For three days, she moped around the house, dragging her heels and with no care for his damn list. The servants kept out of her way. As usual they offered no explanation as to her husband’s strange habits. They were almost coy with her, tiptoeing in and out of rooms. Eventually, she gave up crying and made a decision.
Upstairs, she summoned Estelle. “Pack a bag, one that can be slung over a horse’s shoulders.”
“Milady?”
“Just do it,” she snapped.
She retrieved the pouch of gems from the drawer of her dresser and stuffed it into a small saddlebag. Together, clothes and jewels, she had all she needed.
“I’m going to visit my cousin. She lives twenty leagues to the north. I shall write when I return.”
“I should go with you,” pleaded Estelle.
“I go alone.”
“But the robbers—”
“I shall keep to the quietest roads. The robbers go for the stagecoaches. With my drab clothes, I shall look humble enough.” She had picked the least fine of her dresses and a plain black cloak.
“The weather—” Estelle chased after her.
“It’s summer.”
“But they say a storm is coming, milady.” Estelle tugged on Dara’s sleeve. “What shall I say to his lordship?”
“Nothing. I shall be back long before he returns. My cousin’s address,” Dara scrawled it down on a piece of paper and thrust it into Estelle’s trembling hands. There was no reason not to give it as they would not think to ride out there without permission from their lord. “Bring around the mare, the one that I rode the other day. She’s the least frisky.”
Mounted sideways upon the dapple mare, Mary, Dara pulled the hood over her bonnet.
“Gee up, Mary.” She shook the rein and the mare started to trot.
The route she took was to the north, but the road she chose would not take her to her cousin. What use was it to go to her father’s niece? Within days, Dara’s father would know she had left her husband’s house and abandoned her duties. Her cousin blabbered about everything. Instead, Dara decided the best plan was to make for the nearest city, one that had a good silversmith or jewellers, and sell the gems. The proceeds she would use to hire a room and a maid. Happily ensconced, she would wait out the three months while enjoying the pleasures of city life. She would visit the assembly rooms, make new friends, and dance until midnight. She would tell everyone she was a widow fresh out of mourning. Her name was not known in those parts. The risk was worth taking. Then, when i
t was necessary, she would return to Willowby Hall. She was sure than even in her absence, the servants would carry out his lordship’s orders regarding the long list. To keep up the illusion, she would write letters to Estelle in which she would make up stories about her visit to her cousin’s house in the north. As she was a newcomer to the household, the servants at Willowby would have no inkling whether the details were correct or not.
She left the estate through the wilderness of the meadows, where the sheep grazed, passed the gatehouse, and entered the large wood that formed the boundary. The path was muddy and the trees heavy with leaves and blossom. She was happy to be out. The humid air stuck fast, bringing with it heat and dampness. As she emerged from the other side of the wood, she came to a halt. Before her were the sweeping, gentle hills of the countryside and as far as the eye could see was nothing but farmland, copses, and the occasional barn. Above were the dark grey skies and ominous clouds waiting to deliver their load.
The wind whipped up her skirts and cloak. Mary was increasingly skittish and unhappy. She had to cajole the mare along the lane, which was little more than a track and unsuitable for a wheeled vehicle. The first flash of lightning caught her by surprise. It lit up the landscape, sweeping aside for the briefest second the greyness. A few moments later, the thunder rumbled.
“Far away,” she hoped.
Mary refused to trot.
The path forked into two even narrower tracks. She wasn’t sure anymore which way was north. There was no signs or milestones. She looked around. Not a soul was out in the fields. She picked the path to the right. It offered less mud and puddles.
The clouds burst open, releasing a deluge of rain that landed in heavy drops. The wind was cold and the heavens filled with lightning and thunder. She fought to keep control of Mary, who rose up on her hind legs.
Dara cried out and lost balance. She slid off the side-saddle, landed on her feet, her skirts in a heap with the mud oozing around her boots. She reached up to grab the rein, but it was too late. Mary cantered away, leaving Dara with her saddlebag, which had fallen off, but not the larger one containing her clothes.
“Come back, you foolish creature,” she yelled.
The rain swiftly drenched her to the bone. She sought the shelter of nearby trees, but the lightning reminded her that it was best to keep moving. By the time she had walked a mile along the track, her skirts were too heavy to lift, her stockings were soaked, and her shivers were uncontrollable and racked her from head to toe. In the space of an hour, summer was forgotten. It might be the middle of winter given the bitter wind and downpour.
She had to find a barn. There she would wait out the storm, and hopefully, if Mary had followed this same path, she would cease her gallop and come to a halt along it. The wall by the track turned, and Dara followed it. The wall led to a barn, a thatched one, and beyond it to her delight was a rambling complex of farm buildings, including a small cottage.
The farmyard was thick with congealed mud. She struggled to wade through it. The closer she was to the cottage, the further away it seemed. She fell forward, landing on her knees heavily. Her dress was now weighed down by the worst kind of filth. She cried out, not for help, but in despair. What more would go wrong with her life?
* * *