After the Kiss Read Free Page B

“But it does seem as if something has brought us to this pass. If only it hadn’t been so hot,” she sighed.
    “Or if the chickens hadn’t died,” Margaret contributed.
    “Or the roof had not collapsed.”
    “Or the chimney hadn’t become blocked, or the cows hadn’t sickened, or we hadn’t had to sell the pigs too soon,” Margaret said, attempting to smile. A myriad of disasters had befallen them over the past two years.
    “Or the garden hadn’t wilted. And do not forgetthe west wall,” Penelope added. “It was a right pretty disaster.”
    “Yes,” Margaret said, standing, “but we learned well enough to be masons on our own.”
    “It’s been a difficult time,” Penelope admitted. The truth hung in the air between them. “Perhaps we should have stayed in London.”
    “At the time, any place but London was preferable as I remember,” Margaret said, opening the strongbox and tucking the third Journal below the nearly empty money tray. “Besides, there are some compensations for our country life.” She smiled at the younger woman. “Or have you forgotten Tom?”
    Penelope’s cheeks blossomed with color. The young groom worked at Squire Tippett’s and had courted Penelope over the last two years. They were so much in love that it was unexpectedly painful to witness them together. Margaret’s marriage to Jerome had been one of gentle affection. An agreeable union, but one that somehow lacked the longing looks and gentle laughter Penelope and Tom shared.
    “I wonder what the books would fetch?”
    Penelope stared at her in surprise. “You can’t be thinking of selling them, Miss Margaret?”
    Margaret picked up the list and studied the names again. “There are at least three viable prospects here, Penelope. Men, I believe, who would purchase the books without hesitation. If we do not do something, we will have to return to the City and find occupations to support us.”
    Penelope looked as stricken as Margaret felt. Returning to London would mean that Penelope would have to leave Tom and she would have to leave her girls’ school. They would either have to go into service, or take a job in one of the shops.
    Unfortunately, she made no income from teaching the girls. The residents of Silbury Village had been as hard hit as she and Penelope by the drought. She would not have felt proper about asking money from people who could ill afford it.
    “Couldn’t you go to the duke, Miss Margaret?”
    She glanced at Penelope. “No,” Margaret said quickly. “Not the duke.” Whatever happened, she would never seek assistance from Tarrant.
    She remembered only too well their last meeting, the day after Jerome had perished in the fire.
    “I have come only to tell you what happened,” she’d said. Her hands were clenched so tightly in her lap that the knuckles shone white and bony.
    She’d not learned of Jerome’s tie to the duke until after their marriage. It had shamed him to be bastard born, the half-brother to the tenth Duke of Tarrant.
    “You might have conveyed the fact of his death in a letter, madam. Or do you have another, less obvious reason for your presence here?” The Duke of Tarrant’s eyes were great black holes in his narrow and austere face. His long fingers drummed impatiently against the desktop like claws.
    A giant bird of prey, the Duke.
    However much she told herself not to be cowed by him, she was. She thought great thoughts and had wonderful retorts to each of his barbed remarks and criticisms. But always later…never at the occasion of their meeting.
    He had made her wait to see him, a deliberate act of rudeness she’d come to expect from him. For an hour she’d stood in the foyer, uncomplaining. Only then had she been directed to this cavernous room of swooping shadows. Books lined the walls, but theirspines of gilt appeared fresh and untouched. There was not one comfortable chair to encourage a reader to sit and peruse a volume, no candles perched upon well-arranged