Anyone would think I'd sent her off to her own execution!" "It's for her own good! Not a blasted Cheltenham tragedy. As if it isn't bad enough, the whole household looking at me as if I'd taken the girl out, slung a brick around her neck and drowned her in the river. Jack swallowed the contents of his own glass and slammed it down on the table at his elbow. "Well, for God's sake just spit it out, then, instead of rambling on." Going to say it anyway." Francis drained his glass. And in the evenings he got silently, determinedly drunk.įrancis had accompanied him in all things, understanding Jack's need to purge himself of the excess energy, to tire himself out, to blot a certain woebegone little face out of his memory, to try to drown his guilt. Since that day, Jack had spent his time furiously riding about the countryside, pushing himself to the absolute limit, galloping recklessly as if invisible demons were pursuing him. Kate had left almost a week before, her face white and set, her eyes tragic. Finally, cradled in Jack Carstairs's gloves, Kate slept. She leaned against the hard corner of the travelling chaise and closed her eyes. She rested her cheek in one gloved hand the other was cupped against her heart. Small frozen hands slipped into the big furry gloves, taking comfort from the size, the scent, the warmth of them. She must have forgotten to give them back to him. Only yesterday Jack had noticed how cold her hands were and had given her his gloves to wear. They were a very large pair of gloves, well-made leather, worn and soft, fur-lined. Fishing around in her small travelling bag, she pulled out a pair of gloves. She focused back on the scenery flashing by, becoming aware that her hands were very cold.
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