Strange. She’d left Simon because she couldn’t stand his choices. She’d felt herself in turmoil, living with him while he killed or sought death himself. Lucy knit her brows. Perhaps she hadn’t acknowledged it before, that part of her flight was fear—the constant, agonizing worry that he might die in one of his duels. Yet here, in the quiet of her childhood home, the turmoil within herself was much worse. The silence, the very lack of drama, was almost oppressive. At least in London she could flail against Simon, argue his revenge. She could make love to him.
Here, she was alone. Simply alone.
She missed Simon. She’d expected that there would be some yearning, the ache of loss when she’d left him. After all, she cared for him very much. What she hadn’t expected was that the ache would be a gigantic hole in the fabric of her life, a hole in her very being. She wasn’t at all sure she could live without him. And while that sounded melodramatic, it was also sadly true. She very much feared that she would return to her husband not because of the morally sound argument put forth by her father—that one should forgive the sinner—but because of a mundane truth.
She could not live apart from him.
No matter what he’d done, no matter what he would do in the future, no matter what he was, she still missed him. Still wanted to be with him. How appalling.
“Goodness, it’s freezing out here. Whatever are you doing, haunting the garden like the ghost of a wronged woman?”
Lucy swung around at the irritable voice.
Patricia hopped from one foot to the other behind her. She’d pulled her hood around her face and held a fur muff to her nose, obscuring all but her china-blue eyes. “Come inside right now before you turn to ice.”
Lucy smiled at her friend. “Very well.”
Patricia heaved a sigh of relief and scurried in the back door without waiting for her. Lucy followed behind.
When she came inside, Patricia already had her cloak and muff off. “Remove that.” The other woman gestured at Lucy’s hood. “And let’s go in the sitting room. I’ve already asked Mrs. Brodie for tea.”
Soon they were seated in the little back room, a steaming pot of tea before them.
“Ahh.” Patricia held her cup before her face, nearly bathing in the warm liquid. “Thank goodness Mrs. Brodie knows how to heat the water properly.” She took a sip of tea and set down her cup in a businesslike manner. “Now tell me about London and your new life.”
“It’s very busy,” Lucy said slowly. “London, that is. There is so much to see and do. We went to the theater not long ago and I adored it.”
“Lucky.” Patricia sighed. “I’d love to see all the people in their finest clothes.”
“Mmm.” Lucy smiled. “My sister-in-law, Rosalind, is quite kind. She’s taken me shopping and shown me her favorite places. I have a niece as well. She plays with tin soldiers.”
“Very unique. And your new husband?” Patricia asked in a too-innocent tone. “How is he?”
“Simon is well.”
“Because I did notice that you came visiting without him.”
“He’s busy—”
“On Christmas Eve.” Patricia arched an eyebrow. “Your first Christmas Eve together. And while I am aware that you are a deplorably unsentimental woman, I’m nevertheless somewhat suspicious.”
Lucy took care while pouring herself a second cup of tea. “I don’t believe it’s any of your business, Patricia.”
Her friend looked shocked. “Well, of course it isn’t my business. If I confined my curiosity to matters strictly my business, I should never learn anything. Besides,” Patricia said more prosaically, “I care about you.”
“Ah.” Lucy looked away to hide the tears that pricked at her eyes. “We did have a difference of opinion.”
“A difference of opinion,” Patricia repeated neutrally.
There was a pause.
Then Patricia thumped the cushion beside her. “Did that bastard take a mistress already?”
“No!” Lucy frowned at her, appalled. “Why does everyone immediately think that?”
“Do they?” Patricia looked interested. “Probably because he has that air about him.”
“What air?”
“You know”—Patricia circled her hand vaguely—“as if he knows far more than he should about women.”
Lucy blushed. “He does.”
“Makes him near irresistible.” Patricia sipped her tea. “So it’s all the more alarming that you were able to part from him. Especially, as I say, at Christmas.”
A sudden thought struck Lucy. She set her cup down. “I haven’t finished his present.”
“What?”
Lucy stared at her friend. “I meant to illustrate a book for him, but it isn’t finished.”
Patricia looked satisfied. “You must be expecting to see him tomorrow, then . . .”
Her friend continued, but Lucy wasn’t listening. Patricia was right. Sometime in the last few minutes, she had made her decision: She would return to Simon, and they would somehow fix this problem between them.
“And that reminds me,” Patricia said. She pulled a small box from her pocket and held it out.
“But I haven’t anything for you.” Lucy pulled off the lid. Inside was a lady’s handkerchief embroidered with her new initials. The letters were lopsided, it was true, but quite lovely anyway. “How thoughtful. Thank you, Patricia.”
“I hope you like it. I’m afraid I punctured my fingers as often as the cloth.” Her friend held out her right hand in evidence. “And you do, you know.”
“Do what?”
“Have a present for me.” Patricia withdrew her hand and inspected her fingernails.
Lucy looked at her, puzzled.
“I recently received an offer of matrimony, and since you had previously declined the gentleman in question and actually gone so far as to marry someone else—”
“Patricia!” Lucy jumped up to hug her friend, nearly knocking over the tea tray in the process. “You mean you’re engaged?”
“Indeed.”
“And to Eustace Penweeble?”
“Well—”
“What happened to old Mr. Benning and his ninety arable acres?”
“Yes, that is sad, isn’t it?” Patricia pinned a gold curl back into place. “And that grand manor. It really is a shame. But I’m afraid that Mr. Penweeble quite overwhelmed all my good sense. I think it must be his height. Or perhaps his shoulders.” She took a pensive sip of tea.