The realization settled over her, cold and heavy. You do not accuse a wealthy heiress of attempted murder in front of the county's elite. You do not walk away from your betters in dripping, unrepentant silence. By nightfall, she would be fired without a character reference.
She had no money, no family willing to take in a disgraced companion, and nowhere to go. Her life, as she knew it, was over. A sudden, sharp laugh clawed its way up her throat. It sounded terrifying in the small room.
"Good," she thought. "Let it be over." She stripped off the ruined dress. It took 20 minutes of shivering, agonizing effort to undo the wet, swollen laces of her corset.
She left the sodden pile of wool and canvas on the floor like a dead body. She dried herself roughly with a thin towel and dressed in her only other garment, a faded, high-collared morning dress she kept packed away. It was slightly too large, but it was dry. She shoved her few possessions, a comb, two books, and a meager coin purse, into a small canvas satchel.
She did not bother to pin her hair back up. She simply braided the damp mass of it down her back. She left the room and walked out through the kitchens. The servants stared at her, wide-eyed and silent.
News traveled faster than water on a sloped roof. They knew what she had done. Norah walked out the back door onto the gravel path that led away from the estate and toward the village. She didn't know where she was going.
She only knew she was never going back. She had made it perhaps a quarter of a mile down the shaded, oak-lined avenue when she heard the sound of approaching hooves. She didn't stop. She moved to the side of the road to let the rider pass.
The horse slowed, the crunch of gravel loud in the quiet late afternoon. A large black gelding stepped into her peripheral vision and stopped. Norah stopped. She looked up.
Henry, the Duke of Rothford, sat in the saddle. He had rebuttoned his coat. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
The wind rustled the oak leaves above them. "You are leaving," Henry said finally. It wasn't a question. "I am fired, Your Grace," Norah replied.
Her voice was steady, though her hands, hidden in the folds of her dress, were shaking slightly from the lingering cold. "It saves time to depart before the carriage is called to throw me out." Henry dismounted. He moved with a fluid, heavy grace.
He tied the reins to a low branch and turned to face her. In the dappled sunlight, she could see the faint lines of exhaustion around his eyes. "She pushed you," he said. Norah stiffened.
She expected a reprimand. She expected him to demand a retraction to protect his fiancée's honor. "I know what happened, Your Grace. If you have followed me to demand an apology on her behalf, you can save your breath."