Page 31 of Exile's Return

Agnes felt a flush of pleasure rise to her cheeks at the unexpected praise if that’s what it was.

‘But what of your parents?’ Daniel asked.

‘My father was killed at Naseby and my mother died two years later,’ Agnes said. ‘It was just George and me…until Worcester.’

He paused in skewering a piece of unidentifiable meat. ‘Why Worcester?’

‘George had been restless for a long time,’ she said. ‘He was only seventeen when Father died. Too young for the responsibility of my mother and I and also too young for the war.’

‘And your sister?’

‘She married James before Father’s death. After the King’s murder, George sent me to live with Ann and James and sold off the estate to pay his debts.’

‘And George went to Worcester,’ Daniel said in a hard, flat voice.

‘Yes, and never came back. He escaped to the continent.’

Daniel quirked an eyebrow in an unspokenAnd?

‘He died there. Drank himself to death I was told, although the truth is that he passed out in a drunken stupor on the side of a road one winter’s night, caught lung fever, and died within the week.’ She sighed. ‘He was long lost in drink before he went abroad.’ She bit her lip, the grief at her brother’s end long since resolved into a dull ache. ‘No better than that poor wretch today. What about you, Daniel?’

‘My father and my brother are dead. As to the rest of my family, our home was largely destroyed in ’48. My mother, sister, grandfather and I were reduced to living in a few habitable rooms. I am hoping they are still there,’ he added.

‘But why do they believe you to be dead?’ Agnes searched his face.

Daniel shrugged. ‘I was taken prisoner after Worcester and sent to Barbados. They would have good reason to think me dead.’

‘Why?’

His eyes flashed in her direction. ‘Because no one returns from Hell.’

She lowered her gaze. ‘They would have mourned you,’ she said. ‘I envy you, going home to a family who loves you.’

She thought of the only family she had left in the world, Henry and Lizzie, and felt the now-familiar tears prick the back of her eyes. She pushed back her chair and excused herself to take solace in the cold dark of the communal bedchamber. Mercifully, there were few travellers at this time of the year and she had the bug-infested bed to herself. She curled into a ball and, clasping the locket, she allowed the silent tears to fall.

Chapter 12

Although they encountered no further trouble, the weather closed in and rain and icy sleet turned the roads into a muddy bog. The inns they stayed in were verminous, the food often inedible, and sodden cloaks and boots did not dry overnight. Even the horses seemed fed up as they trudged along the lanes, cloying mud past their fetlocks, their heads lowered.

To Agnes’s credit, she had not uttered one word of complaint, but after the encounter with the footpads she seemed lost in her thoughts and they travelled mostly in silence. Her silence suited Daniel. She had already proved herself too curious about his past and his reasons for being back in England.

The long days gave him ample opportunity to reflect on the lost years, and the stirring of the memories produced a miasma of depression that caused him to wake at night in a cold sweat. Cowardice, he decided. Fear of what he might find if he went in search of his mother and sister was all that stood between him and reconciling himself with what was left of his family.

As he lay awake in the long, dark hours, he thought of the two women alone and unprotected since Kit’s death. Had they been left, like Agnes, prey to any man who purported to offer them protection? The resolution to avenge his father’s death and his enslavement on Tobias Ashby began to waver.

‘This is Bromsgrove.’ Agnes’s voice jerked him out of his reverie. ‘Didn’t the landlord of the last inn tell us that the house we seek is not far from Bromsgrove?’

Daniel nodded. A mistake; twin anvils pounded behind his eyes. He had been out of sorts for a couple of days, waking with a headache and sore joints that he attributed to the poor beds and being too long in the saddle after years of not riding. He wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep.

‘Who is this Sir Jonathan Thornton?’ Agnes asked.

‘I told you. A friend of my brother’s.’

‘Your dead brother?’

‘I only had one brother.’

‘And did he die in the war?’