Page 20 of A Brush With Love at Brookview Hall (Noble Hearts)

Eighteen

JULIA

S he needed to walk, to let her feet move of their own accord so she could try to put her thoughts in order. What was Cornelius playing at? And why could she not keep away from him, expel him from her mind?

Julia had dined with the children the previous evening.

There was to be a small dinner party for some neighbours now that Mrs Derriscott had returned, and the governess was never included in society gatherings.

Cornelius would likely be there, as the curiosity of the month, but that was more reason still why she must stay away.

How could she see him again? What could she say? He was a criminal, she was certain, but when he had kissed her, she cared for nothing other than knowing that she was in his arms.

She shivered under the greying sky.

Of all the men she had known in her three-and-twenty years, why had she fallen in love with a scoundrel?

Julia had long since given up all hope of marrying into society, someone of her class, but surely there might be the chance of meeting a country solicitor or a respectable merchant who had no use for Town gossip or malicious whispers.

She could be satisfied as the wife of a schoolteacher or an estate steward, far from the wicked wagging tongues that had sent her fleeing.

She wished only for a kind man, someone she liked.

Why, oh why, had she then fallen in love with exactly the sort of man who was the perfect opposite to everything she had imagined?

For love him, she did. She could not deny it, and had thrilled when he had taken her in his arms and had kissed her like that. Her lips still thrummed at the memory of his touch.

Had he been only an artist, she could accept him.

His class were not held up as paragons of good English society, although such a notion was a farce more than reality.

Still, she could bring herself to consort with actors and dancers and others of questionable morality if it meant sharing her life with a respected artist and the man she loved.

But a smuggler—a man who worked against the law—no, that was impossible. For despite his outraged denial, there could be no doubt. She had seen too much to believe it untrue.

Then why did she wish for nothing more than to run to him, fly into his arms, and beg him to kiss her again and again?

With no answers, she continued walking, letting her feet guide her path.

How long she wandered, she did not know.

The trees held no landmarks, and the heavy layer of clouds in the flat grey sky obscured the position of the sun.

Was it an hour or three? She had sat, once, on a rock to rest and eat one of the apples she had brought, but then had struck out again, her direction undetermined.

Fortunately, for all her aimless wandering, she was not lost. She knew these woods well, and the distant roar of the waves assured her.

She was near the cliffs, not where she had gone that first moonlit night with Cornelius, but further along, more distant from the house, near one of the outbuildings at the edge of the woods, before they opened onto the downs heading towards the water.

Somewhere overhead, a wave of thunder rolled from the heavy clouds and the sky began to darken into slate.

A drop fell from the sky. Oh, heavens. She had not planned for rain.

A gust of wind whipped her skirts about her ankles and the raindrops came more heavily.

More thunder sounded, distant and foreboding.

How far was she from the house? It must be two miles, by her reckoning, well over a half hour’s walk at a steady pace.

She would be quite drenched by the time she got there, but perhaps the rain would ease.

She had gone no more than five or six paces when the dark sky was split by a jagged bolt of lightning, followed at once by thunder, not a distant roll now, but a loud, ear-splitting crash.

The storm was right above her. As if in answer to her thoughts, the heavens opened and water came rushing down on her, soaking her in a moment, and the winds, already strong, increased their ferocity.

Another bolt of lightning, another peal of thunder, and a blast of icy wind that nearly took her off her feet.

Julia ran for the closest tree to support herself and sought the side most protected from the gale.

The winds were ferocious now, and her worry deepened into panic.

The sound of her beating heart was almost as loud as the constant thunder, and her breath was less steady than the wild clamour of the leaves as they danced their frenzied tarantella in the swirling windstorm.

Somewhere, far too close, there came a loud crack, as a limb was torn from its trunk, thundering onto the earth a few feet from where she cowered in the lee of the tree.

Another slice of lightning, another boom of thunder, and another crack of a branch.

The tempest was immediately overhead. She needed to get to safety.

The house was not possible, but perhaps, that outbuilding, the small cottage…

Even if the door were locked, it would, at the least, provide a wall to hide behind, perhaps an eave to protect her from the worst of the deluge.

How far was it? Surely no more than a few hundred paces, if she had her whereabouts correct.

For a moment, the winds eased, and Julia used the reprieve to dash off, as fast as she could, in what she hoped was the right direction.

The ground was soft and strewn with leaves and broken twigs, and more than one heavy wooden limb littered the ground, having been wrenched from its tree by the tempest. The rains intensified again, as did the gale, and she was pushed off her path by the vicious gusts more than once.

Only by clinging to the swaying trunks of the surrounding trees did she keep to her feet.

Where, oh where, was that building?

Then, when she thought she was quite in the wrong place, another flash of lightning revealed a building just ahead. Thank the heavens!

Taking a deep breath, Julia gathered her strength and tore off through the last fringe of trees, towards whatever shelter it might give her. Another branch crashed down from the tree where she had been standing, spurring her pace.

She was here! It was a small victory, but it was something. If only she had a key, if only…

But the gods had been favourable, for one of the windows had been smashed by another such falling tree branch, the protruding bough having broken a large enough hole that, by moving with the greatest care, and using the branch as a support, she might climb through.

Slowly, painstakingly, she did this, and after far too long but with only a handful of minor scratches, she stood inside the building in the middle of the rain-soaked central room.

The outbuilding was larger than she had recalled, more a small cottage than a storage shed, although that was its main purpose.

Perhaps one of the groundskeepers used it for shelter from time to time, for alongside a scattering of boxes, there was a small table in the very centre of the room on top of a darker surface which, upon cursory investigation, proved to be an old and thin carpet, as well as two chairs.

The fireplace, of course, was quite cold, but there was no dust on the table.

The winds, of course, would have blown any such thing away.

Now that she was no longer fighting for her balance and was out of the pouring rain, Julia had a moment to consider the building.

If there were a table and chairs, might there be a blanket somewhere?

The winds were still howling through the broken window and she was thoroughly chilled.

The hour was not so advanced, but the heavy storm clouds had turned the afternoon quite dark, and details of the room were all but lost in the gloom.

Another jolt of lightning revealed what looked like a staircase behind some crates, and with careful steps, she approached.

Yes, this cottage had a loft, not tall and not large enough to be called a full storey, but certainly something better than where she had been.

She climbed the steep stairs and found herself in a tiny, low room, with a single window—thankfully still intact—and a low cot with some heavy blankets.

They felt ancient and rough, but they were dry.

Grateful beyond measure to be out of the wind, she slipped out of her sodden frock and wrapped herself in one of the precious lengths of woollen blanket.

Then, quite exhausted by her ordeal through the deluge, she lay down on the cot and worn out by her ordeal, fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Julia was not certain what woke her up. She was confused for a moment, unsure where she was, until her fingers brushed against the rough blanket once more.

It was full night now, and very dark. The thin sliver of the waning moon shed almost no light, certainly not enough for her to make out her circumstances, but within moments she recalled the frantic flight through the storm-ravaged woods and her fortune at finding this cottage.

Her breath sounded loud in the silence of the loft, and she realised that the storm was over.

It must have blown itself out, for the faint outline of the few trees between her and the cliffs—black against black—looked calm, and the air seemed still.

And the moon… if she could see the thin crescent of moonlight, the clouds had lifted.

Keeping the blanket wrapped close about her, she shifted from the cot and made her way to the window.

Yes, she was looking out over the cliffs, towards the sea.

She had not recalled quite how close this cottage was to the water.

Even now, she could see the faint glimmer of the sea as it reflected starlight, the ripple of the waves sending glints of pinpricks of light back into the silent air.