Rutherford Park by Elizabeth Cooke

alone”—because he had thought that it was the kind of thing that one said to a coward. And then he realized that he was just that: a coward. He was the kind of man whom Jack Armitage could strike and draw blood, and who wouldn’t strike back or breathe a word to his father about it, and Jack knew that. He knew that because he knew
him
, had known him all his life. Jack knew that he hadn’t the nerve to do the right thing, to go and see Emily’s mother. He would just retreat back into his own guarded and privileged space and deny he had ever known her. Sooner or later Emily would get better and be gone. He would never see her again.
    He felt suddenly sick at the realization of it. At the easy way out, the obvious solution. He would deny it all. It would be his word against a servant’s. Against, perhaps, two or three servants. And what could be done about it? Nothing. Nothing at all.
    And long after Emily was gone and away somewhere else, long after, in years to come, she was married with her own family, and a grown woman with no hint in her face of what had happened to her, he would still be at Rutherford.
    She would change and be elsewhere. But he would not change. He would still be here. He would be exactly the same.
    And he would still be a coward.
    * * *
    H e might have got back to his own room before dinner if he had not been met by Louisa on the stairs.
    It had got dark; the candles and lamps were lit; it was barely an hour before the meal would be served. She ought not to have beenout of her room, but she was, and when she saw him coming dressed in his coat, she ran down to him.
    “Where on earth have you been?” she asked. “Father’s been asking after you.”
    “For a walk,” he said.
    She caught his arm. “Hold on,” she commanded. “What’s happened to you?” She touched his lip.
    “I’ve been out on the horse, and the blighter caught me as I was putting on his bridle.”
    “
You
were putting on his bridle?” she asked, astonished.
    He tried to get past her. “I’ve got to change.”
    “And you’ve been out all day?”
    “What does it matter?”
    “There’s been something happening.”
    He turned to look at her. “What do you mean?”
    “I saw the doctor come.”
    He felt himself reel a little. “For whom?”
    She put her head to one side, regarding him. “I don’t know,” she told him. “Someone downstairs. There’s been a lot of rushing about, and Mother said I was not to go and see Father. Now, why do you suppose that? He was only in the library.”
    “How should I know?”
    “I thought you might,” she murmured, and touched his hand. “Are you sure you’re all right? You look awfully done in.”
    At that same moment, they both heard a heavy step on the landing above them. They looked up to see William looking severely down at them.
    “Where have you been?” he demanded.
    A beat of silence followed. Louisa, glancing from one to the other, answered, “He’s been riding, Father.”
    William’s face betrayed nothing. “Come to my room, Harry,” he said. “At once.”
    * * *
    B elowstairs, despite the preparations for the evening meal, the clatter of plates, and the ceaseless movement up and down to the dining room, a kind of eerie gloom hung in the air. Nothing had gone right; what ought to have been the best day of the year was spoiled. Bradfield stood near the kitchen with a face like thunder; occasionally he would stare at the girls and Cook as if they might be harboring more secrets, something else of vital importance that they had not told him. Everyone avoided his eye, and said nothing.
    It had been midmorning before the butler even knew that Emily Maitland was in Mrs. Jocelyn’s room. Word had spread among the lower staff, and in the end it was Harrison who let it slip that he had been out in the snow and that Emily Maitland had been the cause. From there, the truth tumbled out. Bradfield went to Mrs. Jocelyn’s room, demanded to see Emily, and had