Chapter Nine

Nell had never experienced such agony of spirit. Until tonight, Mr Thomas Beresford had seemed to her the ideal man. Handsome, well-formed, with a lively, knowledgeable mind and an easy charm. His taking smile and enticing kisses had blinded her to the emptiness at the heart of him.

It is my own fault.

She had allowed herself to be so taken up with Mama and Papa’s tale of inevitable love that she had quite lost her mind!

But, oh! How it hurts!

She had sunk to the floor in the small parlour, crying bitterly. She had naturally run to the place where she had so often felt wisps of her mama’s presence, but there had been no comfort in Mama’s portrait. Nell’s foolishness had been exposed under the same clear light that had revealed Mr Beresford to be a scarecrow, not a true, upright man. From a distance he looked whole, and complete, and—and normal. Yet up close he was a creature of straw, of dust, of clay.

She had wept on, for the loss of a man who did not exist, a love that could never be, and the parlour had grown colder as the clock had ticked towards morning. Yet she had not been able to think of going upstairs to Sally and the others. Disturbing their sleep and arousing their curiosity would achieve nothing.

Her grief for Papa had never left her. She had lived with the unrelenting darkness of it for two years. But since meeting Mr Beresford she had seen a glimmer of hope—the chance to feel joy again, to love and be loved.

It had been nothing but an illusion. And now the darkness in her spirit had returned with renewed strength, overwhelming her with emptiness and hopelessness.

I am no better than Miss Bridgeton.

Indeed, she was infinitely worse, for at least Miss Bridgeton had the sense to contain her heart. It had been clear to everyone that Miss Bridgeton’s fancy had been engaged, but she would suffer no lasting ill from Mr Beresford’s lack of interest. Nell, on the other hand, had given him her heart—on the strength of nothing more than two kisses and her own foolish reveries.

Nell had glanced at the ashes in the grate, avoiding Mama’s eye. She had realised that before long the household would begin to stir—the kitchen servants to wash last night’s dishes and begin the never-ending process of preparing yet more food, the housemaids to clean out and reset the downstairs fires, before beginning their rounds of the guest bedrooms.

Suddenly anxious to avoid even Sally’s well-meaning concern, Nell had slipped silently from the small front parlour. Donning her kid half-boots and cloak, she had tiptoed to the front hallway, opened the door, and stepped out into the darkness.

The snow had crunched under her feet with alarming volume, so she’d walked more slowly, placing each foot deliberately in front of the other. It had begun to snow again, and large flakes had filled in her footprints as she’d walked on. In a very short time, there would be no trail to show her direction, she had thought as she’d glanced back.

The house had been in darkness, save for a warm yellow light glowing from the chinks in the salon shutters.

That’ll be the Yule Log, still burning in the salon grate, she had thought. The very room where Mr Beresford had revealed his true nature. The cold-hearted, cruel, unfeeling fiend.

Dimly, she had been aware that her anger was particularly acute and that her judgement of Mr Beresford was coloured by her own sense of betrayal.

In truth, he had not promised her anything. It had been she, building delirious wishes in her own imagination, who had created an illusion. She was to blame, not he.

Now, as her eyes became accustomed to the starlight, she trudged on. Her steps automatically took her to the lane leading to the copse—the place where she and Papa had walked together in all seasons and weathers...the place where she had met Tom, and where they had kissed for the first time.

The falling snow had brought with it a silence so absolute it seemed to her as though the world held its breath. Nothing stirred—not a leaf, nor a bird. In all the world there was only Nell, and Nell was alone.

Mama, gone. Papa, gone. No-one in the world who loved her.

I could go into one of these fields right now, she thought, and lie down beneath a tree. The winter will claim me, and no-one will find me until it is too late. She dashed hot tears away from her face, vaguely aware that she had begun to shiver. The snow had soaked through her dress, which was now damp all the way down the front, and from the hem up to her knee.

She had not bothered to wrap her cloak around her—why should she? It mattered not.

Who will miss me? No-one. Not the servants, nor Beatrice, nor any of the guests.

A vague image of Lady Cecily came to her mind, but she brushed it away.

She will forget me. As will he.

Such thoughts were sinful, she knew, and yet sin held no meaning for her. The only reality was her need to keep walking.

She passed the copse, now shrouded in pale dawn light.

Here I met him, that first day.

Past the old cottages. On and on towards nowhere.

Her face, ears, nose...all ached in the chilly air, and her fingers and toes had begun to tingle with pins and needles.

Blessedly, now there was no more thought. No more anger. No more pain.

The morning sunshine glistening on white, white snow meant nothing.

She trudged on...