Instantly Hattie regretted her words. Over the last two years since Mrs Reynaud had taken up residency in the tiny cottage, she’d become accustomed to Mrs Reynaud’s ruined features. ‘An old friend never looks at faces. They are pleased to renew the friendship.’
‘I doubt that he will remember me, whatever the state of his manners,’ Mrs Reynaud said, raising a handkerchief to her face. ‘Pray do not bother him with an old woman’s remembrance of a past acquaintance. I was wrong to mention it. Ever so wrong.’
‘Very well, I won’t insist.’ Hattie buried her face in Moth’s fur. What was she doing, clutching at straws, searching for a way to encounter Sir Christopher again? Had her experience with Charles taught her nothing? A few minutes waltzing with a confirmed rake and she behaved worse than Livvy. ‘It is a moot point as our paths are unlikely to cross.’
‘Are you that ignorant of men? He forced a forfeit and waltzed with you and only you.’
‘He did that for … for his own purposes,’ Hattie explained. ‘They say his mistresses are the most beautiful women London can offer. Why would he be interested in someone like me and my few charms?’
‘You underestimate yourself, my dear, and that borders on foolishness.’ Mrs Reynaud held out her hand. ‘I merely wanted to point out that having done your duty to your fallen hero and mourned him properly, you can start to live again. But if your heart is for ever buried with your husband and you are one of the walking dead, then so be it. A pity with you being so young.’
Hattie swirled the remains of her coffee. Living again. She thanked God that Mrs Reynaud didn’t know what her husband was truly like. The extent of his perfidy and hypocrisy had only emerged after his death.
Before then she had considered that she had a blissful marriage with someone utterly reliable and steadfast. She’d had no idea about his other family or the debts he’d run up. Thankfully, the woman in question had been discreet and she’d managed to scrape together the required amount. But no one else knew. She had her pride.
Sometimes she felt as if she was still living a lie, but she couldn’t confess the full horror. Not now, not ever. It remained her problem and she didn’t want false sympathy.
She opted for a bland, ‘I hardly know what to say.’
‘A light-hearted flirtation never did anyone any harm. Allow a little romance into your life. You’re a handsome woman and should be aware of your power! You should celebrate being alive, rather than running from it.’
Hattie focused on the tips of Moth’s ears as Moth snuffled crumbs. Flirtations could harm people, if they believed in romance. That lesson was etched on her heart. ‘I’ll bear that in mind, should ever the question arise.’
‘Oh dear, I fear I’ve shocked you. It’s what comes from living abroad for such a long period.’ The corners of Mrs Reynaud’s mouth quirked upwards. ‘You’ll get over it in time and forgive me, I hope. I do so look forward to your visits. They are always the highlight of my day.’
‘I should go to Highfield and see how Livvy fares before I go back home,’ Hattie said, plopping Moth into the now-empty basket. Moth gave a sharp bark and placed her paws on the rim.
Although she loved her sister and nieces and nephews, Hattie maintained her own establishment—the Highfield Dower House at the edge of the Highfield estate. Her old nurse Mrs Hampstead served as her housekeeper. Close enough to be on hand if there was a crisis, but far enough to maintain her own life.
She had come to Northumberland shortly after Charles’s death was confirmed. Her mother had died of a fever a few months before and her father of a broken heart, a week before Charles’s things arrived.
She’d always been grateful neither of them knew of Charles’s perfidy. She couldn’t have hidden the truth from her mother.
When Stephanie’s plea for help came, Hattie had considered it better than staying in London with her brother, the new viscount, and his wife. She had discovered a peace in Northumberland that she hadn’t considered possible.
‘You spend far too much time running around after your sister and her brood. She uses you as an unpaid lackey.’
‘There may be flowers or notes,’ Hattie said at Mrs Reynaud’s look. ‘And don’t worry, I will tell you everything about Livvy’s progress when I next visit. I think you are right, a quiet word and then tales about the wonders of a London Season should suffice.’
‘Come tomorrow. I will regale you with tales about how I escaped from the harem. Lots of danger and excitement.’
A great longing to see far-flung places and experience life swamped Hattie. When she was a little girl, she used to watch the ships on the Thames and swear she’d go abroad some day. But the furthest she’d travelled was to Northumberland and now that had become home.
Now that Stephanie’s children were nearly grown, she could start thinking about travelling. Doing things for herself rather than for others, but she still had to be aware of how her actions could affect the family. Outward appearances were everything. ‘Did you really escape?’
‘I feel the sheikh desired me more than I desired him. I was a great beauty once, you know.’
‘You still have a beautiful soul, Mrs Reynaud.’ Hattie covered Mrs Reynaud’s hand and ignored the tear that trickled down Mrs Reynaud’s face.
‘You have no idea the mistakes I have made and how I’ve paid for them.’ Mrs Reynaud’s gnarled hands fumbled for a handkerchief. ‘Sir Christopher… Remember, I specifically want to know when he departs from the neighbourhood.’
Hattie firmed her mouth. She wouldn’t enquire into Mrs Reynaud’s reasons, but she suspected they would both be relieved when he went. ‘If I learn any more news about Sir Christopher, I’ll tell you. I promise.’
The gravel crunched under Hattie’s feet as she marched towards Highfield’s rose garden. Despite the pile of unopened cards and several bouquets littering the drawing room, her sister and nieces were entertaining gentlemen callers in the rose garden.
Hattie knew she should have come earlier, but she had wanted to visit Mrs Reynaud and get her opinion before she acted. Surely Stephanie could cope with Livvy’s high spirits for a few minutes? When the time was right, she intended to have a quiet word with Livvy. Romance at a ball was all well and good, but some day, you had to wake up and face the harsh reality of the morning after when the evening prince turned out to be an unreliable toad.
Moth gave a sharp bark, indicating she wanted out of the basket. Hattie set the basket down. Moth gave Hattie a quizzical look and wandered off to investigate the garden, but came racing back almost instantly and sat at Hattie’s feet. Straight behind her strode Sir Christopher, his black coat and tan breeches gleaming in the sun. A gentleman caller with a difference.
‘Ah, I had wondered if you were going to grace us with your presence, Mrs Wilkinson, before I managed to wear out my welcome.’
‘Sir Christopher.’ Hattie hoped any high colour would be attributed to her walk, rather than his nearness. Mrs Reynaud had put ideas in her head about flirtations. Not precisely true. Her sleep had been filled with dreams of them dancing where Sir Christopher spun her round and round as Charles stood in the shadows.
‘Is the miscreant dog yours?’ he asked. ‘I caught her attempting to dig a hole in the borders. She is hardly bigger than a cat.’
‘Yes, Moth is mine. She is a papillon.’
‘A trained killer, rather than a butterfly.’ Sir Christopher bent down and tickled Moth under the chin. Moth lifted her chin a notch higher before rolling over and exposing her belly. Moth gave a little whimper of pleasure as Sir Christopher obligingly stroked her belly.
Hattie belatedly realised she was staring and turned towards a stand of deep-blue delphiniums. ‘An unexpected pleasure.’
‘My