Her heart was whittled away by her hurt, and it had turned to dust. She could feel it—a powdery, insubstantial thing in her chest.

One gloomy, damp afternoon, as Honor and Prudence strolled about the square—they were desperate to be out of doors—Prudence reported that she’d heard Monica saying that she might wed within the next few weeks, but her mother had corrected her to say that likely she would wait another year, given the prescribed period of mourning for the earl.

“Perhaps in theory,” Honor said thoughtfully.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t believe Augustine can do without her for a full year,” Honor said. “He’ll think of some way. Even if it were to take a year, how long will it be before Mamma begins to speak again and the words coming out of her mouth are as mad as her appearance? Her madness will affect us all, Pru. The only thing that has truly changed for us is that the rituals of mourning have added another complication to our lives.”

“I don’t want to say it, but...”

“But what?” Honor urged her sister.

Prudence shook her head. “I am quite worried for Mamma. I overheard Mrs. Hargrove and Augustine talking.”

A slight shiver of fear ran through Honor. “Mrs. Hargrove? Or Monica?”

“Mrs. Hargrove,” Prudence repeated, and glanced across the square to Beckington House. “She said that she worried for Mamma’s health, and, naturally, Augustine agreed. But then Mrs. Hargrove said there was a place in St. Asaph that could provide care for people like Mamma.”

“St. Asaph?” Honor said. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Mercy and I hadn’t, either. We looked for it in the pages of the atlas. Oh, Honor—it’s in Wales! It is very far from London—it’s far from everything!”

Honor’s heart skipped a few beats.

“Miss Cabot!”

Prudence and Honor both started and glanced around. Mr. Cleburne was striding across the square toward them.

“God help me,” Honor muttered.

“I beg your pardon,” Mr. Cleburne said as he reached them. “I hope I’m not imposing. I happened to see the two of you here and thought perhaps you might like some company.”

“I was just saying to Honor that perhaps we ought to turn back. Mamma might need us,” Prudence said.

“But surely you might use a bit of fresh air,” he said hopefully, forgetting, perhaps, that London air was the farthest thing from fresh.

“Go and see after Mamma, Pru,” Honor suggested.

Prudence looked at her uncertainly, but Honor winked. “Mr. Cleburne and I will be along shortly.”

When Prudence had left them, Cleburne smiled at Honor and gestured to the walk. “Thank you, Miss Cabot.” He fell in beside her, his hands at his back. “I am grateful for this opportunity to be alone in your company, in truth,” he said. “Your family’s tragedy has necessitated my stay in London, but I really must return to Longmeadow and my flock there. I plan to take my leave a week from Saturday.”

“I’m certain your parishioners have missed you terribly,” Honor agreed.

He smiled sheepishly. “May I compliment you, Miss Cabot? I have admired your strength during this time of great sorrow. You’ve been a true pillar of comfort for your family.”

She hadn’t been a pillar of comfort in the least. She’d been stumbling about, completely lost in her grief.

“Miss Cabot, I...” He paused midstride. “Miss Cabot, I have come to esteem you,” he blurted.

Honor swallowed down a sudden lump of terror. “Thank you for that, Mr. Cleburne, but I beg you not to say more, as I am in mourning—”

“But that is precisely why I must,” he said earnestly, and reached for her hand. Honor looked at his hand. “I beg your pardon, am I too forward?” he asked.

She blinked. Were he any other gentleman, she would have laughed, for that question would have been a jest. But Cleburne mistook her hesitation for fear, and smiled reassuringly. “You have nothing to fear from me, Miss Cabot. I would protect your virtue as my own. Think of this as a touch of comfort.”

What Honor thought of was her night with George. In comparison to him, Cleburne was an unswaddled babe left in the woods.

Her silence made him nervous, she could see that. “Do you think that perhaps we might—after a suitable period of mourning, naturally—come to an understanding with one another? I’ll be frank—Sommerfield is perfectly satisfied with the idea. I know I am not a London dandy, or...or any of the men you might have consorted with prior to our acquaintance, but I am a good man, an honest man and I would cherish you all our days.”

Honor didn’t know what to say to him. She didn’t dare speak her heart for fear of angering Augustine or hurting Mr. Cleburne. But neither could she encourage him. She thought frantically as she pulled her hand free. “I can’t say that this...conversation comes as a surprise,” she said, and the poor man actually blushed. “There is much to consider, Mr. Cleburne. My sisters and my mother not the least of them.”

“Of course. They are welcome at Longmeadow.”

“You may have noted that my mother is unwell,” she said bluntly.

He smiled. “I would consider it my Christian duty to help in any way that I might.”

Of course he would. She nodded, her mind spinning, her thoughts on George, who had told her flatly that her love for him was “impossible.” She should accept Cleburne’s offer, should accept the truth of her life as George had so boldly told her to do, and yet...yet she couldn’t seem to shake the thoughts of George from her mind. “May I have a day or two before...we talk?”

Cleburne seemed a bit disappointed by her request but rallied gamely and said, “Yes, of course. One must thoroughly consider all aspects.”

Cleburne accompanied her to the house, but he did not come in, claiming he had some calls he must make.

She made her way upstairs, feeling heavy in her limbs and her heart, and walked down the long hall to her mother’s suite of rooms. She knocked lightly on the door; Hannah opened it instantly. Just behind Hannah, Honor could see Mercy, her arms outstretched, practicing dance steps as she hummed a tune.

“How is Mamma?” Honor whispered.

“The same, miss. Says little and hasn’t an appetite.”

Honor nodded and stepped inside. Her mother was dressed in her widow’s weeds, standing at the window, looking out over the square. “Mamma?” Honor said.

“She’s not listening today,” Mercy said, sinking into a deep curtsy.

Honor walked across the room and touched her mother’s arm. She started, then looked at Honor and smiled. “Darling,” she said.

“Are you all right? May I get you something?”

Her mother didn’t answer, just turned her gaze to the window again.

“Mercy, you’ll stay with Mamma?” Honor asked as Mercy twirled again, the black ribbons of her mourning dress flying out behind her.

“When might I have my dance lessons again?” Mercy asked, dipping and swaying to one side.

“When we have properly mourned our stepfather,” Honor said. “Where is Pru?”

“Playing another dirge on the pianoforte.” Mercy sighed.

Just as Mercy had said, Prudence was playing a lugubrious song when Honor found her.

“Have you come, too?” Prudence asked. “Mercy has already tried to persuade me to leave off.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” Honor lied. “But I need your help. Will you keep an eye on Mamma this evening?”

Prudence stopped playing. “Why? Where will you be?”

“I have something I must do.”

“What is it?” Prudence pressed.

Honor really didn’t know the answer to that. She only knew she’d not accept Easton’s rejection of her. Unlike her experience with Rowley, this time Honor was certain of the feelings Easton had shown her, and she wasn’t going to walk away as if she had no say in it. “Darling, bear with me. I shall return by nightfall.”

“All right,” Prudence said lightly, and began to play again. “Do remember what the earl always said of you, Honor—you’re a good girl.”

Honor looked at her sister with surprise.

Prudence smiled a little. “You think me a child, but I’m not,” she said, and played a heavy chord.

Honor smiled fondly. “No, Pru, you’re not. You’ve grown up far too quickly.”

“Grace warned me. She said someone must remind you that you’re a good girl, or you will forget it entirely.”

Honor laughed. She missed Grace so! “I shall remember. But this afternoon, you really must bear with me.”

“I will,” Prudence said lightly. “I always do.” She smiled playfully at her sister and resumed her playing. “Have a care, Honor.”

As she went out, it was not lost on Honor that even the children were telling her to be careful now.



CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

IN A CLOAK, with the hood pulled over her head, Honor used the alleyways and mews to wend her way to Audley Street. A fine mist hung over the street. She hurried up the steps and rapped on George’s door. It seemed several long, torturous minutes passed before the door swung open. Mr. Finnegan stood there, looking at her curiously. He stooped down and peered under her hood to see her face. “Miss Cabot?” he said, his voice full of surprise.

“Yes, I...”

He abruptly grabbed her arm, pulled her inside then glanced up and down the street before shutting the door.

“I beg your pardon,” Honor said breathlessly, her anxiety having the best of her now. “I know this must seem highly unusual, but it is important that I speak to Mr. Easton. Is he at home?”

“He is,” Finnegan said warily.

“Then...then could you please tell him I have called?”

Finnegan sighed. He shook his head.

Honor’s heart sank. She’d come only to be rejected again.

“I shan’t tell him you’ve called—I think it best that it come from you, madam,” Finnegan said, and put his hand to the small of her back, ushering her deeper into the foyer. He pointed to a long hallway. “Walk until you see a green door on your right. That is his study, and you will find him within.”