shirt of dubious quality, and he hadn’t had a proper shave or haircut in months. He looked as he felt in his heart—a wretched vagabond fleeing self-inflicted disappointment and failure.

An hour later, the stagecoach lurched to a stop. He grasped his belongings and nearly flung himself from the open door in his hurry to be away from people.

The manor was only an hour’s walk if he cut through the fields. Fog hung low over the tall grass—the sun hadn’t quite come out today. The thought of a cool mist brushing his face as he traipsed the familiar paths of his youth was too tempting to pass up.

Stephen picked a hedgerow and started down it. It was only when he got too far from the main road to go back that mud sucked at his boots with every step.

If only Samantha could have seen this side of England, he thought bitterly. Perhaps she might not have been so keen on living here.

The stalks of wheat in the fields nodded their agreement. Stephen trudged further up the embankment where the ground was passably drier, hunching his shoulders against the chill. He’d been too long in India—his blood had thinned, and even a mild breeze like the one currently toying with his overlong hair was enough to set him shivering.

Not that his old coat was much help. He’d relegated the thing to the back of his cupboard when he’d arrived in Calcutta. Now it was frayed at the seams, and some insect had feasted holes in the thing.

An hour later, his stomach was lowing like a discontented cow, and he regretted attempting the walk at all. He should have travelled into town with the rest of the passengers, had a hearty bowl of stew at the inn, and sent a messenger to his house. He rounded a bend and the slate rooftops of Bertforth House appeared in the distance. He hastened his steps.

It was nearly strawberry season, and if the first crop had been a bit early, cook might have made those delicious glazed tarts. The hope was enough to galvanize him; he hurried down the lane, his boots eventually crunching upon the gravel of the drive.

Not much had changed in his six years’ absence. The shrubbery was trimmed, the windows gleamed. Only the color of the shutters had changed slightly—when he’d last stood upon the flagstone steps, they’d been blue. Now, they were a crisp charcoal. He frowned, realizing the description he’d given his betrothed had been slightly wrong. The image that had stolen her heart had been partially false.

And Samantha…

She was here—in his house.

Samantha.

His knees locked. Through the wavy glass of the front door, he could see her long brown hair, the pleasant form of her hips, shoulders, and waist. She was humming something, swaying as she…

Was she arranging flowers? In one of his mother’s vases? In his house?

Stephen thrust the door open so hard it slammed back into the wall, rattling the glass in the window panes.

“What are you doing here?” he roared.

She screamed, pitching the vase—flowers and all—at his head.

He ducked. The crystal shattered against the lacquered wall—right where his head had been. She was strong—and not Samantha.

The young lady ran into the nearest room—the front parlor. Mindlessly, he rushed after her, his hands held up in supplication.