“A seamstress, a doctor, and a loyal assistant.” Philippa’s voice softened as she reached out to touch Nell’s sleeve, studying Nell’s face with something that looked almost like admiration. “You have built yourself quite the little household, Mrs. Ashford. But I suspect the weight of it still falls squarely on you.”
“I manage.” Nell lifted her chin, her spine lengthening as she claimed every inch of her height. “We manage.”
“Of course you do.” Philippa studied her for a long moment, her expression settling into something both gentle and resolute. “But even capable women deserve an afternoon’s rest now and again.”
“My lady?” Nell’s brow furrowed in confusion.
“You must come to Bramwell Park for tea tomorrow.” Philippa stated it as though it were the most natural suggestionin the world, smoothing the front of her elegant pelisse with one gloved hand.
Nell’s stomach dropped through the cobblestones. Bramwell Park—his house, where he lived and slept, where he probably sat in some grand study at this very moment turning over the same memories she couldn’t bury.
“I couldn’t possibly.” The words came out too fast, tripping over themselves as she took a step backward. “Lily is unwell, and I couldn’t leave her bedside.”
“Bring her.” Philippa waved a hand as though Nell had raised no objection at all, her silk scarf fluttering in the autumn breeze. “The gardens are sheltered from the wind and quite mild even in this season—the country air will do her lungs a world of good.”
“My lady, that’s very kind, but...” Nell’s grip tightened on the basket handle until the wicker creaked. “Bramwell Park is Lord Westmore’s estate, and I couldn’t presume to intrude upon his hospitality.”
Philippa laughed, a warm and resonant sound that turned heads on the pavement. “My dear, I practically raised that boy and have been managing his household since he was in short coats.” She adjusted her bonnet with a confident pat. “He won’t mind.”
He will mind,Nell thought. Or worse—he wouldn’t mind at all.
“Bring your son as well.” Philippa continued, steamrolling over Nell’s hesitation as she counted off the benefits on her gloved fingers. “Children need room to run, and the grounds are extensive—thirty acres, if you can believe it. Far too much space for one man and his elderly aunt.”
“Tomorrow is Sunday.” Nell seized on the excuse, her eyes brightening as she finally found a foothold. “It is the one day we all have together—Martha, the children, and myself. I couldn’t break our little tradition.”
“Bring her too.” Philippa decided with a nod, as though the matter were already settled and entered into a ledger. “And Miss Wells—we shall make it a proper outing, tea on the terrace if the weather holds.”
“Lady Philippa, truly...” Nell began, shaking her head.
“I have been rattling around that great house with only my nephew for company, and the man has all the conversational charm of a stone wall.” Philippa took Nell’s arm and began steering her down the pavement, her grip gentle but inexorable as she leaned in with a conspiratorial glint. “You would be doing me a kindness, Mrs. Ashford. Truly.”
A kindness—she was framing it as a favour to herself, and Nell looked at the woman’s earnest face and realized how terribly clever she was.
“Tomorrow at two.” Philippa released her arm and patted her hand with brisk affection. “I shall send the carriage for you.”
“Lady Philippa, I really must decline...” Nell tried one last time, reaching out as though to catch the invitation before it solidified into fact.
“Two o’clock.” Philippa was already walking away, her maid hurrying to keep pace. She called back over her shoulder without slowing. “Don’t make me come fetch you myself, Mrs. Ashford—I will, you know, and I am not above causing a scene in the middle of the village.”
Nell stood on the pavement with her basket heavy on her arm and her heart heavier still, watching the older woman disappear around the corner with the satisfied stride of a general who had won a battle without drawing a single weapon.
She could still refuse—could send a note in the morning claiming Lily had taken a turn for the worse. Philippa would understand, and Philippa would forgive.
But Philippa had been kind, genuinely kind, in a way that had nothing to do with rank or obligation. And she was rightabout the children. Lily had been cooped up for weeks, trapped between the shop and her sickbed, watching the world through rain-streaked windows while her brother worked too hard and carried burdens too heavy for a boy of nine. They deserved an afternoon of freedom and beauty and something that was not merely survival.
And perhaps he wouldn’t be there—perhaps he would be out riding or visiting tenants or called away to London on business that couldn’t wait.
Nell didn’t believe it for a moment.
He would be there. Standing too close, saying too much, watching her with those steely eyes that saw everything she was trying to hide. She could still see that wicked smirk—blood on his teeth and not a shred of shame on his face, as though she had given him exactly what he wanted.
Don’t come here again. Ever.
She’d spat those words at him in her own storeroom, and now she was going to willingly walk into his house, accepting his aunt’s invitation, drinking his tea. The irony was enough to choke on.
She knew she was a fool—for agreeing, for not running, and for wanting, despite everything, to see him again.
God help her.
