That was why you chose to marry in October, so the church could be adorned in autumnal splendor, to match your garnet hair and witch’s eyes.
“I did not marry,” Jennet told the errant thought as she guided the horse up the winding drive to her friend’s home. “I am not a witch.”
You bewitch me, a deep voice chided from her memory.
Once more Jennet saw herself in her wedding gown, standing in the church while a younger Mr. Branwen comforted a noisily weeping Margaret, and hundreds of guests whispered and stared at her. She had been like a pillar of salt, frozen for all eternity halfway to an empty altar where her marriage would not be taking place. Later she would feel the humiliation, the despair, and the deep and abiding hatred of the man who had so thoroughly ruined her. In that moment, however, all she could think was how even with her gift she had never anticipated this, not once. She believed she had been loved as much as she had loved.
Never again.
Although it was a little early for a morning call, the Tindalls’ butler welcomed Jennet with a smile. “Miss Catherine is in the library, Miss Reed.”
As she made her way through the house Jennet noted the finest of the latest décor fashions had accompanied the family from London, including new opulent gold-trimmed draperies and exotic-looking chairs with curved legs and inlays of brass. The Tindall family had no qualms about displaying their taste for the modern, or the affluence that allowed them to indulge it.
In the library she found Catherine dozing on an ebonized chaise of green damask, her lemon silk morning gown making her appear as if wrapped in a beam of early sunlight. Artful curls of brown escaped her sophisticated, golden-laced Greco-Roman hairstyle to frame her rose-cheeked face. Against her breast lay an open volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets, adding a romantic note to the tableau.
“What do I look like?” Catherine asked without opening her eyes. “A pretty demure miss, or an enchanting, provocative coquette?”
“You are everything without artifice,” Jennet assured her drily. “Except for the Shakespeare. Everyone knows how you hate to read.”
“Sadly, true.” Her friend wrinkled her nose, tossed the book aside and sat up to grin at her. “So, you must amuse me now that I am whisked from the diversions of London. I have news, but you must first tell me that you have an intrigue to share. I dare not hope for a scandal in Renwick.”
Extracting the bedraggled note from her reticule, she offered it to Catherine. “An All Hallows’ Eve masquerade at Dredthorne may suffice.”
“Egad. I received one of these, too. A masked ball at the most haunted mansion in the county seems rather ghastly. I can hardly contain my excitement.” Her friend read the invitation and chuckled. “I imagine you know why you were singled out.”
Jennet sighed and nodded as she sat down on a chintz-covered chair across from Catherine. Since childhood she had possessed a natural talent for deciphering the feelings and intentions of others. Although she herself didn’t know how, she could always tell what most people were thinking by the changes in their reactions, expressions and stances during conversation. This gift allowed her to anticipate and avoid a great deal of that which she regarded as unpleasant, but it had also given her a reputation as a natural diviner.
“In London the new fashion in fortune-telling is to gaze into a crystal ball while making predictions,” Catherine told her as she turned the note over. “Mine was also unsigned. Who do you think sent them?”
“Mr. Pickering, I daresay.” Jennet tugged off her gloves. “He’s called three times since he came back from the city, and told Mama he has leased a property near Reed Park for a shooting party.”
“Ah, the ever-determined Arthur. I quite forgot his fascination with you.” Her friend sighed. “He is not titled, handsome or particularly interesting, and I must say his dancing is entirely dreadful. Still, you could do worse.”
“I thank you for your opinions.” Her enthusiasm for London society meant Catherine knew everything about everyone, which sometimes proved annoying. “As I have told Mr. Pickering many times, I have no intention of marrying.”
“Even when the gentleman has a house in Grosvenor’s Square, and seven thousand a year?” Her friend grinned as she handed back the invitation. “I am certain that he has mentioned that on a dozen occasions.”
“I am not concerned with Mr. Pickering,” Jennet told her crisply. “Mama found the invitation first, and you know how nonsensical she becomes about curses. I think I must attend, if only to prove to her that nothing dreadful will happen. Yet she will not allow me to go to Dredthorne Hall alone, for fear of the ghosts she believes haunts it.”
“A frightful dilemma.” Catherine gave her a wry look. “You may tell dear Mrs. Reed that we will attend the masquerade together. I will play bodyguard and not for a moment leave your side.”
“The ball will be held in three days,” she pointed out, “and we have no costumes.”
“We can make our own masks.” Her friend rose from the chaise. “My grandmother’s trunks should contain something suitably decrepit to serve as our regalia. Come, we must raid the attics.”
A short time later they came downstairs with two old but still-wearable ball gowns, which Catherine gave to her maid to clean and press. She then retrieved two lengths of velvet, matching ribbon and the sewing box from her room so they could fashion masks.
“A domino style is simple to sew, and will provide adequate concealment,” Catherine said as they went back to the library. “Although to keep our identities entirely concealed we should powder our hair, or perhaps wear wigs.”
“I should first shave my head bare,” Jennet said, only half in jest.
Her friend laughed. “Now that would discourage Mr. Pickering.”
As they sewed, Catherine chattered on about the many exciting parties and balls she had attended in London. Jennet felt a rare twinge of envy, for she had nothing similar to confide. Society in Renwick could only be regarded as staid and unvarying, with the occasional assembly or country dance, and she hardly bothered to attend half of those.
She didn’t mind their neighbors, or the simple pleasures they enjoyed together. Their efforts to include her, however, came more from compassion than any desire for her company. Jennet in turn had a reputation for always leaving early, but not because she quickly wearied of Renwick society. At such events she often overheard murmured remarks that illustrated the general sympathy directed toward her.
Luckless girl. I think she will never recover from being so meanly treated.
As handsome as she ever was, but far too old now to attract another offer.
At least she can be a comfort to her mother.
To keep her temper in check in those moments Jennet would then have to claim fatigue to her host and leave. She quite despised being made forever the object of pity, especially when she felt quite the opposite. How fortunate she had been, to be spared marriage to a man so unfeeling he had not even bothered to call off their wedding. No, he had run off to London, the coward, without a word to anyone. His own parents had been so ashamed by his betrayal they had packed up and left Renwick at once, and since had only rarely visited their country house.
Of what had happened immediately after she had been jilted Jennet remembered very little. She knew she must have come home with her mother, and walked upstairs to her chamber to change. When the room grew dark, she supposed she had slept; she had no recollection of any of it. Her first clear memory was standing over the torn ruin of her wedding gown, and then politely asking Mrs. Holloway to burn the shredded heap rather than use it as rags.