“Only if you’ll eat something, Miss,” the housekeeper said firmly, nodding toward the untouched tray by her bed.
“Of course.” Jennet wanted nothing but to crawl back into her bed, but starving herself to death for him seemed worse than being left at the altar. “Do forgive me.”
Seven years had passed since her jilting, years that had bestowed on her the grace of acceptance. That she had never shed a single tear, nor allowed the disgrace to rule the rest of her life, provided Jennet with great solace. She remained as she ever had been, only perhaps a little wiser about men and matters of the heart.
“Once my maid adds a bit of lace and beading, this should do,” Catherine said, drawing Jennet out of her thoughts. She tied on the black mask she had sewn, tucked a hand under her chin, and pursed her lips. “Do I appear mysterious?”
“Utterly.” Jennet pinned the ribbons to either side of her blue velvet domino. “I think I will embroider mine with some silks I have at home. I should go.”
“You cannot leave yet. All our talk of Mr. Pickering made me forget the most important news.” Her friend removed the mask and set it aside as she gave her a sly look. “It seems our old friend William Gerard has come back to Renwick. Do you think he will attend the masquerade?”
“I cannot tell you,” Jennet said, keeping her expression bland. “Why would it matter?”
“You have not heard.” Catherine’s voice dropped to a confidential murmur. “William’s father died last year from lung fever, poor gentleman, so he is Baron Greystone now.” She sighed. “Every scheming mama with an unattached daughter will be calling at Gerard Lodge. Still, Papa said he arrived only yesterday, so I think he will be too busy settling in to make an appearance.”
“I expect he will.” Jennet knew nothing would hinder the competition for Greystone’s attention; marriageable men of suitable fortune did not often take up residence in Renwick. What he had done before inheriting the barony mattered little.
Her friend peered at her. “I had expected you would have much to say on the matter.”
Jennet’s hand shook, driving the sharp end of her needle into her fingertip. The pain provided the immediate return of her customary clarity. “Was that your motive for telling me of his lordship’s return?”
“I truly meant only to tease you,” her friend said, grimacing. “I should have thought better of it. When the Duke of Bedford refused to dance with me during my first season, I thought it should break my heart. Papa so wished for me to become engaged to him.”
Although she had received innumerable offers, Catherine remained unmarried, which had always puzzled Jennet. “Surely there have been others who might please your father.”
“Those who have satisfied him were gentlemen I found very disagreeable, and those I have favored he disdained.” She shrugged. “Truly, I rather like my situation. I am invited to all the balls and gatherings. I can travel where I like, and see my friends whenever I choose. I will inherit all this someday. Why marry at all?”
Jennet tucked her needle into the velvet, and rubbed her throbbing finger against her palm. “You do not yearn for love, or children?”
“I know too much about men to fall in love,” Catherine said. “Child-bearing seems a vastly dreary business.” Her nose wrinkled. “I consider myself blessed whenever I see Bedford now. The years since have stolen most of His Grace’s hair, and bestowed on him the look of a petulant dormouse.”
“Yet he would have made you a Duchess, my dear,” Eleanor Tindall said as she came into the library. As petite as her daughter, the lady wore a sumptuous gown of dark blue velvet with gleaming insets of golden brocade. “Good afternoon, dear Jennet. I hope you will stay for luncheon.”
“Thank you, ma’am, but I think I must go home.” Jennet tucked her mask into her reticule. “Thank you for helping me to avert all possible disaster, Catherine. I will call for you on the night of the masquerade at dusk.”
“I will have the gown sent to Reed Park tomorrow,” her friend said as she walked with her to the front entry. When Jennet murmured her thanks and kissed her cheek Catherine took hold of her hands. “Do not permit the specter of the past to spoil our fun. What is in the past is dead. He is nothing to you now.”
“You are quite right.” She forced a smile and then went to the rig.
On the drive back to Reed Park Jennet reined in the horse at a crossing, and then turned onto another, seldom-used road that led in the opposite direction. Soon she crossed fresh wheel ruts left by the recent passage of heavily-laden carts, and passed a meadow of withering grasses glinting with drops of melting frost.
The afternoon sun felt hot on the back of her neck as she approached another turn, this one onto a drive leading up to an imposing country manor. The house, clad in dark stone and roofed in charcoal slate, had double-hung sash windows and a fan panel over the front door, in which had been placed panes of black and white glass cut and fitted to resemble a crescent moon in a star-studded night sky. White stone and severely-trimmed evergreens hemmed the outer walls, and flanked the stone carriage house to one side.
He had hated the house, Jennet recalled, and yet it remained unchanged.
The lodge is a nightmare to the eye. When my father dies I will paint it apricot and scarlet, and have the gardeners fill the lawns with daisies and dandelions. Then you may make a wish each time you walk outside, while I fashion flower crowns for you to wear every day.
How many such fanciful notions had they shared during their engagement? For a moment Jennet felt the pain of her loss again, as if the man she had adored had died rather than deserted her. This was to have been her home, their home, which he had promised they would fill with laughter and children. Margaret would have come often to visit her grandchildren. They would have had their friends over for dinners and parties and holiday gatherings, and watched their sons and daughters grow, and lived the life of anyone’s dreams.
“You fool,” Jennet whispered as she stared at Gerard Lodge. Whether she addressed its master or herself, she could not say.
As she tugged on the reins to turn the rig around, Jennet felt hollow yet resolute. Should Baron Greystone choose to attend the masquerade, like the other guests he would be in costume. That would likely avert any possibility of an unhappy encounter. She could enjoy the evening with Catherine and their friends without worry.
And if Greystone dared to remove his mask, why then, she would simply punch her former fiancé in the face.
Chapter 2
Outside the parsonage, Jeffrey Branwen surveyed the flower garden with the resignation of a man who had witnessed many such disappointments. His shadow, shorter and rounder than himself, stretched out before him like a puddle of a mourning gown—or a gigantic black thumb. Out of habit he rubbed the back of his neck as he tried to fathom where he had gone wrong with this effort.
In every way, he thought, for his garden had withered entirely. One would find more flowers blooming in a graveyard.
The roses he had tried to coax into bloom had all died during the late summer without offering so much as a single bud. The violets, so adored by his wife Deidre, had accompanied them into the great garden beyond. So had the lavender, the morning glories, and the poppies. A few weeds had poked up when he had admitted defeat at the beginning of fall, but they, too, now browned and drooped. He also suspected the young elm sapling he had installed by Deidre’s bench to provide shade had grown diseased.