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jolly girl who liked a good time and didn’t worry about his notoriety.
    His proposal to Diana, all those years ago, had been rash, sudden—a gamble, like most things he did. He’d delivered it with his usual lighthearted humor, and the idea of marriage had likely come to him the same way, as a jolly good joke of which he would soon tire. By the following morning he must have come to his sober senses and seen the error in binding himself to one woman.
    The belief of being prudent and self-denying, principally for his advantage, was her chief consolation…
    But this morning she pondered his laughter again. So confident, hearty, and warm. That sound had not changed. Oh, she hoped life had treated him well. For all his faults and despite his utter unsuitability for her , she wanted him to find happiness.
    Her attachment and regrets had for a long time clouded every enjoyment of youth; and an early loss of bloom and spirits had been their lasting effect.
    He had kissed her once, on the day before he left Hawcombe Prior for the last time.
    Appalled that the memory should sneak its way in so determinedly, Diana stared down at her overfilled teacup and watched the liquid surface tremble. She closed her eyes.
    It was a kiss taken without her permission, and she could not forget how it felt—the rush of unwanted emotion coursing through her body. She had never known the like of it before or since. That night she had been unable to sleep. Wretched man. What had he done to her?
    “Diana?” said Sarah suddenly. “You’re shivering. Are you cold?”
    Diana set her cup and saucer on the table and hastily grabbed her knitted shawl from the arm of the chair. Jussy got up to throw more coal on the fire.
    Outside the window, Mrs. Kenton was herding a troop of little boys along the lane, chattering at them the entire time as she corrected a skewed hat or a misbuttoned coat. Her husband had begun taking in student boarders to help pay his bills, which gave the lady more to do with her time and her organizing skills, much to the relief of Diana and her friends, who had all fallen foul of her attempts to manage their lives from time to time.
    These days Mrs. Kenton was too busy for much more than the occasional remark about fabric choices, the “right way” to dress a bonnet, or how a woman past blossoming ought to stop wearing her hair in a fashionable style and don a lace cap when indoors.
    Thinking of that last comment, which was thrown in her direction quite recently, Diana raised a hand to her own tumble of neat curls. She went to such trouble every evening to attain those ringlets by twisting and tying her locks in rags before bed. It was a practice she’d continued nightly without fail ever since she had hair long enough.
    But perhaps Mrs. Kenton was right and she was too old for those uncovered ringlets.
    * * *
    Later, when her friends had gone, Diana went into the kitchen and found her mother seated by the fire, applying ox gall to remove a small stain from her favorite old shawl.
    “Mrs. Bridges was very grateful for the Welsh cakes, Mama. I said I would make some more.”
    “Hmph. I’ve never known a woman to put her hand out so often and so shamelessly, yet she never returns the deed.”
    Pulling an apron over her dress, Diana replied that she would happily forgo something to make up for the added expense of baking ingredients.
    Her mother frowned over her shoulder. “’Tis they who should be bringing cakes to us for all the times you entertain those rambunctious little boys. Why that daughter of hers can’t look after the little brats I don’t know. Too busy finding new ways to plump up her bosom, no doubt, and making eyes at the carpenter when she should be home helping her mama with that brood.”
    Diana could tell her mother was in a high state of dudgeon, for otherwise she would never let a word like “bosom” slip out.
    “Of course, in respectable families very young children are sent out to a wet nurse, not