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him by his given name, he did not acknowledge it, simply keeping his hand threaded through his thick golden hair. Then he brought his head up, his dark gaze staring long into the space in front of him, that slight tic at the corner of his mouth, the only sign he was still in the room with her.
    “You should sleep. We leave at first light,” he said, not turning to look at her.
    This time she did not argue. Rising to surprisingly shaky legs, Felicity turned and left the room without a word.

Chapter Four
    The trip to Croft Park in the district of Surrey, in southeastern England, was generally a pleasant one. There were relatively good roads in that part of the wood, and it was not too far removed from London to make the trip an arduous, multiday adventure with stops at spotty inns to change horses and rest, leaving the travelers to hope that the bed linens were not infested with bugs. In fact, the trip itself could take less than five hours, weather permitting.
    Unfortunately, the next morning, the weather was not very permitting.
    They had gone nearly two miles, and were just reaching the edges of what one might call London proper when the heavy clouds that had shielded dawn from brightening the sky began to pour out their contents across the land.
    And it didn’t stop.
    At first, Osterley thought perhaps it was simply a spring downpour, and after twenty minutes it would stop. It was April, after all. Thus he told the coachman to continue on. He and Felicity were comfortably ensconced in his box carriage, and the coachman had a good coat. But after the first hour of rain, and the sky no lighter, Osterley had to acknowledge perhaps Mother Nature had other plans for them.
    Or he would have, if he hadn’t been so stubborn.
    “It’s fine,” he said aloud, some four hours into the trek. “I’m sure it will clear up any moment now.”
    He glanced at Felicity, expecting her to send him a look of exasperation, or to mention again that it was likely the coachman was soaked to the skin and shivering, but instead her eyes were glued to the window and the small village they were passing.
    “Is . . . is that the Miller’s Creek Crossing?” she asked, her face devoid of its usual pink cheerfulness. Indeed she looked as if she had seen a ghost.
    “Yes. Why? Do you wish to stop? Felicity, are you feeling well?” Osterley’s voice sounded harsh to his own ears. But he felt a surge of concern run through him. She really did look pale. Perhaps it was carriage sickness. Perhaps it was worse. He shifted up from his facing seat, and came to sit beside her. Miller’s Creek Crossing had to have a physician, did it not?
    “No. I mean, yes, I feel fine. No I do not wish to stop.” Felicity said quickly, assuaging his concern. He was inordinately relieved, until she continued. “Miller’s Creek Crossing is the last place I saw John, is all.”
    It was as if Osterley had been gutted. John. Her brother. His best friend. So Felicity
had
seen a ghost.
    “He took me as far as the crossing, we had lunch at an inn, and then Aunt Bertha’s carriage met us, and took me to London. Four years ago. Next Michaelmas it will be five.” Her voice was lost to memory. “He told me everything would be fine, and I would be back in a few weeks.”
    But it wasn’t,
he thought. And she hadn’t gone back. She’d been in London, thriving, living, while John rotted in the ground, along with so many others, Osterley’s parents included. And he—he’d gone on living, too.
    Osterley wanted to shake himself. He did not want these memories, any more than Felicity did. He, of course, had the advantage of having come back to Surrey in the four years since. He’d faced down the past, and had been working to bring Croft Park, and the nearby village of Whitney into the present. But seeing Felicity’s pale face, her frozen posture, it was as if he was reliving his own pain through her. For the hundredth time in the past twenty-four hours, he cursed