The Treasure Box by Penelope Stokes Page A

without a groom on what should be the happiest day of her life was the ultimate humiliation for a woman. Held up to ridicule throughout the village, and beyond. The jilted girl. The poor shamed lass whose lover scorned and betrayed her and left her to the malice of the gossips.
    Tongues would wag, that much was certain. It had already begun. No longer would she be Rachel, the hard worker, the faithful daughter, the quiet, sensitive one. From now till the end of her days, she would be Poor Rachel. Her tale to be told and retold, embroidered and elaborated, for the entertainment of a village that had little else to talk about.
    And what of Derrick Knight? Rose Woodlea was not inclined, not in the least, to give him the benefit of the doubt. If he knew what was good for him, he’d be halfway to somewhere else by now. Somewhere far away, never to set foot in this county again.
    At last Rachel’s tears subsided a bit, and she sat up and swiped a hand across her face.
    â€œBetter?” Rose peered into her daughter’s eyes.
    Rachel nodded. “But why would he—how could he—” Her eyes filled up again. “I thought he loved me!”
    Rose’s words came out on a sigh. “Men can be unpredictable creatures, that’s certain. But I do know one thing: Derrick Knight understands less about love than—than Biscuit the cow!”
    Rachel smiled halfheartedly. “But why, then, does it hurt so?” She lay back across the bed and threw an arm over her eyes.
    â€œBecause you trusted him.”
    Outside the window, the afternoon light was fading, and the inside of the cottage had grown dark. Rose lit a lamp and set it by the bedside. “I’m going to put the kettle on. We’ll have ourselves a nice tea, with poached eggs and buttered toast and”— she paused and chuckled—“cake. Lots and lots of cake.”
    Rachel raised up on one elbow. “I’ll come and help you. But no cake!”
    Rose shook her head vigorously. “No work for you tonight, my girl. You stay here and rest. I’ll call you when it’s ready. I’ll get your sister to—” Her scalp tightened with apprehension. She had never seen her elder daughter at the church, but then there had been so much commotion. She might still be in the village, or— Rachel sat upright. Her eyes, brimming with unshed tears, glittered in the lamplight—the look of some innocent woodland animal with its leg in a trap. And then she asked the question they were both dreading:
    â€œWhere is she, Mam? Where is Cathleen?”
    Vita knew it was coming. Still, the shock ran through her as though she’d grabbed a live power line. It had happened again— or, more precisely, before. The last time she had been confronted with these emotions, she had been too stunned to do anything but turn inward and grow cold. This time the full force of the abandonment crested over her in a roaring wave. She found herself gasping for air.
    When her heart slowed to its normal pace, Vita tried to separate herself from Rachel’s situation. True, Gordon had left her for Mary Kate, but he hadn’t demeaned her by leaving her stranded at the altar. He had been as honest as he was capable of being— told her face to face that he had fallen in love with someone else, although he hadn’t in that moment had the courage to tell her who.
    Still, Vita understood all too well the fires of Rachel’s hell. She knew the anguish, the misery, the torment, the self-doubt. But she knew something else, too—something Rachel had not yet discovered.
    The liberating power of anger.

11

SAFE HAVENS
    O utside Vita’s office window, a fat brown sparrow flitted back and forth, building a nest in the high hedge that surrounded the sunroom. Mesmerized, she watched as the bird flew in and out of the dense thicket, carrying twigs and sprigs of dried grass and even a length of hemp twine, skillfully