Chapter Twenty-Five
A man helped Nell to her feet, a stranger dressed in a baker’s apron. He took her back to the inn. She walked leaning on his arm, feeling stupidly weak. It wasn’t until they were nearly there that she realized the baker was limping, and that beneath his apron he had a wooden leg.
Black’s traveling chaise was in the inn’s yard, a grim-faced Phelps on the box. Bessie rushed towards her, crying, “Ma’am! Ma’am! Where have you been?” and Walter was behind her, looking no less distraught.
“The fire’s out,” Nell said, still leaning on the baker’s arm, but her voice was weak and Bessie and Walter didn’t hear her. They detached her from the baker and tried to herd her into the carriage.
“The fire’s out,” Nell said again. She stretched a desperate hand towards the baker. “Tel
