Rays of light emanating from Jemina’s lantern showed the truth in my friend’s blank, dour eyes. Bedlam and amnesia had stolen her life, one that had a child or children and a husband who probably loved this sweet girl to distraction.
The part of my heart that remembered the love of my sisters thawed. A deep confidence with people who truly cared for me was something I had lacked these lonely years in merry old . . . horrible England.
I nodded, my neck bobbing fast. “I’ll be smarter, Jemina, for you.”
Wiping her face free of the scarlet hair falling from her chignon, Jemina tugged at the heavy gray scarf wrapping her shoulders. “Then let’s go to the countess.”
That smile of Jemina’s, so innocent and trusting. She’d found peace. Maybe the absence of memories, of no longer remembering loss was best.
But I knew exactly how much had been taken from me.
Hoping for a sign that all was well, I kept looking over my shoulder toward Hamlin. Nothing but darkness met my eyes the entire two-mile walk to Lady Shrewsbury’s leased estate. The sound of crickets and an owl’s hoot could be heard above the noise of my boots crunching snow, crushing twigs blown free in last week’s storm.
Pretty poor signs.
My eternal optimism waned, but I decided that it was just too dark to see a rainbow or some work of a goddess of hope.
The door to the kitchen hung open about an inch, just like we’d left it. We snuck inside. The house was quiet and still. Before I could shut the door, a match struck.
Then another.
Then another.
Soon a wave of bright candles formed a ring about the pale green kitchen. It was as if Hamlin’s grand chandelier had been lowered and Jemina and I were caught in its middle.
We were the accused standing in the silent glow of the flames, the frowning faces of the Widow’s Grace.
This wasn’t the sign I wanted.
The secret society of avengers, women of all sizes, all shapes, glared at us. These widows said nothing.
No words of surprise, no condemnation orcaught you.
The mix of pink, ruddy, brown, and tanned countenances—all kept their lips pinched.
Then the door slammed.
The finality stopped my heart. The scent of prim-and-proper rosewater fell upon me, resurrecting new shame.
Lady Shrewsbury, the wizened leader of the group stood at the threshold. She’d shut the door. With ash-blond hair set with curl papers, the countess folded her arms. “Patience Jordan. Jemina St. Maur. We’ve been expecting you.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. Nothing could be said. We’d broken the group’s rules by leaving without permission.
“I’m disappointed.” The countess shook her head. The sleeves of her mango-colored robe fluttered from the effort. The luminous pearls at her throat reflected the cheery hue like lavish Poinciana flowers.
The short, buxom woman could be an awakening goddess. But was she one of the good ones, or one who could destroy mankind with a stare?
Eyes down, I stepped in front of Jemina. “I’m to blame, Lady Shrewsbury. Mrs. St. Maur is innocent. I led her astray.”
The countess sighed, a tired, heavy one. “What shall I do with you?”
The tone, shrill and crisp, was an exact copy of my mother’s. It mirrored her many disappointments in her middle daughter—a torn dress hem, a broken vase, spilling tea on one of Papa’s lecherous business associates. Well, thataccidentmade Mama’s grimace turn into a brief smile. A very brief and seldom-displayed one when it came to me.
“Mrs. St. Maur,” the countess said, “you and the rest may go to bed. I must speak with Mrs. Jordan alone.”
Jemina frowned but dragged from the room behind the others.
“Sorry, ma’am.” I said the words fast but braced for a dressing down.
