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Authors: Jane Feather
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created until the soft, pale hair clustered in shining ringlets on either side of Aurelia’s face.
“Lovely. Thank you, my dear.” Aurelia reached for the hare’s-foot brush to apply a little rouge before getting up from the dresser. Hester helped her into the pelisse.
“Will you wear the little velvet hat, ma’am. The brown one?”
“Yes, perfect.” Aurelia took the hat and arranged it over the ringlets. The dab of a hat with a wisp of a veil looked very well atop her pale hair. Aurelia examined herself in the mirror and gave a little self-deprecating smile at the knowledge of her own vanity. She looked elegant, a figure to draw the eye. Of course as a widowed matron with a six-year-old daughter, such matters should be of no interest to her at all. But they were, and if that was a sin, then so be it.
She gathered up her gloves and reticule and left the house to walk the short distance to Hanover Square where the bishop had his residence. The day had warmed a little and a pale sun shone weakly from a light blue sky whenever the scudding clouds permitted. The squarewas quiet and Aurelia decided to walk through the garden to Holles Street on the far side.
She entered the cool, damp garden through the little wrought-iron gate. The daffodils were in full bloom and the forsythia was beginning to bud. The grass was a rich green after the winter rains, and the air had a wonderful moist, earthy scent. There was a sense of freshness, of new beginnings, and her step quickened with a renewed surge of that earlier energy.
The garden appeared deserted, not even a gardener tending to the shrubs. The children who usually played in the verdant square were presumably at their lessons, but it was unusual not to see a nursemaid giving a baby an airing. Aurelia strolled down the gravel pathway between privet hedges interspersed with macrocarpa. She took off a glove with her teeth, then broke off a macrocarpa twig and rubbed it between her fingers. The lemony fragrance of the cyprus oil took her back to her childhood and the tall hedges that surrounded the house where she’d grown up.
And the olfactory memory brought Frederick clear as day into her mind’s eye. He had proposed to her one hot day in the shade of a macrocarpa hedge while she’d been doing just what she was now doing, rubbing the oil into her fingers and inhaling deeply of the scent. Everything about that day had seemed right. His proposal was far from unexpected. It was no secret to anyone that the families of Frederick Farnham and Aurelia Merchant had promoted the connection since their children weresmall. Their children had obliged them by falling in love. Aurelia couldn’t now remember exactly when she’d realized that her feelings for her childhood friend had deepened into something much stronger than friendship and the shared experiences of growing up. But when Frederick proposed, she had felt such happiness, such a sense of fulfillment, of the absolute rightness of the future that lay ahead for her. Now, as she inhaled the lemony fragrance on her fingers, she wondered if Frederick had felt the same on that bright sunny afternoon. Perhaps his feelings had not run as deep or as strong as hers and she had not allowed herself to see it.
With a tiny sigh she tossed the twig aside and replaced her glove as she walked on down the path. As she emerged onto the grassy space in the center of the garden, a strange feeling hit her. The fine hairs on her nape lifted and her scalp crawled. She stopped and looked around. There was no sign of anyone. But she had company, she knew it. Her skin knew it. Or maybe it was simply the random goose prickles of someone walking over her grave. Her thoughts had been occupied, after all, with the dead.
She paused for a second on the path, hearing the reassuring rumble of traffic just a few yards away on the other side of the iron railings. There was nothing to fear in the middle of London on a bright morning. But the silence in the
“Lovely. Thank you, my dear.” Aurelia reached for the hare’s-foot brush to apply a little rouge before getting up from the dresser. Hester helped her into the pelisse.
“Will you wear the little velvet hat, ma’am. The brown one?”
“Yes, perfect.” Aurelia took the hat and arranged it over the ringlets. The dab of a hat with a wisp of a veil looked very well atop her pale hair. Aurelia examined herself in the mirror and gave a little self-deprecating smile at the knowledge of her own vanity. She looked elegant, a figure to draw the eye. Of course as a widowed matron with a six-year-old daughter, such matters should be of no interest to her at all. But they were, and if that was a sin, then so be it.
She gathered up her gloves and reticule and left the house to walk the short distance to Hanover Square where the bishop had his residence. The day had warmed a little and a pale sun shone weakly from a light blue sky whenever the scudding clouds permitted. The squarewas quiet and Aurelia decided to walk through the garden to Holles Street on the far side.
She entered the cool, damp garden through the little wrought-iron gate. The daffodils were in full bloom and the forsythia was beginning to bud. The grass was a rich green after the winter rains, and the air had a wonderful moist, earthy scent. There was a sense of freshness, of new beginnings, and her step quickened with a renewed surge of that earlier energy.
The garden appeared deserted, not even a gardener tending to the shrubs. The children who usually played in the verdant square were presumably at their lessons, but it was unusual not to see a nursemaid giving a baby an airing. Aurelia strolled down the gravel pathway between privet hedges interspersed with macrocarpa. She took off a glove with her teeth, then broke off a macrocarpa twig and rubbed it between her fingers. The lemony fragrance of the cyprus oil took her back to her childhood and the tall hedges that surrounded the house where she’d grown up.
And the olfactory memory brought Frederick clear as day into her mind’s eye. He had proposed to her one hot day in the shade of a macrocarpa hedge while she’d been doing just what she was now doing, rubbing the oil into her fingers and inhaling deeply of the scent. Everything about that day had seemed right. His proposal was far from unexpected. It was no secret to anyone that the families of Frederick Farnham and Aurelia Merchant had promoted the connection since their children weresmall. Their children had obliged them by falling in love. Aurelia couldn’t now remember exactly when she’d realized that her feelings for her childhood friend had deepened into something much stronger than friendship and the shared experiences of growing up. But when Frederick proposed, she had felt such happiness, such a sense of fulfillment, of the absolute rightness of the future that lay ahead for her. Now, as she inhaled the lemony fragrance on her fingers, she wondered if Frederick had felt the same on that bright sunny afternoon. Perhaps his feelings had not run as deep or as strong as hers and she had not allowed herself to see it.
With a tiny sigh she tossed the twig aside and replaced her glove as she walked on down the path. As she emerged onto the grassy space in the center of the garden, a strange feeling hit her. The fine hairs on her nape lifted and her scalp crawled. She stopped and looked around. There was no sign of anyone. But she had company, she knew it. Her skin knew it. Or maybe it was simply the random goose prickles of someone walking over her grave. Her thoughts had been occupied, after all, with the dead.
She paused for a second on the path, hearing the reassuring rumble of traffic just a few yards away on the other side of the iron railings. There was nothing to fear in the middle of London on a bright morning. But the silence in the
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