* * *
She learned fast that strength and freedom meant being alone. She could trust no one. Not her mother, not the servants. She managed them all with kid gloves, taking everything in baby steps. Once they got used to her drawing in the garden, she started going for brief rides. Her favourite spot was the cliffs that looked over the sea. She would take a groom and go for hours to draw the waves, to draw the birds, and to think. It was easier to think away from the house, where she didn’t have to guard herself.
Today’s ride had been particularly invigorating. Dove stepped into the cool dimness of the hall, stripping off her riding gloves. She’d made a decision today, a rather difficult one, but she was getting used to those: she couldn’t stay here. She needed a plan. Soon. It had been two weeks since she’d found the resolve to get out of bed and get on with her life. It was longer than that since she’d been separated from Illarion, since she’d had news. Daily, the same questions chased around in her head. Why hadn’t he written? Why hadn’t he come? Because he couldn’t? Or because he wouldn’t? Had he decided she was too much trouble? It wasn’t that she needed rescuing like a princess in a tower that prompted those thoughts. She would not allow herself to be helpless. It was worry. The questions were just a variation on a theme: what had happened to Illarion? If she could have afforded it, she would have allowed herself to be worried sick. But that was a luxury. If she allowed it, she might never get out of bed again.
The thought of Illarion, of how those questions might be answered, was a strong reminder of all that needed doing. Physically, she was recovered from the weakness she’d felt that first day up, although her mother refused to see it. Her mother watched her with hawk-like intensity, enquiring after her health and encouraging her to rest at every turn. But Dove didn’t need to rest. She needed to fly. There had never been anything wrong with her. She was well enough to travel, should she choose. Travel was too tame of word for what she intended. Run was more apt. Her parents would never let her go otherwise.
She would not run yet, although the temptation pulled wickedly. Daily, she looked down the drive leading from the estate. How easy it would be to ride down the drive and simply keep going. But ease was an illusion. Running was not easy. Running was expensive—another way in which she sensed women were kept socially imprisoned. She had no money—was allowed no money—she had no destination except London where all her answers lay.
She wanted to run to London, to Illarion. But she would be followed. That destination was too easy to guess. Her parents would run her down before she got there. Even if she made it, she wasn’t sure of her reception. What if Illarion wasn’t there? What if he didn’t want her? What if…? It was too hard to complete the last thought. What if he was dead and Percivale was alive?
She would only get one chance to run. She could not spend it carelessly. If she was caught and dragged back, it would be the end. Nothing would stop her father from sending her away then. He still had not spoken to her, still had not looked at her.
‘Dove, come in here.’ The voice halted her in mid-step. Apparently, her father had decided the time had come to end his silence.
Dove approached the estate office uneasily, wondering which was worse; his silence or his acknowledgement. Her father sat behind the desk, large and intimidating, his dark eyes on her. ‘You look well,’ he managed in cold, polite tones.
‘Yes. Summers in Cornwall have always agreed with me,’ she answered with equal politeness, waiting for him to announce the purpose of the conversation.
‘I am assured that you are not carrying the Prince’s child. That is some consolation.’ Dove blushed furiously, bowing her head. Was she allowed no privacy if even the most intimate aspects of her life were now under scrutiny?
‘You have ruined yourself, Dove, and shamed us in the process. You do understand that? No one will have you now. No one of merit. I have begun looking for suitable gentlemen. It’s possible I find a few who might consider you. Men of a more local bent who don’t care for the London gossip.’
Dove’s head shot up. This was a new wrinkle. ‘Mother said there would be no more men.’