“But no one special?” Anne asked.

Susanna’s heart felt like a leaden weight in her chest.

“No,” she said. “Not really.”

Anne raised her eyebrows.

“Only one gentleman,” Susanna said reluctantly, “who made his intentions very clear, and they were not honorable ones. It was the old story, Anne. Yet he was very handsome and very amiable. Never mind. And you? You told us a great deal about your Welsh holiday the evening before I left, but nothing that was very personal. Did you meet anyone interesting?”

Anne and her son, David, had gone to Wales to spend a month with the Bedwyn family on the Duke of Bewcastle’s estate.

“The Bedwyns,” Anne said, smiling, “are all quite fascinating, Susanna-and that is actually an understatement. The Duke of Bewcastle is every bit as formidable as he is reputed to be. He has cold silver eyes and long fingers that are forever curling about the handle of his quizzing glass. He is quite terrifying. And yet he was unfailingly courteous to me. The duchess is a delight and not at all high in the instep, and it is quite clear that he adores her though he is never ever demonstrative in public. He also adores their son, who is a cross, demanding little baby-except when his father is holding him. And he holds him rather often. He is a strange, mysterious, fascinating man.”

Susanna rested her chin on her knees. She was thinking of how words could be true and yet a massive lie at the same time. It was the old story, Anne. Yet he was very handsome and very amiable. Never mind. Just as if the whole relationship with Viscount Whitleaf had been that trivial, that unimportant.

“All this talk of married dukes is depressing me,” she said, smiling as if her heart were not breaking. “Was there no one who was unmarried?”

“No dukes.” Anne smiled too.

Something in her tone alerted Susanna.

“Oh, Anne,” she said. “Who?”

“No one really,” Anne said quickly, shifting position on the chair. “Oh, what a dreadful thing to say of another human being. He very definitely is someone. He is the duke’s steward at Glandwr. He was alone and I was alone, and so it was natural enough that occasionally we walk out together or sit together on evenings when he was invited to dine. That is all.”

“All,” Susanna repeated. “And was he tall, dark, and handsome, Anne?”

“Yes,” Anne said. “All three.”

Susanna continued to gaze at her.

“We were merely friends,” Anne said.

“Were you?” Susanna spoke softly.

“We were. We were…very dear friends,” Anne said.

But Susanna knew something as clearly as if they had both poured out their hearts to each other. They had both met someone very special indeed during their holidays. And they had both returned with bruised, perhaps even broken, hearts.

“But he did not make an offer,” she said. “Anne, I am so sorry.”

There was a lengthy silence, during which Anne did not contradict her.

“Do you think,” Susanna asked at last, “life would be easier, Anne, if one had parents and family to take one about, to make sure one met suitable people, to arrange for one to meet eligible suitors? Would it be easier than living at a girls’ school as one of the teachers?”

It seemed absurd, she thought, to miss her mother so very much even now when she was twenty-three-her mother, whom she had never known.

“I am not sure,” Anne said, closing the curtains again, “that life is ever easy. Very often girls and women make disastrous marriages even while surrounded by family to help guide their choice or make it for them. I think given the choice between a bad marriage and life here, I would choose being here every time. In fact, I am certain I would.”

“It was so ungrateful of me,” Susanna said, “even to ask that question. Good fortune was smiling on me when I was sent here to school, and I was blessed beyond belief when Claudia offered me a position on the staff. And I have such very good friends here. What more could I ask of life?”

“Ah, but we are women as well as teachers, Susanna,” Anne said as she resumed her seat. “We have needs that nature has given us for the very preservation of our species.”

Ah, and that was the trouble. That was the whole trouble. Without those needs, Susanna thought, she might have escaped unscathed from her summer holiday. She might have gone through the rest of her life convincing herself that Viscount Whitleaf had been just a temporary though dear friend whom she missed.

“And sometimes,” she said, “they are very hard to ignore. I was very tempted this summer, Anne. To be a man’s mistress. Part of me is still not convinced that I made the right choice. And will I be able to make the same choice next time? And the next?”

As if there ever would or could be a next time.

And she had been tempted in more than one way, hadn’t she? And had certainly not resisted one of those temptations.

“I don’t know,” Anne said.

“What poor, sad spinsters we are,” Susanna said, laughing and getting up from her perch on the bed. “I am for my lonely bed. The journey has tired me out. Good night, Anne.”

Three days later all the boarders returned to school and with them several new girls, including two charity pupils who needed a great deal of care and attention. And the day after that the day girls returned and classes started.

It was a relief to be busy again.

It was even more of a relief-and that was a massive understatement-to discover two weeks later that she was not with child, that her great indiscretion had had no lasting consequences. None that would be observable to anyone else, anyway.

And yet, perversely, the discovery left her feeling freshly bereft.

Now it was all definitely and finally over.

Her heart, her very life, had never felt more frighteningly empty.


It was not finally over for Anne.

One Saturday morning late in September a sudden deluge of rain sent Susanna and a class of girls under her supervision dashing back inside the school from the open meadows beyond Daniel Street, where they always went for their games lessons. Susanna sent the girls up to their dormitories to dry off and would have taken her own wet cloak and bonnet up to her room before meeting them in the grand hall for indoor games, but Mr. Keeble informed her that she was wanted in the office, that he had already asked Miss Walton to supervise the hall.

She found Claudia and Anne waiting for her and smiled when she saw a nice warm fire crackling in the grate. It was a chilly day outside.

“We are to lose Anne, Susanna,” Claudia said sternly and without preamble. “She is to marry Mr. Sydnam Butler, son of the Earl of Redfield and steward at the Welsh estate of the Duke of Bewcastle.”

Poor Claudia could never utter that last name without some venom in her voice. Her final position as a governess, which had been with Lady Freyja Bedwyn as her pupil and the Duke of Bewcastle as her employer, had left her with a lasting antipathy toward both. She heartily despised them though she did concede that without that more-than-unpleasant experience she might never have summoned the courage to open her own school.

But Susanna did not spare much thought for Claudia. She had looked into Anne’s ashen face, and she instantly knew.

“Oh, Anne,” she said, closing the distance between them and hugging her friend tightly.

“I have told her that she need not do it,” Claudia said. “I have told her we will find some alternative. But she insists.”

“Of course I do.” Anne stepped back from Susanna’s arms and smiled with ghastly cheerfulness at both of them. “I want to marry Mr. Butler. I am fond of him. I am not marrying him just because I am with child. I am with child, Susanna.”

“We are all going to have a nice cup of tea,” Claudia said with iron calm. “And we are all going to sit down. Not necessarily in that order.”

Susanna was glad of the chair. She could guess exactly the way it was. Anne was more than fond of Mr. Butler, but Mr. Butler was the son of an earl. He had allowed Anne to return to Bath without offering her marriage. Yet now he was doing the honorable thing and marrying her after all-but only because he must.

Poor Anne! What a dreadful thing it was for her to be facing a marriage in which her feelings were engaged when she would always know that his were not.

And it could so easily have happened to her too, Susanna thought, a chill about her heart even while the fire warmed her toes and her face.

Except that she would never have let Viscount Whitleaf know if she had shared Anne’s fate. And she doubted he would have offered marriage even if she had.

Oh, but she did not know, did she, what she would have done if it really had happened. Or what he might have done if he had found out. Her knees turned weak at the thought of how close she had come to disaster.

Anne had not had her fortunate escape.

Susanna did not meet Mr. Butler until the day, two weeks later, when the wedding took place by special license in Claudia’s private sitting room. He had been badly maimed as a soldier during the Peninsular Wars-he had lost an arm and an eye and was badly burned all down the right side of his face. He was also, as Anne had told Susanna on the evening after her return from Somerset, tall, dark, and handsome. Susanna told him so with a twinkle in her eye after the brief service, when Anne was already his wife-but she said it only because it seemed to her that he was a good-humored man and she thought it altogether possible that he did care for Anne.