LITMIR.BIZ

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still she would have waited…so desperate was she to believe David honourable and her trust in him justified. But the empty days had crawled by, her father’s rancour had escalated to new, demented heights and a final, painful decision had had to be made.

      And now she finally knew the truth of it…The awful fear that she had been wrong to marry so soon, that she should have suffered in that harsh, soulless environment longer, had evaporated. Her decision to accept Daniel’s offer of shelter in an unconventional marriage had been vindicated.

      ‘I suppose…you’ve come back to buy my daughter…’ her father had just said in his painfully honest way, and David Hardinge had simply smiled and complimented him on his fine memory.

      Her black lacy veil tumbled forward onto her brow and Victoria swiftly unpinned the hat, dropped it carelessly onto a hall table and hurried on.

      What did any of it matter now? It was all seven years old! she impressed upon herself, furious that a wedge of melancholy was blocking her throat. How could she even dwell on it? She had just buried her dear husband. He had been a fine, generous husband for seven long years. David Hardinge had been a reprobate playing a convincing role for just six months.

      Daniel’s selfless goodness had stirred feelings of guilt: he might have made a second marriage to rival the consummate success of his first. But whenever Victoria had mentioned such doubts he would smile, with his pale eyes distant, and tell her that such love came but once and that once was a privilege. But a daughter to care for…God had never been that kind to him…until now.

      Victoria sighed, dragging her thoughts to the present. If only Daniel had not made her promise to write to David Hardinge, she would have been as oblivious to his disturbing presence today as she had been last week…last month…last year. But for the worry of Danny’s illness and her papa’s worsening dementia, she had been virtually content with her lot in life here at Hartfield. Now she felt hot and restless…and queasy, as though a nest of vipers writhed in the pit of her stomach.

      Nearing the kitchens, she spied Samuel’s broad back huddled close to the short, plump figure of Sally, one of the domestics. She had believed Sally still to be serving refreshments in the drawing room. A sigh of impatience escaped her.

      ‘Samuel, Lord Courtenay is leaving. His coat, please…’ The young couple immediately shifted away from each other. Sally bustled past with a deferential dip of her brunette head but her face was blotchy from weeping.

      Victoria closed her eyes in sheer exasperation. She could not countenance dealing with any histrionics from the servants…not today. She already felt as though she was wound as tightly as a spring. Just one more twist and she would snap; of that she was sure.

      Samuel tried to pass her too with a gruff, cooperative, ‘I’ll fetch it straight away, ma’am.’

      Victoria placed a restraining hand on his beefy arm. ‘Samuel…this is too much today. Can you and Sally—and I suppose it’s Beryl involved too—can you not at least cease your bickering on a day such as this?’ she stressed in a voice quivering with emotion.

      ‘Sorry, ma’am…’ Samuel mumbled, his coarsely attractive features ruddying in embarrassment and remorse. Straightening his waistcoat with a businesslike jerk, he sedately walked on.

      Victoria stared at the kitchen door then momentarily closed her eyes, composing herself, before swishing about and calmly retracing her steps.

      She emptied her mind. Nothing was allowed other than the need to get through this day. She concentrated on whether any mourners would expect bed and board. The weather was now so inclement it would invariably come to that, she decided. That would entail arranging chambers and linen, further meals…She was exhausted and desirous of solitude, not extended company. But it was her duty and she would deal with it, just as she always had since Danny’s illness had shifted such mundane matters onto her slender shoulders. For with his declining health had come declining fortune when he’d no longer devoted attention to his business affairs. And as their income had reduced so had the number of servants they could employ at Hartfield. But she had been happy to take over housekeeping duties when Mrs Whittaker had retired and gone to live with her sister in Brighton. And thus the first economies had been made.

      Victoria completely ignored the reflexive jump of her heart as she rounded the corner into the main hallway and immediately spied David Hardinge’s tall, imposing figure. He was chatting to Sir Peter by the double arched entrance doors. She focussed on being relieved that Samuel had speedily set about the task of returning the Viscount his coat. That comforting emotion was immediately whipped from her as she anxiously noticed Beryl’s neat, black-uniformed figure sidling up to Samuel by the hall table. But they both appeared fully occupied attending to guests’ cloaks and gloves and quite oblivious and uncaring of each other.

      A grateful sigh escaped. Any further embarrassing domestic situations and she was sure she would scream or weep. Instead she stifled a wry laugh at the very idea; such selfish indulgence was a luxury, and there would be no more of those.

      Having cordially shaken hands with his old acquaintance, Sir Peter turned back to the warmth of the drawing room. Victoria received a friendly, slightly inebriated grin as he passed.

      ‘Thank you once again, Lord Courtenay, for being good enough to attend Daniel’s funeral. I hope the weather improves for your safe journey home.’

      David inclined his dark head, acknowledging her civil good wishes, even though they held the same arctic quality as the air outside. His eyes reluctantly shifted from her face to gaze at something distracting behind her. ‘One of your servants seems a little upset,’ he mentioned impartially.

      Victoria felt a stinging surge of blood heat her cheeks. So Beryl and Samuel had not contained their differences, not even for the five short minutes that would have been necessary for David Hardinge to have taken his leave. Narrowed blue eyes scanned her pink, tense face as he said, ‘You already know about it…?’

      The hint of mild concern in his tone snapped up her glossy black head. She had no use for his pity and would have liked to tell him so. Instead she murmured stiffly, ‘Yes, I do know, thank you,’ while wishing the floor would open up and swallow her…or this taciturn man who assuredly never tolerated tantrums from his domestics.

      Pride aided her swift composure. ‘It has been a very sad time for us all. My husband was well liked and respected by the servants…by all who knew him.’ It was a quite truthful prevarication. The rustling of Beryl’s stiff skirts as she scurried away was all that broke the ensuing silence.

      ‘I believe I’ve been remiss in not yet offering condolences on your loss, Mrs Hart,’ David eventually said. ‘Was he a good husband?’

      Grey and blue eyes linked then strained. ‘I’m sure there was never better,’ Victoria quietly stated, and something about the way he found that cool sincerity amusing twisted her stomach.

      He extended a hand in farewell and she allowed him one of hers for the briefest moment. His smile quirked sardonically as she exactly matched his reaction to her touch earlier. Then all that was left with her in the hallway was an icy draught and a dusting of snowflakes melting on the marble flags.

      The sun was lost early today, Victoria realised glumly as she glanced out through the casement window in Hartfield’s small library at the clouding sky. She finished totting up the column of figures in the household accounts before pushing the ledger away from her and laying the quill back on the blotter. It mattered little how many times she did the sums; the balances never looked any healthier. But she had made economies before; it was simply a case of cutting back a little further.

      Daniel had always praised her housekeeping skills, in the early days of her undertaking the task, marvelling at the way she could make do and mend, bargain with tradesmen and generally pinch a penny until it squeaked. As he’d grown weaker, she’d known he no longer had strength enough to worry or enquire as to how she did.

      She had no idea where her talents for parsimony came from: until her marriage she’d had no experience of household budgeting

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