"For pity's sake."
Clearly scornful, she cut him off. "If you care for me, I'd hate to see how you'd treat someone you hate. You took my innocence, Edward, and you trampled it in the mud."
"I didn't take your innocence," he hissed, low enough to frustrate listening ears. "You're still a virgin."
"Yes, indeed," she said. "We couldn't have your brother taking a fallen woman to his bed."
Her thrust struck so directly home a tide of shame crept up his neck. Naturally,
Florence
saw it.
"You're despicable," she said, spitting out the words. "If I never see you again, it will be too soon."
Before he could devise an answer, she slammed the door in his face. If Catherine Exeter had done it,
he probably would have broken the barrier down. But
Florence
—
Florence
's rejection left him gasping
for air. He swayed on his feet, his ears ringing from the thud of the heavy wood.
She did hate him. She hated him just as Catherine Exeter had hated his father.
He couldn't handle this. He had to think. He stumbled twice on his way back down the path, his very muscles thrown into shock. Samson lipped his hand as he fumbled with the reins,
then
stood patiently while he mounted. Secure in the saddle, Edward turned one last time towards the house.
At first he thought he was seeing things: some nightmarish projection of his guilt. When he blinked, however, the image refused to disappear. Imogene Hargreave was gazing out the parlor window, her
pale eyes lit by the darkest sort of glee. Oh, Lord, he thought.
Florence
was in more danger than he'd dreamed.
* * *
Florence
had removed
his ring. It lay now in the pocket of her skirt. Over and over she turned the circle of gold—seeing his face, hearing his words—while Catherine knitted stockings for the poor. Her niece carried the burden of conversation, chattering amusingly of her many
London
conquests. Half the city
had fallen at her feet, it seemed, a claim
Florence
could not doubt with her wit and her elegance and her cat-sleek beauty spread like a feast before her miserable country self.
I
care for you,
Edward had said.
I
don't want you to hate me.
Why had he said those things? Was this a game for him? To see how cruelly he could treat her and
still keep her dangling on his string?
I care for you,
Florence
.
Even now she wanted to believe him. She clucked her tongue in self-disgust. If she wasn't careful, Edward's string would choke her.
Catherine looked up at the tiny exclamation. She sat in her plain green chair like a roosting sparrow, the click of her needles as familiar to
Florence
as the beating of her heart. Just so did the ladies of Keswick occupy their
time.
"Are you sure you wouldn't like to help? It might take your mind from your troubles."
She removed her hand from her pocket and straightened her skirt. "I'm afraid I can't keep my mind on anything today."
"As you wish," Catherine said in her soothing way. The needles clicked pensively before she spoke again. "You may not believe this, dear, but once upon a time I had more than socks to offer. When Papa was alive, before my loathsome cousin, if you'll pardon the expression, took over the Grange—nothing
so
fancy as Greystowe, mind, but a good thriving property—ah, then we carried such riches to the poor! Smoked hams and preserves and, oh, my, all manner of lovely things, some of which you may believe
I'd be grateful to have today. But such is life. The Lord gives and the Lord takes, though why He had
to give so much
to
silly old Jeffrey I'm sure I couldn't say.
He
had money from his father. But this is
how men arrange the world. A girl may not inherit her father's home but must be kicked out willy-nilly
to fend as best she can. And if she doesn't find a husband—well! But I'm sure it's for the best. Women are stronger than men, you know. We can carry these burdens.
And far better to scrimp beneath one's own roof than to share one with a bully."
"Indeed," Imogene agreed, her tapering fingers stroking her swanlike neck. "One must teach a man his place or avoid him altogether. A man one hasn't the ability to control is a danger too great to suffer."
Since
Florence
had heard much on these themes already, she knew she needn't answer, only nod occasionally and hum. Humming now, she turned sideways on the couch and propped her chin against
its back. Ever since she'd left Greystowe, she'd felt as if she were dragging a ball and chain behind her.
Heavy.
Hopeless.
All her dreams come to grief. Catherine's gentle litany of complaints seemed a vision
of her future, as dreary as the day outside. She'd seen a wider world now and she would miss it. With
the tips of her fingers, she touched one of the window's rippled panes. The lane beyond was cloaked in swirling gray.
As bad as
London
.
And the interior was no brighter. Catherine couldn't afford to waste pennies burning candles.
And here she was wasting pennies feeding
Florence
.
"I'm sorry Freddie left,"
Florence
said, a bit of intelligence Lizzie had managed to ferret out. "I know
he would have escorted me back to Keswick."
"You mustn't worry about that," said Catherine. "A spot of company is a treat for an old woman like
me.
And for Imogene as well.
As kind as she is to visit me, I know you—who have so lately been to
London
—are a better audience for her tales."
Imogene murmured something agreeable and untrue.
Florence
had never been a part of society the way Imogene was.
Florence
was not that sort of woman.
Florence
was simple and dull and pitifully forgettable. She sighed, a soft, mournful sound she could not repress.
"Now, now," Catherine chided. "Hold firm, dear. Time heals. Before you know it, you'll be free of the Burbrooke curse."
Would she, though? It seemed to her as if her heart would never be light again.
CHAPTER 14
Edward waited a
cautious distance from the shepherd's hut. The construction was simple stone and
thatch but it was sound. The garden was groomed, the flowers bright, and a flock of fat white chickens pecked the ground outside their coop. Edward wasn't sure the inhabitants of the house would appreciate being the object of charity, but Lizzie had informed him of Catherine Exeter's intent to visit them today.
"If you're interested like," she'd said in a secretive tone, though no one but he was near.
She'd accosted him on the terrace on his way to his morning ride. Despite the heat, she'd pulled her hood over her face like a character in a sensation novel. The market basket dangling from her arm told the excuse she'd used to slip away from the
Exeter
home. Edward would have chuckled at her melodrama if he hadn't been desperate for word of
Florence
. Three days running he'd been turned away without a chance to see her. He was beginning to fear he'd have to abduct her to say hello.
Somehow, he didn't think that would improve
Florence
's opinion of his character.
Now, however, he had another chance because of Lizzie.
"That servant of hers, that Bertha, don't like her one bit," she'd confided. "She told me Miss Exeter flutters in and out when she plays the grand patroness. And that Lady Hargreave won't go at all.
Too busy with her beauty sleep.
I know
Florence
, though. She'll stay to dandle the babies. She pretends to
be embarrassed when they like her, but she won't be able to resist. Then you can talk to her."
Edward hoped this would be the case. At least the damn rain had stopped. He felt a fool lurking behind a thicket while he waited for Catherine to leave. When she did leave, though, and alone, he knew the wait had been worthwhile. He straightened his collar, smoothed his hair, and told himself not to act like a schoolboy with a crush. The lecture didn't help. His palms were clammy as he knocked on the weather-grayed planks of the door.
Bartle's wife blinked to find him behind it, then smiled, slow and broad, as if she knew precisely why
he was there.
Perhaps she did. Perhaps his lovesick yearning was written large across his face.
"Lord Greystowe," she exclaimed, pushing the door wider in welcome.
"How kind of you to come.
I was just making tea."
Edward stepped inside, his hat in hand. The Bartles' cottage consisted of three rooms: a large main room where the family cooked and lived and washed, a larder for storage, and a small curtained nook where Mr. and Mrs. Bartle slept. The floor was well-swept paving stone, the walls age-yellowed plaster. Wooden pegs for hanging clothes made an orderly circuit around the room. The clothing ranged in size from infant to adult, much of it displaying Mrs. Bartle's gift with needle and yarn. Her husband took part of his pay in wool and Mrs. Bartle spun it into gold.
Shining her own sort of gold,
Florence
sat in a sunny corner with a chubby baby in her lap. A young girl, no more than six, carded wool at her feet, her shoulder brushing
Florence
's knee as if she'd known her
all her life. Edward was careful not to look directly at the reason for his visit.
"I, uh, came to see how your husband is faring," he said. "I heard he caught a bad cough."
He had indeed heard this, though it had been weeks ago.
"Oh, he's much better," said Mrs. Bartle. "Please thank Mrs. Forster for her tea."
"I will," he said and, for the life of him, could not think of anything further to say.
Florence
's presence was a weight behind his back. He was afraid to turn and meet the censure in her eyes, but even more afraid of being asked to leave.
Thankfully, Mrs. Bartle took pity on him. She was a fine, fair woman, as Angus Bartle liked to say;
broad and blonde, though-not as blonde as her four young offspring. She had the calm, capable air
some women gain as their families grow.
"I'm sure you know your cousin," she said, turning him gently to face her.
"
Florence
," he said, eyes drinking her in. She looked a
madonna
with that child in her lap. His
madonna
. At that moment, he would have given his right arm for that baby to be theirs.
Her gaze remained on the bundled infant. "Edward," she
answered,
his name a mere whisper. Her face was pink, her breathing quick. Both could have been the effect of embarrassment, but Edward's body came so swiftly to attention his linens should have caught fire. That he had touched her most intimate parts, that he had heard her sigh with pleasure and could no more seemed utterly intolerable.
He barely heard Mrs. Bartle murmur something about the tea. He was crossing the room towards
Florence
. He was sitting in the pool of sunshine by her side. The window seat was just big enough for
the two of them.
Florence
's leg pressed his through her flowered skirts. At the contact he felt not an increase in lust, but a comfort so deep it scared him.