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thing for an old cottage in the Cotswolds. They were landscapes and portraits of animals, things I had found in the lumber rooms at Bellmont Abbey. They were not valuable, but they reminded me of the country where I had grown up, and I often found myself daydreaming my way into them, walking the painted green hills or petting the fluffy sheep. It was absurdly sentimental of me, but I was deeply attached to Sussex and the memories of my childhood. My mother had died when I was young, but the rest of my life there had been easy and uncomplicated. It was only in London where things seemed difficult.
    So, aside from my untidy little bolt-hole, I did not much like my house. Of course, I still had my family, I thought with some cheer. Ranging from the mildly odd to the wildly eccentric, they were some comfort. I knew that they loved me deeply, but I also knew that they understood me not at all. I had never fought a duel or run away with my footman or ridden a horse naked into Whitehall—all acts for which Marches were infamous. I did not even keep a pet monkey or wear turbans or dye my dogs pink. I lived quietly, conventionally, as I had always wanted, and I think I had been something of a disappointment to them.
    That left my health and my fortune—both of which could disappear overnight as I had seen often enough. I rubbed at my eyes. I was becoming cynical, and not doing much for my state of mind, either. I put my head down on the desk.
    “Darling, is it really so awful?” called a voice from the doorway. I looked up.
    “Portia. I did not know you were here.”
    “I told Aquinas not to announce me. I wanted to surprise you.”
    My sister entered, trailing black scarves and feathers and a cloud of musky rose perfume. She was the only woman I knew who could make mourning look glamorous. She settled herself into Mother’s armchair, cradling her ancient pug against her chest.
    “Did you have to bring that revolting creature?”
    She pulled a face and nuzzled him. “You shouldn’t speak so of Mr. Pugglesworth. He quite likes you.”
    “No, he doesn’t. He bit me last month, remember?”
    Portia clucked at me. “Nonsense. That was a love nibble. He loves his Auntie Julia, don’t you, darling?” She cooed at him for a minute, then settled him onto my favorite cushion.
    “Oh, Portia, please. Not that cushion. He’s flatulent.”
    “Don’t be horrid, Julia. Puggy is nothing of the sort.”
    I put my head back down on my desk. “Why did you come?”
    “Because I knew you would be contemplating suicide in some highly uncreative fashion and I wanted to help.”
    I raised my head just enough to see her. “No, not yet. But I will confess to being completely anguished. Portia, what am I to do?”
    She leaned forward, her March-green eyes sparkling. Portia had always been the most beautiful of my sisters, and she knew just how to use her charms to greatest effect.
    “You can begin by leaving off the self-pity. It is unbecoming,” she said, her tone faintly reproving. “And don’t pout, either. I tell you these things because someone must. You have had a chance to accustom yourself to Edward’s loss. It is time you admitted it is not a crushing blow.”
    I sighed and rested my chin in my hands. “I know. It just feels so awful, so disloyal to admit that I actually feel rather liberated by it.”
    “Not at all. How do you think I felt when Bettiscombe died?”
    “A bit of a different situation, I think,” I put in, remembering her aging, infirm husband. “It was a merciful release when Bettiscombe passed away. He’d been malingering for years.”
    “So had Edward,” she said, a trifle acidly. “We both married sickly men, my darling. The only difference was that we all thought Bettiscombe was hypochondriacal.”
    He had been, poor thing. Always taking his temperature and palpating his pulse. He had been forty-five when Portia married him, and he had seemed robust enough at the time. We all thought his throat