Page 30 of Barely a Woman (Bow Street Beaus #1)
He ducked through the doorway before she could say another word.
After retrieving his horse, he led it down the lane to St. George’s church.
The many-gabled stone structure stood alone on a gentle rise, standing guard over a sprawling cemetery with stone markers dating back centuries.
He tethered his mount to a tree and entered the hallowed ground, scanning headstones until he found hers.
The inscription struck him just as soundly as it had the first and only time he had beheld it. The day he had left home forever.
Mary Atkinson
1784 – 1801
Beloved Daughter
His knees grew weak, and he kneeled with one hand on the soaked turf for support. His breathing became shallow and rapid.
“Mary.” He sighed more than said her name. “I have been away too long. For that, I am terribly sorry.”
The misting rain continued falling on Mary’s grave in near silence. He bowed his head in an attempt to recall her face. True recollection had faded over the years, but he remembered her laughing eyes, so full of life. A life cut short by evil intentions.
“I have come to avenge you, after all this time. But some are telling me to do otherwise. Your mother. Miss Morgan Brady.” He gave a soft laugh.
“Morgan is quite different to you. In fact, she is unlike anyone I have ever known. She manifests a strength of conviction and a sterling character similar to yours. You would like her; of that I am certain. But she fails to understand my actions. And now she despises me for what I must do to my father. But because of him, you lie beneath this cursed sod.” His hand spasmed to clench a fistful of grass.
“But I am still here, Mary, left behind. After all these years, I’m still here. ”
Tears rolled down his cheeks to become one with the rain on the turf covering her grave. He sniffled, then stood, letting unanchored blades of grass fall from his fingers.
“I’m still here, and I remember you even if no one else does. You deserve justice. I have returned to see it done. You have waited too long. You shall wait no longer.”
Steadman turned away from the grave with reluctant resolve. The ghosts of two loves haunted him—one dead, one living, both lost. The only one he might salvage was the latter. He resolved to try once more to gain Morgan’s understanding. After all, one ghost was enough for any man.
***
A knock at her door lifted Morgan from an abyss of introspection. “Yes?”
“Might we continue our conversation?” Steadman sounded uncertain through the door, which was surprising for a man who seemed never in doubt. She stood from the chair, wavering in her resolve.
“You may enter.”
The door creaked open to reveal that Steadman had not come in from the rain until recently. Though dampness deeply invaded his fine suit, he looked more handsome than ever, even with red-rimmed eyes. He swept his gaze over her with approval.
“You changed into your dress.”
“Yes. My suit was wet, and it wearies me, anyway. What do you want?”
He winced at her blunt question. However, it communicated her desire for frankness, which he obliged. “I wish to try once more to gain your understanding on the matter of Lord Atwood.”
“I have made up my mind. Further argument is a waste of breath.”
He leaned toward her as his hands clenched and unclenched. “Then how will Mary be avenged? How will justice be served?”
As she saw the chaos roil within him, pity overcame her. “I am just a country girl who has seen little of the world, but people are the same everywhere. And I have seen enough to know that justice and vengeance are usually in opposition to each another.”
“How is that so?”
“Justice addresses grievance while striving for a return to civility. Vengeance does nothing but heap injury upon injury in a never-ending cycle of injustice. Where vengeance runs unchecked, justice can never be achieved. You cannot have both.”
Steadman’s nostrils flared. “But my father must be punished.”
She nodded. “Yes, he must. But justice requires more than simply punishment. It also requires forgiveness and the opportunity for redemption. Without those, then what you call justice is merely retribution.”
“Then I must choose retribution, it seems.” His eyes cut away to stare at the wall, and he fell silent for half a minute. She waited, not knowing what else to do. When he faced her again, those eyes were heavy with resignation.
“You look lovely in that dress.”
“I wish I could believe a word you say.”
He frowned but nodded in recognition of her point.
“The fact that I have lost your trust threatens to undo me. However, trust me when I say this. You are beautiful, Morgan, in all ways. For as long as you live, do not allow another person to tell you otherwise. And even if you choose never to speak to me again, know this. If anyone mistreats you the way your father has, I will hunt them down. You know I can, and I am a man of my word.”
The wholly unexpected compliment washed over Morgan like the warm waters of a cleansing sea.
And for once, she felt worthy of accepting it.
That was new. For an instant, she nearly abandoned her resolve.
But then reality descended like a seeping fog to mar the perfection of the moment.
Despite his compliments, declarations, and kisses, Steadman was willing to leave Morgan behind to seek revenge upon his own flesh and blood.
She had been a fool to believe in a fantasy where he might see the light and find contentment in loving her instead. She would be a fool no longer.
“What will you do now?” he said into her silence.
“I will travel back to London tomorrow. That is, if I might borrow funds to purchase a seat on the mail coach.”
“That is not necessary…”
“Or I will ride back alone as Mr. Brady.”
His eyes remained focused on her as he swayed back and forth. “Wait for me. A woman should not travel the highways alone, disguised or not. Particularly one of your looks.”
Exhaustion overtook Morgan. She wanted the conversation to end. With a nod, she extended her hand while cursing the tears forming in the wells of her eyes. “I will miss you, Sir Steadman.”
He stared at the offered hand in apparent disbelief before gently shaking it. He turned to depart without a word, leaving an empty doorframe and no sign of his passing. The door latched with finality when she closed it, leaving her alone again to grieve what she had lost.