“Power.” She let her hand fall to her lap. “Money buys you power over others. That’s a simple thing. But it buys you another sort of power—the most important sort of power. It buys you power over yourself—to live as you please in the manner that pleases you. This independence is granted to men at birth, but not so for us women. So, buy the pretty silk dresses and shiny baubles, and always remember they aren’t the end, but rather the means toward achieving your greater goal.”
Something opaque passed behind Lady Gwyneth’s eyes. “I must express my sincerest gratitude to you for advising me,” she said.
Artemis heard abutcoming.
Mother did too, for the smile, as faint as it was, froze on her mouth.
“But,” said Lady Gwyneth, “I think … I mean, I’m not sure … but perhaps … not all women,erm, share the same goal.”
It was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room.
Mother blinked.
Artemis wasn’t sure she would ever breathe again.
“Ah, but you’re so young and untested in the ways of the world, Lady Gwyneth,” said Mother. “Give it time. Meanwhile, study your Debrett’s and make a plan.”
Artemis had been so entirely concentrated on the conversation, she hadn’t noticed that a figure had entered the room. She knew who it was before her eyes cut to meet his.
Bran.
His mouth curved into a smile. A smile born of reaction, not thought.
A smile she found she couldn’t return, for he hadn’t yet perceived who else occupied this room with them.
His gaze shifted and landed on his sister.
His smile remained.
His gaze shifted again.
Artemis caught the precise moment he registered Mother’s presence.
His brow gathered into a thunderstorm.
Before the storm could break, Artemis forced a smile onto her mouth and said in a voice loud enough to carry across the room, “Lady Gwyneth was just inquiring about you, Lord Branwell.”
Lady Gwyneth opened her mouth, as if to protest the veracity of Artemis’s words. Before she could, however, Artemis continued, “Maybe you could take her to meet Little Lady.”
All the while, she sensed Mother’s gaze flicking between her and Bran.
“Little Lady?” asked Lady Gwyneth.
“She’s the donkey I brought in this morning.”
This proved too much for Mother. “Oh, Artemis, must you keep at it?”
Lady Gwyneth shot to her feet. It was clear she wanted to meet Little Lady—and was relieved to have an excuse to exit an increasingly fraught conversation.
Just before Bran turned to leave with his sister, he locked eyes with Artemis for an instant. A well of meaning filled those golden depths. Too much to sort through in that fleeting second.
That was what long, sleepless nights of staring at the ceiling and sorting through a racing mind were for, she supposed.
Then he was gone—and she was alone with Mother.
“I’ve seenhimlook better,” said Mother. “The limp I can abide, but that ghastly scar on his face.” She shuddered.
A feeling lit into life and expanded through Artemis—a hot feeling … a feeling that was rare for her. “He was wounded while serving our country,” she said, her voice tight.
