Thief of Hearts by Patricia Gaffney

even her friends, had cowed her. She preferred being alone now, and she needed it. She was weary of her role as the dutiful daughter, the obedient niece, the unassuming cousin. She'd imagined her marriage beginning to change that role by allowing her some small measure of independence, a slight loosening of the restrictions she'd borne so submissively all her life. But that would not happen now, for she would never marry again. There would be no husband to encourage her efforts to define a life for herself outside rigid conventions or other people's expectations, and her fledgling attempts to contribute to the family business would doubtless come to nothing without the support of any male Jourdaine. She mourned that loss almost as much as she mourned Nicholas himself.
    But guilt tormented her. What she was doing was selfish and dishonest. She ought to have gone home immediately and told her family everything. She'd never done anything like this before, it was completely out of character; the very strangeness of it shocked her. She thought of what might happen if the slightest hint of what she had done, denied and concealed her husband's death and taken up residence with a complete stranger who happened to be his convict brother ever reached the staid ears of Liverpool society. She shuddered. It was not exaggerating to say that she would be ruined. Her father's wealth and respectability wouldn't be enough, her reputation would be shattered. But Mr. Dietz insisted there was no danger, swore the secret was secure, and told her not to worry. Alden halfheartedly seconded him. Sometimes she wondered if they really understood the risk she was running. Because they were men, she suspected they did not.
    She thought again of her father, and her guilt returned. He was very ill, what if he missed her? What if he needed her? Then she smiled a small, tight smile. He had his nurse all the time now; when Anna visited him in his room, he would look up from his book or his papers with one of two expressions: mild annoyance at the interruption, or mild puzzlement, as if for a moment he couldn't quite place her. No, she thought, almost resigned to it, her father wouldn't miss her. Neither would Aunt Charlotte. No one would, really, now that Nicholas was gone.
    Abruptly she flung away from the railing and went back inside. After the brightness, she could barely see. She opened the wardrobe and searched through her gowns blindly, clutching one at random and pulling it out. She held it against herself while she stared at her dim reflection in the wardrobe mirror. She'd brought nothing black to wear on her wedding trip. Each day as she put on her green gown or her pink, her pale blue, even her white, she was seized with a fresh rush of guilt because she wasn't even mourning Nicholas properly. But that wasn't the worst. She turned from the mirror, shamefaced, and began to rummage in her bureau drawer for clean stockings. The worst was that sometimes she forgot to think about Nicholas at all. Sometimes, God help her, her mind seemed to be empty of any thoughts at all except about his brother.
    The shipbuilding lessons were going unexpectedly well. Mr. Brodie was intelligent, she had to admit, and he already had a great deal of knowledge of the subject which he'd gleaned from experience at sea. Each day he listened to and grasped the rudiments of the operation at Jourdaine as quickly as she could explain them to him, and often their lessons ended early because she hadn't prepared enough material for them to cover. It was engine design that particularly interested him, which was unfortunate, because she knew much more about wood and metal fabrication. She'd sent Aiden into the city to procure books on the subject, but without success: they were all in Italian. Not that it mattered—Nicholas hadn't designed engines; Mr. Greeley, if he existed, would ask Brodie no questions on the subject, but the teacher in Anna hated to see anyone's natural curiosity