She floated down the stairs.
She was in love. She was getting married. She would have a sweet little cottage in this village she’d come to think of as home, and she and Aaron would build a life and a family together. It might not be the future her mother had planned, but it was more happiness than Diana had ever dreamed she’d grasp.
And by the end of today, everyone would know the truth.
In the corridor, she slowed, intrigued by the sounds coming from the dining room.
“She’s coming,” someone whispered.
A roar of shushing ensued. There was a rattle of panicked flatware.
Then Diana turned the corner and entered the dining room, and everyone fell completely, eerily silent.
“My goodness,” she said. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
One of the girls set down her spoon. “See, I told you she’d know nothing about it. It couldn’t have been her.”
“Hush, Fanny.” Miss Price cleared her throat and looked Diana over. “You look quite well this morning, Miss Highwood. One would never know you were ill last night.”
“Thank you.” Diana spoke slowly, not liking the suspicious tone in Miss Price’s voice. “I am feeling much improved.”
All of the ladies regarded her warily, even as they sent speaking glances to each other.
Diana’s heart began to pound.
Oh, Lord. They knew. They all knew. Someone had noticed her sneaking out to see Aaron. Or sneaking back in afterward.
“I don’t believe it of her,” one girl whispered.
“But it couldn’t have been anyone else,” another replied.
“It’s probably a compulsion. I’ve heard of it happening with some girls. They know it’s wrong, but they can’t help themselves.”
A compulsion?
No, no, no. Diana wasn’t suffering any compulsion. She was in love. She was floating. That’s what she’d wanted everyone to see today. Not sordidness.
Instead, they all looked at her sideways and whispered behind their hands.
This was ruination, she realized. Her twenty-three years of delicate refinement didn’t matter anymore. Everyone stared at her with revulsion and fear in their eyes. As though her pretty blue frock had been soiled with soot—and if they came too close, it might stain them, too.
She felt truly ill now. What would they think of her? What would this mean for Charlotte?
One thing was certain—their image of the perfect Miss Highwood was now irretrievably shattered.
Miss Price elbowed her neighbor. “Do it. Someone has to ask.”
“I’ll do it. I’m the landlady. It should be me.” Dear old Mrs. Nichols rose from her seat and clasped her hands together in an attitude of prayer. “Diana, dear,” she began gently. “Did you have anything to tell us? Anything at all, about last night?”
The rain was back. With a vengeance.
Aaron didn’t know what to do with himself. All the Queen’s Ruby ladies would surely be sleeping in today, Diana included. He couldn’t go call on her until late afternoon, and there wasn’t much sense braving this downpour to go anywhere else. He’d looked in on Mr. Maidstone early that morning, after walking Diana back to the rooming house.
He decided to start on a wrought-iron gate for the front garden. He’d long been planning to replace the humble wooden one. He’d just never found the time.
Today, he had all the time he wished.
He built a roaring fire in the forge and took out a length of squared stock. To make spiraling balusters for the gate, he needed to heat the iron to a glowing yellow, crank furiously to secure it in a table vise, grasp the end of the rod with tongs, then twist the metal in as many rotations as he could manage before it cooled.
Then repeat the whole business again. And again.
It was hard, sweaty work—and just the distraction he needed today.
He’d been at it for an hour or two when he saw a figure hurrying up the lane. Who would come out in this weather? He hoped it wasn’t the Maidstone girl again, come to tell him her father had taken a turn for the worse.
But when the door burst open, in came Diana.
She removed her cloak and hung it on a peg near the door, then played stork by standing on one foot, then the other, tugging off the canvas gaiters covering her shoes.
Aaron merely stood and stared, letting his rod of twisted iron go cool in the vise. “You shouldn’t be out in this weather. You’ll catch cold.”
Perhaps he should have greeted her with Good day, or What a pleasant surprise, or Did I tell you last night that I love you to the depths of my soul? But he couldn’t be bothered with pleasantries now. She’d pledged herself to him, always. He wanted “always” to be a long, long time.
“I just needed to see you. To talk to you. It couldn’t wait.” She hurried toward him.
“Stop,” he said.
She stopped, taken aback.
He cursed his thoughtlessness again. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bark at you. But have a care for your hem and slippers.”