Widow in White

Chapter Two: Leave Me Alone

Laura felt a surge of anger as Richard— no, he was Lord Albroke now —sat down. Then her last night of freedom was to be stolen — and by Richard.

It was three or four years since she had last seen him. She had known him all her life, but after her coming out they had come across each other only at rare intervals. An opera in London. A drive in the Park. Jane Gardiner's wedding. Lady Harriet's birthday. And a few other scattered, chance moments. She had never sought him out, but nor did she avoid him when she saw him. At each meeting she had marked the passage of years by a new line scored across his brow, a new grey hair, a new scar, and amused herself by imaging what might have caused them.

It disconcerted her now that he seemed rather younger than when she had seen him last. There was something... lighter about him. Softer. Calmer. Perhaps it was just by comparison; she felt heavier and harder and stormier inside than ever before.

All she wanted was for him to go away and leave her alone. It was the last night of her full mourning, a year and day after her husband's death, and it had not been a pleasant one yet. Her father's quiet dinner party had turned out to be more of a ball. Knowing his intentions to launch her into society again, to dangle her in front of the men he wanted her to marry, she had refused to go. He had shouted. She had slapped him. And run away to hide in the stables where he and his servants would not find her. Now that she had dared sneak back indoors for the warmth of a fire, all she wished for was solitude and silence.

But no. Richard would stay. Richard would speak.

"My condolences, on your loss," he said, in the stiff, pompous manner Laura remembered so well.

She bowed her head a moment. "I thank you, my lord."

"It must have been hard. You weren't married long."

Every day had felt like forever. She shrugged.

But still Richard would not get the hint. He pressed her, anxiously,

"Your father said you were ill? I hope your health—"

"Oh pray spare me your good manners," snapped Laura. "I don't want them."

He jumped as though he'd been bitten. "I — I apologize."

"And there you go again," she said. "Can't you ever think of something interesting to say?"

He was silent. After a while he said irritably, "You make it rather hard!"

"I came here to be alone," she said.

"And I told you I'm intruding."

"And I wish you wouldn't." She turned her face to the fire and wrapped her arms around herself. She had been outside for hours and was half-frozen, but there was no fire in her room tonight — her father's vengeance for the slap. She shivered slightly.

Richard must have seen the motion. "Are you unwell? Should I call for a maid?"

"No! I don't want my father knowing I'm inside." For a moment, there was almost plaintiveness in her voice. She corrected it. "All men are a pestilence. Leave me alone."

But the words, Leave me alone, cannot be other than plaintive, no matter how sharp the tongue, and Richard did not move.

"Is something the matter? Is there something I can do?"

She almost laughed. "When did you become so kind, my lord?"

Richard stiffened. "I mean—I'm only— you mustn't think me unconcerned. You do not look very well."

"I'm not unwell. And I thank you for your kind appraisal of my appearance. As it happens, I am only ugly."

"You do your best to twist concern into an insult!"