Excerpt from The Portrait by Hazel Statham

Prologue The Battle of Salamanca, Spain 22nd July 1812 The French were in disarray and taking refuge in retreat when a brief bombardment of cannon fire issued from their ranks. Amidst the onslaught, Marchant’s Cavalry was making good their escape, when an explosion sent Edward Thurston, the new twenty-seven year-old Earl of Sinclair, reeling from his saddle.

In just one brief moment, the tall, athletic Earl, who had led his men so enthusiastically in the attack, lay near death, his life’s blood seeping into the mud-laden ground. Briefly, his gray eyes registered pain, before closing in blessed oblivion.

Seeing an injured, rider-less horse, racing at his side, one of the young English officers, Major Anthony Drake, sharply drew rein, swinging his horse fiercely round.

“My God, Ned!” he cried, heedlessly urging his horse once more toward the cannon fire and threw himself to the ground beside the inert figure of his friend.

“My God! My God!” was all he could cry as panic and bile rose at sight of the devastation wrought on his friend’s noble frame by the explosion.

Another rider, a sergeant, appeared at his side and threw himself from his saddle. “We must get him onto my horse, sir,” he said urgently. “Help me lift him,” and between them, despite the bombardment, they raised the lifeless form from the mud.

Amidst heavy rifle fire, they flung Sinclair over the horse’s withers before vaulting into their saddles and furiously galloping back to their own lines.

* * *

The air inside the field medical tent was oppressive, the wounded and dying lay on pallets with scarce enough room to walk between. The battle had been won, but the cost in human suffering had been high. Too high! Dr. Pyke the surgeon thought vehemently as he stood beside the cot of the young nobleman, who lay with eyes closed against the sights around him. “The left arm must come off at the shoulder, sir,” he said firmly.

Immediately Sinclair’s eyes came wide. “By God, it will not!” he replied fiercely from between bloodless lips, thinned with pain. “I’ll have none of your butchery!” The scarlet of the wounds to his left cheek and torso stood out in stark contrast to his ashen skin and the dark hair that clung to his fevered brow. His left arm hung from its ragged joint, a useless, bloody, appendage.

Pyke spoke in metered tones, as if every vestige of strength had been drained from him during his attendance on the never-ending stream of casualties. “If the arm is not removed I cannot guarantee the outcome, my lord.”

Sinclair’s eyes were bright with fever. “And you can, if it is removed?” he sneered. “I think not!”

“No, sir, but we must at least try. I have been ordered - nay commanded - to do all that I can.”

“By whom?”

“By the great man himself.”

“Then you can tell Wellington to go to blazes. I’ll have no sawbones hacking at me…”

The tent flap was pushed aside and Wellington entered the medical tent.

“My Lord…” began Pyke, but Wellington raised his hand.

“You need not tell me,” he said. “I heard all. Ignore what Sinclair says, ’tis the laudanum speaking, he knows not what he’s saying – remove the arm.”

CHAPTER ONE

Hertfordshire, England, 1st December 1812

To Sinclair, the impressive prospect of Fly Hall had never seemed more welcoming. In the waning, early evening light, his gaze roamed lovingly over the sprawling, half-timbered Tudor mansion set deep within a valley, noting its gentle air of noble neglect. The weeds that sprang from paving and ivy that shaded the window panes, proved almost too much for him as he knew it would not have been allowed if the old Earl, his father, had been alive. It was a bittersweet homecoming. The journey had left him unbelievably weary but even the mere sight of the house, seen from its parkland approach, gave him a peace of mind he had not experienced for some while. He wished nothing more than to be within its familiar, welcoming portals.

His wounds still plagued him, and at times, he was convinced he still felt the fingers of his left hand moving. Alas, he had heard of other like cases amongst his fellow wounded and knew this to be nothing more than the affects of the amputation, which would disappear with time. He had been assured that the angry scarring to his body, where the shell had torn his flesh, would fade. Even now, the slight paling of the scar across his left cheek, gave evidence of this. The eyes remained the same, bright and alive, only the humor that was once seen there having waned. Stubble sprang from his cheeks and chin and he needed the services of a barber, his dark hair having been allowed to curl at the nape of his neck. He had lain abed in a convent on the Portuguese border along with others wounded in the encounter and such niceties had, by necessity, been overlooked.

As the coach rounded the final bend in the driveway and the house came fully into view, he reached into his greatcoat pocket and took out an elegantly framed miniature of a young lady with smiling eyes and dark curls.

“You see, my love, we finally arrive,” he said in hushed tones, before carefully replacing it. He had carried the miniature with him throughout the campaign, and it was only the sight of her face, during his delirium, that had prevented his senses from deserting him. In the convent, his reliance on the portrait had been seen, but none had commented, so fiercely did he protect it.

The coach halted before the imposing front door and even before the groom was able to let down the steps, the doors to the house were flung wide and, all formality forgotten, two of the menservants ran forward.

Caring hands helped their master to alight and supported him into the familiar, half-paneled hallway where a welcoming fire blazed in the large stone hearth. Immediately a chair was brought forward, into which he gratefully sank. His senses, long bereft of the familiar sights and sounds of the house, drank in its comforting warmth and a sense of peace settled over him. Even the dark wainscoting, which he had once thought outmoded, appeared to welcome him and his eyes closed briefly with the relief of being home.
As if Sinclair’s arrival had been anticipated by the minute, an elderly retainer, who appeared almost as ancient as the house itself, hurried forward, his weathered countenance full of concern. “Your chamber has been made ready and we will assist you there when you are rested, my lord,” he informed his master, bowing with obvious difficulty.

“My lord?” the Earl queried, raising a quizzical brow with amusement. “You were never usually so formal Brough.”

“Aye, but you were not master then,” Brough replied with a dry chuckle. “I can't call you Mister Edward now that the old Earl has gone. It would not be seemly.”

A weary smile touched the Earl’s lips. “And when have you cared for seemly? I will not believe myself home if I’m to be treated with such unfamiliar reverence.”

The housekeeper, a small plump woman, who also acted as cook and appeared as ancient as her husband, Brough, issued from the nether regions wiping her hands on her apron. “Mister Edward,” she cried, her pleasant countenance wreathed in smiles. She checked slightly at sight of his tall, once vigorous frame that now slumped so wearily in the chair but almost immediately, she recovered. It would not do that he should see her alarm at the change in him. Instead, she bobbed a curtsey, her face once more beaming. “There's pheasant soup, chicken and ham pie, and pork with apple, everything you like. We shall have you to rights in no time.”

Heartened by her enthusiastic welcome, the Earl’s smile widened into a boyish grin and he straightened slightly in the chair. “There, that’s a welcome worth coming home for. Though I may not be able to do justice to your cooking at this precise moment, Rose, it is something I have sorely missed and believe me when I say that even the finest cooks in the military can’t hold a candle to your excellent table.”

Rose flushed with pleasure at his fulsome compliment and standing with arms akimbo, rounded on the other servants, her voice gruff with emotion. “What are you all standing there for, you great ninnies? Take the master to his room. He must be tired after his journey. Once he is made comfortable we can see what is needed.” Then turning to the Earl she said, “Dr Wilmot said that we were to inform him of your arrival, sir, and he would come at once to attend to you.”

Sinclair sighed heavily, his smile disappearing to be replaced by a look of tired resignation. “Then I pray you will allow me a little time to recover from my journey before you send word to him. I have been poked and prodded enough over these past weeks; one more day without his ministrations will make no difference. I shall retire.”

* * *

The ivy, teased by the morning breeze, scratched impatiently at Sinclair’s bedroom window, reminding him that he was indeed returned to his beloved Fly. Dr Wilmot had arrived shortly after nine, going immediately to his patient’s bedchamber, eager to begin the examination of his childhood friend.

Lying on his large, canopied bed, Sinclair bore his friend’s professional examination with a stoicism born of necessity. He had learned by experience that he must endure what could not be avoided and waited until Wilmot completed his assessment before speaking.

As the doctor straightened from his examination, Sinclair said with a deceptive lightness of manner, “Come now, John, what’s your opinion of me? Don't stand on ceremony. I have known you too long for there to be any reserve between us.”

Wilmot smiled reassuringly. “Your wounds are healing well enough, Edward, and although it will take some while, I do believe you will return to full strength.”

Sinclair’s voice dropped slightly, “And what of the night terrors, will they cease?”

“Almost certainly. They are the result of the amputation and the trauma to your body, but with time they will diminish.”

“Time I don't have,” the Earl replied shortly, his gaze becoming distracted and his hand moving restlessly on the blue brocade quilt Wilmot had replaced over him at the end of his examination. “Ironic, is it not? To the outside world ’twould appear that I have time aplenty, but you see, I have not. I am to be married, John. Or, more rightly, I was to have been married. Yet how can I expect a wife to commit herself to the wreck I have become?”

“You are no wreck,” the medic assured scornfully. “It will take more than the loss of your arm to bring you low. Your strength will assuredly return.”

Sinclair grimaced ruefully. “Ah, but my strength will not return my arm to me or make my form more pleasing to Lady Jennifer, my betrothed. I'll carry these scars with me through life.”

Wilmot saw the Earl’s agitation. “Your scars were gained honorably, Edward, and when you feel more yourself, you'll become reconciled to them.”

Sinclair shook his head impatiently. “Tell that to a new bride. She will soon tire of such a husband. She will be repulsed by me, and who should blame her? Certainly not I.”

“Women are such unpredictable creatures, it is oft noted that they can become devoted to the most unlikely of spouses and if she loves you…”

“There you have the truth of it; I don't believe that she does. The betrothal was hastened because, like every other young buck of my generation, despite my father’s protestations that his heir should lay himself open to such dangers, I was eager to hasten to the war. Lady Jennifer and I knew each other for such a short time, with little opportunity to be private. In short, I must admit to it being a contrived marriage, a mariage de convenance brought about by our respective sires. I took my commission and hastened to Spain, as eager as any Englishman to face Old Boney. I have been too long away; we will be but strangers.”

“Was there no communication between you?”

“We wrote very little and I felt no desire to impart the horrors of war. I would shield her from such abominations. I preferred to keep my own counsel and instead encouraged her to tell me of the season's gaieties and divert my thoughts.”

Wilmot appeared incredulous. “You made no effort to engage her affections?”

“How could I from such a distance.”

“I would not have though that to pose a problem to you, Edward. I always thought you a man of considerable address.”

“If that be the case, how then am I to present her with the bridegroom I have become? She’s not even aware of the extent of my injuries and I would wish to be the man she thought me when we became betrothed.”

Wilmot raised his brows in disbelief. “You have not informed her of the nature of your wounds?”
“I felt not the need to distress her with the details.”

The medic shook his head. “You take this desire to shield her too far, Edward. Surely it would have been wiser to have prepared her for your homecoming…?”

Sinclair, his face set, raised his hand to silence the doctor. “My mind is made up. I shall release her from her promise. I wouldn't wish that she should take me out of pity. I am still man enough to demand more.”

“There is no reason on this earth why, once your wounds are thoroughly healed, you shouldn’t lead a full and healthy life,” Wilmot replied, closing his bag with a snap and taking up his cloak. “The amputation has left you feeling low. You will feel completely different in a few months time.”

“But I don't have a few months, John. My betrothed has sent word that she is to visit me within the week and then we shall see what strangers we have become. I have no illusions. She was but seventeen when the arrangements were made and I have been away for over two years. She is still so young. The engagement was made at the instigation of her family; my prospects appealed to them. Now that I have ascended to the title, I will not be married for my rank and fortune, as is where my only attraction must now lie. Despite my disabilities, I would prefer to remain unwed than accept such a compromise.”

“You are thoroughly convinced that the marriage should not go ahead? I can say nothing to persuade you otherwise?”

“Nothing can dissuade me.”

“Then far be it from me to attempt to change your mind, you will no doubt take your own course.”

“You may not have persuaded me, my friend, but in openly expounding it, I have convinced myself that the marriage should not take place, and in so doing have taken a burden from my shoulders.”

“Then my visit has at least been of some use to you?”

“Undoubtedly!”

“You are now resolved to the issue?”

“Perfectly!”

“Then my old friend, the only way is forward.”

* * *

On the morning of the promised visit from Lady Jennifer, Edward, having spent a restless night thinking of his betrothed, watched as the rivulets of rain ran slowly down his bedchamber window and thought they singularly suited his mood. At dawn’s first light, he had raised himself up on his pillows and there remained, his thoughts filled with the pending reunion. Only now would he allow himself to dwell on the thoughts of what might have been had he been returning to her as a whole man; a return he had anticipated so often during his time at war.

When Brough entered the room, he was surprised to find his master fully awake, his features appearing drawn. “Have you not slept well, sir?” he asked, full of concern. “Shall I arrange for breakfast to be served here? Perhaps you should delay your foray to the lower floor until you are stronger.”

“I will not receive Lady Jennifer in my bedchamber,” stated Sinclair decisively, as he pushed aside the coverlet and laid his feet to the floor. “I have two perfectly sound legs and, with your aid in dressing, I'll entertain my visitor in the morning room. It has a pleasant and open aspect and I wish not to appear dull for her visit.”

Recognizing the determination in the Earl’s voice, Brough busied himself about the room. “The Holland covers have been removed from all the rooms, sir, and everything is as it should be,” he assured. “My Rose has seen to that. She has made ready your regimentals… ”

The Earl put his feet firmly on the floor, pushing himself erect. “Then she need not have bothered. I’m not in the military now. I am a civilian and have no wish to cling to my uniform. Lay out the blue superfine, it will suffice.”

“Aye, sir, thought you might say that,” Brough grinned, going to the aid of his young master and bringing forward a chair. “Rose has had your entire wardrobe refreshed until your valet arrives from London and takes over its care.”

Sinclair sat on the chair, not wishing to admit to the weakness he felt rising, determined to greet his betrothed with at least some of his old vigor. “When my visitor arrives, serve refreshments immediately,” he said firmly, “and then I wish for no interruptions for the remainder of her visit. Is that quite clear?”
“Perfectly sir.” “Then bring my razor and help me prepare.”

Once his dressing had been completed and Brough had been dismissed, the Earl stood before the large mirror and examined the results. Whilst not thoroughly pleased with what he saw, he felt some satisfaction of at last returning to his civilian clothing. The empty sleeve had been pinned to the breast of his coat, which, though still fitting the broad expanse of his shoulders, hung on his battle-hardened frame. He stood for a moment longer and made mental note that a visit from his tailor should be arranged as soon as possible. Turning abruptly away from his reflection, he crossed to the dresser and opening one of the drawers, took out the miniature.

He held it before him, a slow smile spreading over his countenance before, as if taken by a sudden decision, he crossed to the hearth and threw it into the newly-lit fire. However, seeing the flames rise up to lick around the edge of the frame brought a pain to his breast he could not bear and snatching up a pair of tongs, he bent quickly and retrieved it once more, unable to endure its destruction.

“Not yet. Not yet,” he whispered to the sweet face that looked back at him. “It is too soon. I will have you with me yet a while longer. I cannot bear your going.” Taking it once more to the dresser, he took out a fine linen handkerchief and, spreading it wide, laid the portrait within its folds and returned it to the drawer.

His shoulder and the wounds to his side ached. The long journey back to England had taken its toll on his resources, but wishing not to evoke pity, he was determined to present no feeble form to his betrothed when she arrived. Instead, he pulled back his shoulders and casting a final glance at the mirror, left his apartment and made his way to the breakfast room on the ground floor.

It was the first time he had ventured from his chamber since his arrival and he felt the warmth of familiar surroundings once more envelop him, the only sadness being that his father was no longer present. It had been just before the battle at Albuera that he had heard of his death. However, the urgency of the situation in Spain had precluded his return, even though his desire was to be with his younger brother, Peregrine, whom he now found to be his ward. The boy, then but fifteen years of age, had gone instead to live with their married sister, Lady Flora Carlton, in Essex, but was now in his first term at Oxford. Notice of the Earl’s return had been sent to Peregrine and arrangements were in progress that he should return to Fly Hall at the end of term in two weeks time. Edward had thought it prudent that his brother should not return before the given date as he wished himself to be more recovered from his journey for their reunion. Peregrine idolized him and he wished to present no feeble image.

Sinclair eased himself into the chair held for him at the breakfast table but, ignoring the collation that Rose had deemed necessary to prepare, ordered the butler to bring him nothing but eggs and toast. He had no appetite, but it would appear churlish should he refuse all Rose's efforts on his behalf. However, whilst he drank a steaming cup of coffee, he merely toyed with the meal before finally pushing away his plate, which the butler immediately removed.

Had he but known it, a similar scene was being enacted in a certain house in Berkeley Square as Lady Jennifer Lynton, a petite brunet, pushed aside her early morning repast and rose hastily from the table.

“I have already told you, Arthur, I am determined to release the Earl of Sinclair from the engagement,” she avowed, standing resolutely before her elder brother, her usually merry blue eyes and sweet countenance holding a determination rarely seen.

Throwing aside his napkin and pushing his char from the table, the Earl of Hawley said with equal asperity, “That you will not, my girl. It is all arranged, and no matter the circumstances, the marriage will go ahead.”

“Don't you care that I have no desire whatsoever to be married,” she cried passionately. “It was only to please Father that I agreed to it in the first place, and now that he is no longer with us, I feel not the need to go through with it.”

“More like, now that you have met young Rothwell you feel not the need to go through with it. Ah yes, I’ve seen you making calf’s eyes at him miss.”

“That you have not,” she cried, stamping her foot emphatically. “I have never made calf’s eyes at anyone, let alone Lord Rothwell, whom I find insufferably self-opinionated. It's just that … Well…”

“There, you can't give a good reason why you shouldn't become Sinclair’s countess can you?” declared Arthur with some aplomb. “Think of the benefits. He's exceptionally well-breeched and has impeccable connections. He's also known to be extremely even tempered which must recommend him to any young bride.”

“But Arthur, I wish for more than an even temper from a husband …”

“With your hoydenish ways, an even temper is a distinct advantage and much to be desired. How else would he be able to contend with your starts and fancies? No, I am determined that you will go through with the marriage.”

“You want nothing more than to be free of me,” Jennifer accused. “Frederick too, for that matter. Indeed, if truth were told, you want the house to yourself so that you can marry Amelia Cheviot.”

“And if I do, who can blame me? I will not play nursemaid to you and your brother. It wasn't my wish to be left as your guardian. Surely you must realize just how repugnant the situation is to me?”

“Frederick need not concern you, but you have made sure of that. He had no great desire to go up to Oxford, but you insisted. For myself, I have no more wish to live with you than you have to have me here, but I will not be pushed into marriage just to suit your purpose.”

“You ever were an ungrateful chit,” Arthur fumed, rising and making for the door. “But I warn you, refuse Sinclair and you will find me less than charitable. Then see how far your face and fortune will get you when you are obliged to accept the first man who comes along. You will be glad to, if only to remove yourself from my influence.” With a flourish he was gone leaving Jennifer to stare rebelliously after him.

However, once alone, Jennifer's mood underwent a complete turn-about and an air of uncertainty overtook her. With lagging step, she left the breakfast parlor to go to her own apartments to prepare for her visit. Nonetheless, upon her entrance to her bedchamber, instead of calling for her maid to help her prepare for her journey, she went to sit in the window seat. Sitting with head resting on her cupped hand, she gazed abstractly through the casement.

When she thought of the Earl of Sinclair, as she had done quite often since the event of their betrothal, it was with very mixed emotions. At first, when the betrothal had been announced, being the envy of all her contemporaries, she had been filled with a feeling of excitement, but such feelings had been short-lived. No sooner had the notice of the engagement been posted in the Gazette than her betrothed had found it necessary to dispatch himself to Spain, and seemed in no hurry to return. Even his letters had been very formal, hardly what one would expect from a would-be bridegroom and she had found it difficult to respond to his impersonal tone. Even when he had been wounded, he had not found it necessary to communicate the fact to her. She had received news of it from George Reynolds, the brother of her friend Anne, and he had only heard of it by chance. She knew not the nature of the Earl’s wounds or their extent and felt piqued at what she perceived as the cavalier way in which she had been treated. Did he think her of no consequence that he had denied her the knowledge of his injuries? Indeed, she had only learned of his impending return by way of a brief communication from Reynolds, who had gleaned the information from his place at Whitehall. She had immediately sent a note to Fly, determined to inform the Earl of her decision at the earliest opportunity.

“I am thoroughly out of patience with you, Edward Thurston,” she said to the empty room. “I will not be all but ignored for more than two years and then be expected to trot up the isle with you. Indeed I will not!” She wouldn't admit to what extent the saying of these words only served to deepen the hurt she felt, but rallying, she called for her maid and with some determination prepared for her visit.

* * *

Entering the hallway at Fly, Jennifer asked her cousin Eleanor, who acted as chaperone, to await her there. Despite the impropriety, she wished for no witness to the interview with her betrothed, desiring whatever words were spoken to remain private. It took much persuading, but eventually Eleanor, much against her better judgment, succumbed to her young relative’s pleadings and allowed herself to be cozily seated by the large fireplace, glad of its welcoming warmth after the chills of the carriage.

Hearing the sounds of arrival, the Earl rose from his chair in the morning room and prepared to meet his intended. Something in the region of his chest clenched at the thought of the impending interview, but he schooled his countenance to greet her with an equanimity he was far from feeling.

Almost immediately, the door opened and Brough announced Lady Jennifer and full of resolve, her skirts swishing with the crispness of her step, she came quickly into the light-filled, blue and gold salon. As the door closed quietly behind her, she came to an abrupt halt. Finding it difficult to advance further into the room, she visibly blanched at the extent of Sinclair’s injuries, her expressive eyes wide at sight of his altered appearance. Nothing could have prepared her for the emotions the mere sight of him evoked, and whatever words she would have uttered, died unsaid.

Ignoring his wildly leaping emotions at seeing her once more, Edward drank in the delicacy of her features and form and, gathering his cloak of resolve about him, quickly closed the gap between them. Taking her cold fingers in his warm clasp, he raised them dutifully to his lips, feeling them tremble in his hold. His eyes never left her face, and he realized that there was no guile about her as he watched the mix of emotions that chased across her pale countenance. In that instant, he knew that he had made the right decision to end the betrothal.

“My lord, I…..” she began, but her voice failed and he saw the tears well up into her beautiful eyes.

“Will you not be seated, Lady Jennifer?” he said, leading her to a chair by the hearth. “Brough will bring refreshments and after a cup of tea I am sure you will feel more the thing.” Releasing her hand he stood before her as she sank into the chair. He found it necessary to concentrate, to keep his voice neutral, so that she would not be aware of his inner turmoil. Grateful that he was at least allowed to retain his pride, he was relieved that he showed no signs of the physical weakness that had laid him so low. “I realize my appearance must come as quite a shock to you,” he said with an incongruous smile.

She half rose but he held up his hand to forestall her and she once more sank back against the cushions. All former irritation forgotten, she was unable to put into words what she was feeling at that precise moment and was relieved when a light tapping on the door heralded an interruption.

Brough came into the room with a tray laden with a light repast which was placed on a low table set at their side, whilst a butler brought in a tea tray and set it on a small table beside Jennifer.

Busying herself with the pouring of the tea, she set up a flow of inconsequential conversation in the hope of presenting a diversion. She never allowed her eyes to wander from her task, dreading the moment when she would be forced to acknowledge the situation. However, as she would have handed the cup to Sinclair, the words died on her lips as she became aware of his intense scrutiny.

Seeing her unease, Edward straightened himself in his chair, saying in a subdued tone, “Lady Jennifer, I think it only fair that I bring about a swift end to your disquiet. I see what affect my injuries have on you, and believe me when I say that I quite understand. I am not so insensitive as to not realize just how devastating it would be if you were forced to ally yourself to such an individual as I have become. I would not wish it on you.”

As she would have given an answer to his words, he slowly shook his head. “There is no need to attempt to put the matter delicately. I am quite sure you realize, as do I, that to continue with the engagement would be disastrous. Therefore, I will not prevaricate on the issue. I release you from your promise. The wedding will not take place.”

“It is not your wish that we should marry?” she asked paling still further.

“It is not. I will send a retraction to the Gazette immediately. It will be seen that I have been too long away and who should blame us if our sentiments have undergone a change during that time. Indeed, it will be seen that I am the cause of the rift, so you need not fear censure.”

“Are my feelings on the matter not to be considered then, sir?” she asked sharply.

“I don’t think you know what your feelings are at this precise moment,” he replied, noting the indignant tilt of her chin and the militant look in her eye. “If you would but be guided by me, I am sure you will see the right of it, and you will be relieved to be rid of me.”

“I am beginning to think that I shall,” she said, coming abruptly to her feet and nearly upsetting the tea tray in the process. “I am excessively grateful to you for pointing it out to me. You have saved me the need to deliberate further on the matter.”

He too came to his feet and bridged the distance between them to take her hand in his. “You may not think it now, but you will come to be grateful to me for making the decision,” he said earnestly. “Let not your sentiments at this moment in time cloud your judgment. You see me as a case for pity, and it’s not what I would wish. I will not allow you to take me when such emotions rule.”

“You are quite right, sir,” she snapped, withdrawing her hand from his warm clasp. “I would not wish that you should think I take you out of sympathy, therefore I see the sense of it.” She did not understand why his words piqued her so. Had it not been her own intent to end the betrothal?

An unfathomable look came in his eyes. “I hope we may still meet as friends?”

“As friends? I see no reason why we should not,” she replied with a coolness she was far from feeling, deciding her reaction was that of resentment because it had been he who had uttered the words that ended the betrothal and not she.

He appeared relieved. “Then we are in agreement?”

“Most certainly. You have taken a burden from my mind. I too had wondered at the sense of continuing with the engagement and had reached the same decision as have you. Now we are both free to continue with our lives unhindered!”

“Have you felt the betrothal a hindrance?” he asked with some concern.

She colored with confusion. “Yes…no…I don’t know what I have felt. We had become as strangers and you were so far away….” Her voice faltered and she found it difficult to meet his gaze.

“Then the decision to end it is the right one and you may recommence your life without its burden. Now that the matter is settled, we can be easy in each other’s company. Won’t you be seated and take some tea with me? Talk to me for a while. I am in dire need of civilized conversation.

When the time came for Jennifer to leave Fly, Edward escorted his former betrothed and her companion to their chaise. Watching from the shallow steps that led to the gravel drive, he raised his hand in farewell as the equipage disappeared down the long driveway, waiting until it disappeared from view before turning back to the hall.

Repairing immediately to his apartment, he went straight to the dresser and pulled wide the drawer. Without taking it from its resting-place, he opened up the handkerchief and looked once more at the delicate face in the portrait.

“The deed is done, my love. The deed is done,” he said quietly, and once more folding the cloth, he gently closed the drawer.