Page 11 of The King of Whitechapel (Victorian Outcasts #7)
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E LIZABETH DIDN’T EVEN know in which room Christopher was.
After her conversation with Rebecca, she’d wandered through the house, exploring every nook and cranny without success. She doubted he was in Spencer Hall. Her parents might have sent him to the gamekeeper’s cottage at the edge of the estate.
The fact she wasn’t allowed to see him was ridiculous. And who was the man Rebecca had seen?
Since she was tired of this farce, she walked to her mother’s parlour, determined to find out where Christopher was. A few days had passed since he’d been found, and no one told her anything. She’d confess to what had happened in the cottage if she had to. She’d spill the whole truth if it granted her a visit. Probably not. Confessing would make things worse, but she was desperate.
She knocked on the door but entered before Mother could answer. “Mother, I must speak my mind.”
Mother was working on her embroidery in front of the warm hearth, the weather being still chilly. “I know what you want to ask me, but it’s done. Thank heaven.”
“What do you mean?”
Mother lowered the pretty handkerchief she was working on and stared at her with unforgiving brown eyes. There had been a time when Elizabeth had found her mother’s eyes similar to hers.
“The duke has taken him away.”
“What? When? The duke came?”
“It was a quick visit. He was in a hurry and incognito. He came here to see your father and me, then he visited Christopher, and they both left. The trains are running again, now that the railway has been cleared. So they’ll take the first train, and we’ll be free. I’m so relieved that young scoundrel isn’t our burden any longer.”
“Why didn’t you tell me Christopher was leaving?” She was choking with anger.
“Because he is none of your concern!” Mother’s voice rose. “Honestly. I don’t understand your fascination with him.”
“When did he leave?”
“Forget about him.”
“Tell me!”
“An hour ago. Less. I don’t know.” Mother stood up, disregarding the embroidery that ended up on the floor. “Now go back to your room.”
“I’m not a child!”
“Then don’t behave like one,” Mother said.
“I’ll ride to the station then, since you don’t want to help me.” She spun towards the door, but her mother grabbed her arm.
“You aren’t going anywhere.”
Elizabeth shook with fury. “Try me.”
“Don’t you dare use that tone with me.”
“Then hit me again. Go ahead and slap me.” Her voice cracked as she shrugged free of her mother’s strong grip.
Mother’s lips parted in shock. “I don’t recognise you anymore.”
“Good, because I don’t recognise you, either.”
Elizabeth strode out of the parlour and towards the stables. She didn’t bother changing into her riding habit and just grabbed her coat.
“Which horse is ready?” she asked once in the stable.
“My lady?” The stable hand stopped throwing hay bales to the horses.
“I need a horse. Now.”
He gazed around, the pitchfork in his hand. “Ghost is warm and ready. Just returned from his free turnout in the paddock. We took it slowly to warm him well in this cold weather. I was about to brush him.”
“Saddle him, please.”
“Yes.” The stable hand did as told.
She jumped on the saddle of the chestnut and held the reins.
“My lady, let me fetch a footman.”
“No need. I won’t be long.” She touched Ghost’s flank, and the stallion trotted out of the stable.
She didn’t spur him on since the air was too cold, but she led him to a nice canter, which was the most difficult thing she’d ever done. Every instinct urged her to ride as fast as she could.
Along the road boarded with tall snowdrifts, the recent marks of a carriage were visible, starting from Spencer Hall. A sickening lump swelled in her throat. Christopher had returned from a dire ordeal, fell ill, and then left, and she hadn’t had the chance to say goodbye.
They’d taken care of each other in the cottage, shared food and heat, risked their lives together, and saved each other, and he’d left, likely believing she didn’t care about him, wondering why she hadn’t seen him.
She hated the fact he might believe her cold and snobbish, that she’d used him to survive the storm, only to discard him later when she didn’t need him.
She wiped the tears blurring her sight. By the time she reached the small train station, she and Ghost were sweaty and hot. She jumped off him and ran to the only platform, where the train was pulling out.
In a large puff of steam, the train started to move, right when she stepped onto the platform. She ran along it, searching the windows of the carriages, but the train was picking up speed and the floor was slippery with mud and melted snow.
She pushed her legs harder. The weakness from the past few days slowed her down, though. Her heart jolted when Christopher’s face swept into view behind a frosted glass.
She raised her hand, still running. “Christopher!”
He turned his head, his eyes flaring wide. He lowered the window, and the gusts ruffled his silver-blond hair. She came to a stop at the very edge of the platform as the train raced off into the mist.
“Christopher.” She couldn’t say anything else as emotion swelled in her throat.
“I’ll never forget you,” he shouted before vanishing with the train.
The sense of loss crushing her chest was ridiculously overwhelming, considering the small amount of time she’d spent with him. But the pain was so very real, so visceral that she couldn’t help but feel it deeply, as little sense as it might have had.
She would never forget him either.