Chapter Six

T he air was still thick with smoke the following morning when Francesca returned to Hazel House. What was left of it.

That the consequences could have been so much worse did not incline her to forgive Jack and Bill for what they had done. Under no circumstances was it acceptable, whatever the damage or whoever did or did not die. She would have nightmares forever about losing her son, her servants, and her friend to such a horrendous death. And so she had told Mr. Paston, who seemed more than happy to see the pair charged with arson and the attempted murder of five people.

As she gazed at the still-smoldering ruin of her home, she still did not weep. She was too shocked and angry. But she walked inexorably toward it. She guessed nothing could be salvaged, but it hardly mattered beside the hugeness of the saved lives.

She had left Mark warily getting to know one of the Pastons' grandchildren. She had not seen George since last night, when they had met, numbly, in the Pastons' house, before being led away to different baths and clean beds and the ministration of the local doctor. But she knew George was well enough to go into the village. Perhaps he had left already in his repaired post-chaise. She could hardly blame him. His journey home had gone from bad to worse.

She surveyed the wreckage of her home. Among the blackened rubble she could recognize the odd piece of furniture, a few ivory keys from the piano, a piece of molded plaster from the drawing room, a mantelpiece, a miraculously survived Venetian glass vase.

Something caught her eye, and she climbed over a pile of mostly stable stones to get to it. She picked it up slowly. Another miraculous survival. The broken neck of Percival's violin, strings hanging loose.

She suspected it had not been burned in the fire but stood on by those who had tried so hard in the beginning to put it out. Which for some reason seemed even sadder.

She sat slowly down on the stones, still holding the piece of instrument in her hand. It grew blurry before her eyes.

"Your poor, beautiful violin," she whispered, and discovered she was weeping after all—for what had happened and what might have, for Percival and her home, for her own loneliness, and the pointless, reasonless hatred that had brought about this whole mess.

Something brushed against her cheek. She knew his touch as she knew her own. "I'm sorry," she gasped. "Percival, I am so sorry."

For an instant, it felt like his arm around her, and she had to look. It might have been swirling smoke, but it looked like him. Her hair might have blown around her lips, or he might have kissed them. But he was not sad. He was glad.

And abruptly, so was she. He was going at last to his rest. Not because fools had burned his home but because she was strong enough to cope. And she was. She knew that. And yet still she wept and wept. She didn't know for how long, until a strong, much more solid arm came around her, and she turned into George's chest with a deep, low sob.

He sat beside her in silence, holding her, stroking her hair until the storm passed.

"He has gone," she said into George's neck. "He woke me last night because of the fire, and now he has gone."

"May he rest in peace. Do you mind?"

The question was asked so carefully that she raised her head, tear stains and all, and searched his face. "You don't think I am mad?"

"I think he woke me, too. He trusted me to help. And Mark has been chatting with him since I arrived."

"And before," she admitted. She met his gaze and finally answered the question. "No, I don't mind. I am glad because he has gone where he should be."

He nodded. "You loved him very much."

"I did." Raising her hand, she touched his cheek. He had shaved recently and did not smell of smoke, just of soap and cleanliness and George. "My life is not over. Even for this— especially not for this."

Somewhere not too far away, birds were singing. She could hear cattle lowing and chickens making a racket. She wondered vaguely what had happened to hers.

George said, "Do you think you might ever love again?"

"Yes," she said softly. "I think I might."

His breath caught. "Do you think that you might ever fall in love with me ?"

Her heart thudded. "You might try to convince me."

He smiled with his lips and his eyes, and then just with his eyes as he bent his head and finally kissed her mouth.

The kiss was everything she had imagined and more. Gentle and sweet and tender. She clung to his lips, and when it ended, she kissed him back, and this time it was lazily sensual, exploring, arousing.

"Sir George," she whispered against his lips. "I have not known you two days, but I think I am already half in love with you."

"Good," he said. "For I might be wholly in love with you."

"How will we know?"

"A little more kissing might help."

It did.

*

Two days later, Mrs. Paston was "at home" to her gently born neighbors. Whether because of Francesca's misfortune or Mr. Paston's influence, she was now distantly kind to Francesca. If not friendly, she was at least hospitable in a condescending sort of a way. Francesca, grateful for the roof over her head and Mark's, and delighted that it was the same roof that currently harbored George, did not resent the condescension. It was a sort of truce.

Naturally, since the Hazel House fire was the main topic of speculation in the village, the "at home" was well attended. Francesca was there, and the guests were quite avid to see her. She was sure they were disappointed to find that she and George sat on opposite sides of the room, but they asked innumerable questions.

She repeated several times that the hall was completely ruined, that she and Mark had been unharmed in the fire, and that the Martins were slowly recovering, having been rescued by Sir Arthur Astley. And yes, Jack and Bill were bound over to stand trial. The vicar's wife listened without actually speaking to her. The vicar himself had called on her the day before with his sympathies and good wishes.

A footman entered once more and presented Mrs. Paston with a visiting card on a silver salver. She picked it up, blinked, and blurted, "The Duchess of Cuttyngham! Of course, show Her Grace in at once."

Francesca's gaze flew to George's face, but he was deliberately not looking at her.

"You are acquainted with the duchess?" the vicar's wife asked with a gasp.

A war waged visibly across Mrs. Paston's face, but reluctant truth won out. "Why, no, though I suppose Cuttyngs is not so very far away…" She rose to greet her august guest, nervously smoothing out her skirts.

An instant later, two young, fashionably dressed ladies swept into the room. The first lady held out her hand as she approached Mrs. Paston, who curtseyed before taking the hand in a bemused kind of way.

"Your Grace is most welcome. I am Mrs. Paston."

"Olivia Cuttyngham," said the duchess informally. "My sister-in-law, Lady Hera Rivers. I hope you will forgive the intrusion, but I have been searching for my friend, Mrs. Hazel, and just learned that her home has burned down! Could you possibly direct me to her?"

Francesca was stunned. She had forgotten George's plan, which hardly mattered now.

"But of course," Mrs. Paston said, clearly torn between shock at discovering Francesca's connection to a duchess, and delight at being able to oblige Her Grace. "Mrs. Hazel is staying with us while she decides the best way to go forward."

Now George was looking at Francesca, his gaze oddly commanding. With an inward shrug she rose and went to Her Grace. "How pleasant to see you, Duchess," she said. "I should have written to you…"

"Oh, stuff," said the duchess graciously.

"Lady Hera," Francesca murmured, curtseying also to George's first true friend, who was eying her with rather sharp curiosity. Nevertheless, she smiled and shook hands as though they too were old friends. "And Sir Arthur is here, too!"

"George, how delightful!" Hera said, going to him at once. "I didn't see you, standing there so quietly."

The duchess caught Francesca's gaze and, shockingly, closed one eye. "I've come to rush you away, my dear! Bring your lovely little boy and come with us to London for a fortnight. After which, Hera wishes to bear you off to Lincolnshire. I might come too, if Cuttyngham is willing. A fresh start, I think?"

The vicar's wife's jaw seemed about to hit the floor. She had publicly and frequently insulted the friend of a duchess. Mrs. Paston began to look smug.

"Perhaps you have an announcement, George?" Lady Hera said clearly.

"Actually, I do. Mrs. Hazel has agreed to be my wife." George smiled directly into Francesca's eyes, and she smiled back with all the love and all the laughter surging inside her.

"You see him," Lady Hera said in surprise. "You really do see him for what he is."

"I love him for what he is," Francesca said proudly, and the happiness in George's face dazzled like the sun in winter.

The End