Chapter Eleven

Caroline gave herself one day to grieve the future she should never have wanted, then forced herself back into business. As she was disinclined to take on another lover, she would have to give up her house to pay the next instalment of Jacqueline's dowry. All George's gifts were now gone, swallowed by her need to provide for her child.

Her pride made it impossible to accept Louisa's offer of a house, and Sir Percy was finally reuniting with his wife. Her presence there would be unwelcome at best, though she knew he would never turn her away.

The only other place she had to go was back into the country.

Home.

Decision made, she ordered for her life in London to be packed, and it was done more easily than she could have imagined. Anything she couldn't pack, she sold. Paintings, furniture, clothes; compared to the things she had already lost, this was nothing. Once her servants had finished disposing of it all, they would send her the money, and she would have the luxury of considering her next steps.

Thus, two days after George's ill-timed proposal, she left her London house for the last time, enduring the indignities of a stagecoach until she arrived on her mother's doorstep, a single carpet bag in her hands and nothing else to her name. It was raining.

The last time she had seen this house was when she was eighteen years old and her marriage was being negotiated to a man well past his prime. It had been raining then, too—the universe delighted in irony, it seemed. But even despite the rain, the muted lavender's merry scent from its place by the front door warmed her, and when the housekeeper opened the door, she smiled.

"Hello, Hill," she said. "I have returned."

For a moment, Hill's jaw hung wide. Then she remembered herself and snapped it shut. "Does your mother know?" she asked faintly, holding the door wide so Caroline and her carpet bag could step inside.

"She does not," Caroline said. "Be so good as to inform her."

Hill bobbed what might have been a curtsy and disappeared down the corridor. Caroline removed her bonnet and took off her coat, shaking out the water as she hung it on one of the hooks by the door. The familiarity of the gesture was ironic; she had almost spent half her lifetime away from this place, and yet her body remembered how it had been to live here.

At a noise from the end of the corridor, Caroline looked up to find her mother standing in the gloom, ramrod straight and clutching the locket at her chest. She looked old and frail, not the fiery witch that lived in Caroline's memory.

For a moment, neither woman spoke. They watched each other warily, unsure how the other would react. Finally, her mother stepped forward. "Caroline," she said.

"Hello, Mother."

Her mother's gaze darted to the two large cases by her feet. "Hill," she said, with a tolerable appearance of calm, "take Lady Augustus's luggage to her room."

"Yes, ma'am."

Caroline winced at the sound of her late husband's name, but refused to acknowledge the blow. "Have you eaten yet?" she asked. "I confess I'm famished."

Her mother caught her shoulders, and for an instant Caroline thought she would push her away. Instead, she pressed a dry kiss to her cheek. "I've just started. Sit and tell me why you're here."

A lump rose to Caroline's throat. After her disgrace, she'd had no contact with her mother, in part out of resentment and in part because neither had broken the silence. She hadn't even been certain her mother would accept her presence in the house, but here they were.

Dinner was not lavish; her mother lived alone and was not a heavy eater. Even so, there was enough to satisfy Caroline, and as she began scooping potatoes onto her plate, she said, "I apologise for not sending word of my arrival. My leaving London was somewhat abrupt."

Her mother's ruby earrings quivered in the candlelight. "Are you in disgrace?"

"Not at all. I merely find it difficult to provide for myself without Gus's fortune. You know he left it elsewhere."

Her mother tucked her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. "Is that all? You look . . . tired."

"I am tired, I suppose." Caroline allowed the footman to pour her some wine and raised it, hesitating. The subject of her daughter lay between them, and after a tense moment, she decided to address it. "Jacqueline is going to London next year."

Her mother clung to her glass with white-knuckled determination. This had never been easy for her—born into a deeply religious family, her faith had been her cornerstone, and she had been bitterly disappointed in Caroline's transgressions. Caroline was the antithesis of everything she had believed in, and while she likely did not hold Jacqueline responsible, she had never wanted anything to do with the girl. Jacqueline was a physical representation of Caroline's shame.

But years had passed since that first confrontation, where Caroline had confessed her wickedness and her mother had condemned her. If it weren't for her father's intervention, her mother might have cast Caroline out into the world.

Now, old pain filled her mother's eyes. She closed them briefly, and Caroline wondered if she had pushed too far too soon.

"I know you resent me for what I did," she said.

"I raised you better than to fall into bed with the first gentleman who tempted you." The sharpness in her mother's voice had been worn smooth by age and regret. "You should have known better."

"Oh, Mother."

"You were seventeen—hardly a girl."

"I loved him."

Her mother reached for her locket. "Even so," she said feebly. "You should have known better."

"He promised me marriage and everything else a young man promises when he wishes to get under a lady's skirts." At her mother's flinch, Caroline softened her voice. "Have you never wanted something so badly you would put everything aside for a taste of it? I was young and foolish and I paid the price—more heavily than you'll ever know."

"I've heard rumours of what you do in town."

"Yes." Caroline refused to back down. "Is that wrong? After Father's death, paying for Jacqueline's future fell to me. What else was I to do? Starve for your morals?"

That had certainly been too far. Her mother released a long breath. "Why are you here, Caroline?"

"Because I have nowhere else to go." She glanced to one side, feeling the sting in her nose. Foolish; she never cried. "And because I made the same mistake all over again."

"Are you with child?"

"No, no." Caroline glanced at her hands, the nails she had always taken such pride to keep polished and pretty. Her appearance had always been her greatest asset, but sometimes she thought it a terrible thing to be born beautiful in a world where a woman's consent meant very little. "No, the truth is . . ." She took a breath. "The truth is, Mother, that I have fallen in love. And it has ruined me."