Chapter Thirty-Seven
Coombe Regis to Tiverton was only fifty miles, but they were fifty waterlogged miles. Twice the road was flooded and they had to backtrack and find another route. By nightfall they were still twelve miles short of their destination. “I’m sorry, Nell,” Black said, when they reached Broadclyst. “We can’t go any further tonight.”
Nell didn’t argue. She knew that trying to reach Tiverton in the dark, on unfamiliar and possibly flooded roads, was far too dangerous.
She climbed down from the carriage, her half-boots splashing in inch-deep water. A footman held an umbrella over her head but even so droplets of rain misted her spectacles. The footman’s face was an indistinct blur in the darkness, but she knew who he was: Walter.
Nell looked at him in his dripping greatcoat
