She hated the switch to cold sarcasm more than his earlier bluntness.
‘However, the offer remains if you wish to consider it,’ he said.
It was crazy. One could not marry a man one had only met forty-eight hours earlier, a man one didn’t even like never mind love. Indeed, a man who seemed bitter and angry from his own admission. But—
‘Where would we live?’
‘London for some of the time and—’
But Sarah was no longer listening.
She could think of only two things.
London.
And Charlotte.
Langford left. Sarah heard his brisk stride along the passage, followed by the whine of the front door and the solid clunk as it closed.
She exhaled. Pressing her face against the window’s cool pane, she watched as he mounted his horse; his hair so dark it looked black, his movements fluid and his figure innately masculine with broad shoulders and narrow hips.
She should have seen him out, she supposed. Or called Mrs Tuttle.
But the importance of social convention had been dwarfed beside the stark reality that this man, this peer, this Earl, had asked her, Miss Sarah Martin, to be his bride. It seemed unbelievable. It was unbelievable.
Could Kit have engineered the whole thing as a hoax? No, Kit was high-spirited, but never cruel. Besides, Lord Langford was not the sort to play the fool in someone else’s joke.
No, the Earl had proposed and Sarah had no alternative but to believe the offer was real, however prosaic his motivation.
She glanced towards the mantel where her father, the late Mr Crawford, looked down at her. He’d been dead five years now. They’d never had a close relationship. He had been many years her mother’s senior and had seemed more like an austere visitor than relation whenever he had come to the small London house where they’d lived.
But he had provided for her following her mother’s death, when the occupants of the tiny house were disbanded. Charlotte had not been so lucky. She didn’t even know her father’s name and had had nowhere—
‘Sarah? Is it luncheon soon?’
Sarah jumped as Mrs Crawford pushed open the door, her voice querulous.
‘No. Yes. I’m sorry.’
‘You appear to be daydreaming. I hope that socialising the other night did not put frivolous ideas into your head. Daydreaming interferes with serious thought.’
Sarah smiled wanly. ‘I will keep my thoughts serious.’
‘Sometimes I worry that I have failed in my rearing of you and that your natural disposition might yet win out.’
‘Mrs Crawford, you have done everything possible to instruct me in goodness and quell any leaning towards frivolity,’ Sarah said. ‘Now, sit and I will fetch something to eat and some tea.’
‘A little tea, although we must be frugal,’ Mrs Crawford said as she suffered herself to be led to the chair.
‘Of course.’
‘Did we have a visitor? I heard voices.’
Sarah paused, her hand tightening against the threadbare back of the chair. A glib reply died on her lips. Honesty had been too strongly instilled.
‘Yes, it was Lord Langford. He is visiting at Eavensham,’ she said.
‘A gentleman. I should have been called. It is not seemly that you entertain him alone. We do not wish people to think you sinful. And why would he visit you? This Lord Langford?’
‘He was on an errand for Lady Eavensham.’ Honesty only went so far.
Mrs Crawford nodded, a look of childlike confusion clouding her face.
‘I’ll get the tea. You’ll be all right for the moment?’ Sarah asked.
‘I am not a child.’
‘I know.’ Impulsively, Sarah bent and pressed a kiss against the older woman’s forehead. Mrs Crawford smelled of carbolic soap and her hair was sparse with the dryness of the elderly.
‘Good gracious. What was that for? I do not hold with emotional displays.’
‘Merely a thank you,’ Sarah said.
‘Humph, a hot cup of tea would suffice,’ Mrs Crawford replied, with a return to lucidity.
‘Which I will provide immediately.’
* * *
An hour later, Sarah trudged towards the barn. As always, she felt a sense of relief as she exited the house, but today the need for respite was immense.
She felt filled with high-strung, restless energy which made her movements abrupt and her thoughts whirl. Nothing could distract her, not the familiar fields, the soothing rustle of tree branches or even the homely dank scent of animals and manure.
Straightening, she opened the gate so that Portia and Cleopatra could enter, their bells clanging as they shifted with easy ambling movements.
If she married Langford, she could go to London.
That thought emblazoned itself across her mind like fireworks at Vauxhall.
It dominated her thoughts as she patted the cows’ rumps, dragging forward the three-corner stool and placing her fingers with practised ease on Cleopatra’s warm udder.
And in London, she might find her sister.
The words thudded through her consciousness with the regularity of her own heartbeat. Even the squirt of the milk seemed to echo with its rhythm.
Closing her eyes, Sarah visualised Charlotte as she had last seen her after their mother’s death: a tall girl of fifteen, her blonde hair and white face starkly contrasted against the dense blackness of her mourning clothes.
Cleopatra shifted under Sarah’s lax hands. The bell clanged.
‘Sorry, sweetie, did I fall asleep on you? It’s just I have an enormous decision to make—although truly I cannot believe I am even entertaining the notion. I mean, could I really marry him? What do I even know of him? He hardly seems pleasant or enjoyable company. And certainly not flattering.’
The cow swung her head around, blowing moist, grass-scented breath into Sarah’s face.
‘I’d miss you.’ She stroked the animal.
A mouse scurried into the corner, burrowing into the straw. How did animals know instinctively what to do? How did they know to build a nest, burrow and find food?
Was it easier to lack intelligence and follow instinct? And what would she do if she had little intellect and only instinct?
But that was easy to answer. One need would supersede all else.
* * *
Sarah had not forgotten the rabbit or her few belongings which she had neglected to take when she had left so precipitously to rescue the foxes. Therefore, after milking the cows, she set out along the familiar route to Eavensham.
The path was unchanged from yesterday. It still smelled of grass and leaves, the earth was spongy and birds twittered, unseen, within the woods’ greenery.
Irrationally, Sarah felt a confused anger that all could remain so unaltered while her world had been turned upside down and shaken like a child’s toy.
She’d felt the same after her mother’s death when the routines of London continued amidst her own tragedy. It was egotistical,