Had the woman who had learned to yield when Halverton touched her, when he drew her close or took her mouth asthough it belonged to him, become a habit she could not unlearn.
The next time a man reached for her, would her body answer before she had time to decide.
Would she ever be able to shake Lady Eva?
A flicker of guilt rose in her chest. Cormac had seen it coming long before she had. And she had dismissed him.
She swallowed hard.
It wasn’t as if she’d had a choice.
The thought steadied her a little. She had done what she had to do. What anyone would have done in her place.
Still, a small, treacherous voice lingered in her mind.
With no other choice, she resigned herself to wearing the dresses Halverton had bought her.
Her eyes fell on the box Clíona had brought in that morning; the gown the colour of a summer meadow.
It had been too bright, too joyful for the sombre events of the morning.
She struggled into it without Clíona’s help, fumbling with the fastenings. Its joyous exuberance felt exactly right.
With her mother’s book and her herbal supplies clutched in her arms, she slipped quietly from the room and made her way to the servants’ side of the house.
Clíona and several of the others had returned later that night. She and Aoife had been sharing a room ever since.
The quick flash of steel caught Aoife’s eye.
Clíona’s needle darted through the cloth by the window, pulling Aoife back to the present.
Aoife pushed the memories aside.
“So,” she said at last, a teasing note in her voice, “when are you and Ultán finally going to make it official?” At least half the staff had gone by names that weren’t truly theirs. Many had chosen to reclaim them, Alton and Clara included. Others, likeMrs Harrow, had been called by their imposed names far longer than the names they were given at birth and so decided to keep them.
Clíona smiled, the corners of her mouth curving as she kept stitching. “He already asked,” she said. “We want to wait until things settle down. We’ll marry in the spring, find a place together after.”
Aoife grinned. “I hope you’ll stay in the village.”
“We couldn’t imagine going anywhere else,” Clíona said.
They left the room and walked down towards the servants’ hall. The doors that once connected the servant’s side to the house were now boarded up. Sawdust and soap hung in the air.
The servants’ hall was busy. About half the staff had stayed; many had nowhere else to go, others were still unsure what to do next. Without Halverton’s constant demands, the rhythm of the house had changed. The cook had stayed, thank goodness, and on this morning she’d made porridge for everyone.
Aoife offered to take the bowl for Halverton. She carried it through the service passage, out the staff entrance, across the courtyard and around to the front of the house. Setting the tray inside the entrance hall, she picked up the empty dish from last night, stepped back, and closed the door, ringing the bell as she left. It echoed faintly through the hall as she turned away.
When she returned, everyone was seated at the long table. Clíona passed her a bowl, and James leaned forward.
“Did you see him?”
Aoife shook her head. “No. But he ate last night’s meal. Must still be there.”
James frowned. “It’s strange. I used to spend half my life on that side of the house. Waiting for orders, fetching wine, standing about like an ornament. Now I’ve not seen him in days.”
Ultán sat down opposite them. “You think he even knows we’re still here?”
Clíona stirred her porridge. “I doubt it. He barely noticed us before. Why would he start now?”
