If you have any need of a governess, a companion, or any modest position suited to a lady who has been well educated but has no fortune of her own, I beg you to consider me. I am willing to work and to live quietly.
If you cannot help, I will think no ill of you. But if you can, I would be grateful beyond words. Please send your reply as soon as you can.
Your affectionate cousin,
Gwendoline Reeves.
Her hand trembled only once. She sanded and folded the letter, sealing it with the small crest her father had used.
I will send it by private courier in the morning.That will cost me… eight pence.
She snuffed the candle, undressed with the numb efficiency of habit, and slipped into bed. Sleep came in fits and starts, broken by images of dark eyes and a lodge and her own voice saying,It is over.
At some point, exhaustion triumphed.
The next morning, she woke to the sound of voices in the corridor. Her maid’s anxious whisper. Another woman’s shaken reply.
Martha slipped into the room without knocking, her face pale. “My Lord, Lady Fenwick wishes to see you. At once.”
Gwen sat up, her heart lurching. “Is she ill?”
“She is… upset,” Martha said carefully. “The Viscount did not come home.”
Gwen threw on a wrapper, ran a brush through her hair once, and hurried down the corridor to her mother’s room. She found her standing near the window, her arms wrapped around her middle, her eyes red.
“Mama,” she sighed softly. “What is it? Martha said he did not come home.”
Cordelia turned around, looking almost bewildered. “He did not come back last night. He left after we had quarreled. He went to his club. He did not return. I believe he is going to leave us.”
The first thing Gwen felt was relief. Then guilt. Then a cold, bruising worry she refused to give shape.
“He has stayed out before,” she said gently. “There are nights when he drinks late and sleeps at the club.”
“This is different,” Cordelia whispered. “He was so angry.”
Gwen crossed the room and took her hands, feeling how icy they were. “What happened?”
Cordelia shook her head. “It does not matter. I should not have provoked him.”
“Provoked him?” Gwen frowned. “What did you do? Breathe in a way he disliked?”
Cordelia gave a short, broken laugh. Tears welled up in her eyes. “Don’t. Please.”
Gwen softened her voice at once. “Mama, tell me. Please. You never tell me. Just this once, tell me what the quarrel was about.”
Cordelia looked at her with an expression that Gwen had rarely seen. Then, very slowly, she said, “It was about you, my dear.”
Gwen’s throat tightened. “Me?”
“Yes,” Cordelia whispered. “He is tired of the whispers. Tired of having to defend you in company. He says every time he enters his club, someone feels entitled to mention your name. Your scandal. Your refusal to behave as he believes you ought. He says it reflects badly on him. On us.”
Heat crept into Gwen’s cheeks. “I see.”
“I told him that you are my daughter,” Cordelia continued, her voice gaining strength. “That I will not allow anyone to disparage you in my presence. That, whatever the ton says, I know your heart. He did not like that. He said that I chose you over him. That we were ruined. That he had to fight tooth and nail to regain his standing at his club, and that you undo his efforts with every breath you take.”
Gwen’s fingers tightened around her mother’s. “That is hardly fair.”
“He does not deal in fairness. He deals in humiliation,” Cordelia said softly. “He said my defense of you embarrasses him. That I ought to remember my place as his wife and not contradict him.”
