“Felicity, what are you doing here?”

That was what Scarlett had asked her friend when she’d entered her foyer that fateful day six years ago and saw Felicity creeping down the staircase. Her dark brown hair, usually so neatly tended, had been in disarray around her flushed cheeks and her pelisse had been slightly askew as if she’d put it on in a great hurry.

Having just returned from her daily morning ride, Scarlett remembered being puzzled by Felicity’s presence in her home at such an early hour. That puzzlement had quickly shifted to awareness and awareness to bewildered hurt when Rodger appeared at the top of the staircase, his shirt unbuttoned and a silk stocking dangling from his hand.

“Felicity you forgot your – Scarlett.” Because they’d been less than a year into their marriage he’d actually had the good grace to look ashamed. “I did not expect you to return from your ride so soon.”

Scarlett’s gaze had darted from her friend to her husband and back again. Feeling as though she’d been struck square in the gut she stumbled back a step, her eyes filling with tears of shocked disbelief.

“What… what are you doing here, Felicity?” she’d repeated, wishing – praying – her friend would give her an answer that explained away her swollen lips and guilty expression and the damned silk stocking Rodger was still holding. A silk stocking Scarlett knew for a fact did not belong to her, as all of her stockings were white and this one was pale blue.

The same pale blue peeking out from beneath the hem of Felicity’s skirts.

“I… I do not know what to say.” Felicity looked absolutely miserable but not nearly as miserable as Scarlett felt.

“How long,” she had managed to choke out past the burning lump of coal in the middle of her throat. She’d begun to suspect Rodger had been stepping out as of late. In addition to spending more time in London, he had stopped coming to her bedroom as frequently. But she had assumed his mistress – if he did indeed have one – was someone of no consequence. A passing fancy. A fly by night, such as it were. And while she would rather he remain faithful, she knew husbands rarely were. She’d just never imagined his mistress would be one of her oldest, dearest friends! Hurt flooded her gaze as she glared up at Felicity through a thin veil of tears. “How long has – has this been going on?”

“Scarlett, please let me explain.” Her eyes as big as two silver shillings, Felicity hurried down the rest of the steps and tried to reach for Scarlett’s arm but she snatched it away, repulsed at the idea of being touched by the same hand that had just been touching her husband.

“I asked you a question. How long? A month? Two months? Longer? Tell me!” she demanded when Felicity remained silent.

“You do not understand–”

“Three weeks, give or take,” Rodger called down from the top of the stairs. Mercifully he’d hidden the stocking from view. It was a small comfort given everything Scarlett had just discovered, but at least she wouldn’t have to stare at it any longer. “I am sorry you had to find out this way, my dear. It was never my intention.”

Scarlett’s gaze darted back and forth between them. Her husband. The woman she’d considered a sister. Her husband. Her sister. “No,” she said slowly, “I am sure your intention was to never be caught. How unfortunate for you that I came home before you had a chance to cover up your indiscretion.”

“Please,” Felicity begged, bringing her hands together beneath her chin. Tears fell freely from her eyes, dampening her cheeks and staining the collar of her pelisse. “If you would only let me explain–”

“Explain?” Scarlett said scathingly. “I am not blind, Felicity. I do not need you to explain anything.”

“But–”

“Get out,” she hissed. “I never want to see you ever again.”

Felicity jerked back as though she’d been struck.

“Surely you do not mean that,” she whispered. “I will come back tomorrow after you have had time to calm yourself. Yes. Yes, that is precisely what I shall do. Then we can sit down and discuss–”

“How you have turned yourself into my husband’s whore?” Scarlett’s bitter laugh echoed through the foyer. “I think not. There is nothing left for us to discuss.” She could not decide which hurt worse. Her husband’s betrayal or Felicity’s. At least Rodger knew better than to make sad, pitiful excuses. In fact, he had disappeared from the top of the staircase altogether. Her jaw hardened, teeth clenching to the point of pain. She would deal with him later.  

“Am I somehow making myself unclear?” she demanded when Felicity remained frozen in place as though her shoes had somehow adhered themselves to the floor. “I want you to leave and never return!”

It was easier to be angry. Easier to shout instead of cry. Easier to stand on top of fury than it was to drown inside of sorrow. Easier to see things in black and white than shades of gray.

Part of her knew there was more to story than what met the eye, but she didn’t want to hear it.

Not now when she was still reeling from the shock of Felicity’s deception.

Perhaps not ever.

“If you do not leave of your own accord I shall have Givens escort you off the property.” Her gaze flicked past Felicity to where their butler stood silently in front of the drawing room, his face carefully devoid of expression. Absently she wondered if he’d known of the affair, and decided that he had. There was not much that escaped a butler’s notice. But Givens was loyal to Rodger – along with the rest of the household staff with the exception of Ruth – and he would have had no reason to tell Scarlett of his master’s indiscretion.

She closed her eyes as a shudder racked her body. To imagine Rodger and Felicity in bed together, their limbs entwined, their mouths touching… Her eyes snapped open. No. She wouldn’t imagine it. She couldn’t.

“Givens, please come here and–”

“There is no need for that. I shall see myself out.” Shaking her head as though waking from a trance, Felicity at last forced her legs to move. She walked stiffly past Scarlett as a footman rushed to open the front door. When she paused before crossing over the threshold Scarlett thought she was going to turn back around. She even held her breath in anticipation. But with another tiny shake of her head Felicity walked out the door… and out of Scarlett’s life.

 

“How is your husband?” Prudence asked as Felicity sat down between Eleanor and Francis.

“He is quite well,” she replied. If her smile seemed strained no one else seemed to notice except for Scarlett. Then again, Scarlett did know her best. Having grown up on neighboring estates they’d been bosom friends from the cradle. They had done everything together, from taking lessons on the pianoforte – Felicity had always been the more adept musician – to sneaking out after dark to chase fireflies. They were like sisters… until they weren’t.

“Although we have been so busy with the children I am afraid he has not had much time for gentlemanly pursuits,” Felicity continued. “We were both grateful to receive your invitation, Eleanor. A night in the company of other adults is just what we needed.”

“But of course,” Eleanor cooed.

“Children?” Scarlett blurted before she could stop herself. “You’ve had another?”

“Yes.” For the first time since she’d entered the parlor Felicity looked directly at Scarlett and everyone sitting around the table took a collective breath. “Anne, named for Ezra’s mother.”

Ezra Whitten, Viscount of Ashburn, was Felicity’s husband. He was a tall, rather severe looking man with dark hair, dark eyes, and a perpetual scowl. To be quite honest Scarlett had never known what Felicity saw in him. Whenever she’d asked, Felicity had merely smiled and said he had a poet’s soul – whatever that meant.

Scarlett often wondered if Ezra ever suspected his wife of having an affair. Her pain was so great right after it happened that she would have told him herself, but Felicity must have suspected as much for she and Ezra had gone to Scotland two days later and had not returned for nearly a year. By then Scarlett’s blinding fury had cooled to anger and she’d no longer wanted revenge… she’d simply wanted Felicity out of her life.

To this day no one – not even Eleanor, interfering witch that she was – knew exactly what had led Scarlett and Felicity to abruptly end their long friendship, nor why they had become so openly hostile to one another. The mysteriousness of it all made great fodder for gossip, and to this day it was still considered to be a rather delicious scandal.

“Congratulations,” Scarlett said stiffly. She wanted to say more. To ask how old Anne was. To see how their eldest child was doing. To find out if Felicity and Ezra were still happy. But the words would not fit past the coiled knot in the back of her throat.

They said time healed all wounds, but Scarlett had learned the hard way that the opposite was true. Wounds needed time to fester. Wounds needed time to grow.

Time did not heal wounds.

It infected them.

“Thank you.” Felicity held Scarlett’s gaze a moment longer before she turned her attention to Prudence. The subject quickly shifted to the Warwick Ball – one of the last grand affairs of the Season – and even though Scarlett said all the right things at all the right times, her mind was elsewhere.

It wasn’t until the very end of the dinner party that she found herself alone with Felicity. Joined by their husbands, all of the women had retired to the music room to listen to Eleanor sing. Unable to stand Lady Manheim’s screeching voice, Scarlett had excused herself on the pretense of needing some fresh air to quell an upset stomach. Stopping only to retrieve her cloak and bonnet, she went out the front and followed an uneven stone pathway around to the rear courtyard.

Overhead the sky was a canopy of stars thrown against an inky black canvas. Small stones washed in silver moonlight crunched beneath Scarlett’s ankle boots as she walked to the only tree in the courtyard and leaned against it. The rough bark caught on the fabric of her cloak, pulling at the soft wool. She was in the midst of trying to free herself when she heard footsteps approaching. And even though she had no reason to think it was Felicity walking through the shadows, she spoke her name without turning around.

“Before you demand I leave,” Felicity said quickly, “I have something to tell you.”

At last Scarlett managed to coax the last thread of wool from the tree. She pivoted in a swirl of skirts to find Felicity shivering at the end of the path without so much as a shawl wrapped around her exposed shoulders.

“What are you doing out here?” she snapped. “Go back inside. You’re going to freeze to death.”

“I should think that would make you happy.”

“Just because I hate you does not mean I want harm to befall you.” As contrary as it sounded, it was true. In her heart of hearts Scarlett had never wanted Felicity to suffer true injury. How could she, when they’d once been as close as sisters? It was why she had never understood why Felicity had been able to hurt her so egregiously. Then again, hadn’t she done the same thing to Owen?

Stop thinking about him!

“Your actions thus far have certainly proved otherwise.” Felicity’s mouth compressed into a thin line as she hugged her arms against her chest. “You nearly tore all of my hair out the last time our paths crossed.”

Scarlett waved her hand dismissively. “A handful or two at the most and it was an accident.”

“How does one accidentally rip out hair?”

“I was reaching for your bonnet.”

Felicity merely lifted a brow.

“Oh, very well. I pulled your hair on purpose. There. Are you happy now?”

“You always did have a temper,” Felicity noted.

“If you have come out here to state the obvious you are wasting your time and mine.”

“I came out here to tell you something important.”

“Well?” Scarlett said expectantly when Felicity fell silent. “Spit it out. I haven’t all night.”

“Now I don’t know if I should tell you or not.”

“Oh for heavens–” She broke off with a roll of her eyes. “Stay out here and freeze for all I care. I am going back inside.” But when she went to brush past Felicity she was the one who froze dead in her tracks. All it took was four little words. Four little words that invoked a jolting shock the likes of which she’d never felt before; not even when she’d caught Felicity on the staircase and Rodger above it with that damned silk stocking dangling from his hand.

“Owen is in London.”