Which was what had happened to Fenella.
‘The rumour that Mrs Mountsorrel has run off? Absolutely not.’
‘But she is not here, is she?’ Mrs Podmore looked round the room as though she might spy Fenella lurking in some shadowy corner, the way she’d always done when one of the doyennes of Stanton Basset had come calling.
‘Indeed not,’ replied Amethyst calmly, adding a dash of milk to both their cups.
‘Well, where is she, then? Not—’ Mrs Podmore sat forward, her eyes brightening ‘—not suffered some terrible accident, I hope?’
‘Oh, no,’ replied Amethyst, dashing Mrs Podmore’s hopes. ‘In fact, quite the reverse.’
‘The reverse?’
Amethyst took a sip of tea, deliberately leaving her visitor trying to work out what could be the reverse of a terrible accident. Only when Mrs Podmore’s face betrayed a state of complete bewilderment did she relent.
‘She has remarried.’
‘No!’
‘Yes. The Comte de Quatre Terres de...’ She wrinkled her brow in concentration. How irritating. The one time his titles might have come in useful, she could only recall a small part of one of them. ‘Well, I forget quite where. A French count, anyway.’
‘Well, I never.’ Mrs Podmore set her cup down in its saucer with a snap. ‘However did a person like her come to rub shoulders with a French count?’
‘Oh, didn’t you know?’ She widened her eyes in mock surprise. ‘Fenella is very well born.’ Though she hadn’t welcomed Mrs Podmore’s visit, now the wretched woman was here, she might as well put her to good use. To set the record straight.
‘She made a poor choice of husband the first time round, it is true. A man who left her destitute and estranged from her family. But she is exactly the kind of person who should be rubbing shoulders with a French count. Not that we knew he was anything of the sort when we met him. I...’
She’d been about to say she’d hired Monsieur Le Brun as their courier. But once Mrs Podmore knew of it, it would be all over Stanton Basset, and from there the county, and who knew where else, within days. And he hadn’t wanted anyone to know about his mission. He’d taken her into his confidence. And she didn’t, she realised, want to break faith with him. It would be...well, a perfectly horrid thing to do. He’d probably exaggerated the danger he might be in, should anyone know who he really was, but she couldn’t contemplate exposing him to even the possibility of coming to harm. And it wasn’t just because she couldn’t bear to think of Fenella being widowed a second time. Especially not through something she’d said, or done.
It was for his own sake.
Good heavens. To cover her consternation at discovering she’d somehow started to care about offending a man she’d thought of for weeks as Monsieur le Prune, she took a defensively ladylike sip of tea.
‘Well, it makes no difference,’ said Mrs Podmore, bristling with annoyance. ‘Even if she was high born, it wasn’t her place to go taking up with some Frenchman while she was supposed to be working for you. Putting herself forwards, no doubt, with those airs and graces she had.’
Amethyst thanked providence that Mrs Podmore had lost interest in probing any further into the identity of the French count Fenella’d had the temerity to marry. And was revealing, at long last, just what had been at the root of the townswomen’s malice. It sounded as though they’d resented her for behaving like the lady she truly was. Assumed she’d thought herself too good for the likes of them and decided to take her down a peg or two.
‘I have never observed Mrs Mountsorrel put herself forwards,’ she said icily. ‘In fact, I think it was her very reticence that brought out all the protective instincts in...her new husband. And I am pleased for her. She deserves some happiness, don’t you think, after all she has been through?’
Mrs Podmore pursed her lips and shifted in her chair. ‘What I think,’ she said, setting her teacup down with a snap, ‘is that you are too liable to get the wool pulled over your eyes by people who are out to take advantage of you, that’s what I think. I can’t say I’m sorry she’s gone. But what I am sorry for is what people will say about you now. Why, you had to come back here all on your own. Which is not the thing, you know, not the thing at all.’
‘I hired a person from an agency in London for the journey home—’
‘Well, we all know how unsatisfactory she must have been, or you wouldn’t have sent her packing the moment you got here.’
‘No, that wasn’t why—’
‘A woman in your position must have a decent female companion, as I am sure I have told you before.’
‘Yes, you have,’ admitted Amethyst drily. ‘Many times.’
‘Well, then, you must see that the sooner you engage a proper, unimpeachable chaperon, the better. Oh. I think I may know just the person.’ She got to her feet. ‘I must hurry, or I might miss her. I do apologise for making this visit so brief.’
There was no need for an apology. Amethyst couldn’t believe how easily she’d got rid of her.
‘But I am sure you are tired after your journey.’
Not that it had prevented her from calling in the first place.
‘I can call again another time and fill you in with all the latest news of our little town. Not but what you will probably find it all terribly dull after the adventures you must have been having.’
Oh dear. Her lack of interest in whatever gossip Mrs Podmore wanted to share must have shown on her face. She really must take care to guard her expression better.
‘No, no, dear, I insist. Though I must say,’ she said tartly, ‘that travelling doesn’t seem to have agreed with you. You look positively wan. What you need now is a good wholesome English meal, followed by a good night’s sleep in your own bed. That will soon bring the roses back to your cheeks.’
They were returning already. Mrs Podmore couldn’t possibly have meant anything by that comment about sleeping in her own bed. It was only her conscience shrieking that everyone could tell she was a fallen woman now, just by looking at her.
Fortunately Mrs Podmore had already turned her back on Amethyst as she hurried to the door. Keen to get out and spread the news of Fenella’s marriage to a French count, no doubt. And if that weren’t enough of a coup for her, she’d also got the notion she was going to be able to interfere in some indigent female’s life by obliging her to come and work for Amethyst as a companion. If she was in such a hurry to find her, the poor woman must be attempting to escape Stanton Basset at some point today.
She hoped she made it.
Though she wasn’t sorry Mrs Podmore would be out and about disseminating the truth about Fenella. There had been enough unpleasant and unfounded gossip about Fenella doing the rounds of Stanton Basset.
At the mention of unfounded gossip her mind flew back, as it did so often since he’d told her, to the scurrilous rumour that Nathan had heard about her. About her having a child out of wedlock.
There had been something niggling at the back of her mind, something about those days, that she hadn’t been able to put her finger on, until this moment, when she’d seen how keen Mrs Podmore was to spread her bit of gossip. Right after she’d kept her own mouth shut about Monsieur Le Brun, out of consideration for his feelings.
The kind of story that Nathan had heard about her was meat and drink to people like Mrs Podmore. If it had reached the ears of someone like that, people would have been twitching their skirts aside as she walked past.
But they hadn’t. She’d had no idea what she was supposed to have been guilty of, until just a few days ago.
It meant that Nathan couldn’t have repeated the story, not to anyone. Nor could his friend, Fielding.
But Nathan had been furious. He’d wanted to hurt her. He’d told her as much. So, why hadn’t he taken the final step and destroyed her compl
etely? He’d had the power to do it. All he would have had to do was repeat what he’d heard and, even though it wasn’t true, the damage would have been done. People would always wonder. ‘No smoke without fire.’ How often had she heard that, in connection to rumours, particularly salacious ones?
What had made him hold back from taking that final step?
One answer came to her mind immediately. It was the conclusion her aunt would have leapt to. That he wouldn’t have wanted anyone to know he’d been deceived by the kind of woman he’d thought she’d been. That it was all a matter of preserving his pride.
But from deep within rose another reason to account for his reticence. A reason that made just as much sense. That he’d done it to shield her from the punishment society would have meted out, had the story been made public. He hadn’t wanted to be responsible for blackening her name and ruining her reputation.
‘Aunt Georgie, I don’t think all men are completely bad,’ she said out loud. The room seemed to frown at her. Every item in it was deeply ingrained with memories of her aunt, that was the trouble, and every stick of furniture now reproved her for speaking such heresy.
Though she was trembling, she said it again.
‘Men aren’t necessarily bad, just because they’re men. I think they make mistakes, and get hurt and lash out, just the same as we do. And some of them,’ her voice dropped to a whisper, ‘some of them...might even be good.’
Chapter Fourteen
The sooner she left this place and rejoined Fenella and her family in Southampton, the better.
When he’d come in to collect the tea tray, Adams had interrupted her informing her aunt’s chair that she thought Fenella was jolly lucky to have found a man like Monsieur-le-Compte-de-Somewhere-Brown. ‘Fenella brought nothing to the marriage but a whole pile of obligations,’ she’d been insisting. ‘But not only did he not seem to mind, he’d actually fought for her. And Sophie, too. You should have seen his face the first time she called him Papa. He loves that little girl. He really does.’
Adams had looked round the room, as though searching for whomever she’d been talking to, though he must have known Mrs Podmore had left, or he wouldn’t have come in to clear away.
He’d probably come to the conclusion that she was well on the way to becoming as odd as her aunt had been, walking round the room haranguing the furniture.
No, she sighed, her aunt’s house was not a healthy place for her to live. She’d already begun to talk to herself. What next would she do?
Well, it wouldn’t come to that. She walked briskly back to her study, drew out a fresh sheet of paper, trimmed her pen and set the process of the move in motion.
* * *
There had been many decisions to make. What to sell? What to put away in storage? What to take with her? And how was she going to implement her plan to improve the lot of her workforce from Southampton? Without anyone knowing that she was the one doing it? Practical issues such as these had kept her fully occupied for the next couple of days. During the hours of daylight, at least. But at night, as she had lain in bed, she could not ignore the creeping sense of loneliness and failure that only frenetic activity could keep at bay.
By the end of the week she’d begun to suspect Adams was developing a sort of fatherly concern for her. Or perhaps fatherly was not the right word, she grimaced as she tied up the ribbons of her Sunday bonnet. Her father had never shown concern when she’d been downcast. He’d always berated her for not displaying proper Christian gratitude, for not always giving thanks in everything. He’d never brought her tea and biscuits at regular intervals, which Adams now did if she lost track of time whilst working her way through the backlog of reports stacked on her desk. Or looked at her with such grave concern when she sat staring into space during meal times, forgetting to keep on raising the fork to her mouth, then nudged a favourite dish towards her, suggesting that cook would be disappointed if she didn’t at least try it.
‘Adams,’ she said as she tugged on her gloves, ‘I’ve come to a decision. I shall be leaving Stanton Basset as soon as I possibly can. But I wondered if you would like to carry on working for me.’
He opened the door for her without betraying any emotion whatever.
‘It will be a bigger house, more responsibility, better wages,’ she said as she preceded him out of the house.
‘And to where, may I ask, are you planning to move?’
Did he have good reason for wanting to stay in the area? She frowned. She had never wondered about his private life before. Or considered he had a right to one. He’d always just been there. A servant. Not a real person.
She’d slipped into the habit of treating him exactly the same as her aunt had always done.
Well, those days were over.
‘Somewhere near Southampton. To be close to Fenella.’
‘And Miss Sophie,’ said Adams, his face softening in what looked like sympathy.
‘Yes. Of course, I will understand if you have...ties to this place and do not wish to move away. But I shall be sorry.’
He gave her a nod as he opened the garden gate for her. ‘I shall give the matter serious consideration,’ was all he would say.
Well, it was a big decision for anyone to make. He’d been here ever since she could remember. And not everyone liked change. Particularly not when they got to his age.
‘If you don’t come with me and would rather retire,’ she said, ‘I will make sure you have a decent pension.’
‘That is...generous of you,’ he acknowledged. ‘I had hoped, when your aunt passed, that she might have...’ He trailed away. But he had no need to elaborate. Her aunt had not left any of the servants anything.
She shook her head at the slavish way she’d moulded her behaviour to please her aunt. More evidence of her desperate need for approval, she sighed. Well, it had to stop. She wasn’t going to live to please anyone else, ever again. She would live by her own beliefs, act according to her own principles and stand on her own two feet.
* * *
Her own two feet carried her all the way to church without her mind having to direct their way. They carried her to the pew where she’d always sat without her having to think about that either.
The service commenced. She got to her feet, then dropped to her knees in all the appropriate places, but she was only going through the motions.
Because she couldn’t get over the fact that she’d been such a fool. She’d lost Nathan because she’d listened to her aunt’s warped views, rather than her own heart.
She’d been happy, in Paris, with him, she sighed. He’d helped her to unfurl, like a tightly defensive blossom in the warmth of spring sunshine. He hadn’t tried to dominate her, or change her. He’d just made her feel...first beautiful, then intelligent, and then as though she had an interesting personality. Oh, why hadn’t she remembered any of that when he’d said he loved her? Why hadn’t she been brave enough to take that leap of faith? Why had she listened to the nasty, suspicious voice in her head telling her he was only interested in her wealth?
She screwed her eyes shut as she repressed a groan. The whole point of travelling to Paris in the first place had been an attempt to...to break free. Hiring Fenella had been her first act of independence and defying her father over the will had been her second.
It was harder to break free from patterns of thought, she realised, than outward behaviour. She could leave Stanton Basset, buy fine clothes and even take a lover. But inside she was still the bewildered child who’d been denied unquestioning love so often that she’d grown the equivalent of a hedge of thorns round her heart.
She sank on to the pew, shutting her hymn book with a chill certainty. She was going to shrivel up and die alone because there would never be, had never been, any other man for her but Nathan.
Even now she knew the very wo
rst of him, it made no difference. As soon as she’d calmed down and had time to reflect, she could see exactly why he’d done every bad thing he’d done. He’d tried, for years, to please his exacting father and then to maintain his honour whilst chained to a woman who despised him. Until he’d got to breaking point and lashed out in rage and pain. Just as she’d done when her own father had demonstrated his lack of faith in her.
But when he’d come to make a clean breast of it, to ask if they could make a fresh start, instead of reaching out to grasp at the chance of happiness, she’d scuttled back behind her hedge of thorns. Which no man could penetrate, without risking getting cut to ribbons.
There wasn’t a man alive who could possibly love her enough to do it.
The congregation was stirring, moving towards the door. She could scarcely believe that the service was over without her having taken in one word of it. But everyone else was already streaming out into the churchyard where they would mill about and gossip for at least half an hour.
She fumbled in her reticule for a handkerchief to blow her nose as tears stung her eyes. How on earth was she going to be able to endure the collective inquisition the citizens of Stanton Basset were bound to subject her to, when she was so raw she felt as though someone had been scouring her insides with a scrubbing brush?
The same way she always had, she supposed. With a series of terse, cutting words that would make them all retreat lest she turn the rapier sharpness of her tongue in their direction.
Oh, God—she deserved to end up alone!
‘My dear Miss Dalby, do excuse me, but there is someone I would love you to meet.’
All but thick-skinned Mrs Podmore, she sighed. Her unshakeable belief in herself rendered her impervious to even Amethyst’s barbs.
She stuffed her handkerchief back in her reticule and prepared herself to meet the poor woman Mrs Podmore had no doubt cajoled and bullied into applying for the post of her companion. She didn’t want to frighten the poor creature by unleashing her own pain in a display of venom.
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