Page 20 of A Trickster’s Temptation

'I know. I don't think she's ever allowed herself to.'

'But for Mr. Hart she suddenly decides to do so? It's absurd!'

'Only if you consider Mr. Hart and Mary to be happy in the roles they've carved out for themselves. Perhaps Mary wanted more excitement and Mr. Hart wanted more authenticity.'

'I suppose.' Winnie brushed the crumbs off of her skirts. 'You're very wise now that you're married.'

'I can still tell when you're being sarcastic, even though I'm married.'

'I just... why Mr. Hart? I don't understand it at all. I mean objectively, apart from Mary's need for excitement, why him?'

'Well, he's hardly ill-looking. Some would consider him very handsome indeed.'

'No. He's far too smooth, like a marble statue.'

'Oh, yes? Do you prefer gentlemen who look like hewn rock? Mr. Hart's friend, perhaps?'

'I... be quiet.'

Abigail smiled. Winnie's cheeks had turned a most unusual shade of pink; she brushed the remaining crumbs off of her skirts with considerably more force than necessary. 'Ah! Have I touched a nerve?'

'No.'

'I think I have.'

'And I think you're being terribly cruel to concentrate on me rather than our ailing friend in the other room.'

'I... I know. I agree.' Abigail's smile faded. 'But what are we supposed to do?'

'I don't know. We've tried reasoning with her, but she didn't listen to reason.' Winnie shook her head. 'That's never happened with Mary before.'

Silence returned, sadder still. Winnie and Abigail looked at the door that led to the parlour, both of them waiting for a sound--any sound--that would mean they were allowed entrance.

Nothing came.

'Do... do you think she's going to be all right, Abigail?' Winnie swallowed. 'I've never seen her like this before.'

'I don't know.' Abigail paused. She had lived through terrible trials, and had been rescued from them by love; Mary's case was exactly the opposite. 'Forgive me, Winnie--but I simply don't know.'

On the other side of the parlour door, surrounded by half-embroidered handkerchiefs and with the novel open in her lap, Mary sighed. A small sigh, not loud enough to make her friends enter the room despite her instructions not to do so, but a definite sigh nonetheless.

She had tried to be useful. No lady had plain handkerchiefs, unless she was so wildly wealthy that she could afford to make a virtue of simplicity, and embroidering usually kept her brain sufficiently occupied. Alas, despite her best efforts, Mary's flowing ribbons and neatly blooming threaded roses were a messy tangle--much like, it had to be said, her mind.

Thinking about Mr. Hart was a constant, prickling pain, but one that she couldn't resist. After three failed handkerchiefs and a sudden burst of tears mid-morning, Mary had been forced to turn to the novel; she had been determined not to read it, using it instead as a useful way to ensure her friends did not disturb her, but as it turned out revolting sentimentality had been exactly what she needed.

She had wept as she read it. Wept for hours, in fact, the events of the novel a helpful catalyst for tears regarding her own life. And now that Mary had finished weeping--at least, for now--she sat limply in the armchair by the empty fireplace, unable to do much more than simply breathe.

She had never wept at length before. Not about anything. Weeping was for people with less to do than herself, people who could afford to lose themselves in sorrow rather than throw themselves into the work of the day. But now that all Mary's tears had been wrung out of her, she could appreciate the usefulness of simply allowing oneself to wallow.

Adam.Another tear fell; Mary grimaced, wiping it away.

She was in love with him. There was no other explanation for this sadness, this terrifying feeling of falling through darkness now that Adam was no longer at her side. More than that, there was no other explanation for the happiness--the sheer contentment--that she felt when they were together.

She felt safe. Safe, and yet seen, seen by someone who knew her flaws but appreciated them. Someone who knew just how much was hiding behind her cautious, careful facade, and had the patience to bring every part of her out to shine.

Someone who, upon beginning to know her in a way no-one else ever had, immediately told her friends. Mary grimaced again, the painful memory of that day rising up in her like bile.

Of course, she understood now. Abigail and Winnie had told her in no uncertain terms what had actually happened, what Adam had actually said--that they had been the ones to guess rather than Adam the one to tell. But the truth only made this current misery worse; it meant that there had been hope, real hope, before she had ruined it all by losing control for the first time in her life.

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