At the wedding, Kristine had guessed Erik’s mother to be in her sixties. She realized now that Lady Trevayne was probably ten years younger.
“I hope I haven’t come at a bad time,” Kristine said.
“No. Please, sit down.”
Kristine sat on one of the hard-backed chairs, her hands folded tightly in her lap. “Thank you.”
“Why have you come here?” Lady Trevayne asked.
“I wanted to ask you about Erik.”
A shadow passed through the older woman’s eyes; her fingers went white around the rosary clutched in her hand. “What about him?”
“Is he ill?”
“Ill?”
“Yes, there’s something wrong with him, I know there is.”
“Have you asked Erik what it is that troubles him?”
“Yes, but he refuses to speak of it. I know he’s in pain, but he won’t tell me the cause.”
“I’m sorry, I cannot help you.”
“But you know, don’t you? Please, I just want to help.”
“You care for him, don’t you?”
“Yes. I love him.” She spoke the words without thinking, only then realizing that it was true.
“I’m sorry for you, my dear.”
“Sorry for me? Why?”
Lady Trevayne shook her head. “You are with child, are you not?”
“Yes, I am. Did Erik tell you?”
“I have not seen my son since the day of your wedding.”
“He left me.”
A soft sigh escaped Lady Trevayne’s thin lips. “It’s for the best. Go home, Kristine. Forget about Erik. Think of your babe.” She rose to her feet, a small, slender woman whose eyes seemed to hold all the sadness of the world. “God bless you, Kristine. Please send one of the boys to let me know when your child is born.”
Kristine stared after Erik’s mother, more confused than ever.
Heavy-hearted, she left the convent.
Because she didn’t know what else to do, she spent the next several days trying to follow Lady Trevayne’s advice. She spent hours sewing baby clothes, thinking of names, furnishing the chamber next to her own.
And yet, each morning, she woke hoping to find that Erik had returned. And each night she cried herself to sleep.
Kristine stood at the window, staring outside. The day was gloomy, overcast, and perfectly suited to her mood. It was but a few weeks until Christmas, but she had refused to let Mrs. Grainger and the serving girls decorate the house. She wanted no reminders of the season. There was no joy in her heart, only a cold, lonely emptiness.
Moving away from the window, she pulled on her riding boots, donned a thick woolen cloak and hood, and went to the barn.
Brandt met her at the door. “Ye’re not thinking of riding this afternoon, miss?”
“Yes, why?”
“We’ll have rain before nightfall.”
“I won’t be gone long.”
“Very well.” Grumbling under his breath about the danger of riding in her condition, Brandt saddled the mare and helped Kristine mount. “Be careful now,” he warned.
“I will.”
Mindful of her unborn baby, Kristine kept Misty at a sedate walk, even though she yearned to let the mare run. Once, she had found pleasure in the beauty of the land, in the sense of freedom that riding gave her, but no more. She feared she might never be happy again, that nothing would ever make her smile, or laugh.
She shouldn’t be riding at all. Mrs. Grainger and the maids had all tried to dissuade her, but she had refused to listen. Riding did not provide the pleasure it once had and yet, it made her feel closer to Erik to do something they had once enjoyed together.
Reaching into her pocket, she curled her fingers around a mask she had taken from Erik’s room. The material was soft, warm from being in her pocket. It was the only thing that gave her comfort.
Lost in a world of despair, she rode farther afield than she ever had before. Only when the sky turned dark and she heard the rumble of thunder did she realize she was hopelessly lost.
Misty snorted and tossed her head as a gust of wind shook the trees and sent a handful of dead leaves skittering across her path.
Glancing around, Kristine urged the mare in the direction she hoped led home. A sharp crack of lightning rent the clouds, unleashing a torrent of rain. Thunder shook the ground.
Another crack of lightning spooked the mare and she stretched out in a dead run, oblivious to the hand on the reins or Kristine’s voice demanding that she stop. The ground flew by at an alarming rate.
Terrified, Kristine prayed that the mare wouldn’t fall, that she would make her way safely back home.
Misty splashed across a narrow creek that was already beginning to swell and raced up the rocky incline on the opposite bank.
They were going the wrong way. Kristine had no doubt of it now. A forest of dark trees grew at the top of the rise. Wind and rain shook the leaves so that the trees seemed to be alive, swaying to the turbulent music of the storm.
Kristine tugged on the reins in a vain effort to halt Misty’s flight, but the mare had the bit between her teeth and she ran on and on.
Kristine shivered violently, chilled by the rain and the fear spiraling through her. Why hadn’t she listened to Mrs. Grainger and the maids? Even Brandt had tried to dissuade her, but she had foolishly refused to listen.
She tugged on the reins again, but Misty ran steadily onward, almost as if she had a destination in mind.
Please, please, don’t let her fall.
She repeated the prayer over and over again, knowing that a fall now could be fatal not only for herself, but for the babe she carried. Erik’s son.
After what seemed an eternity, Misty slowed. She whinnied, then whinnied again as she burst through the trees into a small clearing.
Kristine blinked the rain from her eyes, certain she was seeing things. But no, it was still there. A rugged-looking house built of sturdy logs and gray stone. A small barn was set back from the house.
With a sigh of relief, Kristine slid from the saddle and ran up the stairs, drawn by the possibility of a warm fire and shelter from the storm. She felt bad for leaving Misty in the rain, but comforted herself with the knowledge that wild horses remained outside in all kinds of weather.
She hesitated a moment; then, summoning her courage, she knocked on the door. She waited several heartbeats, then knocked again. Still no answer.
A gust of wind chilled her to the bone. Biting down on her lower lip, she stared at the latch, wondering if the door was unlocked, wondering if she dared go inside, uninvited.