But now, sitting alone in her cottage with the wreckage of her life spread around her, Sarah found that those small moments returned to her with a peculiar ache. She could not say why. Perhaps it was simply that kindness, true and undemanding, was so rare in her experience that even the memory of it felt precious. Or perhaps it was the contrast --- the vast, terrible distance between what Lord Thomas had promised with all his ardor and what this quiet man had offered with nothing more than common decency.
She did not even know his Christian name. She had never asked. He was Lord Tyrone, the Marquess, and she was a companion, and there had been no reason for such familiarity. But she remembered his face --- grave and thoughtful, with none of his brother's practiced handsomeness --- and she remembered the way he had spoken to her as if she were a person and not a shadow.
But none of it mattered now.
Sarah wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and straightened her spine against the settee. She could not afford to lose herself in memories, neither the bitter ones nor the bittersweet. What mattered was what lay ahead.
Lady Clara had mentioned that there would be a confrontation, that her brothers --- both of them --- would be present, and that the truth would finally be brought into the open.
Should she go?
The thought terrified her. To face Lord Thomas again, to see that sneering cruelty return to eyes that had once looked at her with such false tenderness --- every instinct told her to stay hidden, to remain in her small cottage and let others fight this battle. She had suffered enough. She had lost enough. Surely she could not be expected to risk more.
But it was her battle --- not Lady Clara's, not Lord Rutland's, but hers, and hers alone.
He had taken her virtue and her reputation, and he had bought her silence with threats. She had accepted that silence like a sentence, had carried it into exile and let it press her down into this small, quiet life where she existed but did not truly live. She had told herself it was prudence. She had told herself it was wisdom. But sitting here now, with the anger still burning hot beneath her ribs, she knew it for what it truly was.
It was fear, plain and simple. And he had counted on it --- had designed it, even, with his threats and his contempt, so certain of her powerlessness that he had not even bothered to be clever about it.
She was still afraid, if she was honest with herself. Her hands still trembled and her stomach still churned at the thought of standing before him again. But she had told Lady Clara and Lord Rutland the truth --- that Lord Thomas Frankton had courtedher in secret, had promised her marriage, had taken her virtue and then cast her aside --- and the sky had not fallen. Lady Clara had believed her. Lord Rutland had looked at her with something that was not pity butanger on her behalf, and that had stirred something in Sarah's chest that she had not felt in months.
She was not alone in this anymore.
Sarah rose from the settee and crossed to the small writing desk in the corner. She pulled out a sheet of paper and dipped her pen in the ink pot, which was cold beneath her fingers. She would write to Lady Clara --- not to reveal some new discovery, for she had none, but to say simply and plainly that when the time came for confrontation, she would be there. She would stand in whatever room they named and she would look Lord Thomas Frankton in the face and she would speak the truth of what he had done to her, not in whispers and not in tears but in her own voice, with her own words, before whatever witnesses were present.
The shame was not hers to carry, and it never had been. Let him answer for it.
Her hand steadied as she began to write.
Dear Lady Clara,
I thank you for your visit today, and for your kindness in hearing what I had to tell you. I know that what I shared cannot have been easy to receive, and I am grateful that you and Lord Rutland believed me.
When the time comes to confront your brother Lord Thomas, I wish to be present. I have spent too many months in hiding, allowing silence to do his work for him. I will not hide any longer. Whatever comes of it, I would rather face it standing than cowering in this cottage, waiting for others to fight a battle that is rightfully mine.
I remain, your servant,Sarah Jennings
She set down the pen and read the letter through once, then again. It was plain and brief. There was nothing of eloquence in it, nothing that would distinguish it from any other letter written by any other woman in any other cottage in England. But it was hers, and it was honest, and it said exactly what she meant.
Sarah folded the paper carefully, sealed it with a drop of candle wax, and set it on the corner of the desk to be posted in the morning.
Then she rose, smoothed her skirts, and went to put a fresh log on the fire. The evening was growing cold, but for the first time in many months, the chill did not reach her.
19
Trying not to search the room for Lord Rutland was proving more of a challenge than Clara had anticipated. The soiree had its entertainments but her mind was fixed on one person only. She turned slowly on her heel, scanning the crowd, before looking back in her mother's direction. Lady Tyrone had one eyebrow cocked, her eyes searching Clara's face --- and making Clara flush hot.
"I must say, you are certainly somewhat unsettled this evening," her mother remarked, as Clara glanced away from her, then dropped her gaze to the floor. "Are you expecting to see someone particular?"
Quickly she shook her head, aware that she was lying but having no desire to tell her mother the truth. "Not in the least." She looked up at her mother and then smiled. "You know that I am always eager to be in Alice's company." Clara had much to tell her cousin, including her plan to include herself, Lord Rutland and Lord Worthington in the discussion that would follow Thomas's unexpected arrival, which was, she expected, to take place tomorrow. Her thoughts sent a curl of nervous anxietyinto her stomach. "I was wondering if she would be present this evening."
Lady Tyrone's curious expression faded instantly. "Yes, of course, I should have thought. It is so very good that you are both here together, although I have heard that Lord Worthington is soon to ask her to court."
"I do not know for certain but I would not be surprised." Clara shrugged but smiled at her mother despite the tension in her stomach, watching and waiting for Lord Rutland's arrival. "I would be very glad for her if it was to come to engagement. Lord Worthington is an excellent gentleman."
Her mother nodded slowly. "And acquainted with Lord Rutland, I believe. A very close friend, in fact."
Clara said nothing to this, her stomach lurching from one side to the other. Did her mother suspect that she was in some way involved with Lord Rutland? Or was it that she simply knew that Clara had never once forgotten him?
