“Daisy,” Rose replied.
How strange to hear her exacting employer referred to as a sweet, humble flower!
Lady Fitzhoward glanced at her and explained, “Never liked the name, so I changed it when I left here.”
Eyes narrowed, Rose blurted, “You didn’t marry him, then?”
“Elias Westergreen? No.” Lady Fitzhoward looked down, then said somewhat sheepishly, “I might have done. But we’d got no farther than Manchester when he left me for an innkeeper’s daughter named Modesty, which was an irony, I can tell you.”
Rose shook her head, lip curled accusingly. “I’ve imagined you married to him all these years and hated you for it.”
“I know,” Lady Fitzhoward softly replied.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“And share my disgrace and shame? You would have enjoyed that, I wager.”
“I would have, indeed!” Rose snapped, then amended, “For a few minutes. Or a year.”
“As I thought.”
Rose huffed. “Why not? You stole him from me.”
“Or rather I borrowed him for a few days. Honestly, I spared you a great deal of heartache and betrayal.”
“Just because he left you does not mean he would have left me.”
Rebecca winced at the harsh words, but Lady Fitzhoward merely inhaled a long breath.
“Perhaps. Although, I went back through that part of Manchester not long ago and stopped at that same inn. And guess what? Modesty was working there again. As buxom as ever, but otherwise aged and weary. Elias had left her too. Left her to raise a child alone. Left a whole string of women by now, I imagine.”
“Well.” Rose lifted her double chin, her sharp gaze sweeping over Lady Fitzhoward’s fine gown. “You don’t seem to be suffering too badly. You have done pretty well for yourself, even so.”
“Yes,” Lady Fitzhoward allowed. “I fell in love with an older widower and broke my heart when he died.”
“At least you had a husband. And money, by the looks of it. Probably a grand house too.”
Lady Fitzhoward nodded. “I have decided to sign over the house to his son. I cannot stand to be there without Donald. I have a small annuity and a settlement I am going through somewhat rapidly with all my traveling and investments.”
Rose gestured toward Rebecca. “Well, when the Lanes are through with me, I’ll end in the poorhouse, no doubt. Perhaps we can go together.” She froze, seemingly realizing what she’d said. Her sister stilled as well.
Lady Fitzhoward said, “You think I would live with you in a poorhouse?”
Rose’s eyes flashed. “Heaven forbid! You’re too good for me now, mylady, is that it? Pardon me.”
“That isnotit,” her ladyship retorted. “I may not have as much money as I once did, but we can do better than the poorhouse. A small cottage like this one might suit us rather well.”
Rose tilted her head, expression vulnerable. “Oh?”
“With your industry and my ... charm”—Lady Fitzhoward gave a self-deprecating grin—“we might deal very well together.”
The two sisters held each other’s gazes, hope and uncertainty wavering there.
Rebecca took advantage of the break in conversation to excuse herself. Lifting the basket, she said, “You two must have a great deal to discuss. I will just, em, take this food into the kitchen.”
After a brief trip to the larder to stow the food they’d stopped to purchase, Rebecca grabbed her shawl and slipped outside to let the sisters talk in peace.
As she strolled across the front garden, a man rode up on horseback.
