Gayle Wilson - Anne's Perfect Husband

“My part in what?”

“To find your place in the world you are entitled to by your birth. We both know that you can sometimes be rather headstrong, my dear. I’m simply saying that you must let yourself be guided by Mr. Sinclair, who has, I assure you, only your best interests at heart.”

“But Mrs. Kemp, you know I am very happy here. Of course, I shall be delighted to visit Mr. Sinclair’s home for Christmas. That seems to be what he wishes me to do, but to believe that I shall become a permanent resident there or dependent on his charity, is, I should think, something neither of us would wish for. Whatever life you and he believe I am somehow entitled to, I assure you this is the life I truly desire.”

“You can’t evaluate what you’ve never known. And you are about to enter a world about which you know nothing. It may seem very frightening to you at first, but…” The words faltered, and Mrs. Kemp’s eyes seemed troubled. She put her hand on Anne’s cheek, cupping it as if she were one of the younger girls in need of comfort. “Oh, my dear,” she said, her voice passionate, “this is such an opportunity. I am simply urging you to make the best of it, whatever happens.”

Which didn’t sound comforting at all, Anne thought. She caught Mrs. Kemp’s hand and folded the fingers down into the palm. She laid her cheek against the back of it a moment before she brought it to her mouth and pressed her lips against the raised blue veins that were visible under the thin skin.

“I shall,” she said, smiling at the old woman. “I promise you I shall, Mrs. Kemp. Headstrong or not, I shall endeavor to do whatever Mr. Sinclair thinks is best. I promise you.”

It was not until she was actually in the coach, her portmanteau secured on the top and her feet and legs covered by a thick fur rug, that Anne realized what had happened. Mewed up in an institution run by rules and discipline, she had fantasized about adventure often enough, especially during her adolescence. Nothing about her previous existence had prepared her, however, to undertake one.

Yet here she was, riding inside a carriage with a man she had only just met, heading to a destination about which she knew nothing at all. Mrs. Kemp’s assurance that she had seen the solicitor’s papers and her obvious excitement over the prospects offered by Mr. Sinclair’s interest had been reassuring enough while Anne had been in the safe and familiar confines of the school.

Now that she was truly alone with her “guardian,” however, the Gothic tales of abduction she had read with such shivering delight seemed all too real. And not a little frightening.

“Comfortable?” Mr. Sinclair asked prosaically, smiling at her from the opposite seat. The question certainly dampened that particular flight of fantasy.

“Of course,” she said truthfully.

The coach was not only elegantly appointed, but very well-sprung. And despite the cold outside, the interior was every bit as cozy as her room on the third floor of Fenton School. Perhaps even more so. However, that was a room which she missed more and more with each mile they traversed.

“Good,” he said.

He had removed his hat and set it on the seat beside him. After they had traveled a short distance in silence, he leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes, tacitly giving Anne permission to study his features again in the less flattering light of day.

It was obvious she had been correct in her earlier surmise. Ian Sinclair had undoubtedly been invalided out of service and was not yet fully recovered. She could not help but notice his limp as they had walked to the coach.

Dark smudges lay like old bruises under the long lashes. His face was too thin, and beneath the natural darkness of his skin was a tinge of gray. His mouth was tight, as if set against a pain she could almost feel.

And yet, given all those, it was a face that was undeniably appealing. The nose was as finely shaped as his mouth, the brow high and noble, and the jaw strong. Whatever his age, and Anne was no nearer guessing that than she had been from the first, Ian Sinclair was a very handsome man. And he was her guardian.

She wondered if, at nineteen, such a guardianship were even legal. She had little knowledge of the law, of course, so she must trust that her father’s solicitor and Mrs. Kemp were more knowledgeable about such matters than she. Neither seemed to have expressed any reservations about the arrangement.

She turned her head, looking out at the passing landscape. The snow that had been threatening for days had finally begun to fall in earnest, and she wondered again that Mr. Sinclair had made this journey, given the uncertain state of his health.

She could not imagine what had prompted him to embark on this foolhardy venture for the sake of a girl he had never met. Duty, she supposed. And a sense of obligation to her father, who had been his friend.

He said they had been comrades in arms. She would have to ask him about her father’s service. Perhaps Mr. Sinclair could help her to finally understand the man who had fathered and then abandoned her. At the very least, he would be able to tell her more about her father than she knew now. She could not even remember what he looked like.

She knew she took after her mother. She couldn’t remember who had first told her that, but she had known it all her life. As she had grown into adulthood, the face in her mirror did indeed grow to match the one in the gold locket she still wore about her neck. It was the only thing she had of her mother’s.

She touched it now, wrapping gloved fingers around its small, familiar shape. At least something would be familiar when they reached their destination, she thought, her eyes deliberately focused on the landscape they crossed rather than on the handsome, pain-etched face of Ian Sinclair.

“I’m afraid it’s no use, sir,” the coachman said. His voice sounded hollow and distant as it echoed from beneath the carriage. “It’s the axle. Damaged beyond our abilities to make repairs here, I can tell you. Someone must ride and get help.”

Ian’s lips tightened against the curses to which he longed to give utterance. He had learned long ago that cursing fate was an exercise in futility. And that painful lesson had been reiterated more times than he wished to remember during the past fourteen months.

“All right then,” he agreed. “I’m afraid that expedition will have to be up to the two of you,” Ian said, including the groom in his instructions. “Unharness the leaders and see if there’s a house nearby which looks decent enough to shelter Miss Darlington. If not, then ride on and bring back a conveyance of some kind from the nearest posting inn.”

“On this stretch of road the inns will probably be our best bet, sir,” the coachman said. He had crawled out from beneath the carriage and was beating muddy snow off his knees with his gloved hands. “I can’t remember passing any dwelling likely to offer a proper shelter for the young lady.”

“If the storm hits, I suppose any dwelling will be proper. Better than the coach at least.”

“I can ride,” Anne said.

Ian looked up to find her standing in the open door of the carriage, her breath creating a small white fog around her face. He thought about warning her that she would do better to stay inside and keep the cold out. No matter how well-constructed the vehicle might be, come nightfall it would be vastly uncomfortable, even with the rugs.

There were four horses. Ian briefly debated whether to send Anne off with the coachman. Given the rigors of the day, he was frustratingly sure of his own inability to stay astride for any distance at all. The cold and damp had already taken its toll, although he was loath to make that admission, even to himself.