He strode down the garden path. She ran after him, her eyes blinded by tears, and tripped over a loose brick.
He stopped at the sound of her fall, his back still to her. “Such tears, Anna. Can you produce them at will like the crocodile?” And then, so softly she might have imagined it, “Were there other men?”
He walked away.
She watched as he disappeared through the gate. Her chest felt tight. She thought vaguely that perhaps she’d hurt herself in the fall. But then she heard a guttural, rasping sound, and a cold little part of her brain took note of what a strange noise her crying made.
How swift, how harsh was the punishment dealt for stepping outside her staid widow’s life. All the lessons and warnings, spoken and unspoken, that she’d been taught growing up had, in fact, come true. Although, she supposed her punishment wasn’t that envisioned by the moralizers of Little Battleford. No, her fate was far worse than exposure and censure. Her punishment was Edward’s hatred. That and the knowledge that she had never gone to London merely for the sex. All along it had been to be with him, Edward. It was the man she’d craved, not the physical act. It seemed she had been lying to herself just as much as she’d lied to him. How ironic to have finally tumbled to that realization now when all was ashes around her.
Anna didn’t know how long she lay there, her old brown dress growing damp from the overturned dirt. When her sobs finally died away, the afternoon sky had become overcast. She pushed herself up with both arms to a kneeling position and from there lurched to her feet. She wavered, but caught herself, one hand holding the garden wall for support. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. Then she picked up the shovel.
Soon she would have to go home and tell Mother Wren that she no longer had a job. She would face a lonely bed tonight and a thousand nights after for the rest of her life.
But for now, she’d simply plant roses.
FELICITY PLACED A cloth dampened with violet water on her forehead. She’d retired to the little morning room, a place that usually brought her quite a bit of satisfaction, especially when she thought about how much it had cost to refurbish. The price of the canary-colored damask settee alone would have fed and clothed the Wren household for five years. But at the moment, her head was simply killing her.
Matters were not going well.
Reginald was moping about, moaning that his prize mare had miscarried. Chilly had gone back to London in a sulk because she wouldn’t tell him about Anna and the earl. And that same earl had been annoyingly obtuse at the soiree. Granted, most men in her experience were slow to one degree or another, but she wouldn’t have guessed Lord Swartingham was so thickheaded. The man had seemed not to know what she hinted at. How was she going to convince him to keep Anna quiet if he was too dim to realize he was being blackmailed?
Felicity winced.
Not blackmail. That sounded too gauche. Incentive. That was better. Lord Swartingham had an incentive to stop Anna from blathering Felicity’s past peccadilloes all over the village.
The door banged open at that moment, and the younger of her two daughters, Cynthia, skipped in. She was followed by her sister, Christine, at a more sedate pace.
“M’man,” Christine said. “Nanny says we must get your permission to go to the sweet shop in town. May we?”
“Pepp-er-mint sticks!” Cynthia skipped around the settee Felicity lay on. “Le-mon drops! Turk-ish delight!” Oddly, her youngest resembled Reginald in many ways.
“Please stop that, Cynthia,” Felicity said. “M’man has a headache.”
“I’m so sorry, M’man,” Christine replied, not sounding sorry at all. “We’ll leave as soon as we get your permission.” She smiled coyly.
“M’man’s permission! M’man’s permission!” Cynthia chanted.
“Yes!” Felicity said. “Yes, you have my permission.”
“Huzzah! Huzzah!” Cynthia ran from the room, her red hair streaming behind her.
The sight made her frown. Cynthia’s red hair was the bane of Felicity’s life.
“Thank you, M’man.” Christine closed the door primly.
Felicity groaned and rang for more toilet water. If only she hadn’t written that incriminating note in a fit of sentimentality. And what had Peter been thinking to save that locket? Men truly were idiots.
She pressed her fingertips over the cloth on her forehead. Perhaps Lord Swartingham really hadn’t known what she was talking about. He’d seemed confused when she had said they both knew the identity of the lady he’d met at Aphrodite’s Grotto. And if, in fact, he did not know her…
Felicity sat up, the cloth falling unheeded to the floor. If he did not know the woman’s identity, then she’d been trying to blackmail the wrong person.
ANNA KNELT IN her little garden in back of the cottage the next morning. She hadn’t the heart to tell Mother Wren she’d lost her employment. It had been late when she’d arrived home the night before, and this morning she hadn’t wanted to talk about it. Not yet, anyway, when the subject would only bring up questions she couldn’t answer. Eventually, she’d have to work up the courage to apologize to Edward. But that could wait, too, while she licked her wounds. Which was why she worked in the garden today. The mundane tasks of caring for vegetables and the smell of the freshly dug earth provided a kind of solace to her soul.
She was digging up horseradish roots to replant when she heard a shout from the front of the cottage. She frowned and lay down the shovel. Surely nothing was wrong with Rebecca’s baby? She lifted her skirts to trot around the cottage. The sound of a carriage and horses receded. A clearly feminine voice shouted again as she rounded the corner.
Pearl stood on the front step, holding another woman against her. At her approach, they both turned and Anna gasped. The other woman had two black eyes, and her nose looked as if it might be broken. It took Anna a couple of seconds to recognize her.
It was Coral.
“Oh, Lord!” Anna gasped.
The front door opened.