“He felt that he really ought to go to the Lords this morning,” Wren explained.

“On the day after his wedding?” the other lady said, looking startled. But then she laughed. “Oh, but that sounds just like Alexander.”

“And I had work to do here myself,” Wren added.

“Oh, have I interrupted—”

“No, you have not,” Wren assured her. “Do come and sit down. The coffee is fresh and there are extra cups. Let me pour you some.”

A minute later they were seated on either side of the fireplace in a room that seemed somehow larger and quieter than it had five minutes ago.

“I find this situation far more awkward than I expected when I suggested inviting you to the wedding,” Wren said. “And more awkward than it seemed when you first arrived. After yesterday you must—Well, surely you must resent me.”

“You are refreshingly honest,” Viola said. “For of course I have been sitting here trying not to squirm with discomfort. I do not feel any resentment toward you, Wren, or toward Alexander. Even if you had not been good enough to invite Abby and me to your wedding, and even if you had not been so extraordinarily kind to Harry, I still would not resent you. There is only one person deserving of my resentment and he is dead. I will say no more about that, for he was my husband and I owe him loyalty even in death—and even though the marriage was never a legal one. I am no saint, however. I did feel an intense hatred and resentment of Anastasia for many months even while denying it and understanding how illogical such feelings were. But then I saw how persistently kind and generous she tried to be to my children, her half siblings, and even to me, and I had a good talk with her when we were all in Bath last year. And I am determinedly loving her. That may sound strangely worded, but love is not always a feeling, Wren. Sometimes it is more of a decision. I have decided to love her, and I trust that eventually I will feel it too.”

“I find her delightful, I must confess,” Wren said. “I find the whole family delightful, in fact. They have welcomed me despite everything.”

“Everything?” Viola regarded her in silence for a few moments, her head tipped to one side. “Do you mean despite your face? Or do you mean despite your money?”

“A bit of both, I suppose,” Wren said. “I was described in one of the papers this morning as a fabulously wealthy heiress. Everyone will be saying today that someone with Alexander’s good looks would not have married a woman who looks as I do without the money.”

“And do you care what people say?” Viola asked.

“Do you?”

“Touché.” Viola laughed softly. “Because I have hidden away in the country with Abby and refused to come to London until now? I suppose we all care, Wren, no matter how much we try to tell others and ourselves that we do not. Yes, I care. You cannot know what it is like to lose your very identity when you are already forty years old. Most of us, whether we realize it or not, take our identity from things and other people and circumstances and our very names. It is only when all those identifiers are stripped away that we ask ourselves the question who am I? It does not happen to many people, of course. It is more frightening than I can put into words to wonder if in fact one even exists without all those things. I call myself Viola Kingsley because that is who I was as a girl. It does not feel quite who I am today, however. But I beg your pardon. I do not usually talk so shamelessly about myself.”

“I do understand,” Wren told her. “I was not born with the name Wren Heyden. I acquired both names when I was ten years old and with them a whole new identity. I feel for you even though the transformation happened for me at a quite different point in my life than it did for you. And for me it was a change infinitely for the better.”

“Ten years old,” Viola said. “Oh, poor little girl. I did not know that about you. I know very little about you except that you are kind and beautiful—yes, you are. There is no point in looking so skeptical. And, little though I know, I have the feeling you are going to be the perfect wife for Alexander. He needs someone as serious minded and intelligent as he. And someone who can make him smile, as he did yesterday.”

“Oh,” Wren said, arrested. “I think that must be a worthy thing to do for others, must it not? Making them smile?”

They smiled at each other as if to prove the point. She could have a genuine friendship with this woman, Wren thought with a rush of warmth to the heart. First Lizzie, now Viola. Ah, she had missed so much in her life of self-imposed seclusion. Viola had opted out of life last year. Wren had been doing it for almost twenty years.

It was as though Viola read her thoughts. “You see what comes of conversation?” she said. “I would have sat here this morning in pained embarrassment, talking about the weather and praying for Althea and Elizabeth or my children to return here soon if you had not chosen to talk openly about the awkwardness we both felt. By talking freely we have each discovered that we are not the only ones who have ever suffered. Sometimes it feels, does it not, as though one had been unfairly singled out while everyone else proceeds with a happy, untroubled life?”

“Indeed.” Wren smiled again, and then moved on to lighter subjects. “Will you be attending any social functions while you are in town?” she asked. “Will Abigail?”

“My mother-in-law—former mother-in-law—and Matilda are very keen that I do,” Viola said. “They pointed out last evening that what happened to me was not in any way my fault and most of the ton would be perfectly happy to see me again and welcome me back. They believe I ought to make the effort for Abby’s sake. They think it is still possible, especially with the combined influence of the family and Avery, for her to have a decent coming-out and to find a husband suited to her upbringing. However, it is Abby who must make that decision, and I cannot predict what she will decide, though I can make an educated guess. If she decides to do it, however, it will not be with me by her side. She will have more powerful advocates. As for myself, I have no real wish to be restored to favor. It is not that I am afraid to show my face, but … well”—she smiled—“perhaps I am a little afraid.”

“A stack of invitations arrived this morning,” Wren said, nodding in the direction of the tray. “I was not expecting them. I daresay I am very naive. Our wedding was announced and commented upon in today’s papers, and I am now the Countess of Riverdale. I will refuse them all, of course.”

“Will you?” Viola said. “I understand you have spent years hiding yourself away and wearing a facial veil when you must go out. Yet you did not wear one yesterday. Will Alexander not try to insist that you attend at least a few of those entertainments?”

“No,” Wren told her.

“You said that with utter confidence,” Viola said. “So you will have no social life as the Countess of Riverdale?”

“No.” Wren shook her head.

“We are two fearful women, are we not?” Viola pulled a face and then looked speculatively at Wren. “Are we really going to give in to our fears? Or shall we challenge each other? Shall we show ourselves together to London, even if not to the ton? Shall we visit some of the galleries and churches and perhaps the Tower of London together in the next few days before I return home? Strangely, sightseeing is not something a Countess of Riverdale usually does. There are too many parties and other social events to take up her time. I shall run the very real risk of being recognized, and you will run the risk of being seen—for of course, to make the challenge real, you would have to go unveiled. What do you say? Shall we do it?”