receive invitations to parties, and a letter from her mother-in-law pregnant with the same old refrain—she never came home.
As if the manor in the Yorkshire West Riding had ever been home. But now the letter from Charles’s mother and the invitations—once gilded and leafed, embossed and engraved—lay in shreds. Sunlight caught a flash of gold here, of silver there. A word or number or curlicue design peeked out amidst the jumble of foolscap and vellum. Discovering which scraps belonged to Mr. Lang’s letters of introduction, making comparison of handwriting between the two missives, was now impossible. Not a slip of paper large enough to use as a fire spill remained.
Someone had destroyed them all. The intruder hadn’t just destroyed them, he had destroyed them in such an obvious way she couldn’t doubt it was deliberate. She could never think she had simply misplaced the letters.
She dropped her face into her hands and rubbed her temples. None of it made sense. A floor below her, a man she suspected was working for the French claimed he was not the enemy, while the Englishmen made no claims for whom they worked. Christien declared he had been with Mr. Lang in Hastings the night Mr. Lang met her in a Portsmouth garden.
“Lord, I just want to get my sister married off and Honore at least through the Season without trouble. I can’t manage my own life with any success. How can I end up in the middle of a spy network and not get hurt?”
Hodge meowed at her feet, as comprehensible as any responses she’d ever received from God. As a woman who called herself a Christian, she was supposed to serve God, yet God seemed like one more father wanting to control every aspect of her life, stopping her from the pastimes she enjoyed. She had a talent for painting, but her father disapproved of it so much she had crept around before marriage in order to paint or even draw beyond what was acceptable for a well-educated young lady. In the week she had lived with her husband after marriage, she had tried painting once, had begun the portrait of him. When he’d found her in the garden—
She slammed the door on that memory of the argument between them, him yelling, her trying not to weep. “You will not—” He sounded like her father, ordering her as he had a right to by social custom, by law, caring nothing of what pleased her in any aspect of their time together.
She strode into the corridor. She still needed to find a book for Christien. She needed to get outside and draw. She needed to take the next step forward.
She headed down to the library, muttering, “What next? What next? What next?”
“Did you say something, my dear?” Mama called out as Lydia passed the sitting room.
“Just talking to myself.” Lydia moved to stand in the doorway. “Do you know where Honore is?”
Mama set down her needlework. “She’s out shopping with Lady Trainham and her daughters. Is our patient resting well, the dear man?”
“Dear man?”
“But of course, my dear.” Mama gave Lydia her gentle smile. “He saved you from injury and was injured in the doing.”
“Yes. Yes, he was.”
Injured on purpose, perhaps.
A shudder raced through Lydia at the thought. If Christien was right, then they were on the same side. But which side was which?
How to know the truth?
“I’m going to the library to find some books for him,” Lydia said. “He’ll have a dull time of it up there otherwise.”
“Indeed. If only your brother or father were here. But your father doesn’t arrive until Saturday. At least that’s when he plans.”
“Wonderful. Is Cassandra in the library?”
Mama pursed her lips. “I can’t recall if she’s there or out shopping with Honore.”
Lydia laughed. “She’d rather be in the library unless the shopping included a bookshop.”
Lydia descended the steps and entered the library. The door stood open and no fire burned on the hearth. The room lay in shadow save for light ebbing through the
As if the manor in the Yorkshire West Riding had ever been home. But now the letter from Charles’s mother and the invitations—once gilded and leafed, embossed and engraved—lay in shreds. Sunlight caught a flash of gold here, of silver there. A word or number or curlicue design peeked out amidst the jumble of foolscap and vellum. Discovering which scraps belonged to Mr. Lang’s letters of introduction, making comparison of handwriting between the two missives, was now impossible. Not a slip of paper large enough to use as a fire spill remained.
Someone had destroyed them all. The intruder hadn’t just destroyed them, he had destroyed them in such an obvious way she couldn’t doubt it was deliberate. She could never think she had simply misplaced the letters.
She dropped her face into her hands and rubbed her temples. None of it made sense. A floor below her, a man she suspected was working for the French claimed he was not the enemy, while the Englishmen made no claims for whom they worked. Christien declared he had been with Mr. Lang in Hastings the night Mr. Lang met her in a Portsmouth garden.
“Lord, I just want to get my sister married off and Honore at least through the Season without trouble. I can’t manage my own life with any success. How can I end up in the middle of a spy network and not get hurt?”
Hodge meowed at her feet, as comprehensible as any responses she’d ever received from God. As a woman who called herself a Christian, she was supposed to serve God, yet God seemed like one more father wanting to control every aspect of her life, stopping her from the pastimes she enjoyed. She had a talent for painting, but her father disapproved of it so much she had crept around before marriage in order to paint or even draw beyond what was acceptable for a well-educated young lady. In the week she had lived with her husband after marriage, she had tried painting once, had begun the portrait of him. When he’d found her in the garden—
She slammed the door on that memory of the argument between them, him yelling, her trying not to weep. “You will not—” He sounded like her father, ordering her as he had a right to by social custom, by law, caring nothing of what pleased her in any aspect of their time together.
She strode into the corridor. She still needed to find a book for Christien. She needed to get outside and draw. She needed to take the next step forward.
She headed down to the library, muttering, “What next? What next? What next?”
“Did you say something, my dear?” Mama called out as Lydia passed the sitting room.
“Just talking to myself.” Lydia moved to stand in the doorway. “Do you know where Honore is?”
Mama set down her needlework. “She’s out shopping with Lady Trainham and her daughters. Is our patient resting well, the dear man?”
“Dear man?”
“But of course, my dear.” Mama gave Lydia her gentle smile. “He saved you from injury and was injured in the doing.”
“Yes. Yes, he was.”
Injured on purpose, perhaps.
A shudder raced through Lydia at the thought. If Christien was right, then they were on the same side. But which side was which?
How to know the truth?
“I’m going to the library to find some books for him,” Lydia said. “He’ll have a dull time of it up there otherwise.”
“Indeed. If only your brother or father were here. But your father doesn’t arrive until Saturday. At least that’s when he plans.”
“Wonderful. Is Cassandra in the library?”
Mama pursed her lips. “I can’t recall if she’s there or out shopping with Honore.”
Lydia laughed. “She’d rather be in the library unless the shopping included a bookshop.”
Lydia descended the steps and entered the library. The door stood open and no fire burned on the hearth. The room lay in shadow save for light ebbing through the
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