the better. Oh. I think I may know just the person.’ She got to her feet. ‘I must hurry, or I might miss her. I do apologise for making this visit so brief.’
There was no need for an apology. Amethyst couldn’t believe how easily she’d got rid of her.
‘But I am sure you are tired after your journey.’
Not that it had prevented her from calling in the first place.
‘I can call again another time and fill you in with all the latest news of our little town. Not but what you will probably find it all terribly dull after the adventures you must have been having.’
Oh dear. Her lack of interest in whatever gossip Mrs Podmore wanted to share must have shown on her face. She really must take care to guard her expression better.
‘No, no, dear, I insist. Though I must say,’ she said tartly, ‘that travelling doesn’t seem to have agreed with you. You look positively wan. What you need now is a good wholesome English meal, followed by a good night’s sleep in your own bed. That will soon bring the roses back to your cheeks.’
They were returning already. Mrs Podmore couldn’t possibly have meant anything by that comment about sleeping in her own bed. It was only her conscience shrieking that everyone could tell she was a fallen woman now, just by looking at her.
Fortunately Mrs Podmore had already turned her back on Amethyst as she hurried to the door. Keen to get out and spread the news of Fenella’s marriage to a French count, no doubt. And if that weren’t enough of a coup for her, she’d also got the notion she was going to be able to interfere in some indigent female’s life by obliging her to come and work for Amethyst as a companion. If she was in such a hurry to find her, the poor woman must be attempting to escape Stanton Basset at some point today.
She hoped she made it.
Though she wasn’t sorry Mrs Podmore would be out and about disseminating the truth about Fenella. There had been enough unpleasant and unfounded gossip about Fenella doing the rounds of Stanton Basset.
At the mention of unfounded gossip her mind flew back, as it did so often since he’d told her, to the scurrilous rumour that Nathan had heard about her. About her having a child out of wedlock.
There had been something niggling at the back of her mind, something about those days, that she hadn’t been able to put her finger on, until this moment, when she’d seen how keen Mrs Podmore was to spread her bit of gossip. Right after she’d kept her own mouth shut about Monsieur Le Brun, out of consideration for his feelings.
The kind of story that Nathan had heard about her was meat and drink to people like Mrs Podmore. If it had reached the ears of someone like that, people would have been twitching their skirts aside as she walked past.
But they hadn’t. She’d had no idea what she was supposed to have been guilty of, until just a few days ago.
It meant that Nathan couldn’t have repeated the story, not to anyone. Nor could his friend, Fielding.
But Nathan had been furious. He’d wanted to hurt her. He’d told her as much. So, why hadn’t he taken the final step and destroyed her completely? He’d had the power to do it. All he would have had to do was repeat what he’d heard and, even though it wasn’t true, the damage would have been done. People would always wonder. ‘No smoke without fire.’ How often had she heard that, in connection to rumours, particularly salacious ones?
What had made him hold back from taking that final step?
One answer came to her mind immediately. It was the conclusion her aunt would have leapt to. That he wouldn’t have wanted anyone to know he’d been deceived by the kind of woman he’d thought she’d been. That it was all a matter of preserving his pride.
But from deep within rose another reason to account for his reticence. A reason that made just as much sense. That he’d done it to shield her from the punishment society would have meted out, had the story been made public. He hadn’t wanted to be responsible for blackening her name and ruining her reputation.
‘Aunt Georgie, I don’t think all men are completely bad,’ she said out loud. The room seemed to frown at her. Every item in it was deeply ingrained with memories of her aunt, that was the trouble, and every stick of furniture now reproved her for speaking such heresy.
Though she was trembling, she said it again.
‘Men aren’t necessarily bad, just because they’re men. I think they make mistakes, and get hurt and lash out, just the same as we do. And some of them,’ her voice dropped to a whisper, ‘some of them...might even be good.’
The sooner she left this place and rejoined Fenella and her family in Southampton, the better.
When he’d come in to collect the tea tray, Adams had interrupted her informing her aunt’s chair that she thought Fenella was jolly lucky to have found a man like Monsieur-le-Compte-de-Somewhere-Brown. ‘Fenella brought nothing to the marriage but a whole pile of obligations,’ she’d been insisting. ‘But not only did he not seem to mind, he’d actually fought for her. And Sophie, too. You should have seen his face the first time she called him Papa. He loves that little girl. He really does.’
Adams had looked round the room, as though searching for whomever she’d been talking to, though he must have known Mrs Podmore had left, or he wouldn’t have come in to clear away.
He’d probably come to the conclusion that she was well on the way to becoming as odd as her aunt had been, walking round the room haranguing the furniture.
No, she sighed, her aunt’s house was not a healthy place for her to live. She’d already begun to talk to herself. What next would she do?
Well, it wouldn’t come to that. She walked briskly back to her study, drew out a fresh sheet of paper, trimmed her pen and set the process of the move in motion.
* * *
There had been many decisions to make. What to sell? What to put away in storage? What to take with her? And how was she going to implement her plan to improve the lot of her workforce from Southampton? Without anyone knowing that she was the one doing it? Practical issues such as these had kept her fully occupied for the next couple of days. During the hours of daylight, at least. But at night, as she had lain in bed, she could not ignore the creeping sense of loneliness and failure that only frenetic activity could keep at bay.
By the end of the week she’d begun to suspect Adams was developing a sort of fatherly concern for her. Or perhaps fatherly was not the right word, she grimaced as she tied up the ribbons of her Sunday bonnet. Her father had never shown concern when she’d been downcast. He’d always berated her for not displaying proper Christian gratitude, for not always giving thanks in everything. He’d never brought her tea and biscuits at regular intervals, which Adams now did if she lost track of time whilst working her way through the backlog of reports stacked on her desk. Or looked at her with such grave concern when she sat staring into space during meal times, forgetting to keep on raising the fork to her mouth, then nudged a favourite dish towards her, suggesting that cook would be disappointed if she didn’t at least try it.
‘Adams,’ she said as she tugged on her gloves, ‘I’ve come to
