Matilda was at this very moment carrying stories of her wickedness to Leyland. Wickedness! For five years she had devoted every moment of her days to the care of the Earl of Heathmoor’s son. She had endured five years of disturbed nights without complaint. She had given every particle of her energy and patience. By the time Matthew died, it had seemed there was nothing of herself left. That, she supposed, was why she had felt so empty. And yet, in the eyes of the earl and his precious daughter, she was wicked and of no account because of her birth—and because after four months of real mourning she was ready to reach out to her neighbors for comfort and friendship and to partake of some quiet outdoor exercise.
She was angry. She was so furious, in fact, that she eyed those hideous ornaments on the mantel again and would surely have hurled them if doing so would have made her feel one iota better. They were not worth her ire—the McKays, that was. But no matter how firmly she told herself that, she felt hurt anyway.
Thank goodness she was so far away from them and they were sure to be as happy about that as she was.
And of course it rained.
At first it merely drizzled, leaving the cruel hope that it would not come to anything but would stop before afternoon. It rained more heavily instead and showed every sign of having settled in for the day.
Matilda would call it a just punishment.
After toying with her food at luncheon, Samantha went back into the sitting room and tried embroidering. But when her silk knotted and her fingers pulled at the knot without their customary patience and it snarled to such a degree that she was forced to cut the thread and undo the work she had already done, she set the cloth aside. She tried reading but realized after she had moved her eyes determinedly over two whole pages that she could not recall a single word. She even indulged in a little weep while Tramp set his chin on her lap and gazed mournfully at her. But whoever had said that a good cry made one feel better obviously had never tried it himself. She ended up with a blocked nose, swollen eyes, a soggy handkerchief, and a more wretched misery than ever.
Self-pity was a dreadful affliction, she thought, irritated with herself as she kissed the top of the dog’s head. She would not put up with it one moment longer. She dried her eyes, blew her nose loudly, and glared at her embroidery before picking it up and tackling it once more with firmness of purpose.
Fifteen minutes later her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the knocker banging against the front door. She looked up in surprise, her needle suspended above the cloth. Matilda? No, of course not. Lady Gramley and Sir Benedict Harper? Hardly. They would not ride in this weather, and it was unnecessary for them to come to make their excuses. Samantha could not have failed to notice that it was raining. The vicar? He had not been back since Matilda had kept him talking on the step one afternoon until the cutting wind persuaded him to leave.
“Sir Benedict Harper, ma’am,” the butler announced as he opened the door. He sounded a little dubious, but the gentleman came past him before she could decide whether it was proper to admit him or not, or—more to the point—whether she cared that it was not.
“Sir Benedict,” she said, setting aside her work and rising to her feet. “You surely did not ride over?”
She was pathetically glad to see him.
“I came by carriage,” he said, acknowledging a tail-wagging Tramp with a quelling glance. “Good afternoon, Mrs. McKay. Your sister-in-law is still indisposed, is she? I am sorry. I would not have—”
“She has gone,” she told him. “She left this morning. She would not remain here any longer to be contaminated by my wicked self.”
Oh, dear, she ought not to have phrased it quite that way. She ought to have invented an illness in the family that had taken Matilda away. It would not have been difficult. The countess was always ailing. It was too late now, though.
He stood still, gazing at her as the butler shut the door behind him. He glanced at the window, she noticed. It was fully visible for the first time in months.
“Gone?” he said. “Not to return, do you mean? This did not have anything to do with the fact that you were to ride with me, did it? Beatrice did agree to come with us, you know.”
It was too late for evasion.
“Nothing short of complete isolation behind the black veil of our mourning for the next eight months would have suited Matilda’s sense of propriety, Sir Benedict,” she told him. “I am not sure by what exact rule book she and my father-in-law live, but I have never heard of anyone else’s living by it, for which mercy I am truly thankful. The Earl of Heathmoor is a law unto himself and always has been. Perhaps the book is his own. Indeed, I believe it must be.”
Her voice sounded brittle, she realized, even on the brink of hysteria. She was terrified he was going to go away again, which would, of course, be the best thing he could do—for both of them. He would not appreciate having to listen to her pour out all her self-pitying woes. And she needed time to compose herself before conversing with anyone.
“I came to explain why we could not go out riding,” he said, “though I daresay the reason is self-evident. I came to see if Lady Matilda had recovered from her cold and to offer her my sister’s good wishes for her restored health. I will take my leave, ma’am, since you have no companion or chaperon and we cannot withdraw to the garden as we did at Robland a couple of days ago.”
It would be quite the right thing to do, of course. But she could not bear to be alone again. Not yet. How foolish to have allowed someone like Matilda to have discomposed her so very much.