Page 40 of A Sorceress Comes to Call
Richard chuckled softly. “You haven’t changed.”
“I’m older and fatter and my knee hurts,” she said tartly, pulling her hands away. “And I have less patience for fools.”
“You look magnificent,” he said with absolute conviction, and tore her heart in half without even trying. “And you have never had the slightest bit of patience for fools. I’m sorry about your knee, though. None of the doctors can do anything?”
“It’s all laudanum, and it makes me fuzzy-headed. And I need all my wits about me right now.” She scowled, pulling her shawl tighter around herself. The sleeve of Richard’s borrowed coat slid down her shoulder, and he reached out to straighten it without comment. “And it’s cold out here, and I should probably go inside, or my knee really will hurt.”
He nodded and rose to his feet, pulling her up without effort. She handed him back his jacket and stood, leaning on her cane, while he put it back on.
“I do appreciate you coming,” she said. “I know I’m not always… I know that… well. Thank you.”
“Always,” he said. “You know that.”
“Yes. But I shouldn’t rely on that.”
He ran his hand through his hair. A stray lock fell across his forehead and Hester’s fingers itched to straighten it. She gripped her cane more tightly.
“Hester,” he said finally, “you know that if Samuel marries again—if you can’t stay here—you know that you’ll always have a place with me.”
She nodded once, jerkily. She could not meet his eyes. If she did, she would be lost. If he touched her again, she would dissolve completely.
But he did not. He opened the door for her and let her go through first. She made her way up the stairs, holding the rail in one hand, hoping that he was not watching. She did not want him to see how badly her knee pained her. She hated pity from anyone. From Richard, it would be unbearable.
Once she was in her room, in her own bed, she sagged against the pillows. Was she going to cry? No, she wasn’t. Damn. Tears might have helped.
He hadn’t asked her to marry him again. He hadn’t needed to. The offer still hung in the air between them, almost visible, like thunder.
What could she say? I can’t marry you, because I look like this, and you look like that. And I will grow older and fatter and frizzier, and eventually I will need a carry-chair instead of a cane. And meanwhile, you will be tall and distinguished and your hair will go to silver gilt and everywhere we go, people will look at us and think, “What is he doing, married to her?”
She’d told him as much, the first time. He denied it, but he was still a man, even if she loved him, and he did not quite understand. She’d let him believe that she was unwilling to see that question in so many people’s eyes.
She had never had the courage, or the cruelty, to tell him the real truth. I don’t care about other people. Society can go hang. But if I ever looked in your eyes and saw that question, it would destroy me utterly. I could never pick up the pieces after that. There would be nothing left.
So she did not. Hester could be an eccentric old woman who raised geese and wore peacock feathers in her hat and was happy enough. Better to keep that happiness close. I love you, and I trust you, and there is no one I would rather have at my back. But I cannot expect you to ignore the world forever for my sake. Sooner or later, you will find someone who will not embarrass you in your old age.
Thinking of that other woman, whoever she was, Hester felt a red flash of hatred, and bared her teeth against the dark.
CHAPTER 15
“That scarred hussy,” Evangeline growled, stalking back and forth across the parlor like a panther wearing muslin. “I hate her, I hate her, I hate her.”
Cordelia huddled in a chair, wishing that she could crawl into her shawl like a limpet. She had never seen her mother so furious before. Angry, yes. Frustrated, certainly. But usually she was bemoaning the stupidity of other people, and how obnoxious it was to always be working around them. Cordelia had never seen her in such a thwarted rage. Her only hope was to stay absolutely still and pray that her mother forgot she even had a daughter.
Evangeline’s flawless skin was mottled with red, like a hothouse orchid. “I hate her!”
Cordelia was quite certain that her mother had never admitted to hating anyone before. To hate someone would be to give them too much respect. Yet somehow Penelope Green had merited this simply by existing.
It had been two days. Two days of watching her mother fray at the edges, of the Squire sandwiched between Penelope Green and her mother at dinner, in a cloud of conversation that glittered like knives. Two very long days.
Evangeline would throw out a statement like a blade and Penelope would deflect it, often with some self-deprecating comment. And then, instead of returning the attack, she would usually find a way to make the Squire laugh, which only made her mother colder and angrier and more determined to strike again.
Cordelia was astonished to find that she was actually embarrassed by her mother’s showing in those conversations. I wish Mother wasn’t doing it. I wish she didn’t look so petty when she does it. Except I don’t know if anyone else thinks that she looks petty. Maybe this is how people talk all the time. I don’t know.
She should have been glad that none of the delicate barbs that Evangeline threw ever seemed to lodge in Mrs. Green’s flesh. She liked Penelope Green. But it was still embarrassing to watch and whenever the Squire turned toward Penelope instead of her mother, Cordelia felt her heart sink.
They had all gone riding yesterday. Cordelia still wasn’t certain how it had happened. There had been another barbed conversation at dinner and one thing had led to another.
“Do you ride, then?” Evangeline had asked.
