“Sorry, ma’am.” The bow under my chin was undone. The cotton lining lifted from my hair.
“Are they put away?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I opened my eyes and beamed at her. “There! Was that not fun?”
“That wasstrange, ma’am.” She winced. “Mrs. Darcy says I am to say what I think.”
“How nice,” I said again. The scarlet flood had receded, but I was still immersed in Darcys. “Where is Harriet?”
Lucy led me to the drawing room. I waited at the threshold, and Harriet came over, her forehead creasing. “Miss Woodhouse, you are so pale!” Every eye in the room turned, curious and overly aware.
“Let us visit our room,” I said. Harriet took a candle, and we climbed a daze of stairs and halls before I sat on my bed.
Harriet lit candles and sat beside me. “What is wrong?”
Papa’s death. The most fabulous creature in the world, lost. “We must leave. Return to Highbury and the lives we know.”
“Oh,” she said, diminished.
I had expected that. “Do not fret. Country gentlemen are superior to city gentlemen in any case. I shall simply insist that you are able to bind. But London has been all horrors.”
Harriet’s chin set with unexpected determination. “I have been scared sometimes, but it is notallhorrors. There are good things, too. We have friends that help us.”
“You cannot mean that you wish tostay?”
“Oh… We should do whatever you choose, Miss Woodhouse. You know best…” She trailed off, but her lips shaped soundless thoughts.
I patted her hand. “Harriet, always speak your mind. I would welcome advice from someone who isnota Darcy or a Bennet. They are too full of secrets and legends.”
Harriet bit her lip, her eyes pure black in the sparse light. “If Ishouldspeak… I know you are not well, Miss. Not since old Mr. Woodhouse passed.”
Startled, my gaze fled her eyes, hunting the room before settling on a candle flame. “What have you imagined! I am perfectly well.”
“You are not yourself, Miss.” She took my hand. “You hardly leave Hartfield house. You speak of Mr. Woodhouse always. It is as if you are still caring for him, day and night, like at the end. It was a hard end, Miss Woodhouse. Youwere a brave daughter. But do you not see that, for you, the memories in Hartfield are horrible too? Do you not see how much better you have been in London?”
“Better?” The word was shocked from my throat.
“Yes, better! Like you were before. We ride in coaches, and when they let the step down, you do not stare for minutes before you enter. We meet people, and you speak and smile, instead of falling silent to fix your clothes, over and over.”
“I cannot do those things! I am too—” I bit away the foolish denial—toocareful—and used my ultimate proof. “I know how they talk about me. Emma Woodhouse is handsome, clever, and rich. Everyone says so!”
Harriet whispered, “Not everyone. Not anymore.” Unexpectedly, she squeezed me in an embrace, her cheek on my shoulder. “But I know you are still Emma Woodhouse. Who has been so kind to me. That is why I came with you to London. Tohelpyou.”
My breath squeezed past a jagged shape in my throat. Helpme?Help the mistress of Hartfield?
“It seems I have been mistaken,” I managed. “I thought I was a good friend.”
“You are a good friend,” she said. “You have made my life wonderful. Cannot I help yours?”
I laughed, and it was as coarse as a beggar. All this time, I had been secretly mocked. Pitied by a girl in a boarding school.
Despair made the truth easier. “Then help me! I must leave London. The Darcys say I am some healer from legend, as if that is good, and I should be proud or happy. They do not understand it is dreadful. Each time they speak, they announce my sin. Harriet, if I had married and bound, I might have saved Papa!”
Harriet uttered a long “Oh…” Then, puzzled, she added, “Marriedwhom?”
That question was so practical—sofutile—that it calmed my racing pulse. “I do not know.”
