She saw it was a private carriage—a very smart one. But before she could weave some story about it as it passed along the village street and out of sight, it slowed and turned onto the short driveway to Covington House. It stopped before the front doors.
Her eyes widened. Could it be…?
The coachman jumped down from his perch and opened the carriage door and set down the steps. A man descended almost immediately, a young man, tall and rather burly. He looked around and said something to the coachman—Sophia could hear the rumble of his voice but not what he said. And then they both turned to watch another man.
He descended without assistance. He moved sure-footed and without hesitation. But it was instantly obvious to Sophia that his cane was not a mere fashion accessory but something he used to help him find his way.
She sucked in a breath and hoped, foolishly, that it was inaudible to the three men standing some distance below her. He had come, then, as everyone had said he would.
The blind Viscount Darleigh, once Vincent Hunt, had come home.
Her aunt and uncle would be over the moon with gratification. For they had made up their minds that if and when he came, Henrietta would marry him.
Henrietta, on the other hand, would not be gratified. For once in her life she was opposed to her parents’ dearest wish. She had declared more than once in Sophia’s hearing that she would rather die a spinster at the age of eighty than marry a blind man with a ruined face even if he was a viscount and even if he was far more wealthy than her papa.
Viscount Darleigh—Sophia was convinced that the new arrival must be he—was clearly a young man. He was not particularly tall and he had a slight, graceful build. He carried himself well. He did not hunch over his cane or paw the air with his free hand. He was neatly, elegantly clad. Her lips parted as she gazed down at him. She wondered how much of the old Vincent Hunt was still present in the blind Viscount Darleigh. He had descended from his carriage without assistance. That fact pleased her.
She could not see his face; his tall hat hid it from her view. Poor gentleman. She wondered just how disfigured it was.
He and the burly man stood on the driveway for a few minutes while the coachman went striding off to the back of the house and returned with what must be the key, for he bent to the lock of the front door, and within moments it swung open. Viscount Darleigh ascended the steps before the door, again unassisted, and disappeared inside with the larger man behind him.
Sophia stood watching for another few minutes, but there was nothing more to see except the coachman taking the horse and carriage to the stables and coach house. She turned away and made her way back in the direction of Barton Hall. Standing still had thoroughly chilled her.
She would not tell anyone he had arrived, she decided. No one ever spoke to her anyway or expected her to volunteer any information or opinion. Doubtless everyone would know soon enough.
Unfortunately for Vincent and his hope for a quiet stay at Covington House, Sophia Fry was not the only person who observed his arrival.
A farm laborer, on his way to milk cows, had the distinct good fortune—of which he boasted to his colleagues for days to come—of witnessing the arrival of Viscount Darleigh’s carriage at Covington House. He had stayed, at the expense of the waiting cows, to watch Vincent-Hunt-that-was descend after Martin Fisk, the blacksmith’s son. By seven o’clock in the morning he had told his wife, having dashed back home for that sole purpose; his baby son, who was profoundly uninterested in the momentous news; his fellow laborers; the blacksmith and the blacksmith’s wife; and Mr. Kerry, who had come in early to the smithy because one of his horses had cast a shoe late the evening before.
By eight o’clock, the farm laborers—and the original farm laborer’s wife—had told everyone they knew, or at least those of that category who came within hailing distance. Mr. Kerry had told the butcher and the vicar and his aged mother. The blacksmith’s wife, ecstatic that her son was back home in the capacity of valet to Viscount Darleigh, Vincent-Hunt-that-was, had dashed off to the baker’s to replenish her supply of flour and had told the baker and his two assistants and three other early customers. And the blacksmith, also bursting with pride even though he spoke with head-shaking disparagement of his son, the valett, told his apprentice when that lad arrived late for work and for once did not have to recite a litany of excuses, and Sir Clarence March’s groom, and the vicar, who heard the news for the second time in a quarter of an hour but appeared equally ecstatic both times.
By nine o’clock it would have been difficult to discover a single person within Barton Coombs, or a threemile radius surrounding it, who did not know that Viscount Darleigh, Vincent-Hunt-that-was, had arrived at Covington House when dawn had barely cracked its knuckles, and had not left it since.
Though if he had arrived that early, Miss Waddell observed to Mrs. Parsons, wife of the aptly named vicar, when the two ladies encountered each other across the hedge separating their back gardens, he must have been traveling all night and was enjoying a well-deserved rest, poor gentleman. It would not be kind to call upon him too early. She would inform the reception committee. Poor dear gentleman.
The vicar rehearsed his speech of welcome and wondered if it was too formal. For, after all, Viscount Darleigh had once been just the sunny-natured, mischievous son of the village schoolmaster. He was, in addition to everything else, though, a war hero. And he did now have that very impressive title. Better to err on the side of formality, he decided, than risk appearing over-familiar.