None came.
When I lifted my gaze to the countess, I felt fifteen years old, gaping at the paled countenance of another disapproving lady, one too tired from sickness to say all the ways her tomboy daughter had brought shame to her door. Mama’s ebony eyes possessed the same sadness as Lady Shrewsbury’s sherry ones.
The countess came closer. “I want to help you, but you continue to break the rules. Are your circumstances worse than any other widow here? Has your father’s wealth made you think you’re too good for our rules?”
I never was “too good” or special. I was different and discouraged and alone except for Jemina. Tears welled, but I couldn’t swallow more grief. I was about to burst. “I am awful and terrible, butI’ma mother. That doesn’t make me better than anyone here, just more desperate.”
The countess dropped her arms by her side, her gold rings showing beneath her lacy sleeves, one for each of her three husbands. “Are your circumstances more desperate than the widow whose family dumped her onto the streets with no widow’s portion or the means for a roof over her head? Or the mother whose husband’s aunt has taken her sons, eight and ten, who won’t answer her letters? Or the lady whose daughters have been sent out of the country? I have sensible rules for your protection, Mrs. Jordan. You jeopardize the safety of the group when you break them.”
“Rules. I’m dying from rules.” I lowered my wet face into my gloves. The thin wool couldn’t mop up my sorrow. “Since stepping upon these shores, I followed rules, did as everyone said. I was a good wife. My mama would’ve been proud of the home I kept.”
I wiped and wiped. Ashy powder caked on my gloves, my sleeves. “And you, a peer of this land, don’t you like how well I’ve conformed? I’ve even practiced and practiced until most of my Demeraran accent has fled. But see my reward, ma’am? My son still gets taken away. Rules don’t help.”
I smeared the cosmetic from my stinging eyes. I wished I couldn’t see, but I could. The countess’s countenance had that blank look, Mama’s look.
The grief of it, the memories of her weighed too much.Swoosh.My knees buckled. My livery ballooned out like a ship’s sail as I dropped to the countess’s feet. Grabbing at Lady Shrewsbury’s legs, I held tight, like they were Mama’s skirts.
I couldn’t let go.
I needed forgiveness.
I needed it now.
My repeated sorries garbled, and I wept upon the hem of the woman’s garment. “I don’t know how many times my Lionel’s been fed. His bottom is so red and pimpled from not being attended. I left him tonight to lay on soiled sheets. Soiled sheets! I don’t want to disappoint you, Countess. But how can I be away and let him suffer?”
Lady Shrewsbury bent to me, and I tensed for a slap, but the woman put her arms about me and drew me into the tightest embrace.
Forgiveness.
Not earned. Not negotiated. Not even spoken, but felt through and through, that’s what Lady Shrewsbury’s arms offered. I clung to her, baptized in her rosewater and kindness.
“It will be well, Patience. You’re headstrong but good. Remember that.”
How long I lingered in this woman’s bosom I didn’t know, but the embrace felt like love, like hope. Tonight, that was enough to pull some of my broken pieces together.
The countess tossed away my wig and mussed my frizzy curls. She took a lacy cloth and wiped my face free of the remaining cosmetic. “You are special, Patience. Each of my widows is. But to right wrongs, we have to be smarter. You take too many risks. Tonight, you could’ve ruined any chance to regain custody.”
I straightened and swiped at my cheeks. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have to wonder if Lionel ate tonight. For that, I’ll never be sorry.”
The countess looped her arm through mine and tugged me forward to the kitchen table. The huge walnut furnishing with sturdy benches along its sides centered the Widow’s Grace. It was the hallowed place where the women congregated to encourage one another and plot.
“Lionel doesn’t like pap milk, Patience. My widow, Mrs. Kelly, tells me she struggles to get him to drink.”
I had to touch my jaw to see if it remained attached. The countess had a spy in Hamlin. “You—”
“Sit, Patience. Now is the time for you to know all.”
Lady Shrewsbury moved to the stylish klismos chair at the end, one with the harp back like the ones in Hamlin’s drawing room.
I shuddered, my head forming an image of Colin brooding in that room, doing his business, wanting no disturbances, needing distance. His comings and goings throughout our marriage stayed with me as did my many regrets.
Lady Shrewsbury’s snow-white Angora, the kitty she kept at her side, wagged her head at me. Athena’s one green eye, one blue eye saw everything, I was sure of it. She knew I cringed, fearing what her mistress would disclose.
“Mrs. Kelly has been thwarting Mr. Markham’s advances, even the rudeness of the current staff, to care for your baby. But all is in place for us to act.”
Stunned, barely able to suppress the rapid beating of my chest, I collapsed onto the bench. I didn’t know what to think except that all-knowing Shrewsbury was an English version of Erzulie-Ge-Rouge, the red-eyed goddess of revenge. With the cat minion, her klismos throne, and imperial robes, she could be her, if gods wore curl papers.
My brow scrunched, and I clutched the worn wood of the table. “Spy? Markham? What’s in place, ma’am?”
