Mrs. Fancourt partook of her meal in silence, still appearing pleasant despite the rigidity of her shoulders, as two well-dressed footmen brought in the second course.
But Agnes was different.
She was always different lately, but this evening it was worse. She ate none of her soup. In fact, she had not so much as unfolded her napkin or lifted the spoon or sipped from the goblet of water. She trembled, but only at the corners of her lips, the edges of her eyes, symptoms so mild no one but Georgina would notice.
“Dear.” Georgina mouthed the word as soon as Agnes glanced up from across the table. “Are you ill again?”
Agnes bent her head, as if she had not understood.
But she had.
“Mr. Fancourt.” Sir Walter plopped a large slab of beef onto his plate. “Have you kept up with those paintings you were always entertaining yourself with as a child?”
“Paints weren’t easy to come by in the settlement.”
“Your father always did say it was a trivial diversion. ‘One you were certain to outgrow,’ I believe is how he put it.”
“I have a book of sketches.” Simon leaned back in his chair. “My wife and children found pleasure in looking at them—”
“Please, stop it!” The shrill note blasted, like glass shattering in an empty ballroom.
Georgina whipped her head to Agnes, the tension intensifying into panic. “Agnes, dear—”
“No.” Her cousin stood so fast the chair nearly knocked to the floor behind her. Her gaze was frantic, roaming to every face in the room before freezing on one. Simon Fancourt. “Please tell them the truth.”
Georgina glanced to his face.
His eyes were steady, confused, but he did not change expressions. “Miss Simpson, I do not know what you’re talking about.”
“I cannot bear it any longer. Tell them.”
“Miss Simpson.” Sir Walter stood too. “Whatever is troubling you surely can wait for a more appropriate time and audience.”
“I will not hide it. Not anymore. I cannot.” Quivering hands framed her blazing cheeks. “Simon Fancourt, you tell them the truth or I will.”
He rose from his chair but said nothing.
Agnes’ whimper echoed throughout the room, before she sank back into her chair and covered her face. “Tell them that I carry your child.”
Heat exploded within Simon’s chest. No one moved. No one spoke. Silence dominated the high-ceilinged dining room, save for Miss Simpson’s muffled cries and the whistle of an evening wind outside the windows.
He glanced at every face.
Mother was as pale as he’d known she’d be. Sir Walter looked away. Lord and Lady Gilchrist glared at him, noses lifted, as if he was just the despicable creature they had imagined.
And Miss Whitmore.
From the chair beside him, she searched his face. Her eyes were careful, tearful, but they lacked the disappointment or disgust he would have fathomed. Instead, they mirrored his confusion. His panic, humiliation, numbness, everything—until he almost took courage from the seconds her eyes stayed on his.
“What have you to say for yourself?” Lord Gilchrist rose and, as he occupied the chair next to Agnes, placed a hesitant hand on the girl’s writhing shoulder. “I expected barbaric tendencies from someone like you, but to ruin an innocent this way is—”
“I have never touched this woman.”
“Take responsibility, you coward. Do you intend to make this poor child bear such a burden alone? What did you do, promise her a marriage until she surrendered to you?”
“No.” Agnes stumbled from her chair, smearing her cheeks with viciousness. “No, you do not understand.”
“Miss Simpson.” This came from Lady Gilchrist. “Poor darling, you need not be afraid. Do tell us the truth. We shall not abandon you, and any fault shall be cast, at least in our estimations, on him and not—”
