It was the sort of thing Nat always did – put her friendship with Gemma first. ‘You’ll be around when the blokes are all long gone,’ she’d said. ‘So I’ll always put you ahead of them, in your hour of need, any time.’ The least Gemma could do was put Nat first when she was ill, to pay her back for all her support in the past.
March 1838
Rebecca was still in mourning for her mother, nine months after her tragic accident. The household had been much subdued ever since it had happened, although Charles, who had leased a house in nearby Bridhampton, was a frequent visitor and did what he could to lift their spirits whenever he was there. He would go riding with Sarah, sit and discuss books and poetry with Rebecca, or try to engage Mr Winton in talk of business or politics. It was Papa who needed the distraction most, Rebecca thought. He had shrunk into himself since the death of his wife. He had lost weight, had a grey pallor to his skin and was seemingly uninterested in his estate and investments. Poor Papa. Mama’s loss had hit him so hard.
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