Oliver put an arm around his aunt. “I’m so sorry. Why can’t you tell her that, though? She’d understand, if you’d just tell her that you’re trying.”

“What, and admit that she’s right?” Freddy snapped. “Not likely. I know exactly how I’m going to end this. One day, I’m going to open my door. I’m going to walk down the stairs, just like I’ve always been doing it. I’m going to open the front door…” Her voice paused; her hands were shaking. “And I’m going for a walk in the park.” She gave a nod. “And then I’m going to write to her and tell her that she’s wrong. That I can go outside, that I did, and that I’ll take no more of her impertinence.”

“Freddy.”

She sighed. “Very well. You tell her I’m trying,” Freddy said, and then before Oliver could promise that he would, a mulish look crossed her face. “No,” she said. “Don’t tell her. I want it to be a surprise. I want it all to be a surprise. I’ll show her. I’ll show her everything.”

He patted her hand. “I’m sure you will. Would it help if I came over to assist you?”

“You’re a sweet boy, Oliver. Don’t have much of your mother in you at all.”

Oliver stilled. “You think so?”

“Of course I think so,” Freddy replied. Her gaze abstracted. “Some people, when they’re hurt…they remember the challenge. They grab hold of the fire once, and when they’re burned, they make plans, trying to figure out how to hold live coals. That’s your mother. But some of us remember the pain.” She reached out and patted Oliver’s hand. “You’re like that. You remember the pain, and you flinch. When you were young, I thought you were like your mother—a regular coal-grabber. But no. Now I see more clearly.” She smiled sadly. “You’re like me.”

He let out his breath and looked at his aunt. She probably intended that as a compliment. But the flesh under her eyes had darkened. Her skin hung loosely on a too-thin frame. He’d never known what she feared, what had made her this way. His mother said that Freddy had never offered an explanation. Maybe, at this point, she didn’t even remember it.

“I can come over more often,” he repeated.

“No.” She shook her head. “Our monthly visits will do, dear. Other people just make me nervous. Even you.” Her chin went up. “But don’t worry about me. In another week…or so…I’ll be in that park. Just you wait.”

He looked at her. Her jaw was set in place, firm and yet quivering. Her eyes flashed with defiance.

“One day,” she said, “one day, I will walk out that door and march around that park. One day soon.”

“I love you, Freddy,” Oliver said, and then, because he knew it was true, he added, “Free loves you, too. You know she does.”

“I know.” Freddy paused, bit her lip. “And she’s out there all by herself.” Her hands shook. “You’d better go after her, Oliver.”

Chapter Eighteen

Some hundred miles to the north of London in Nottingham.

“She wasn’t here.”

The little grove Jane was in shielded her from view. At the sound of that too-familiar voice, she rested her head against the trunk of the tree. Better that than banging her head against the rough bark in frustration. Not that she cared about the damage to her forehead, but the noise might draw attention, and that was the last thing she needed.

That last few months had been…difficult. Annabel Lewis had warned her of this—that her aunt and Lord Dorling had seemed a little too friendly when Jane wasn’t about. She hadn’t wanted to believe it, but…

Jane looked up. The leaves on the trees were no longer young; they waved in the morning breeze, rustling. And her aunt, Mrs. Lily Shefton, harrumphed in the clearing behind her.

It was still early—an odd time to be out, in fact, but her aunt had insisted that this morning would do nicely for a walk in this woodsy park on the outskirts of Nottingham. They had come here, and her aunt had promptly absconded, leaving Jane alone.

She had been trying to throw Jane together with Dorling. Jane rolled her eyes. Whatever did she imagine would happen?

“You’d think,” her aunt was saying from the clearing, “that a little thing like a woman’s affection would be a simple thing to capture. I’ve given you every opportunity, Dorling, and you haven’t yet managed to pull the thing off. What is wrong with you?”

“It’s not me. It’s your blee—your recalcitrant niece.”

Jane couldn’t see Dorling’s expression, but she could imagine it. The Honorable George Dorling thought a great deal of himself. He’d importuned Annabel before Jane had arrived and had presented a wealthier target. He had the usual rumors attached to him—a baron’s second son, sent down from London for raking and gambling.

“Well, hurry it up,” her aunt advised. “This whole thing makes me feel dirty as it is. I told my brother I’d see her married, and so I shall. If you can’t help, I’ll find someone who can.”

“Yes, yes,” Dorling said lazily. “Do have a little patience. It’s a delicate matter courting your niece. Is it any surprise that she thinks I’m after her money? She has so much of it to recommend her, and so little of anything else.”

Jane’s mouth curled in a reluctant smile.

Dorling wanted her money. Her aunt wanted her gone. It was hardly a surprise that they’d formed an alliance. It wouldn’t do any good, of course—Jane had no intention of marrying anyone—but at least it gave her aunt a purpose. She was thankful for small favors.

“This is unacceptable,” her aunt said, cutting through Jane’s amusement. “My brother has everything in readiness. He can’t act until you take care of the girl.”

Jane’s breath caught. Whatever could she mean, her uncle had everything in readiness? That Jane needed to be taken care of?

“I will,” Dorling said, “just as soon—”

“There is no time,” her aunt scolded. “He’s more and more worried about her sister. She’s been acting oddly.”

Unhappy was the word Jane would have used. Emily wasn’t allowed out, and her uncle exercised more care now in making sure she did not slip away. It was small wonder that her sister wasn’t her normal self.