man she’d thought him; she wept for Andrew, who had deserved more than months of silence at the news of his death.
At last, she wept for the child who had once given her hope that she would make her selfish husband proud. Her daughter’s story was deep in her heart and she never shared her with anyone.
She wept until she was spent. Exhausted.
Gemma swiped her eyes with the back of her hand, embarrassed now. She was made of sterner stuff. She came from a long line of strong women and here she’d been wallowing on the floor without pride—
Two knocks were all the warning she received before the door opened and Mrs. Nichols, the housekeeper, entered, followed by the footman. With a nod, she indicated the chair in the room, the chair that kept Lord Latimer locked out. The manservant picked it up and left the room.
Mrs. Nichols stayed, her hands folded in front of her. She was twenty years older than Gemma and a practical Irishwoman.
“I tried to warn you, Mrs. Estep. You can’t fight those who are better than you. We all have to learn our place. Or how to make the best of it all.”
“I don’t believe them better than I am. Or better than you.”
“Then you will be doomed to unhappiness. His lordship instructed me to tell you he doesn’t want to see you in black. You will not be allowed below this floor if you are wearing it.” Having delivered her message, she left the room, closing the door behind her.
Gemma’s spirit stirred.
So Lord Latimer thought her cowed?
From the hooks on the wall, she chose her black gown, one of five gowns she owned. After all, she’d once been a wealthy man’s daughter. She’d barely worn black for Paul. However, she’d certainly wear it for her uncle and as long as she wished—and Lord Latimer could eat pig snouts for all she gave a care.
After dressing, she retwisted her heavy hair high on her head and pinned it in place as if preparing to go out. She didn’t doubt that Lord Latimer was a man of his word. He’d be furious about the black. She just couldn’t give in to him. If she had her way, she’d walk right out the front door and never return.
But where could she go? She had no one. Only her uncle Andrew—who’d once kindly written to her after she’d arrived in London that what was his was hers . . .
The memory of that letter came to life. Gemma had been touched by the sentiment. Andrew had owned a village tavern. She’d been on her way to London to confront Paul and had spent an enjoyable evening with her uncle. He’d told her that if matters didn’t work out with her husband, she could live with him in Maidenshop.
Why hadn’t she returned to him immediately upon learning of Paul’s death? Too much pride, she supposed. In the beginning she’d believed Lord Latimer when he claimed he’d see her taken care of, except living under the eaves of his house and jumping to do his bidding was not what she had expected. She had only herself to blame. It seemed all her life she’d believed, as a gentlewoman, men would take care of her. How naïve she’d been. Especially after her gran had always warned her that a wise woman learned to take care of herself.
And now Andrew was gone . . . but the tavern remained.
What is mine is yours. It was almost as if Andrew whispered the words in her ear.
Gemma fell to her knees and pulled the box holding her most personal belongings out from beneath the cot. She lifted the lid to reveal her mother’s miniature, a ruby ring Paul had given her to pledge their troth, and the stack of recipes and wisdom Gran had given her, recipes that had been handed down from one woman in her mother’s family to another. And there were letters. Gemma always saved her letters.
Andrew’s letter was on top.
She placed the Reverend Summerall’s letter into the box and unfolded the one from her uncle. He’d been a sailor in his younger years and had never returned to his native Scotland, but Gran had always held him dear. That is why Gemma had interrupted her journey to see him and she’d not been sorry. Andrew had written to be certain she had made it safely to London, and then he had ended with the kindest words: We are the last