Brenda Joyce by The Finer Things Page A

decide whether to share her thoughts or not. “’E was old, but I was ’appy.” A shadow flitted across her terribly expressive face. “Look at this room.” She glanced around. “It’s me own, me very own, not even to share. D’yew know that Sir Thomas gave me pin money?”
    Most husbands do, Catherine thought, but refrained from saying so. She wondered what Violette was not saying.
    “’E was a good man, and ’e was my friend,” Violette said firmly. “’E changed my life.”
    “I am very sorry that he passed away,” Catherine said sincerely.
    “I will miss ’im. A lot.” Violette sat down heavily on the bed, her white petticoats belling about her. “Sometimes … ,” she stopped.
    “What, dear?”
    Violette stared down at her ruffled knees. “’E’s gone an’ I’m scared,” she said frankly.
    Catherine did not know what to say. So she reached for the other woman’s hand.
    And at precisely that point, there was a knock on the door. Violette merely cocked her head, but Catherine was alarmed.
    “Who is it?” Catherine asked, already suspicious.
    “It is I, Blake,” came a warm male voice.
    Violette leapt to her feet, holding her dress up to her chest, as Catherine cried, “Do not even think of entering this room!”
    Too late. Blake had opened the door. His smile faded when he saw Violette. In spite of the dress she held up, her shoulders and arms were entirely bare and he stared far too intently for Catherine’s taste.
    Violette lifted the dress to her chin. “I ain’t fit fer yer eyes.”
    “Blake, whatever can you be thinking?” Catherine was aghast.
    Blake held up a snifter, not removing his gaze away from Violette. “Brandy. For Lady Goodwin. I insist that she drink the entire glass.” He met Violette’s eyes. “You need some sleep. This will help. Either that, or I shall send for Dr. Crumb. He can dose you with laudanum.”
    “I don’t need laudanum,” Violette said flatly.
    Blake handed Catherine the glass. “We are preparing to leave.” His gaze slipped to Violette. “May I call in the morning? To see how you are getting on?”

    Violette was motionless for a moment. “O’ course.” Pink colored her cheeks.
    And Catherine looked from one to the other, well aware that at that moment, they were both completely unaware of her presence. Tension spiraled between them. Had Catherine possessed a match, and had she lit it, she thought the air itself would have burst into flames.
     
    Blake arrived at Goodwin Manor just before noon. He slid off of the fine gray stallion he had been riding. Clad in a tweed riding coat, tan breeches, and Hessian boots, he stared at Goodwin Manor, which appeared almost eerily still. He saw no sign that anyone was present. Clearly, once again, no one from the village had bothered to call that morning to see if the widow was in need of comfort or anything else.
    His temper rose—and with it, pity for Violette Goodwin, an outsider and an outcast. As he stared, he watched the front door open and the lanky, sandy-haired manservant appear. Ralph Horn was wearing his usual expression of undisguised hostility, and he eyed Blake coldly from where he stood with his back to the entry hall.
    Blake sighed inwardly, unable not to wonder once again about the servant and his relationship to his mistress. Blake led his horse forward and tied it to the small jockey statue which belonged to the pair at the head of the drive. “Is Lady Goodwin at home?”
    Ralph did not move aside, rather, his body barred the open doorway. “She is still abed.” His thin lips bared his teeth in an almost feral way.
    But an image of Violette asleep in the small bed he had glimpsed the day before filled his head, distracting him. He imagined piles of blue-black hair streaming over the white sheets, while her slim arms and shoulder were bare and uncovered. He shook himself free of his very unwelcome thoughts. “At noon?”
    “Yeah. At noon.” Ralph smiled at him as unpleasantly