"Papa, I've decided what I want for Christmas."
"Hm?" David Fairfax, Marquess of Stowe, glanced into the Bond Street shop window at the display of jewelry. Christmas was coming, all too soon. Already signs of it were everywhere, from the sweet, spicy scents of cinnamon and ginger wafting from bakeshops; in the armloads of packages borne by shoppers and footmen alike; even in the suddenly frosty air, so unlike London's usual winter damp. Not like winter in Yorkshire, where it was more likely to snow, and the best activities for a winter's afternoon could be found indoors. No, not like Yorkshire at all, he thought, and determinedly dragged his thoughts away from that subject, to stare instead fixedly at the jewelry. He'd have to be thinking of a present for Emily, a ring, perhaps. Yes. Why not a ring, along with a proposal? He couldn't say he loved her. He'd left that violent, volatile, and altogether unreliable emotion behind with his youth. He did, however, like her. A widow, she was cheerful, humorous and a trifle plump. If she was no great beauty, at least she was a comfortable person to be about. And she liked Jennie. That was the most important thing.
"Papa." Jennie tugged impatiently at David's hand, drawing his attention away from the window, bedecked in holly and red ribbon. "You're not listening to me."
"I'm sorry, poppet." He smiled crookedly down at her. "But I was attending to you. You know what you want for your Christmas presents this year."
"Present," she corrected impatiently. "Only one."
"Indeed? Then it must be very special."
"It is. I want-" She stopped, took in a deep breath, and continued on in a rush. "I want to see my mother."
It hit David hard, like a fist to his midsection, and for a moment he was robbed of breath. "Jennie, I'm not sure if that's possible-"
"I've been thinking about it, you know," she interrupted. "I know you want to give me a new mother. I know you've been seeing Mrs. Granfield. I do like her, Papa, really, I do. But why do I need another mother when I already have one of my own?"
Dear Lord. David briefly shut his eyes. Cool, rational, reasonable. He had a little logician on his hands, and well he knew it. At times, he didn't know what to do with her. Even in her earliest years, Jennie hadn't gone into any of the childish pouts or fits of temper he knew children could use when whey wished to have their own way. No. She used logic, and the way she thought at the age of six sometimes scared him. "I don't think it will be possible," he said, gently.
Jennie fixed him with a direct gaze, unnerving in someone her age. "Why not?"
"Your mother lives very far away, in the country," he improvised. "She won't want to come to town."
"Can't we go there? I know you have an estate there, and that that's where you met her. Nurse told me."
Dear Lord, he thought again, looking down at this daughter he loved more than he had thought it possible to love any child. "No, Jennie."
"Why not?"
This time he was forced to meet her gaze. Logician or not, when all was said and done she was still a child, a child who knew nothing of divorce, of broken marriages. Of broken hearts. "Jennie." He went down on one knee before her, heedless of the damage done to his biscuit colored buckskins or the stares of other people, caring only that he met her only at eye level. "Your mother and I are not the best of friends."
"Oh, I know that," she said, with careless scorn. "But she doesn't know me, Papa. Maybe she'll like me.
Remembering Tess, David rather doubted it. "You know that she and I decided to live apart. I explained that to you a long time ago."
"Yes, but we could stay at Stowcroft, and she could stay where she lives, and I could visit her."
"No." He rose. "It's out of the question, Jennie."
"Papa, my friend Elizabeth's parents live apart. So do Katherine's. But they still see their mothers. They still have their mothers," she went on, with quiet force. "Why can't I?"
His face stony, David walked beside her. There was much he could tell her, if he wanted to. Because, he could say, as much as he once had loved Tess, he now hated her with equal ferocity. Because she was the last person in the world he wanted to see. Because, even though he had expressly forbidden Tess to have anything to do with Jennie, he was surprised she had never made a push to see their daughter. She was as heartless as he had come to believe. He couldn't say that to a child, though. "It's out of the question."
"Why?"
"Jennie, wouldn't you rather have another angel figurine? That crystal one we saw?"
"That would be nice," she said without enthusiasm.
"And we could have guests for Christmas. I can invite friends who have children - no." He frowned. Christmas was not like any other time of year. Those who were socially minded stayed in town for the Little Season; others repaired to their country estates, usually with a party of family and friends, to celebrate the season. Hm. Now there was a thought. While David had always tried to make the day as special as possible for his daughter, the truth was that they were, essentially, alone. His family had always been small, and so there were no aunts, no uncles, and no cousins. He also rarely saw his mother, which was something else that wasn't going to change. Perhaps a house party wouldn't be so bad. "Jennie," he began, and stopped. No. To go to Stowcroft at any time of year would be hard; at Christmas, with all its memories, insupportable. Nor would any house party completely isolate him from Tess.
She looked up at him. "What, Papa?"
"Nothing."
"Oh. Wait! Papa, you could invite friends, but to Stowcroft."
He sighed. "Jennie-"
"Oh, it would be ever so much fun. Does it snow in Yorkshire?"
"Yes." Snowy days; Tess with her cheeks pink and her eyes sparkling from the cold and an impromptu snowball fight, which had led to quite something else; a winter's afternoon, spent inside, away from the stormy weather. No. Determinedly David dragged his thoughts away from memories of the past.
"Then we could all play outside. Oh, Papa, please. Please say yes."
"Jennie-"
"Please?"
Damnation, he thought. He'd always found it difficult to refuse Jennie when she looked up at him as she was now, her hazel eyes huge and pleading. He wondered if she knew what effect those dark lashed eyes had on him, or the effect they would have on young men in the future. The thought made him shudder. "People may have other plans already."
"How will you know, unless you ask them?"
He set his lips. Damn. She wasn't going to give up on this. He knew his daughter. She'd persist until she got her way. To give her her due, though, it was only rarely that she did that. And maybe, he thought, weakening, it wouldn't be that bad. Guests would help, especially people with children, for Jennie's sake. Nor would he have to see Tess very often; Jennie's nurse could bring her to Harcourt Manor, the Harwood estate, where Tess lived. It could work. It would be two difficult weeks for him, but he could endure them.
He looked down at her, to see her watching him with that same pleading look, and let out a gusty sigh. "All right, poppet. We'll go to Stowcroft," he said resignedly, and wondered just what he'd gotten himself into.
London's cold dampness didn't prevail in the Yorkshire hollow where Harcourt was located. Instead, the air held a crisp coldness that made Tess Harwood feel quite invigorated after a morning spent bringing Christmas baskets of food to the estate's poor families, as well as Stowcroft's. Once out of her carriage, she entered the house with a light step. Christmas was coming. It was usually a difficult time of year for her, and yet for some reason she felt lighthearted about it this year.
"There's a letter for you," her brother Richard reported as she walked into the hall of the old manor house and began undoing the fastenings of her cherry red velvet cloak.
Tess turned to him, startled into a smile. She received letters so rarely. "For me? Why, whoever could it be from?"
Richard's face was dour. "I've a guess. It's franked by Stowe."
Tess paused in the act of handing her cloak to a footman. A letter from David. Her spirits plummeted. "Oh."
"Do you want me to deal with it?"
"Of course not," she said briskly, crossing the hall to him and taking the letter. "I can't imagine what more he could do."
"I can. If he learns you've been going down to London-"
"And how will he? No one knows me there."
"I've always warned you 'tis not a good idea."
"You know my reasons."
"Which are also unnecessary."
"To me they are." She glanced quickly at Bailey, their butler, standing poker faced and motionless in the hall. "I don't think this is quite the place to discuss it."
"My study, then," he said, and walked away, opening a door farther down the hall for her. Inside the room a border collie jumped up from his snooze before the roaring fire, wagging his tail excitedly at the sight of his master. "Tess, I'd rather spare you any more pain."
"I am an adult, Richard. I grew up six years ago." She held out her hand. "My letter, please?"
"Are you quite sure?"
She glared at him. "Richard. Of course I am." Men, she had learned, could complicate one's life dreadfully.
"Oh, very well," he said after a moment, handing her the letter with bad grace. "But I warn you, I can see no point in his writing to you after all this time, but to hurt you."
"Oh, Richard, do go away," she muttered, breaking the wax seal on the letter. From David. Once that would have sent her into transports. Now it inspired only dread.
"A few moments later, she lifted stunned eyes from the paper. "Jennie wants to meet me."
""She has no idea who you are, then?"
""No, none, I told you that." She scanned the brief, terse letter hungrily for news of her daughter, but none was forthcoming. To meet Jennie formally, at last. To be able to hold her and love her as a mother should. "
"And I suppose he wants you to go to London."
"No. He's coming here."
"The devil he is!"
"Yes. He and a party of guests will be coming to spend Christmas. From the week before, until just after Twelfth Night."
"You can't let him."
"How can I stop him? It is his estate." She paused. "I'm only surprised he didn't come back before now."
Richard snorted. "He won't be welcome."
"He probably doesn't care, if he even knows."
"He'll be furious when he finds out, you know. That you've been to London."
"I know."
"He might even manage to keep you from seeing her at all."
She glanced away. Oh, lord. A life with no chance of ever seeing Jennie again would be beyond bearing. "He has that right."
"Dash it, Tess, are you going to stand there and tell me you're just going to let him do this?"
"How do you expect me to stop him?" she demanded, finally angry. "You know as well as I he always did as he pleased."
"Yes." Richard sounded grim. "And what he pleased hurt you a dashed lot."
Tess concentrated on carefully folding the letter in its neat creases. "'Tis in the past."
"Tess, if he does anything to hurt you, I'll-"
"What?" she said, alarmed. "Richard, you can't do anything. Please. Promise me you won't."
"Dash it, Tess-"
"Promise me?"
He stared at her, and then, apparently no more immune to the expression in her eyes than her one-time suitors had once been, snorted again. "Oh, very well. But, mind you, Tess, let him say one word about you and I won't be able to keep my promise."
"I know." She had little doubt he'd keep it in any event, not with his ready temper. "Thank heavens it will only be for two weeks. I think - I hope - we can hold on that long. Now." She tucked the letter into her pocket. "I'll go up to get ready for luncheon."
In Tess's room, her maid was ready with hot water for washing, and a brush to repair the damage done to her hair by a morning spent mostly outside. Tess dismissed her though, going instead to stand by the window and look blankly out at the garden, bleak and sere now with winter. Beyond were the eternal moors, the rolling hills that rose in folds and valleys of land, a painful sight at any time of year, but more so now. It had seemed so certain that she'd never see David again. Now, it seemed, she was wrong.
David. Just thinking of him brought pain. Thus she had carefully steered her mind away from any thoughts of him in the past years. Such difficult years they had been, too, especially in the beginning, when she had been so full of doubts and regrets about what she had done; when she had been so lonely. Eventually, though, she had achieved a measure of peace, and then contentment. She had even come to believe she was happy. Now she knew how wrong she'd been. Never had she been peaceful, not really, or contented. Never had she been happy. David's letter had brought that plain truth home to her by great force, even if she'd always known it, deep inside her.
The worst of it was, it was her fault the marriage had ended. Oh, her reasons had seemed good enough at the time, even noble, but that was before David had forced her to instigate divorce proceedings, thus negating all her efforts in his behalf. It was before she'd known there would be a child involved, and look where that had led. The very last thing she had ever wanted was to wish the same fate upon her daughter, that she herself had suffered.
Well, it was far past mending now. Even if she told David why she had behaved as she had so long ago, she doubted he'd believe her. There was too much between them, too much time, too much hurt. She suspected he was no happier about the situation than she was, but Jennie, strong-willed Jennie, had undoubtedly forced him to it. Part of her couldn't help but be glad. The rest of her, though, was, quite frankly, miserable. Sighing, she turned away from the window and went to the basin, splashing water that had long since cooled onto her face, in preparation for going down to luncheon. Once David and Jennie left, she would manage. She had before; she would now. She was much stronger than she had once thought. The real problem was posed by the two weeks surrounding Christmas, she thought, lowering the towel and looking at herself in her mirror. How she would survive them, she didn't know.CHAPTER 2
At Harcourt Manor, all was in readiness. A fire burned brightly in the hearth in the morning room, which both Tess and Richard preferred to use in the winter rather than the chilly drawing room, as it faced south. Richard's old border collie lay before the fire, head on its paws, and though the Christmas greens would not be brought into the house until Christmas Eve day, Tess wore a bit of holly pinned to her crimson merino gown. Last night the note she had been both awaiting, and dreading, had finally arrived. David and Jennie were at Stowcroft. They were to pay her a call this afternoon. At last, she would meet her daughter, with no subterfuge, no hiding.
Something quivered in Tess's stomach at the thought, but her hands, automatically sketching a picture of the fireplace rather than, as usual, a frock of some kind, were remarkably steady. Only the fact that she shifted in her chair from time to time belied her nervousness. What would Jennie think once she realized who Tess was? Would she hate her? Did she hate her anyway? No, she wouldn't think that way, Tess thought, momentarily pausing in her sketching and playing with the charcoal. Jennie, after all, was the one who'd asked to see her. That David had agreed was proof that he loved their child. The thought relieved her more than she would have expected. Of course he loved Jennie. He was her father, after all.
As she had the thought, though, she shifted in the chair again. She, herself was proof that parentage often had nothing to do with love. Duty, perhaps, and sometimes not even that, but not love. She could have spared Jennie so much, if she had only realized, seven years ago - but there, that was well-trodden ground. Going over it again would solve nothing.
The sound of carriage wheels in the drive made her lift her head sharply and drop the charcoal. They were here. For the first time, nerves threaten to overcome her eagerness, and she felt an almost overwhelming desire to bolt upstairs. Instead, she stayed seated, to all outward appearances a picture of calm, as Bailey brought her a tray with David's card upon it; as he opened the morning room door a few moments later and intoned David's name. Only then did she jump to her feet, dread suddenly forgotten in a rush of eagerness. She was about to see her daughter again.
"Madam." David stood just inside the door, looking so much as she had remembered him, his sandy blond hair neatly trimmed, neither his frame nor his height above average, that for a moment she was disoriented. Suddenly she was young again, meeting him for the first time, the sight of him blocking all else from view. It was another Christmas season, seven years ago, and from the first moment on she had been lost. She still was. Heaven help her, she thought, she was still in love with David.
David shifted position, and Tess suddenly returned to herself. All that was past. If she'd needed a reminder of that, she had it in the way he looked at her, so coldly, so sternly. The David she remembered had had an eager, open expression. Not so this man. One thing was the same, though. He was alone.
Disappointment, cold and deep, filled her. "Jennie didn't want to come?" she asked, though her throat was tight.
"Jennie is at Stowcroft," he answered, coming farther into the room. In spite of herself, Tess moved back a pace.
"But I thought-"
"You thought wrong, madam."
"You didn't bring her?"
"Not today. Not until we've discussed a few matters." He moved toward a sofa. "May I?"
"What? Oh, yes, of course." She waited until he was seated, and then crossed to the bell pull. He had changed. Studying him without seeming to, she returned to her chair. Older, of course. That was no surprise. After all, it had been more than six years since she'd seen him. Since he'd taken Jennie from her. No she would not think of that, she told herself sternly, and returned to studying him. There was more to the change in him than mere age, though. He had a remoteness that hadn't been present in the man she loved, a coldness. His total absorption in whatever activity he undertook, whether learning about his estate, or meeting people in the village, or going up on the moors with her - no, she would not think of that! - seemed to have changed to a cold stillness. His face might have been chiseled out of stone, so emotionless was it, and the only hint of movement she could see was his breathing. Oh, yes, he had changed. Not for the first time, unease prickled at her spine.
"Bailey, tea, please," she said, when the butler came in. "Unless you'd like something stronger? I know 'tis a cold day, and-"
"Nothing for me, thank you."
That cold voice again, as if he were talking to a stranger. No. Likely he'd be more friendly to someone he didn't know. Lowering thought.
"Oh, that's right, you never did enjoy tea. There's coffee - but, no, you said nothing. I'm sorry." She smiled at him apologetically. "I still tend to rattle on at times."
His answer was a raised eyebrow. "As you say."
Daunting, indeed. She hoped he wasn't this way with Jennie. However had the child had the courage to ask him to come here? "Thank you, Bailey." This as the butler returned, bearing the silver tea service that had been in her family for years. "But, of course, you didn't come here to hear about me. Tell me about Jennie."
"She is a child. She thinks as a child and acts as a child. Except-" and here, he smiled for the first time, though it was a small smile "-she is perhaps the most logical, and at times the most daunting person I've met."
Tess lowered her teacup without sipping. "Really?" she said, intrigued. "In what way?"
"When she thinks about something, A leads to B leads to C. No leaping about for her. When she was four, she wanted a puppy."
"Understandable," she murmured, sipping at last. "Yes. But do you know what her arguments were?" This time, his smile was broader. "She understood that a dog might be uncomfortable in the city. Thus, point A. We could set up a house for him in the garden. Which led to point B. A dog that lives outside would naturally bark at strangers. So, point C. He would protect the house from intruders. Point D. If he could stand guard at home, then he would be a good guard for her as well, when she went walking with her nurse. All leading to the final point, which was that I would be vastly foolish not to get a dog, under the circumstances."
Completely charmed, Tess had set down her cup and given up all pretense of drinking. "She would make a formidable opponent in Parliament."
"That, she would. Of course, being four, she couldn't quite counter my arguments."
"Which were?"
"That a dog who would be unhappy in London would be unhappier in our small garden, that his barking would disturb the neighbors, that if he barked at anyone, how would we know who was an intruder and who wasn't, and that it wasn't done to scare people in the park. And, if that wasn't enough for her, I was the father and I said no."
"Unfair of you, David," she said, relaxing, forgetting for a moment all that had passed between them.
He raised his chin, looking at her coolly. "Quite."
"Yes, well." Tess looked down at her skirt, to see that she was pleating it between her fingers. Judging by the creases, she had apparently been doing for some time. "She does sound charming."
"She is. And, as I said, a child. Which means I do not look kindly on anyone who hurts her."
This time Tess set down her cup with a thump that made it rattle in its saucer. "And you think I would?"
"I think it possible."
"Not my child!"
"Your child?"
"Yes, my child," she said, thoroughly angry now. "I may have had to give up all claim to her, but you know as well as I do that it wasn't my choice."
"And you should know by now that after what you did I wasn't about to let you near her," he snapped back.
Now she knew what his anger looked like, and it was a cold, cold thing. It made her blink. "Let us not fight." She was suddenly weary. Once this man had meant everything to her. "I assume you came today for a reason."
"Yes." He rose and paced to the hearth, leaning his elbow on the mantel. She supposed that was an outward sign of his agitation. Oh, yes, he had changed. The David she had known hadn't kept himself under such rigid control. Had she done that to him? "I wanted to discuss the terms under which you and Jennie will meet."
"Very well." She nodded unsmilingly. Let him see that she could be quite as cool as he could, quite as rational. "That is fair."
"Thank you. I will not allow unsupervised visits between you and her."
"David-"
"I don't recall giving you leave to use my name."
She gestured impatiently with her hand. "Very well. Stowe. What do you think I'm going to do to her?"
"I put nothing past you, madam."
"That isn't fair!"
He tilted his head. "Isn't it?"
"No."
"As you say. No unsupervised visits."
"Very well." She sighed. "Will her nurse be with her, then?"
"Sometimes. More likely, I will be, especially in the beginning."
The weeks to come were suddenly fraught with danger. How would she be able to act naturally with Jennie, if David were present? "Very well."
"No visits by you to Stowcroft."
"You actually trust me enough to bring her here?"
"More than I wish to see you there," he retorted.
That hurt. "And if Jennie uses some of her famed logic to suggest otherwise?"
"I will not agree. I do not give into her every request, madam."
She leaned forward. "David - Stowe - is she happy?"
He took a moment to answer. "I believe she is."
"In spite of the situation? In spite of everything?"
"I cannot make up to her for her mother's lack, of course, but I do my best."
That hurt, too, but she would die before she let him see it. She had so much wanted to spare her child. Instead, she had brought so much upon her. "I am glad."
"Are you."
"Yes." She sat back. "Is that all, Stowe?"
"No. Visits will not last for more than an hour-"
"Oh, please!"
"-unless I feel that things are proceeding well. Then I will consider lengthening them."
"How generous of you," she bit out. "You might remember that Jennie was the one who asked for this, not me."
"Believe me, I cannot forget. Do you think I'd be here, else?"
"No." More weary than ever, she closed her eyes for a moment. "No, I'd not expect that."
"Good. So long as you don't forget it yourself."
No danger of that, not when he was so cold. The impetuous young man she had loved so deeply, so disastrously, was gone, replaced by this controlled man whose only sign of the tension that made her squirm in her chair was a twitching muscle in his jaw. "When will you bring her here, then?"
"Tomorrow, for tea. If that is agreeable."
He wasn't asking permission; that, she understood. "It is."
"Good. I believe we have discussed all we need to."
All except something which he could not possibly know. She considered telling him, and then, as he continued to look at her coolly, discarded the idea. If he knew beforehand, he would likely veto all future visits, no matter how much Jennie pleaded or reasoned. "I believe we have."
"Good." He waited until she had tugged on the bell pull again; waited until his hat and greatcoat with its many capes were brought to him. Then, nodding at her, he took his leave as abruptly as he had come, leaving her feeling battered and shaken.
David. Oh, David, she thought, slumping down into her chair. She had known this visit wouldn't be easy, but she hadn't expected it would be this difficult. He was so different, changed out of all recognition. That he resented, even hated, her, she could well understand. She could only hope he didn't take out that resentment on their daughter.
Sighing again, she rose. No, not their daughter, not so far as he was concerned. Jennie was his, apparently, and his alone. Understandable, perhaps; he'd had her to himself since she was born. Understandable, too, that he wouldn't wish Jennie to see her, given all that had happened in the past. The fact remained, though, that she was Jennie's mother. He'd best reconcile himself to that. Nothing was going to change it.
She'd best reconcile herself to something, too. The next two weeks were going to be difficult, indeed. How she would get through them, she didn't know.
The trees along the drive finally thinned, and suddenly there was the house. Jennie leaned forward to see out the window, though her nurse, sitting opposite, clucked in disapproval, and she could sense her father's tension. Harcourt Manor, where her mother lived. After all this time, she was going to meet her. Oh, she did hope Mama would approve of her! Jennie knew, quite without bitterness, that she was not a pretty child. Even if she hadn't heard things said about her when people thought she couldn't hear, there were mirrors to provide the evidence. She thought her eyes might be nice, but nothing else was. Her nose was too big, her skin too dark, her hair, manageable only in braids, far too thick. Not the sort of daughter most people would want, she thought. No wonder if Mama had stayed away from her for so long.
Jennie studied the house for a moment longer, and then sat back, hands folded on her lap in the pose her nurse considered meek, and thus proper, for young girls, but which now hid her own tension. Stowcroft was a disappointment, apparently a welcoming half-timbered manor house on the outside, but inside dark and old and just a little musty. Harcourt, built of thick stone blocks, was even more forbidding, making her fear, more than ever, the welcome she would find inside. What if Mama didn't like her? Mrs. Granfield didn't, for all that she pretended to Papa that she did. Jennie could tell, from the smile that only ever reached her lips, to the high, thin voice, as if Jennie couldn't hear her. Mrs. Granfield was also one of the people who had commented disparagingly on Jennie's appearance, though not in Papa's hearing.
Jennie didn't know much about her mother. She knew only that they didn't share the same name, which she still didn't understand, in spite of Papa's explanation. Once they had divorced, he had told her, Mama had not been allowed to keep his name, because he was a peer. If Mama disliked her because of that, if she was like Mrs. Granfield, Jennie didn't know what she'd do.
The carriage came to a stop. Jennie jumped down before the step was let down, in spite of her nurse's sniff and her father's reproof. Couldn't they tell how important this was? Too important to stay inside a carriage, fidgeting with her frock and squirming on the seat while she waited for Papa's assistance. She'd run up to the stairs, too, if she dared, though this time something other than paternal disapproval held her back. Now that the moment had come, she was suddenly reluctant to enter the house.
The front door, already hung with a pine wreath, was opened by an aged man, who bowed in response to Papa's greeting and went away, carrying his card. In spite of her nervousness, Jennie looked curiously around. But it was much nicer inside than out, she realized, much warmer, and not because of the fire merrily burning on the hearth in the hall. The flagged floor was covered by a worn, yet still colorful, Turkish rug, while opposite the hearth stood a small mahogany table, much burnished and polished. Above that was a painting, a portrait of some unknown person. One of her ancestors? Jennie looked at it with renewed interest. When she'd made her Christmas request to Papa, she hadn't thought about having other relatives, but of course it was reasonable to assume that she did. Aunts, uncles, cousins - just the thought of it made her shift from foot to foot. Oh, there were people coming to Stowcroft who had children, but this was different. Cousins. Family. Until this moment, Jennie had never realized she felt the lack.
A door at the end of the hall opened, and the butler returned. "If you'll come this way, my lord, Miss Harwood is waiting in the morning room."
"Thank you," Papa said, in the clipped voice Jennie knew all too well meant he was angry, and, his hand on her shoulder, urged her forward. Excited, yet scared, she trotted in the butler's wake. What she had been waiting for all this time was finally going to happen. She was going to meet her mother.
The butler bowed again as he opened the door for her and Papa. There was a fire in here, too, and from in front of the hearth a dog raised his head in lazy curiosity, his tail thumping. Jennie had again the same sense of warmth and care as she had in the hall. This time, though, it barely made an impression on her. All her attention was focused on the woman who was rising from a chair across the room. She exuded the same sense of warmth, from the cheerful red wool of her dress, to the equally bright red ribbon that bound up her curls. Curls that, Jennie realized with a sudden shock, she'd only ever seen hidden before. Because she knew this lady. Oh, yes, she knew her quite well.
"But-" she began.
"Oh, Jennie, hello," the woman said at the same time, going down on one knee, her arms held out impulsively.
"But." Jennie looked up at her father, and then back at the woman. "But you're the angel lady."
