Fall from Trace Read online

  Alex dipped his chin in a nod but still lay there.

  Just a bit further… Just a bit…

  He cracked one eye open, and could not see the lights of the inn, nor any other but the lantern on the cart. The horses had taken on a steady pace, and the night sky was growing darker and darker by the minute.

  There was no way to know for certain what the ground would be like without taking a better look, but he couldn’t spare the energy to prop himself up. It would be difficult enough to manage making his way from somewhere in Wales all the way to Moulton, and he honestly might die trying to do that.

  Dying while escaping to get to the woman he loved was a right sight better than dying as a captive in the hold of a ship.

  Come on, Trace. Center your mind, breathe your focus, let yourself go…

  The voice of his mentor in his mind shook him, and he wondered what had brought it on. He’d gone at least two full years without hearing it outside of his dreams, and this moment, though certainly the first adventure since those days, was completely unrelated.

  He was no longer the agent called Trace. This was not a task for Trace. This was the last act of resistance from Torchon, and the rebirth of Alex Sommerville.

  The only traces he cared about anymore were his own.

  Alex counted twenty of his slow, steady breaths, close to dozing off except for the sudden hum he felt coursing through his limbs. Though he was weak, though his mind was cloudy, though he could not and did not recognize himself, he felt alive for the first time in four and a half years.

  Action. Danger. Freedom.

  Freedom…

  Poppy’s face swam into focus in his mind, smiling and young as she had been when he’d left her, her copper hair dancing almost wildly on the breeze as she grinned up at him, her fair eyes filled with the laughter she’d always lived with.

  Slowly, he exhaled, waiting for the vision of her to dissipate, somehow unable to move while she was there, even in memory.

  Moments later, she was gone.

  But not for long.

  Alex bent his knees with a groan, placing both feet flat against the worn wood beneath him, gripping the side of the cart with one hand.

  “Oh, don’t be sick, Torchon,” Souris groaned with disgust.

  Alex grabbed the half loaf on his chest and shoved it into his tunic as he clutched his stomach, moaning again, pressing himself up and curving towards the edge of the cart.

  Then he jumped over the edge, rolling as he hit the ground, ignoring the pain that slammed into his good shoulder as he protected the bad.

  Souris and the drivers shouted, but their words were lost on Alex as the cart continued to move and as he got his bearings on the damp grass around him. He rolled to his hands and knees and pushed himself up to a crouch. Moving as fast as he could, he kept his tread as light and easy as possible. His lungs began to burn already, his body not used to moving quickly without pain as its motivation, and his legs felt sluggish with the pace. But he could push all that aside, could endure anything that lay ahead, now that he had such a glorious prospect at the end.

  He’d always said he would die for Poppy, that he would go to the ends of the earth to be with her, and now he’d actually be proving it.

  A shot cracked the night air, and Alex ran for it, giving up all pretense of sneaking or crouching. For now, he only needed to be away. He needed distance, direction, and to somehow form a plan.

  The area was sparse in population, filled with fields of crops not yet harvested, but the moon was not raised yet, so there was no light for his pursuers to see by. He had the advantage now, and he planned to use every moment of it.

  His injured shoulder seemed to scream at the indignity of being expected to move at this rate, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that now. No time to set it, no doctor or ally to help, and nothing to immobilize it with. He couldn’t ask for help this far from anywhere, and the sight of him in a dirty, tattered tunic and shredded trousers would hardly gain him any respectable allies.

  To speak plainly, he was an impoverished prospect traversing at least a hundred miles without proper food, water, or transport. In addition to his lack of supplies, he had multiple injuries, some of which were severe, and, at this moment, he had very little idea about where he was.

  Except he was in Wales.

  And he was free.

  He felt his lips curve into a smile as he ran, exhaling with relief. He allowed himself to breathe in the Welsh air just as Souris had recommended.

  He couldn’t hear pursuit, nor could he hear the wagon, so he let himself slow and crouch once more. Quickly, but silently, he moved towards a barn in the distance. There were no lights within and nothing to indicate anyone inhabited it, and while he was exhausted, he could not risk taking refuge within the building to rest.

  Short of losing consciousness from exhaustion or exertion, there would be no resting until he had reached Moulton. Even then, he would press on as best he could.

  The barn was still and quiet, and his eyes adjusted to the darkness easily, now that the surrounding light matched it. Empty, it seemed, but there was an old coat and hat on a peg. He grabbed them and donned both. He was not able to button the coat, but it would suffice. It occurred to him that had this been years ago, he would not have even been able to get the fabric to span his shoulders and arms.

  He was much smaller now, and it fit nearly perfectly in both areas.

  A bag of oats sat on a table, and he grabbed a fistful, shoving it into his mouth and crunching down on the grainy food quickly. He cast his eyes around to search for shoes to replace his well-worn boots, but there were none. Still, he had endured worse, and his boots would have to suffice for now.

  He looked around quickly once more, desperate for anything to make his journey easier.

  The snort of a horse brought him up, and he peered into the far corner of the barn where a dark horse stood obediently within its stall.

  Alex exhaled silently, grinning now. “Well, now… Shall we go for a midnight ride?”

  The horse snorted again, shaking its head.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Alex grunted, striding forward. “Good lad.”

  Moments later, they tore out of the barn at a mad gallop, and Alex clutched at the mane with aching fingers. He’d ridden without a saddle dozens of times in his youth, but that had been a lifetime ago, and he’d nearly forgotten the sensation. Still, the animal was powerful, magnificent, and clearly well trained, one that hardly needed direction from him.

  It was a blessed relief, though the increase in speed and the sensation of the wind across his skin and hair was disorienting. Alex leaned down as close to the horse as he could, his body weary already with still much more to go.

  Preserve your strength. Stay in your head. Think beyond the pain.

  Why was he hearing Eagle’s voice now? After years of torture, why now?

  He shook his head quickly, desperate to be rid of that past, and he fixed his mind on Poppy and home.

  If anything remained of it.

  “Poppy,” he whispered to the night, “I’m coming. After all this time, I’m coming.”

  Chapter Two

  “What do you mean, you only got four and a quarter? It’s worth at least five!”

  “Madam, they would not take more, and I was fortunate to get that.”

  “Stanton, that’s absurd!”

  “I know, madam, but it is what it is, and we will make the best of it.”

  Poppy Edgewood groaned and put a hand to her brow. “That is what I say, Stanton, and you’re supposed to tell me ‘We make what we sow, and we’ve sown a bunch of…’ ”

  “Don’t say it, madam,” Stanton interrupted with a barking laugh. “It will sound so much fouler from your mouth.”

  She sighed heavily and dropped herself into the worn and rickety chair by the table.

  “As if anything is beyond me now, Stanton.” She ran her hands over her bound but unruly hair, sighing. “
It will be all right. We’re not destitute, not even close.”

  “True, madam.” Stanton pulled another chair out from the table and sat, though he was almost too big for it. “It’s actually a good harvest, so the funds will suffice, once we’ve completed it.”

  Poppy nodded to herself, adjusting the rough woolen shawl around her shoulders. “We’ve saved enough since Mrs. Follows went to stay with her sister, so there is enough to see to winter provisions even without the harvest.”

  Stanton moaned pitifully and folded his arms across his broad chest. “Even so, madam, I miss Mrs. Follows and her cooking very much.”

  Poppy grabbed a nearby rag and tossed it at her farmhand and manservant, frowning playfully. “I do just fine for us, do I not?”

  He caught the rag easily and grunted. “If ‘just fine’ means we survive, then yes.”

  Unfortunately, he was right, and there was no denying it. For all the accomplishment she had once possessed and been trained up in, not one of them had ever been the proper construction of a stew, or roasting a chicken, or even making a hearty porridge. She could once play a waltz, a jig, and a concerto on the pianoforte all in a row without tiring, but one must own an instrument to be able to do such things, and she did not.

  She owned a small cottage with two bedrooms, a large kitchen, and one very cramped parlor, as well as the farm on which it was situated, though she owed taxes and fees to Lord Cartwright, the landowner and her patron. But it was a small enough tax and fee that it was hardly felt, and he let her have complete independence.

  She’d only met him a few times, as he was almost never in Cheshire and at Branbury Park, so she had no worries of anybody taking her farm away, especially since his agent, Mr. Howard, tended to linger when he came to collect the money every quarter.

  She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t tempted a time or two to encourage him, but she couldn’t.

  She just couldn’t.

  Her life would have been so much easier if she did, if she let him pay call properly, treat her as more than a tenant of his master. Then, she might not be counting every ounce of wheat they harvest or holding her breath for a new litter of piglets.

  But her life was not her own, not anymore.

  It was Alex’s.

  Her heart clenched even at the thought of his name, as it always did, but she was quite used to that pain.

  Alexander Sommerville was her one great love, the reason for her existence, and the surest reason for her circumstances now. Or his death, rather, had been the reason.

  Her mourning of his death, and refusal to truly accept it, had only added to the situation. Rumors, suspicion, and gossip had circulated among all her former friends about her reasoning for going into complete mourning, for remaining close to Moulton, of refusing to give up hope that someday, despite her mourning, Alex would come back. Then those rumors and gossip had spread into her family, and the questions began.

  Had they been married in secret? Was Poppy going to have his child? Had there been promises given that could not be taken back? On and on the questions had gone, until she had been cut off without a penny and they’d removed to Derbyshire.

  But Poppy was still here.

  Poppy couldn’t leave.

  Because impossibly, unbearably, she still had hope.

  “I know that look,” Stanton sighed as he pushed to his feet. “And I’ll leave you to your thoughts of him.”

  Poppy looked at her servant, her friend, who had been by her side at almost every moment since she’d taken up the farm and changed her life. He’d been resolutely silent about his life before he’d come into her service, and he held no judgement of her choice in life now. He had been like an uncle to her, with all the cynicism and humor she needed to keep her from gloom and all the loyalty she would have hoped for in family.

  Had her family been loyal to her.

  But that mattered little now.

  “Don’t go,” Poppy said with a laugh. “I was just thinking of my life as it once was and as it should have been.”

  Stanton put his hands on his hips and glowered. “Why? What good does that do?”

  Poppy clasped her hands before her and smiled ruefully. “Not very much, as it turns out. But thoughts do wander.”

  “Mine don’t.”

  She scowled at him. “No, of course they don’t. Your thoughts are always precisely where they are supposed to be, aren’t they?”

  “Usually.” Stanton shrugged and smiled back just a little. Then, he sobered and snapped his fingers. “I nearly forgot with all we’ve been getting on with today. There’s a letter for you. I put it on your desk.”

  Poppy frowned a little. “From whom?”

  “I didn’t check,” he said simply, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets.

  That earned him a look as she rose to fetch it. “You’ve been with me for nearly five years, Stanton, and you can’t tell who sends me letters? It’s not as though it’s a great number.”

  “Perhaps not, madam,” he returned bluntly. “But quite frankly, I don’t care.”

  Poppy laughed at that and picked up the letter on her desk, her smile fading as she saw the handwriting. “It’s from Violet.”

  “Your sister?” Stanton hissed as if in pain. “Could be anything.”

  “I know.”

  Poppy stared at the letter as she reentered the kitchen. Violet was the only member of her family who kept in touch with any sort of regularity, and the only one who was sincere about it. The others wrote when they had news to share, and never said anything beyond the particular news. Only last month she’d had a letter from Rosemary about her new son, and the entirety of the letter was this one sentence: I had a son last week, and we’ve named him John.

  Violet was different. She was six years younger than Poppy, which was just enough space for them to be friends as well as sisters and to bestow honesty without criticism. She kept Poppy informed of almost everything she would ever wish to know about the family, and about her own life.

  Each letter was a bittersweet experience for her, and she was convinced this one would be no different.

  But how bitter would it be? And how sweet?

  “It helps to open the letter,” Stanton prodded.

  Poppy rolled her eyes and made a face, sitting down in her chair once more. “Thank you, Stanton.”

  “Always, madam.” He bowed a little, which was always an amusing sight, and left the house with a cheery, “I’ll just get the horses settled, and then I’ll be back with more wood.”

  Poppy smiled after him, grateful yet again that she had him in her life. He was the only one of the farmhands that lived on site, and the only one who also acted as a servant, though it seemed a poor description of what he actually did.

  He was the face of the farm, as it were, though everyone knew that Poppy was the one at the helm. Stanton worked as much and as hard as two men, if not three, and scarcely complained about any of it. He was respectful and trustworthy, and far too intelligent a man to be reduced to laborer, but he didn’t seem to think it in any way beneath him.

  Truly, she would never have come this far without him.

  She looked down at the letter in her hand, sighing to herself. “All right, Violet. What am I missing now?”

  She broke the seal and scanned the lines, smiling at Violet’s penmanship, which was rather reflective of her personality; light, untidy, and wandering. For an inexplicable reason, just the sight of it brought tears to Poppy’s eyes.

  Blinking them quickly away, she focused on the content, rather than the sentiment.

  “ ‘Mama is recovering well from her fall, according to the doctor’…” she read aloud, frowning. “What fall? Violet, what fall? When did Mama fall?”

  But there was no indication of the actual injury, and Poppy growled in frustration, returning back to the lines.

  “ ‘We anticipate her being in bed another week at least…’ Bed? She’s bedridden? Violet!” Poppy screeched. “ ‘And we
anticipate that soon she will have energy enough to start complaining, thus returning to normal.’ ”

  She put the letter down, crumpling the paper slightly in her hand.

  She hadn’t been on good terms with her mother for years, but the image of her vibrant and effusive mother lying in a bed and unable to complain about being in that bed was a haunting one. Whatever injury her mother had suffered had been significant, and the fact that Violet had neglected to inform her of it was infuriating.

  But also understandable.

  Poppy wasn’t there. She wasn’t part of their lives, and as such, was difficult to remember. She wouldn’t know how her mother was coping from day to day or hear about the little progress that was being made. She wouldn’t know how her father spent his days now that his wife wasn’t directing him in all things. She wouldn’t know how quiet the house would be with her mother bedridden and weak.

  She’d miss all of that, just as she missed everything else.

  Eight christenings, two weddings, three near-fatal events, her brother’s ordination, and the loss of the family dog, and still she hurt being away. She hurt over being left out and forgotten. It didn’t even matter anymore that they had left her and not the other way around, she would gladly spend an afternoon with any one of them, if only to be reminded of all the things that annoyed her.

  Violet went on to describe her suitors, all five of them, and spent the rest of the letter describing each in great detail and weighing the merits of each one.

  Poppy surprised herself by reading each and every word, grateful her sister was so long winded and descriptive at times. She would have loved nothing more than to witness Violet enduring courtship and suitors, managing her way through a London Season, and finding men who just might suit her tastes.

  They could have spent evenings talking late into the night in each other’s rooms, giggling like children. They could have discussed Rosemary’s boring, perfect life in the sort of confidence that only sisters create. They could have played duets and sung badly, practiced dancing in the drawing room, borrowed each other’s gowns for balls and parties…