They didn’t have to.
He felt the letter, tangled between her fingers, damp with her tears. “Hugh?”
In answer, Mamma pressed the letter to her face. She bit through the paper, ripped it apart, spit it out onto the rug, and flung it away from her. “Get out of here. All of you. Get out, get out, get out. Let me die with my son. Let me die with my baby, my Hugh…in the name of mercy, let me die.”
“Mamma, stop it—”
“Son, no.” Papa waved a shaking hand. No tears glistened, but veins bulged in his forehead, and his eyes were wide and stricken. “Leave your mother alone. Please.”
Felton bit on his lip so hard he tasted blood. He left the room, bumped into Dodie, ran past her and back outside.God, no, no.Couldn’t breathe. He took the path to Monbury Manor, but only because it was alone and hidden.Please, please.
Bile rose through him. This couldn’t be true. This wouldn’t happen. Not to Hugh, young and brave and strong. Papa’s pride. Mamma’s baby. The letters couldn’t stop because everything would stop. How would Mamma survive without the letters?
She needed them.
Papa neededher.
Felton needed them both. Couldn’t live without them. Couldn’t live without Hugh. How could this happen? In the name of heaven, hadn’t they suffered enough?
He walked faster. Then ran. Then slammed himself against the stone wall and bashed his fist into the mossy rocks.No, no, no.
Not Hugh.
Couldn’t be true. This was some mistake and the letter was a lie and somehow everything would be all right again. No Northwood could be taken down so easily. Couldn’t be done.
Please help me.He sank along the stone wall and covered his face with his arms.Christ, help it not be so. I beg of You.
“You simply cannot imagine how pleasurable it is to see you again.” Miss Penelope Haverfield smiled from the striped, wingback chair in the drawing room. She was one of the pictures come to life. The ones Eliza had studied and dreamed over in endless books and magazines.
Her hair was sunlight. Her teeth pearls. Her skin cream, eyes sapphire, lips roses. Not a hair was out of place, and not a wrinkle creased the satin of her pelisse and dress. She was everything a lady should be.
Everything Eliza was not.
Her eyes, glinting and mockingly amused, said as much. “Well, do sit down, my dear. I shall feel insufferably awkward if you don’t.”
“Oh.” Eliza hurried into a seat. “Of course.”
“I hope you do not mind my visiting.”
“Certainly not.”
“Good. It is only that I thought of you, poor dear, and wanted to be of help if I might.” She pulled a small book from behind her reticule. “Fordyce’sSermons to Young Women.I presume you have not read it?”
“No.” She left her seat long enough to accept the book. “Thank you. I read often.”
“Do you? Why, what a surprise. From the way Felton talks, I was rather under the impression you were most naked of any sort of refinement.”
Hurt nipped her. “He said so?”
“La, who knows? Someone certainly whispered the notion into my ear—but that just goes to show you, doesn’t it, that things are not always what they seem.”
Quiet settled into the room.
Heat suffused Eliza’s face as Miss Haverfield’s gaze traveled her up and down. From the hair, disheveled and loose down her shoulders. To the morning dress, crinkled and still stained where she’d sloshed some of Minney’s caudle from the bowl. To her face, her burning face. Oh, why had the woman come? To scorn her? To scream, if only silently, that Eliza could never be a lady?
“I do hope we can be friends.” The girl tugged at one of her white gloves and smiled again. “In fact, I cannot own to only visiting for the sake of bringing you a book. Other motives drew me.” When Eliza did not prod her to share more, Miss Haverfield leaned forward. “Can you be trusted with a secret now that we are dear friends?”
“If your secret is terribly precious, perhaps you should keep it to yourself.”
