I left the spirited mare in the care of the inn, leaving explicit instructions that it should be returned to Highgate House and whatever man they sent would be compensated; this transaction complete, I booked a seat on the next coach with coin collected writing gallows ballads, which stock had not been depleted. Then I bought a penny roll and sat upon a bench outside the inn and began numbly to eat, knowing the miles ahead to be slow and dreary as the Thames.
I had an hour’s worth, more or less, of a head start, and the gallop had taken a mere ten minutes. The coach, meanwhile, should leave in half an hour, and perhaps Mr. Thornfield has not yet been told by Mr. Quillfeather I pushed a child over a cliff and speared a headmaster through the neck, perhaps—
“Miss Stone?”
Thankfully I had forced the last of the roll down, else I should have suffocated; there stood Mr. Sardar Singh, warmly bundled, a sheaf of papers tucked under his arm, his the only head in the sluggish trickle of pedestrians which had been wrapped in an elaborate configuration of sky blue (which doubtless accounted for the hostile stares). He was accompanied by Mrs. Garima Kaur, who was recording something in a small pocketbook; her gaunt face looked still more stark than usual, her eyes lost in the curves of her skull.
“Oh!” I exclaimed, shrinking. “What are you doing here, Mr. Singh?”
“Picking up blank death certificates for Charles from the village physician—we’re not quite outfitted fully, and are to meet with Mr. Sam Quillfeather today.”
“Yes, he’s there at the house.”
I knew I did not sound right; I hated that I did not sound right. Mr. Singh turned to Mrs. Kaur, conferring in Punjabi. She looked at me so oddly, a mingling of inquisitiveness and something I could not identify, that I averted my eyes; thus I only saw in my periphery that, after a muted request, Mrs. Kaur began walking briskly back in the direction of Highgate House.
“We are quite alone, Miss Stone, unless you wish it otherwise,” I heard Mr. Singh state.
My vision blurred until I was seeing from the bottom of a lake; then the bench squeaked and a hand was at my elbow.
“What in heaven’s name is— Has something else happened, Miss Stone?”
“Nothing to speak of.”
“Miss Stone, please know I would hold any confidence from you under eternal lock and key.”
“It isn’t that I don’t trust you.”
“Then please assure me that you’re all right,” he insisted more strongly.
Several seconds passed.
“I’m not all right,” I choked at last. “I cannot remain in Mr. Thornfield’s company.”
Ascertaining what the stuffy, sausage-smelling citizens of that hamlet thought of a Sikh dressed as an Englishman wrapping his arms around a governess as she sobbed soundlessly into his coat would be quite impossible, for I could see nothing whatsoever. However many stares we garnered, the activity served a dual purpose; my heart was breaking, so the simple comfort was appreciated; and if I keened over cruel fate and lost love, I should not have to explain I was also running away to London to escape execution.
“Yes, there . . . that’s better,” he said as I calmed. “Miss Stone, may I ask what brought matters to this state?”
His grey eyes were bright with compassion when I pulled away. After he had passed me his handkerchief and sat there patiently as the quaking in my shoulders lessened, I found I did indeed wish to speak with him, and still had fifteen minutes before my coach departed.
“Forgive me for making such a scene.”
“Not at all.”
“It’s just . . . the night I killed that scoundrel, Mr. Thornfield told me about your sister and Sahjara’s abduction and the trunk, and it’s horrible you were dragged into such a nightmare, and I know you both to be honourable, but he says he’s a murderer and he won’t say how or when, and he won’t say he doesn’t want me, he won’t say anything at all of consequence, nor touch me, nor trust me, and I cannot bear it any longer.”
“Ah,” he said. “Then your sorrow is partly my doing, and I have been gravely at fault.”
“Regarding?”
“Charles’s refusal to touch living people.”
My mouth must have gaped overlong for, passing his fingertips over his beard, he continued after a brief reflection.
“Charles emulates me, always has done. Even when I have tried to prevent him. But the specific point I am making, Miss Stone,” Mr. Singh said, measuring his words, “is that I am both devout and monastic, and I think Charles may well have confused the two. I have never been married. I have no interest in marriage or its accompanying joys.”
I stared, yes, but he did not seem ruffled. “You have never loved, then?”
“That is not remotely what I meant,” he corrected mildly.
“Oh. You are . . .”
I trailed off, helpless; after he had registered shock, he shook his head.