Her sister had so loved animals. Indeed, Charlotte had few accomplishments; she was not well educated and could not paint or play the piano, but she had always demonstrated this steady, undemanding kindness. Nor did she discriminate, somehow finding good in scrappy urchins or grumpy shopkeepers.
When Sarah had first come to the Crawfords, life without her sister had felt intolerable. Sarah would dread both sleeping and waking and her whole body had felt hollow and bruised as though she had been kicked.
Sighing, she refocused on the basket, still rocking with Albertina’s exertions. This was not the time to reminisce. She must get the animal to the other side of the stream and, with luck, return to capture Albert. After that, she would go home and work on Miss Petunia’s release and hope that, just maybe, this manuscript would sell and a trip to London might enter the world of possibility.
* * *
The blasted babbling brook did it. The memories hit, the pain dizzying in its intensity. For a second, Sebastian saw his children, real as the hounds and horses. He saw them paddling, laughing, carefree.
His hands tightened reflexively and, seeking solitude, he urged his horse up the hillside and away from the other riders. His mount stopped at its summit and he found himself looking into a picturesque valley, interrupted by a silver stream threading through its base.
Something—a flicker of movement—caught his attention. He stiffened. Some village idiot was wading through the water. Even worse, he saw that the stream looked more like a river and was in flood. It moved swiftly, almost overflowing its banks.
‘Hey!’ he shouted.
It was a woman.
He spurred his horse down the slope. ‘Madam! Can I help?’
She did not turn and moved awkwardly, a massive basket propped against one hip. He shouted again. This time she turned, glancing over her shoulder.
‘Lord Langford?’
He started, hearing his name, then felt a jolt of recognition.
‘Miss Martin! What in heaven’s name are you doing?’ He jerked his horse to a standstill, dismounting.
‘I cannot stop—’
She must have slipped and was caught off balance by the force of the rushing water. She lurched backwards, dropped the basket and, hands flailing, fell. She righted herself within the instant, lunged after the basket and tripped again. This time she fell face-first.
At this rate, the woman would drown herself in three feet of water.
Dropping the reins, Sebastian stepped into the stream and grabbed her hand. She straightened, regaining her foothold. Water streamed down her face and strands of hair fell forward in a dripping tangle.
‘Albert—’ she gulped, reaching for the basket.
‘Leave it—’
‘She’ll drown.’ She lunged again.
‘Stay still! I’ll get it.’ He caught the basket, pulling it towards them.
He had meant to take her back to the bank, but the fool woman was already wading to the other side.
He followed, his feet squelching in the mud as he placed the basket on the bank. What—
He stared. The basket rocked as if possessed and a yipping, scratching noise emanated from the wicker slats.
‘What on earth have you got in there?’ he asked.
Miss Martin flushed. Sebastian bent, cautiously peering under the lid. He closed it quickly, stepping away.
‘It’s a fox,’ he said.
‘Albertina.’
‘You have captured a fox?’
‘They would have killed her,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘The hounds.’
‘That is the point. And what a fool thing to do. You could have been hurt. It could have bitten you,’ he said.
‘No. I wear gloves and follow a strict procedure to prevent injury. I do not approve of fox hunting.’
He saw no hint of apology or regret in the stubborn lines of her face.
‘You ruined the hunt.’
‘I saved Albertina’s life. It is a cruel practice. Moreover, their population has been decimated.’ She put her hands to her hips and thrust out a surprisingly full bottom lip. ‘Albertina is a creature that wishes to do no harm.’
‘Tell that to the chicken farmer.’
She opened her mouth as if to argue, hands still at her hips. ‘But—’
‘Enough, enough. I refuse to debate the merits of fox hunting while freezing to death on a riverbank.’
‘I’m not cold.’
‘I am.’
‘If you are feeling the chill, there is no reason for you to remain. Indeed, I should go. I must get Albertina away before they spot us.’ Miss Martin spoke quickly, already bending to pick up the basket.
‘Leave it. I’ll carry it wherever you are going.’
‘I can manage.’
‘So far you have managed only to half-drown yourself.’
‘I was not in any danger. The stream is not deep, although faster than on previous occasions.’
‘You make a habit of this?’ He felt incredulity, irritation and an uncharacteristic desire to laugh.
‘Not a habit exactly.’
‘You’ve done it before?’
‘Yes, but really there is no time for questions.’ She frowned, giving a worried glance towards the ridge.
‘Very well. Where to?’ he asked, bending to pick up the basket.
‘Just beyond those trees. We’ll be hidden there. Oh...’ She paused briefly. ‘I just realised, you must have been part of the hunt. I hope you are not too disappointed?’
‘A rather belated sentiment, but, no, not overly. I’ll be able to get back to London sooner.’
‘You do not enjoy country weekends?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘Are the others leaving as well?’ she asked, a little wistfully.
‘I do not know. Had you stayed for breakfast instead of embarking on this fool enterprise you might have ascertained this information in a civilised manner.’
‘You think I am ill-mannered?’
‘I think you are peculiar.’
A grin lit up her face. ‘That is an established fact.’
He felt again a reluctant, unfamiliar tug at his lips. How Edwin would tease and even Elizabeth would giggle if they could see him squelching through mud, accompanied by this bedraggled woman while carting a fox within a basket.
Or they would have done.
Before.
Any desire to laugh deserted him, leaving behind that familiar dull, empty feeling. Forgetting always made remembering worse.
The wind blew cold. He shivered in his sodden clothing. Now he wanted only to see this woman was safe and waste no more time on foxes.
‘Is this suitable?’ he asked abruptly, placing the basket on the ground.
They’d entered a copse, darkly