Sanditon: A Sisterhood Forms

65

The Gardens — Hemlock Hall

Augustus Barrows gulped audibly, a reflex that he could control no more than the wind that whipped violently at his coattails, nor the slump of his shoulders as he cowered. He hoped briefly that it had gone unnoticed, but by the look of his mistress just then, it most certainly had not.

"Do you wish for me to explain it all to you again? When we have just been over exactly what is expected of you?"

"N-no, Ma'am," he said, "I merely meant to inquire as to whether anything has... well, whether anything has changed since—"

"Of course, it hasn't," she snapped, "Foolish man."

Two and twenty years, it had been.

He had started his employ as a second footman, all those years ago. Had he known then what would occur in his tenure, he might have run for the hills.

And yet, here he stood, legs stiff as tree trunks, knees slightly wobbly, flinching as he felt the heat of her gaze, unpleasant and blistering.

His mistress.

The young Mrs Campion who had inherited this house and all that came with it—including him.

Two and twenty years. And not a hope for a good reference. She would not give it, and he could not leave without it.

"Right, Ma'am," he said, dipping his head lower still as he stepped back, "My apologies."

Two and twenty years. And it had come to this.

----------

Further Afield — Hemlock Hall

Gold ignited the treetops. It spread amongst the reeds. It pierced through every surface that attempted to block it from view as if it had one purpose left in this world: to expose the whereabouts of Sidney Parker.

With each strike of his feet, he drew closer to Hemlock Hall, teeth chattering with each fresh blow, the earth like stone beneath his heels.

With every second that passed, Georgiana was at greater risk of never being seen again.

He could feel it, deep in his gut, a primal response that caused his speed to accelerate. And an eerie sense that the time he required was already lost.

Georgiana. Where the bloody hell are you?

He could feel the anger in the stiffness of his shoulders, his hands turned to fists. A reaction all too familiar where Georgiana was concerned; perhaps it was far too easy to drift back to it. A means of self-preservation to quell the worry that would otherwise engulf him. Self-preservation that had him already planning the words he would say to her, spoken through clenched teeth, his fingers curved firmly round one arm so as to reassure himself that she was real; that he hadn't conjured her in his mind. No, he thought. Because that would mean the impossible had occurred. The unendurable.

And yet, Georgiana was not the only person who threatened to overtake his thoughts just then. Nor the only person to cause his heels to strike the ground with excessive force. There was another that he wanted nothing more than to push away forever.

But there she was, when he least expected or wanted.

She had a knack for that.

He had known this might happen, of course he had. It was likely a reason why he put off suggesting this blasted path to the house.

The back road.

More of a lane, really: two narrow tracks beaten down by carts and horses, pitted and pummelled by the rain.