“I did not attract the attention of one man. Not one.”
She was not going to tell him about the tendre she had for the young earl who’d danced so magnificently, and acted so attentive, only to ignore her the next time she saw him, as if she’d been rendered invisible. She’d learned, later, that he’d become engaged, to an heiress, of course, leaving Sarah feeling as if her heart had been badly bruised.
She did not wish to be more of an object of pity than she was.
“Then they were all blind,” he said flatly.
“There is no need for kindness, I can assure you.”
He would’ve responded had a knock on the door not interrupted them. She turned to find Hester standing there, her face twisted by grief, tears bathing her face.
Without a word, she knew. Her mother had died, and Sarah had not been there.
Sarah didn’t remember returning to Chavensworth, only that it had begun to rain. The storm was as fierce as promised in the dark clouds and wind. She didn’t care that she was sodden by the time she entered her mother’s room. Someone—she didn’t know whom—placed a towel around her shoulders and patted her face dry. She absently said, “Thank you,” but was unaware of anything else.
She sat on the chair and wished herself alone, wishing that all the suddenly solicitous people would disappear and the world would be a sweeter and kinder place than it was proving to be on this dark and rainy day.
Behind her she could hear the sound of weeping and wondered if she were crying. She placed both palms against her cheeks to find them cold from the rain, but dry.
She pulled her chair closer to her mother. Hester hadplaced her hands outside the sheet on either side of her body so that it looked as if she were merely asleep. Her eyelids were closed and sunken, her skin as pale as the sheet. But unlike the past days, her chest did not rise with each tortured breath. There was nothing but silence, punctuated by the sound of sobs.
Sarah could not think. She was incapable of placing a thought in her mind and leaving it there. Someone was pressing a cup of tea into her hands, and she took it and stared down at the amber liquid. A moment later—or was it five minutes, she didn’t know—someone blessedly took it from her.
Her hands felt as cold as her mother’s. She placed her hands on her upper arms, trying to control her shivers. Did her mother’s spirit linger in the room? Should she say something? Could her mother see that Sarah was here?
She wanted people to be gone, so that she could say her farewells privately.
“I think it would be best if you gave Sarah a few moments alone with her mother.”
Douglas’s voice. She would need to thank him later.
She felt his hand on her shoulder, his palm brushing against her neck, causing shivers. How strange that she could feel something, anything. His hand was so very warm, and she wanted his warmth, needed it.
“You can talk to her,” he said softly. “Now is the time to tell her whatever you wish.” He moved to the door and opened it, looked back at her, and said, “When you’re ready, Sarah, come out. Until then, I’ll make sure that people leave you alone.”
She nodded in response, grateful beyond measure but unable to verbalize it.
The door shut behind him, and, finally, she was alone with her mother.
Tears welled in her eyes, and she bent her head, feeling lost. Her mother had been her friend, her confidante, the one person whose advice she valued, whose opinion she solicited. They’d spent hours in conversation, in laughter. Their shared jests would have to be abandoned now because no one else would understand. Her memories would have to be shuttered away because to remember them would be too difficult.
How could she endure such pain?
She brushed her fingers against her mother’s cheek, then to her temple, smoothing her graying hair away from her face. Even in death, she was a beautiful woman.
There were so many things to do; there were so many arrangements she had to make. She had to notify her father, who wouldn’t care. She would have to notify the solicitors. Arrangements would have to be made for her mother’s funeral and burial in the family chapel.
Her mother would have died on the way to Scotland.
She had given her mother that, at least. She’d allowed the Duchess of Herridge to die in her own home.
Her father should be punished for what he’d almost done. God should cause lightning to strike his carriage while he was out on the London street. Let him die in screaming suffering or slowly, with pain eating his joints, so that each day was misery.
She took a few deep breaths, folded her hands palms together, and blew on the tips of her fingers. Her breath was hot, while the rest of her body felt so cold.
Hate would have to wait until she was done with the pain.
She bowed her head. What should she say? If her mother’s spirit lingered in the room, what did she want her to hear?
