“You must know her. It is Amanda Litchfield.”
“Oh, one of the Litchfields. Do say hello for me.”
“Bea ... Miss Lamb. Are you certain you are all right?”
“Of course I am.”
“And ... your family?”
“Better than ever, I thank you. Now I really must fly.”
He looked at her, clearly perplexed. There was a speculative look in his eyes that told her he might suspect her act but wasn’t quite sure what to believe. It would have to be enough.
Amelia Tilney studied the stern face of her brother-in-law. He had moved on from tea to port, though she knew he was not given to drink. She felt only mildly guilty for driving him to its solace this day. “Gareth, I must say your coldness surprises me most unhappily.”
“Madam. There are consequences to be reckoned with, and certainly we are all aware that there is no happy outcome in such a situation.”
Amelia leaned forward and adjusted the framed miniature of her sister on the table. She said softly, “You are a man of God, –Gareth. You of all men should know that God is forgiving, a God of mercy—”
“He is also a God of wrath. And of consequences.”
“But must Charlotte pay such a dear price—the loss of her entire family? She has already suffered greatly. She was a mere shadow of herself when last I saw her.”
“Was she?” He seemed to contemplate this. “Is she repentant? Sorry?”
“Oh, a sorrier girl I have never seen.”
“And is she being well provided for by your aunt?”
“Well, there is not much money for coal or meat, but she has a nice kitchen garden and preserves all she can for winter. I am afraid Margaret’s son is a mean sort who provides little for her upkeep. My husband and I send what we can. If you would but allow us, we would do more, now that Charlotte is there.”
“No. You have done enough. I must ask you to do nothing further. And to speak no more of this.”
“You may depend upon my discretion. I only speak now because I feel Charlotte’s plight so keenly—”
He halted the rest of her sentence with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Yes, yes.” He rose. “Now I really must bid you good day.”
Amelia rose as well. Though stung by her brother-in-law’s rudeness, she believed him not quite as unmoved as he appeared.
A week later, the bell jingled as Margaret Dunweedy pushed open the butcher shop door. The gust of wind that accompanied her sent the hanging fowl and sides of meat to swaying on their hooks. The smells of sausages, strong English cheeses, and meat-pie pastries greeted her, as did the cheery butcher with his ready smile and crisp apron. “A good day to you, Missus Dunweedy.”
“And to you, Mr. Doughty. What have you today for sixpence per pound?”
“No need for soup bones today, ma’am. Not with your account bulging with a good two pounds to spend.”
“Two pounds—you are surely mistaken, Mr. Doughty. On my account?”
“No, ma’am. No mistakin’ it.” He winked at her. “You’ve got yourself a secret admirer, I’d say.”
“Don’t talk foolishness, man. At my age.”
“Not foolishness at all. Well, then, what will it be. A fine leg of lamb? Or perhaps a stuffed goose? A roast of beef?”
“You are quite sure?”
“Sure I’m sure.”
Margaret Dunweedy would have liked to believe the gift from her son, Roger. But she knew better. She guessed the two pounds had more to do with her lodger than with her, but she was grateful to be able to provide the sweet lass something finer than the stews and soups she’d been preparing.
