Rosemary and Thyme

[intheheart]

Title: Rosemary and Thyme
Rating: R, for swearing.
Summary: Gina falls in love, for real.
Warnings: emotional abuse, sexual assault (in a dream), domestic abuse, homophobia and fear related to it, death in childbirth, child death. These are all basically background though.
AU: Regency
Notes: NaNo fail. Ah well.


Gina agreed to a companion for no reason other than weariness.

Joseph was right. She needed to leave town, the heat and the smoke and the brokenhearted brittleness in the smiles of the ton. She needed most of all to be away from Vanessa, who had sent her letter after letter and called three times. Gina had returned all the letters unopened, and had the butler say she was not at home. It was all she could think of, after.

After, yes. After. After Vanessa's wicked smile, her dark eyes, her black hair curling against Gina's pale skin. After the pleasure, the drugging kisses, the white-hot lightning that jolted between them in bed. After the shouts, the fights, the long crimson lines dragged in her skin, the handprint hot on her face, bruises on her wrists.

After Joseph had taken her aside and took her in his arms and said, "You have to leave her, Gina, you must. She is hurting you, and I will not stand for it."

Oh, Joseph, so dear to her, so affectionate. They had been married barely six months, an arrangement of convienence for the both of them, for Joseph with his admiration of the male form, for Gina with her memories of Lily's sweet dark eyes and soft, curving body. But she had always been fond of him, her only male cousin, and he, apparently, of her, for which she was grateful. It wasn't that she hadn't received other proposals, it was only that Joseph was the only man she thought she could actually like well enough, in that way.

He tried. She would always be grateful for that. He tried very hard. They had dinner together and attended balls together, and if, come supper time, he went out with his friends and she attended the theater with hers, well, that was simply the reality of life.

And then she had met Vanessa, at a party. She could hardly remember the details. There was dancing, she knew, and cards; she had sat down to a table with some friends, and they had played at vingt et un, laughing and tossing fish aside with the abandon of those who knew they meant nothing compared to the smile of a friend. She had been happy, brightly happy in a way she did not often feel. It wasn't that she was unhappy, only that her life was... plain. Not boring, not wretched, only plain.

Then one of her friends had got up to get a glass of lemonade, and Vanessa had taken her place.

Gina remembered that moment perfectly.

She had looked up to call a laughing remark to her friend, and it had died in her throat, because there was a woman next to her now in a daring, low-cut gown the scarlet of blood and passion. Her hair was gathered up off her neck, artful black tendrils curled 'round her face, with red rosebuds tucked in the coils of black braids. Her mouth was a scarlet slash in milk white skin, her eyebrows and eyelashes a sooty black, and her eyes... oh, her eyes, a startling pale blue. They could glow green when she was passionate, slate grey when she was angry, but Gina did not know that yet. All she knew was the hypnotic pull of those eyes, and the twist of that slick scarlet mouth, the tip of a tongue tracing her full lower lip, the curl and play of long, clever fingers over the edges of her cards.

"Vanessa Churchill," she said, and smiled at Gina, who went hot and cold at once. "I am so very pleased to meet you."

Gina lost that hand, and every one thereafter, and found at the end of the night that she did not have enough money to pay her debts.

"Oh, that is quite all right, Lady Carew," Vanessa said, and smiled that sin-slick smile. "Why don't you call upon me tomorrow? I'm certain we can come to some arrangement."

The arrangement had ended with Gina on Vanessa's bed, her hands lashed to the posts with silken scarves, her body convulsed beneath Vanessa's long, elegant hands and her wicked mouth.

She had come home that night with her lips swollen and red, with love bites scattered over her neck and breasts. Joseph had looked at her, an unreadable emotion in his eyes, but he had said nothing then, not until the following morning. Even then he had only said that Mrs. Churchill was a widow of no decent reputation, and that he wished Gina would not spend so much time with her.

She should have listened.

She had not, of course. Vanessa made her feel—she could not even begin to describe it. Bursts of heat, the sun in her breast flaming in her bones, prickles of warmth trickling over her skin. Vanessa could play her like a pianoforte, her body humming to Vanessa's tune. And what could she do then but surrender, her bones turning to liquid, her skin to flames.

She didn't remember when the fights had started. Not with Joseph—he had been nothing but understanding, and after that first tentative warning he had said nothing more, content apparently to let her go her own wretched way. Gina almost wished, afterwards, that he had not, that he had stopped her, locked her up in her own room rather than let her go to Vanessa. And yet, could she really regret it? Vanessa had taught her so much, passion and heat and the joy of two bodies meeting. Her experience of the marital act with Joseph had, despite both their efforts, not been the ideal—the first time had been terrifically painful, and subsequently it had been uncomfortable, and she was still not with child. He had at least promised her that these attentions would cease as soon as she bore him an heir. Gina could certainly understand that much. If her parents had had a son, she could perhaps have lived her whole life as a single lady of means, rather than marrying Joseph.

Not that she did not adore Joseph, she just... oh, it was all too complicated.

She had fought with others, though. Her friends, her peers, her family, anyone who had expressed the slightest disapproval of her relationship with Vanessa—Mrs. Churchill, they had all called her, rubbing Gina's face in her lover's dead husband, or so she had assumed at the time. They had meant it kindly, she was sure, but she had hated every word of it. Then she had begun to pick fights with others, acquaintances and strangers, who had even looked cross-eyed at her. She had cut society matrons, made rude remarks to people she should have cultivated for Joseph's sake if not hers. And Vanessa had been on the sidelines, watching her with those pale grey eyes, her scarlet mouth smiling, and at night that mouth had made her writhe and scream and crook her hands into claws.

It hadn't lasted. Vanessa became possessive, too much so, as the days and months went by. She grew angry when Gina attended a ball without her, even when Gina accompanied Joseph somewhere. She held too tight, shook too hard, forced Gina to new and more passionate heights, and when Gina objected she only laughed scornfully, her mouth a scarlet, contemptuous twist, and forced her down against the coverlet.

When Gina tried to leave her she slapped her once, so hard Gina's ears rang. She did not threaten to reveal their relationship, at least. Which only made sense, Gina supposed. The scandal would destroy her, too.

Gina had come home and managed somehow not to weep until she entered Joseph's study. She had intended to keep herself under control, but he started from his seat with an oath when he saw her face, and she had gone into his arms and cried until her nose was red and her eyes stung and the fabric of his day coat was soaked at the shoulder. He had said nothing, only held her and stroked her back, rocking her softly.

When her tears had dried, when she finally lifted her face from his shoulder, he had hugged her once tightly, then released her and held her at arm's length, his hands on her shoulders. His face had been very serious as he looked her in the eyes and told her he thought she should go to the country.

He had been right. Completely right. Gina had alienated everyone who knew her in town; her family, her friends, even those she barely knew considered her a rag-mannered wild girl who had married only because her cousin asked her, and that only for her wealth. Now that she had left Vanessa, what was left for her in town? Some time in the country might repair her reputation—she would not count on it, but it was always a possibility—and it would nearly guarantee that Vanessa would move on, find other prey among the young and innocent girls. Gina shuddered to think it, but what could she do?

She sat now in the pretty pastel sitting room Joseph had redecorated for their marriage, looking over the list of applicants for the position as her companion. She and Joseph had agreed that she should not be alone, not now, and he could not spare the time from his business—or, if Gina were uncharitable, from the man he looked at now with desire in his eyes. But that was uncharitable. She knew if she were in real danger he would not hesitate to come to her aid, no matter how little romance lay between them. They might not love each other but she had never been fonder of a man in her life, and that would have to do.

"I think," she said aloud, as she shuffled through the reference letters that the agency had sent to her, "that I will never fall in love again."

Joseph, across the room on the settee with his own stack of letters, snorted without looking up. "You say that as if you ever were in love, my dear."

Gina raised her eyebrows and regarded him, so loosely handsome, so at home in his own skin, his hair as golden guinea as her own, the lock of loose hair falling over his forehead that she had used to tug as a child, and felt a strong wave of affection beneath the stronger urge to slap him.

She did neither, and merely shook her head. "How do you have any knowledge of what I feel?"

"I am your husband," he pointed out, and when she snorted inelegantly at that, grinned. "I should say more I am your friend, and I know how you think. You would not have loved Vanessa. Not who she really is."

Gina was quiet a moment, remembering that scarlet mouth and the sweet things she had said, sometimes, occasionally. "Not who she really is, no," she said, at last. "But perhaps who I thought she was."

"Ah." He was silent a moment, the only sound in the room the soft shuff of papers against papers. Finally, he said, "I am sorry, my dear. Losing someone you loved is painful whether or not they really existed, and I did not mean to make light of it."

Gina smiled at him a little, because he really did mean it and he was the dearest man. "Think nothing of it. Have you any possibilities?"

"A few," he said, plucking out three letters and discarding the rest. "Miss Esther Smith. She's around your age and very accomplished, so perhaps she could teach you things. Though I think she'll be rather dull for you."

Gina made a noncommittal noise and pulled out a letter of her own. "Miss Lydia Turnbuckle."

"Absolutely not," Joseph said, with unexpected vehemence that made Gina raise her eyebrows again. He shook his head, and explained, "Her last lady was involved in a dreadful scandal with Mrs. Churchill. I don't know what, if any, connection Miss Turnbuckle has with her, but...."

Gina shivered, and nodded. "Better not to risk it."

He took his next paper, turned it to face him. "Mrs. Ellen Handerson. A war widow, or so she says, childless and seeking a position to support herself."

Gina shook her head. "No, she would be bored with me. And I..." She hesitated, then took a deep breath and said it anyway—Joseph she could trust, unreservedly. "I am a little afraid she will remind me of my mother."

He nodded, and said nothing more, much to her relief. "Have you another candidate?"

She shuffled through the papers she held, and sighed, and said, "No, not really. There's a Miss Marguerite Alysoun who I may as well see, as her qualifications are unexceptionable, but she is French—"

"—obviously—" Joseph murmured, dryly. She ignored him.

"—and I fear she will grow lonely and homesick and leave me without warning. I should prefer a companion who intends to stay."

"What about this one?" Joseph selected the last paper from his pile and held it up. "Miss Ivy Kendall. A year or two younger than you, and her family is genteel, if poor. Her reference letter speaks quite highly of her, although it is somewhat dated." He eyed the top of the paper, evidently scrutinizing the date. "At least a year ago, I would say."

Gina shrugged. "Perhaps she has been out of work for that long. It happens. I may as well meet with her. There's no harm in that."

"Of course not," Joseph said, smiling warmly at her. "So I shall add Miss Kendall to the list."

"And Miss Smith," Gina said, laughing when he made a face. Not that it mattered, she already knew she would not be hiring Miss Smith. Not that she doubted Joseph's taste, word, or intelligence; it was simply that if she was going to be away from society, she did not want her only companion to be dull.

"Miss Kendall," Joseph said, writing as he did, "and Miss Smith, and Miss Alysoun as well. Very well. Now how about this one?"

--

Miss Smith was just as dull as Joseph had expected, and Gina dismissed her with a feeling of relief mingled with guilt. The poor girl had been so eager to be in service, to claim a place in a respectable household, and yet she had no conversation, no wit, and very little personality. She seemed extremely intelligent, and she certainly had the manners and the accomplishments of a genteel lady's companion, but she was altogether far too mouselike to suit Gina.

Miss Alysoun had not even appeared at her appointed time. So much for that one.

Which left Miss Kendall. Gina glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. She should arrive any moment.

Gina so hoped that she would like her. It was not that she was desperate—much as she needed to leave town, she could afford to stay for as long as it would take to hire a suitable companion—but she did not want to write to the agency again, did not want to make the rounds of her friends to see if any knew of a suitable companion.

The butler interrupted her musings with a discreet cough, and the even more discreet announcement of "Miss Kendall, my lady." Gina nodded, and he stepped back, ushered the woman in.

She was not very pretty, was Gina's first, rather uncharitable thought. In fact, she might distinctly be called plain. Of course, Miss Smith had been rather plain as well, with her brown hair and plain blue eyes and rather sallow face. Perhaps it was the lot of companions to not be very pretty, the women with no looks nor dowry to attract husbands. Still...

Miss Kendall's face was too narrow for beauty, her hair an unfashionable shade of bright copper, and her features far too sharp. Beneath the practical brown dress she wore, she had the small-breasted, small-hipped body of a boy, though her skin was as pale as any fashionable lady's—not at all the kind of woman Gina liked. She preferred the women who curved in and out, who looked at her with sharp eyes and smiled with scarlet mouths—she shook that thought away. Miss Kendall was not at all Vanessa, thank God.

And she did have lovely eyes, though, a deep blue like the sea at Ramsgate, and a bold way of looking directly at one that somehow conveyed confidence rather than impertinence. Gina straightened, interested.

"Miss Kendall," she said, and the other woman nodded, just slightly. "Please, sit."

"Thank you, my lady," Miss Kendall said, and slipped gracefully into a chair. "I understand you seek a companion?"

Bold, yes, but again, not impertinent. "Yes, I do," Gina said, folding her hands in her lap. "I am going to my husband's country seat for a long stay. I do not precisely know how long. Since Riverton is rather isolated, and I shall of course have no contact with my friends in town, I will have need of some company."

It was so fast Gina could not be completely sure it had happened at all, but she thought that Miss Kendall's eyes might have flickered from her face to her abdomen and then back up. "What would you expect from such a companion?"

Ah, so she thought Gina was increasing, and perhaps believed the baby was not her husband's. The latter would never be true, and the former... oh, if only that were true. Gina shook the thought from her mind and considered instead Miss Kendall's reaction, or, it should be said, lack thereof—she had noted the possibility of scandal and apparently dismissed it, barely blinking an eye.

Interesting indeed.

"I shall expect my companion to be a companion," Gina said, and smiled a little when Miss Kendall could not restrain an exasperated little huff. "Not very informative, I know, but it is the best I can do. I wish my companion to keep me company in the mornings, to be in the same room with me, if not necessarily speaking to me. To read to me, perhaps, or play the pianoforte—do you play?"

"Not well," Miss Kendall admitted frankly, "but it is for lack of practice rather than lack of interest. I should be glad of the chance to learn more."

"I can certainly give you that," Gina said, nodding. "I would also expect you to accompany me on rides and visits to whatever acquaintences I am obliged to see. Can you ride?"

A little, secret smile crossed Miss Kendall's face. "Yes, my lady. Quite well."

If she hired this woman, she would have to get to the bottom of that secret smile. Intrigued more with every passing moment, Gina went on. "You will be paid thirty pounds a year—" generous terms, and Miss Kendall's small gasp said that she recognized that— "as well as room and board, and of course you will accompany me on any trips I may take, to Bath or the like." She would like to go to France and Italy some day, as well. Of course that was absolutely impossible now, but if she did hire Miss Kendall, perhaps the other woman would remain in her employ long enough to go. "We will also outfit you with clothing, should you need it, within reason."

"Thank you," Miss Kendall murmured, "but it will not be necessary. I am quite well equipped." She seemed amused rather than insulted, which boded well for her temper. Gina relaxed a little more.

"Very well, then," she said. "You know the terms of the position. Have you any further questions for me?"

Miss Kendall tilted her head to the side for a moment, a considering expression on her face, then shook her head. "No, my lady. It seems an excellent position, and one I would be very glad to take. Have you any questions for me?"

"Several," Gina said, dryly. "We'll begin with this. Why were you dismissed from your last position?"

To her surprise, Miss Kendall blushed furiously. "I... it seems I am too impertinent for Lady Ashford's taste," she said, looking down. "I did not mean to be impertinent, truly, but it seems that I was."

Gina laughed, and laughed harder when Miss Kendall gave her a vaguely affronted look. "Never mind that," she said, "I am so frequently impertinent myself that I think we shall get on splendidly. I take it Lady Ashford would not provide you with a letter of recommendation."

"I did not ask," Miss Kendall replied, very dryly. "I suspected that might be a bad idea. Fortunately Mrs. Carpenter was quite willing to aid me."

"That would be your previous employer?" Gina flipped up her sheet of note-taking paper—blank so far—to look at the letter of recommendation. "She speaks very highly of you."

"I was companion to her daughter during Miss Carpenter's season," Miss Kendall replied. "Miss Carpenter is quite a lively young woman, and she took very well. Much of what Mrs. Carpenter ascribes to me was in fact her daughter's doing, but I shall take the credit if she insists on giving it to me."

"I admire the sentiment," Gina said, stifling another giggle. "Where have you lived since then?"

"With my family," Miss Kendall replied immediately. "My brother, specifically; I have been keeping house for him, more or less. My parents and my sister live out in the country, and while I would love to be with them, it is not exactly conducive to finding new work."

Gina raised her eyebrows—a brother who could afford his own house in Town, and yet could not afford to support his sister, or even give her a dowry? "In what part of the country?" she asked, to stall that particular question.

"Dorset," Miss Kendall said, a rather curious look taking over her face. She looked... what was that? Unhappy? Upset? Worried? "Lyme Regis, specifically. My father was in the Navy, once, and quite a number of retired officers live there."

"I have heard the countryside there is lovely," Gina ventured. "Did you grow up there, then?"

Miss Kendall shook her head. "I was born in Portsmouth, and we lived there until my father left the Navy, just after my sister was born. That was... let me think, I would have been eleven? So I grew further up in Lyme, I suppose."

Gina let herself laugh at that one, since it seemed intended to be funny. "I was raised in the city," she said, a bit wistfully. "My father held a title, but he did not like to be in the countryside. He thought it too boring, so I have never lived in that house." She shrugged. "After he died, Sir Joseph and I considered taking up residence there, but... we did not." She had not wanted to see that house. "Before... all of this, Sir Joseph was considering selling it. Perhaps he still will, I do not know. At any rate, both of us chose to live in town rather than the country."

"You may grow to prefer the country," Miss Kendall said, and sighed abruptly. "I know that I do."

Gina eyed her with a resurgance of interest. "Is that why you applied for this job?"

A small smile curved Miss Kendall's mouth. "Yes, my lady. I thought, and my brother agreed, that it would do me good to leave town for a time."

"Your brother," Gina said, and hesitated, unsure how to put it. "Your brother," she said, again. "He will not require you back?"

Miss Kendall smiled again, a full blossoming smile that made Gina suddenly, unreasonably breathless. "No, my lady. He has just married, and he will not be requiring my services to keep his house. To tell the truth he and Clara are both better at it than I, but I did my best." She dimpled. "It's much more difficult than it seems, even when you've only two servants to direct."

Gina could not argue with her there, but she let that subject pass in favor of another. "Clara? Your sister?"

Miss Kendall nodded. "Yes. She and Aaron were married a month ago. They have been very kind, allowing me to live in their home, but being in such close quarters with newlyweds so deeply in love... it is more than a little awkward for me. I am sure you understand."

"All too well," Gina said, wryly. She had been staying with her friend Olivia when that girl's father had remarried, and watching Olivia's father with her stepmother had been a strange cross between adorable and slightly nauseating. "So you would like to be away from their home as well."

"And to be gainfully employed." Miss Kendall straightened a bit in her chair. "I need... I enjoy working, my lady. I enjoy being employed, and getting things done. I particularly like working with animals, but..." She shook her head. "Of course, that sort of work is not available to ladies."

The bitterness in her voice, the sharp twist she gave to the word "ladies." Gina heard it, and understood it in a chilled sort of way. "We have horses," she volunteered. "And a number of cats, I believe."

Miss Kendall's mouth quirked at the corner. "Thank you. I should enjoy interacting with them. At any rate, I... I just like having things to do. The more I am employed in a position, the happier I am."

"Of course," Gina murmured, thinking of the long afternoons she had spent sitting in the front room, bored to death, staring out the window, waiting for something to happen, for someone to come for her—but that thought too lead to Mrs. Churchill, to a scarlet sneering mouth and slate-blue eyes fringed in sooty lashes, and she could not think of Vanessa, not now, and possibly not ever. "Well, Miss Kendall, I think that we will be a good pair. Are you in agreement?"

Miss Kendall's eyebrows lifted, but she nodded. "Yes, my lady, I think so too."

"Very well, then." Gina brushed off her dress—not that anything had touched it, but the muslin felt good against her palms. "Consider yourself hired. We leave for my husband's country seat Monday next, if that is convienent for you."

Miss Kendall looked slightly stunned now, but she nodded. "Yes, my lady, perfectly convienent. Shall I come here?"

"Please," Gina said. "Attend me here that morning. The journey should not take more than four hours by carriage. In the meantime, is there anything you will need from me or my husband before you are ready to leave?"

Miss Kendall shook her head, making the red tendrils of hair that hung before her ears dance. "No, I think I shall be able to manage. Monday next in the morning... at ten o'clock?"

"That will do perfectly," Gina said. "Bring your luggage to the house. Will you require more than a trunk and valse?"

"No, my lady." Miss Kendall smiled again, this time broad and happy. "Although, if it please you, may I use the writing-paper at your country house, or must I bring my own? I carry on a voluminous correspondance."

With her family, Gina thought, a sharp bite of envy pricking at her heart. "Of course you must use the writing-paper that we have," she said, shoving the feeling down. "You are in my employ. It would be rather miserly of me to deny it to you."

"Thank you, my lady," Miss Kendall said, and rose. "For employing me, and for your kindness."

"Of course," Gina murmured, and did not watch her leave.

--

Miss Kendall appeared ten minutes early, neat as a pin, in a neat brown dress nearly identical to the one she'd worn to her interview. It was not flattering on her at all, and Gina, sitting in the front window, wondered idly what she would look like in deep green silk, all that pale skin set off like cream, and her copper hair curling down her back.

She shook the useless thought away and leaned forward, peering through the glass. There was a man with Miss Kendall, though all Gina could see of him was the back of his head, brown hair cropped unfashionably short and sticking up at odd angles. Miss Kendall said something to him; he said something back and she laughed, her narrow face lighting up, her smile crinkling the corners of her eyes and dimpling her cheeks.

A flash of jealousy burned through Gina, and she sat back, astonished. How could she even feel that way? If Miss Kendall had an admirer—then she might leave Gina's employ before Gina was ready for her to go, that was all. And that was hardly the end of the world. A bother, perhaps, since she would have to find and hire a new companion from the country, but Joseph could handle that if absolutely necessary. He knew her tastes. A minor inconvienence, that was all. And jealousy...

It was ridiculous, that was all, and she would have to forget it instantly.

Miss Kendall's suitor turned to the hackney and climbed up in it, blowing Miss Kendall a kiss as he did so. She laughed and blew one back. The man made an exaggerated play of catching the kiss and pressing it to his cheek, and as he did Gina caught the glint of wire-framed glasses and a flash of merry brown eyes before he ducked back into the carriage and it rolled away. Miss Kendall watched it go, waving as she did, then turned back to look up at the house, her shoulders set, an echo of that smile lingering still on her face. A hot, uneasy feeling roiled in the pit of Gina's stomach. She wanted to see Miss Kendall smile like that again. She wanted to make her smile like that again.

She got up and moved away from the window.

--

Joseph sent her off with a kiss to her cheek and an absentminded flurry of good wishes. Gina let him go, amused—he was so ridiculous sometimes, particularly when mired in business, and she knew that he was engaging in a delicate courtship at the same time. Delicate, because people like him (and her, if it came to that) could never be too careful; courtship, because the man he was interested in was really very attractive. Gina did not find men beautiful as a rule, but she was also not blind, and that man... well.

She could understand Joseph's desire.

Miss Kendall sat across from her in the carriage, hands folded in her lap, looking serenely out the window. It seemed odd, in a way that Gina could not quite place—and then it clicked, the realization. Miss Kendall had not been still once in the whole of their interview. She had adjusted her hair, moved her hands in her lap, tapped her toe almost noiselessly against the carpet. She looked wrong, somehow, so utterly motionless but for the rocking of the carriage. She should be in motion, laughing, smiling, looking up at Gina through her lashes...

Gina cleared her throat, and Miss Kendall blinked and looked at her directly. "Yes, my lady?"

The address coming from Miss Kendall twisted at her stomach, and before she knew it she had blurted, "Oh, don't..." before she shut her mouth. What was she thinking, really? To invite this woman whom she had known less that a week to use her Christian name?

Of course, whispered a sneaking little voice inside her, Vanessa had used her Christian name right from the start. She could still remember that seductive voice, curling around her like hands around her wrists, drawing her down the hall from the parlor to Vanessa's bedroom...

Good God. Why could she not stop thinking about it?

Miss Kendall was watching her with mingled concern and confusion. "My lady? Are you well?"

"Quite well," Gina said, and pushed away the thought of Vanessa. "Yes," she repeated. "Quite well. And you, Miss Kendall?"

Humor danced in those lovely eyes, now, but she kept it off her face but for a small twitch at the corner of her mouth. "Quite well, my lady. I assure you, I am a terrible patient. You will know at once if I am not well."

Gina let a smile through at that. "Oh? Do you suffer from ill health often?"

"Quite the opposite," Miss Kendall said, smiling. "I was a very healthy child and I am a very healthy adult. It is only that I so hate being ill that I rebel against it and refuse to rest as I should. It drove my mother quite to distraction."

This time Gina's smile was softer, more nostalgic. She could remember being ill as a child—it was one of the few times her mother would come to see her. Susanna, Lady Carew would sail into the room in a cloud of rose-scented perfume and lay her long white hand on Gina's forehead. Her fingers were thin and cool, her every movement elegant, and oh, how Gina had adored her, had wanted to be just like her. She had tried so hard to be good. She had tried so hard to give her mother nothing to despair of.

Then her mother had died bringing a dead baby brother into the world and nothing seemed to matter anymore.

"Were you a difficult child, then, Miss Kendall?"

She laughed, dimples flashing in her cheeks. "I suppose I was, yes. We both were, my brother and me. My parents must have thanked God for my sister—she is the sweetest thing ever to walk the earth."

And that softness in her eyes, the sweet little smile, no, she was not lying. "Tell me about her?" she asked, and it was only when Miss Kendall gave her an odd look that she realized the oddness of the request. "I... it isn't... I am an only child, Miss Kendall. I wasn't deprived, of course, but I always wondered what it would be like to have siblings. So what are they like?"

Miss Kendall blinked, and then smiled, slowly. "They are wonderful," she said. "Aaron, my brother, he is six years older than I am, but he never once treated me as if I was any less worth his time or attention than his peers. He let me tag along after him anywhere he went... sometimes quite ungenteel places, I'm afraid." She laughed a little, then went on. "He loves to read—he is very bookish. I think it disappointed my father a little, that Aaron did not want to go into navy as he did, but there it is, children are not always like their parents. He is a lawyer now, a soliciter. He seems to enjoy himself very much."

Soliciter, Gina found herself thinking, so not a gentleman, but she pushed that thought away. Miss Kendall was of genteel birth; so too must her brother be. "I remember you told me that your father was in the Navy."

"Yes," she said, nodding. "He was a captain when he retired, just after my sister was born."

"You were eleven?" Gina asked, and blushed suddenly, conscious that she had remembered too much and too vividly. "I beg your pardon. It only caught my mind because I have never heard of a sibling born so much later."

"It is a bit unusual, I suppose," Miss Kendall said, considering. "We are all very grateful that Summer came to be, though, however unconventional."

"Summer," Gina said, surprised. "What a lovely name, but... rather strange, perhaps?"

Miss Kendall laughed again. "My mother is given to natural names. My Christian name is Ivy, which you must admit is just as strange. At any rate, Summer suits my sister—she is so bright and lovely."

"Has she hair like yours?" Gina asked, not really certain why she did.

"Yes," Miss Kendall said, reaching up to touch a loose copper curl. "My mother, too. It runs in the family, I suppose."

"Your brother must have it as well," she remarked.

Miss Kendall looked at her for a moment in open astonishment, and then shook her head. "Oh... no, not at all. My brother is more strictly my half-brother; my mother is my father's second wife. Aaron has brown hair."

Gina blinked and thought of Miss Kendall's suitor, hatless, with brown hair sticking up all over the place. "Does he..." she began, cautiously, "wear glasses?"

Another look of open astonishment. "Yes, he does. How would you..." Then it melted into comprehension. "Oh, of course, you saw him this morning. I do beg your pardon if you wished an introduction. I did not want to impose."

"Oh," Gina said, conscious of an acute embarrassment and a flush rising on her cheeks, and then, "no, not at all. That is to say, I would not at all mind an introduction, but I am not upset that we were not introduced. That is... I thought he was courting you."

She truly had thought that Miss Kendall's eyes could not get any wider, but they did, terrifyingly blue in her pale face with her lashes standing all about like shadows on her cheeks. Then, suddenly, those eyes crinkled at the corners and she went into whoops of laughter, clutching at the carriage's curtain to hold herself on the seat.

Gina had thought, for a moment, to be offended. She almost managed it, but there was just something so beautiful about Miss Kendall's laughter, and the bright, merry twinkle in her lovely eyes.

Still. "I see why Lady Ashdown thought you impertinent," she said, as sternly as she could manage.

Miss Kendall wiped a hand across her eyes and said, breathlessly, "I do apologize, my lady, I never meant to laugh at you. It is only... I believe that is the third time someone has thought me to be courting my brother. Good gracious. Does he really act so loving towards me? I shall have to write and tell him; he will be horrified and it will be so funny."

Was that, then, what having a sibling was like? Tormenting them amiably? If so then she'd had lots of siblings in her cousins. Heavens, Joseph had certainly tormented her enough when they were both children. "I suppose I was just a little over-concerned," Gina said, rather sheepishly, and it was only when Miss Kendall's eyes widened yet again that she realized how that sounded.

"I only meant," she began, stumbling over her words, and Miss Kendall shook her head.

"Please, my lady, it's nothing..."

"No, I must..." Gina stopped, and shook her head. "I am sorry. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable."

Miss Kendall smiled, the corners of her extraordinary eyes crinkling just a bit. "You didn't, my lady, I promise. I am very difficult to offend."

"I am glad to hear it," Gina said, a little ruefully. "I am afraid that I am not the most tactful of people."

She had been, once, before Vanessa had taught her to disregard all in the face of her own pleasure, but Miss Kendall did not need to know that; either about Mrs. Churchill or about her previous self. Both were in the dead past, and should stay there.

At least Olivia and Georgiana had not been in town, to see Gina's disgrace. Both of them would hear about it, certainly, but at least they had not seen it with their own eyes. Perhaps they could stay her friends somehow.

Miss Kendall knew nothing of any of that. Perhaps, if she never did know anything of it, perhaps they could become friends. The little tug of wanting beneath Gina's breastbone could be—should be ignored. What had it ever got her in the past, but heartache and painful memories?

"My lady?" Miss Kendall asked, softly.

Gina blinked, and startled back to the real world, her memories dissolving like frost beneath the sun. "I beg your pardon," she said, and managed a smile. "I was woolgathering."

"Of course," Miss Kendall said, and the conversation turned to other things.

--

The first few weeks in the country were peaceful, and if Gina was strictly honest, a little boring. She taught Miss Kendall to play the pianoforte a little better, and sometimes in the afternoons she would play while Miss Kendall sang. Miss Kendall had a lovely voice, sweet and high like birdsong in the morning, and she loved particularly to sing Scarborough Faire, one of Gina's favorite songs. Gina would sometimes catch her humming it absently as she worked at her embroidery or singing under her breath when she served tea. But apart from that there was not much to do, besides read, or write letters to the few friends who would still speak to her, receive visits from her neighbors and go for long walks and rides in the countryside. Sometimes Miss Kendall would come with her, walking arm-in-arm with her or riding beside her, her habit brushing over her legs—those were the best times, those walks and rides, when they moved side by side and, free of prying ears, spoke of anything and everything that came to their minds.

It was odd that Gina had ever thought her plain. She was not traditionally pretty, perhaps, but the animation to her features and her bright, lovely eyes made her seem beautiful. It was a wonder that she wasn't married, and one afternoon over tea Gina said so.

"Oh, I've never been interested in marriage," Miss Kendall said, carelessly, and poured for Gina, one lump of sugar and no milk. It had taken her only one day to learn Gina's preferences, and she had done it automatically ever since. "I think there have been offers, now and again, but my father turned them away for me."

Gina blinked. Her own father had been insistent to the point of rage that she marry, and marry well, and soon. "He did not mind that you wouldn't marry?"

"He and my mother married for love," Miss Kendall said, keeping her head down. "He wants me to have the same opportunity. He knew I could not love any of the men who asked for my hand, so he turned them away." She sighed, and poured her own cup. "To be perfectly honest, my lady, I think I shall never marry."

"I suppose I should be pleased," Gina said, "because it means you can remain with me, but... I can't help but think that it must be rather lonely."

"Perhaps," Miss Kendall said, and smiled a little, secretly. "But I think perhaps it must also be lonely to be married where there is no love."

She was not looking at Gina, but Gina felt the truth of her words nonetheless, solid in her stomach as if she'd swallowed a stone. "Yes," she said, and swallowed, and then said, "But I shall never be lonely as long as you are with me."

Miss Kendall glanced up at that, and smiled. "Then as long as it is in my power, my lady, I can pledge that you shall never be lonely."

Gina's chest felt rather too tight at those words, and she had to look away quickly, lest her flaming cheeks betray her.

--

Miss Kendall was in the hallway when Gina came downstairs, adjusting the ribbons of her bonnet in the mirror. It was a singularly unflattering bonnet, with decorations of a rusty orange and frayed patches on the rim. Gina vowed silently to replace it as soon as possible—perhaps with something in a nice sage green, or a deep blue to match Miss Kendall's eyes. Yes, blue would be better... Miss Kendall nodded in brisk satisfaction, and turned away from the mirror towards the door, and Gina shook off her reverie and hurried down the stairs before she could escape entirely.

"Where are you going?" Gina asked, hoping that she did not sound controlling, or overly inquisitive. It was Miss Kendall's monthly day to herself, after all, and she was entitled to go anywhere she chose, but Gina could not help but wonder what she would do with her time.

She wanted to know everything about Miss Kendall, but this would do for a start.

"My lady," Miss Kendall said, and turned to smile up at her. "I thought you would not be downstairs yet. I am going home, to see my family."

"Your family lives near here then?" Gina descended the last few stairs and came to stand beside Miss Kendall, rather grateful that there were no footmen about to wonder at her behavior.

"An hour's ride, perhaps." Miss Kendall glanced at herself in the mirror once more, and readjusted a ribbon.

Which explained why she had seen the carriage being prepared from the hallway window. Gina said as much, and added, "Did you ask for it, or did Sam decide it for you?"

"I asked," Miss Kendall said, a flush coloring her cheeks. "If I have overstepped my bounds, I beg forgiveness, but..."

Gina shook her head, and on impulse caught Miss Kendall's hand. "No, of course you have not. I did say that you should behave as if you were a guest here. You are a guest."

"A paid guest," Miss Kendall said, but she sounded not so much bitter as amused. "It is very kind of you, my lady, and I do appreciate it. I only wish I could return the favor."

As if Miss Kendall's family would be glad to see her employer descend upon them and make herself quite at home. Gina smiled, a little self-deprecatingly. "So you are to spend the day with your family?"

"Yes," Miss Kendall said. "My brother and his wife are up from Town and I shall be very glad to see them again. And Summer..." Her smile went soft at the edges as it did when she'd spoken of her sister before. "I have not seen her for months, at least. She will be very much grown, I think."

A brief pang of loneliness cut through Gina's stomach at that look on Miss Kendall's face, but she refused to show it. It was quite important to her now that Miss Kendall not be upset or unhappy in any way, and she knew if she seemed unhappy herself that Miss Kendall would feel guilty at going away, even for a day. "I think they will be very glad to see you as well," she replied, with a smile that was not entirely false.

"I have missed them," Miss Kendall said, and smiled back at her. Not even that ridiculously ugly bonnet could erase the beauty of that smile, or mar its breathaking qualities. "Should you like to come as well? They would be happy to meet you, I think." She laughed a little, the flush rising on her cheeks again. "I have said much of you in my letters home. My mother in particular sounds very curious."

"Oh," Gina said, flushing herself, and "I... if you are sure no one would mind. I would not want to be an intrusion."

Miss Kendall waved away the thought. "Not at all. They like to meet my friends." She smiled again, a little uncertainly. "And... and you are my friend, my lady."

Gina caught both of Miss Kendall's hands and pressed them tightly between hers. "Of course I am your friend," she replied, answering the unspoken question. "I am honored that you would think of me so."

Miss Kendall pressed her hands back. "I think the honor must be all mine," she said, very seriously, and for a moment all Gina could do was stare at her, look into those beautiful eyes and wonder when her heart had become quite so unsteady.

"Let me only get my bonnet," she said at last, and pulled herself away.

--

As Miss Kendall had said, her family seemed nothing but pleased to meet Gina, and Gina was enthralled by them. Her own family, though affectionate enough, seemed stiff and formal in comparison; her father, for example, would never have come running out of the house to crush her in a hug as Miss Kendall's father did. There was no familial resemblance at all, but they were so clearly father and daughter, so clearly affectionate and loyal that Gina, hovering by the carriage, wondered if he hadn't been glad for his new infant daughter, rather than displeased by the baby's unfortunate sex.

A young girl with a thin, sweet face trailed after Miss Kendall's father, holding the skirt of her white morning dress delicately above the grass. Gina knew who it must be from the winding copper curls loose about her shoulders, even before Miss Kendall turned to her and said, "Summer! My goodness, you've grown so much!"

The brown-haired bespectacled man who bent to kiss Miss Kendall's cheek Gina had of course seen before, and she blushed a little, thinking of the circumstances. The woman who followed him, round-faced, dark-haired, and rather shy about the eyes, must have been his wife, whose name Gina could not at the moment recall. And Miss Kendall's mother she thought she would have known even in a crowd of strangers—from her red, curling hair to her sharp chin to even her thin, bony wrists and the straight-spined way she carried herself, Gail Kendall was every inch her daughter's mother.

"You must be Lady Carew," she said to Gina, her eyes sharp as she said it. "Ivy has told me very much about you. I am Mrs. Kendall."

Gina curtsied, consciously to the same depths as she would an equal, and said, "I am honored to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Kendall," she said, striving to put all her sincerity in her voice. "Miss Kendall has also told me much of you. She is... I am honored to have her as my companion."

Those sharp eyes softened a trifle. "Then you value her as you ought. Good. Will you meet my other children?"

"Of course," Gina said, and was introduced immediately to Miss Kendall's brother Aaron Kendall, his wife Clara—Clara, that was it, Gina fixed it in her mind—his father Captain Nathan Kendall, and Miss Summer Kendall. It was Miss Summer that fascinated Gina the most. Captain and Mr. Kendall seemed fairly typical for men of the sea and the bar respectively, while Mrs. Clara Kendall was sweet and unassuming and wildly in love with her husband. Gina envied her too much to want to further that acquaintence.

Miss Summer, though, was a shy little slip of a thing who was clearly more intelligent than many men that Gina knew. At the same time, though, she seemed frightened of the world, unwilling to go very far from her parents or siblings, and vastly unwilling to say a word or lift a finger. Her family seemed quite used to this, manuevering around her with the ease of long practice, but she was so clearly uncomfortable that Gina's heart went out to her, and she determined to make herself agreeable to the poor child, in the hopes that it might ease her mind somewhat.

"I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Summer," she told the girl, sitting gently beside her while Miss Kendall and her mother got the tea ready. "Your sister has told me much of you."

Miss Summer stared down at her hands, her cheeks red. "Ivy talks," she mumbled.

Gina laughed. "Yes, she does rather, doesn't she?" she said. "You needn't worry, though, it has all been very nice things. I can tell that she loves you very much."

Miss Summer only shrugged one shoulder. She was either unbearably rude or painfully shy, and Gina could not quite think which, but for Miss Kendall's sake she would opt for the latter and persist. Besides, there was something about Miss Summer that reminded Gina of Olivia, that first season that they had met, and her wide, terrified eyes whenever she was confronted with a dance floor. She was happily married now, but that season had been pure hell for her. Gina could not help but think perhaps Miss Summer was the same.

Well, if she didn't like to talk—"Do you play at cards, Miss Summer?" she asked. "I should like to play a game or two, if you would as well."

Miss Summer looked up, her eyes round, and said, "Oh, yes, I love to play at commerce but no one else does so I never can, but since you are here and you are the guest, you may choose and maybe—" Her eyes widened and her mouth snapped shut, her cheeks going a painful red.

Poor child. Gina smiled at her immediately. "How splendid! I also love to play at commerce. And you know it is only me and your sister at home. There are not enough people to get up a really good game. I should love to play with you and your family after tea, if you would be so good."

"Be careful, my lady," Mr. Kendall called across the room, laughing. "The reason none of us will play commerce with Summer is because she always wins."

Miss Summer stuck her tongue out at him. "It's not my fault if you're all dreadful players," she retorted, then sneaked a trembling glance at Gina, who smiled back at her.

"Indeed it is not," she said, firmly. "I fancy I may be able to give you a challenge, Miss Summer. Shall we find a deck?"

By the time the day was out, Gina had found that the young girl was indeed a wretchedly good card player and had lost a pound to her, even at low stakes. She was also great friends with her, to the point that Summer had insisted on exchanging Christian names. A sweet, darling girl, obviously well-loved by her family, but not in the least spoiled, only happy and content.

She and Miss Kendall shared a bed that night, for supper had gone long and the moon was dark, so they were staying over with her parents, to return the next day, and there were only so many beds in the house. Miss Kendall took her hair down for her and undid her stays; Gina returned the favor and sat up to brush out her hair while Miss Kendall stayed in bed, reading.

Some little time later Miss Kendall put the book down and said, very quietly, "I must thank you for your kindness to my sister. It is not often that people are so good to her."

"I can't imagine why," Gina said. "She is a darling girl. I can see why you love her so very much."

Miss Kendall shrugged. "It must be said that she is a little strange, and very shy. People often mistake it for rudeness, or unkindness."

"Never," Gina said, thinking again of Olivia. "It cannot be helped, if you are frightened of people. I think for all that, Summer is a dear, sweet child, and if you wanted to have her to visit at the house, I would be very much pleased."

"Thank you," Miss Kendall said. "Perhaps I will, then." She hesitated a moment, then said, "My lady, I wonder if it is too bold to... I mean, I would like it very much if you would call me Ivy."

Gina's heart jumped in her chest, and she had to bite back a smile for fear it would show too much. "I would be honored, Ivy," she replied, solemnly. "And you in turn must call me Gina."

"I would be honored," Miss Kendall—Ivy repeated, and smiled at her.

Gina lay awake that night, listening to Ivy's soft breathing, and curling her hands into fists to keep from touching her.

--

"And good riddance," Gina muttered under her breath, as Mrs. Hartholm was shown out.

Ivy, seated in the corner with her embroidery spread out across her lap, raised a single eyebrow. "I take it you did not find Mrs. Hartholm's conversation enthralling?"

Gina waved that away with an impatient motion of her hand. "I don't mind that she's dull. I've sat through my share of bores. I mind that she completely ignored you."

"I don't," Ivy said, and laughed. "If someone ignores me for being a mere companion, why, then, they've just kindly informed me that they are not worth my time either." She smiled over her embroidery, wisps of red hair floating around the soft curve of her mouth. "And as it happens I am not so much beneath them as some may think."

"How do you mean?" Gina asked, reseating herself nearer to Ivy and picking up her own sewing. Plain stitching for her, mending one of Joseph's shirts, although she had taken only three stitches in the last hour; she had never been able to master embroidery and rather envied Ivy for having the patience. Or perhaps, knowing Ivy, it was simply stubbornness.

Her companion raised her eyebrows. "Did I never tell you? My mother is the daughter of an earl."

Gina blinked, and shook her head a little. The granddaughter of an earl might be forced to work for a living if her parents had made imprudent marriages and investments—it was far from an unknown set of circumstances—and of course Mrs. Kendall had the bearing and the manners of a lady, but then... "How is it I never met you before? Surely you must have had a season, if your grandfather—"

But Ivy was already shaking her head. "My grandfather disowned her," she said. "I... it's a long story, I'm afraid. Suffice to say that I was born in wedlock, but the man my mother married did not sire me." She shrugged one shoulder. "My mother refused to marry the man who did. I don't know why, and I don't know why my father married her in the end. Still, he is my father, and he does love me, and I am grateful every day that he chose to give me his name."

"That was very kind of him," Gina said, rather foolishly, but what did one say to that? She'd never met an illegitimate person before, and here was her companion, sitting across from her on the settee, calmly admitting to her bastard birth while picking out the lilies in her embroidery. It did not even make any sense—well, it made some, since she resembled her mother's husband not at all, but he had seemed so loving, so pleased with her as a father ought to be.

"I suppose," Ivy said, "though I am not sure kind is the right word for it. He did need a mother for Aaron, and my mother has been very good for him. She gave him my sister too, but Summer was not born until many years later, of course."

Gina gave up the pretense of doing any needlework at all and laid Joseph's shirt aside. "I have never had any brothers or sisters," she said, rather wistfully. "What is it like?"

Ivy glanced up, startled, her eyes wide and very, very blue. "Oh, I... lovely, sometimes, and furiously difficult at others. I love Aaron and Summer very much—you saw that, when we were together—but I cannot deny that there are times I wish they would simply go away."

Gina giggled. "Of course," she said. "I have heard that from all of my friends who have siblings."

Ivy's mouth curved again into that lush, soft smile. "It is extremely irritating, for example, when one's brother decides he knows better than one simply because he is older and male. It is even more irritating when he is right and does in fact know better, but I was a fortunate girl in that Aaron was very rarely correct."

Gina laughed again. "Fortunate indeed. I do know that feeling. My husband behaved much the same way when he would visit us, when I was a child."

"Mm." Ivy set a few more stitches before saying, cautiously, "He seems a very kind man, Sir Joseph."

"He is," Gina said, simply. "A very kind man. I am grateful that he honored me with his proposal."

"Of course," Ivy murmured. "Though if my lady permits—"

"—Gina, Ivy, please," Gina interrupted. She did not know why, but she could not bear to hear 'my lady' anymore. Not from Ivy.

The flash of that breathtaking smile again. "Gina, of course," Ivy said. "If you'll permit me to say so, I don't think he could have done any better himself."

A flush of pleasure rose to Gina's cheeks, and she looked hastily down at her lap, to disguise it. "He has said something of the sort, but he is given to making compliments of that kind."

"He must love you very much." Ivy's smile turned softer, more nostalgic. "My father often says something similar to my mother."

"He loves her, then?" Gina did not know why that surprised her. For a man to marry a woman carrying another man's child, he must have been well bribed or he must love her very much indeed. And Ivy... she could not imagine Ivy as the child of a well-bribed man. Not given how lovingly she acted with her father. Besides, she had seen Mr. and Mrs. Kendall, exchanging absent caresses and careless endearments as they went about the house—no. He had loved her, and still did.

To her relief Ivy did not take offense at the question. "Oh, very much, and my mother loves him just as much." She laughed suddenly. "In fact my mother likes to say that my grandfather did not cut her off for lying with the man who sired me, nor for refusing to marry him. She said he cut her off because she married a half-pay officer instead, for so foolish a reason as love."

Gina laughed dutifully, although she was privately horrified at the thought of being cut off from one's parents. "Do you think it's true?"

Ivy shrugged. Her needle never stilled, flashing in and out of the white embroidery cloth. "I could not say. I've never met my grandfather. Mama sends him a letter every year with news of us, my brother and sister and I, but he has never written back."

Somehow, and Gina was never afterwards certain where she found the daring, she managed to make herself rise from her seat and go to the settee, to sit beside Ivy and put her arm around her shoulders. "I am sorry," she said, softly. "I wish... I wish that he was different."

Ivy turned and smiled at her, breathtaking, and shook her head. "Yes. So do I. But... things cannot always be as we wish, I suppose. Else what would we have to strive for?"

Gina nodded, stunned a little by the effect of that smile so close. She held to Ivy's shoulders for just another moment before she withdrew her arm and stood, before Ivy could draw away from her as she certainly would eventually. But she had to make it look casual, she had to make it look right—she walked to the bell and gave it a tug, then turned to smile brightly at Ivy.

"Shall we have some tea?"

Her smile must have been brittle, because a faint frown line formed between Ivy's brows, but she said nothing, and eventually, neither did Ivy.

--

She dreamed of Vanessa, holding her down, and no matter what she did she could not break free. Vanessa seemed to anticipate her every move, shoving her back down on the bed, tangling her legs in her skirts, biting fierce, burning kisses into her neck and shoulders. She screamed and fought and tore at Vanessa with her nails but she never affected her, and Vanessa only smiled at her, her scarlet mouth a slash of blood—

"Gina!"

She sat up with a gasp, and hit Ivy with her shoulder. Ivy fell backwards, off the bed, but scrambled up again immediately. Her red hair fell over her shoulder in a long rope of braid, her worried face pale and sprinkled with freckles in the shivering light of the candle. Gina gasped, and looked at her, beyond her, probing the shadows for Vanessa's laughing mouth.

But Vanessa wasn't there—of course she wasn't there, she was long gone, though the damage she had done remained. Gina looked back at Ivy and tried consciously to calm her breathing. "What... where did you come from?"

"I heard you," Ivy said, sitting gingerly on the side of the bed. "You were screaming. I..." She pressed her lips together, then said, "You were dreaming, I think."

"Yes," Gina said, and pressed her hands over her face. "Yes. I'm sorry, it's nothing, I didn't mean to wake you."

"It can't be nothing if you were screaming like that," Ivy said, "but never mind, you needn't tell me. Are you all right?"

"Yes," Gina said, dropping her hands to her lap. "I... it was only a dream."

Ivy gave her a little smile. "I know something about dreams like that."

Startled, Gina's eyes flew to her face. "You... you have them?"

"No, but my father does," she replied. "He dreams about battles at sea. Wakes the whole house up sometimes. It's no shame to him; he can't help it. Just sometimes when dreadful things happen they... linger."

Gina snorted. "There's a word for it. Linger, like a foul stench."

"Yes," Ivy said, and smiled that little smile again. "But nicer things too, I think. Good memories. Happiness." She sighed, shook her head a little. "I think you have not had enough of those lately."

Gina laughed, a little dryly. "You would not be wrong." She reached out, and took Ivy's hand. "If I am to be perfectly honest, you are the best thing that has ever happened to me. Ever. Joseph saved me from spinsterhood and I have had very good friends, but none of them..." She paused, searching for words. She knew the right ones but dared not say them—the almost right ones would have to do. "You are... very important to me, Ivy. Perhaps the most important person in my life." She swallowed. "I am very grateful for you, every day. I want you to know that."

Ivy looked at her, the candlelight reflected in her beautiful eyes, then touched her chin, leaned forward, and kissed her.

Gina was too surprised to do anything about it at first. She had been dreaming of it, of course, in her private moments, but she never would have dreamed that Ivy was like her, that Ivy would—stop kissing her, and pull back with a horrified look on her face.

"My lady, I am so—" she began.

But Gina could not take 'my lady' from Ivy and she reached forward, fisted her hand in Ivy's nightgown and pulled her back, kissed her properly. This time she paid attention to the real kiss and not the sudden fantasy come true, the touch, the taste, Ivy's mouth opening under hers.

They broke apart some time later, Ivy laughing breathlessly, Gina stumbling over herself to explain. "I never thought," she said, gasping. "I never knew, I thought you were—"

Ivy kissed her again, much more briefly, and smiled at her. "I wasn't sure," she said, honestly, "but the way you looked at me just now, I couldn't help it."

Gina reached forward and cupped her face in her hands, stroking her thumbs against the ridge of Ivy's cheekbones. "I thought you wouldn't like it," she confessed. "I've been dreaming for weeks, but I thought..."

"Weeks, oh." Ivy wrapped her hands around Gina's wrists but not to pull her hands away, only to stroke the soft skin inside. "And here I have been in love with you since you came to my house and were so kind to Summer."

In love... ice rimmed Gina's heart suddenly. That was right. Ivy didn't know the truth, didn't know about Vanessa, and she couldn't in good conscience keep Ivy with her, not without telling her how horribly she had behaved. She lowered her eyelashes, and watched Ivy's expression change.

"Gina?" she asked, cautiously. "Is it too soon? I..."

"No," Gina said, and laughed a little. "No, no, not at all, it's only... there's something I must tell you, before we can..." She swallowed, dropped her gaze to her lap, and her hands. "I must..." She could not raise her eyes from her knees, from her hands twisting together white-knuckled. What Ivy would think of her after this... but she had to know, if there was ever going to be anything between them.

"I'm listening," Ivy replied, quietly.

"You should know first," she began, stalling, and she knew it, but it needed to be said, "that if what I have to say changes... anything... you need only tell me, and you may go from here at any time." It hurt to say that, hurt to imagine Ivy going from her, but what else could she possibly do? Ivy had come into this with no knowledge of the actual situation, and if Gina loved her at all, she had to give her that way out. "You won't suffer from it, either. I will give you a letter of recommendation, and a parting wage and..."

"Gina." Ivy's voice was tight now, almost frightened. "Gina, just tell me, please."

Gina's hands stilled for a moment as she pressed them together, reaching for every scrap of will she possessed, before she began to twist them again. "My husband sent me to the country because I have made everyone in town hate me," she said. "My behavior was inexcusable, my conduct unpardonable, and my reputation is close to ruined. I can offer no reason whatsoever for it." She swallowed, clenched her hands tighter. "I have a few friends left... Olivia. She was not in town then, she did not see what I... and Georgiana, you have not met her, but she still writes to me. I am glad of that; I thought her brother might forbid it." Her eyes stung with tears. "No one I first met in town writes to me anymore. They cut me on the streets. I have gravely insulted society leaders and I have acted very foolishly. It is anyone's guess as to whether they will accept me again. Joseph thinks... Joseph thinks that some time in the country will allow my scandal to die and another to take its place, but I am not so sure."

She knew how the slighted ton behaved, how long their memories were.

Silence hung heavy on the room, until Gina thought her heart might break beneath the weight of it. Her behavior had been terrible but she had given no real details—did Ivy want to know any of them? But perhaps she would not. She was a good woman, and she did not gossip. Perhaps she would not need details to know that she no longer wanted to be here.

"Why?" Ivy asked, finally, her voice a drop into the surface of a stilled pond. Gina nearly cried, at the sound of it rippling over her. "Why did you do these things? You do not..." She stopped, as if searching for words. "I would not presume to say that I know you very well, now, but you do not seem the kind of woman to do those sorts of things for no reason."

Here it was. Gina closed her eyes. "I did them for the love of a woman who was utterly unworthy of any such emotion," she said, baldly. "She... she used me, she corrupted me, she made me feel as if I was good for nothing but entertaining and pleasing her, and I believed her. I did as she said. I did as she encouraged. I enjoyed it." Ivy made a soft noise and Gina's throat closed over, but she went on speaking, forced herself into the words. "She never coerced me. I did these things entirely on my own. She merely... showed me what I was, what I could be."

"No," Ivy said, vehemently, and Gina's head snapped up, her eyes flying open. Ivy looked... gracious, she looked furious, her eyes lit with anger and her cheeks flushed high and pink even in the dim light. "She showed you no such thing. I do not know what passed between you and I cannot say what she did show you, but she did not show you who you are. She..." She stopped, wordless, and shook her head. "I cannot say what she did to you, but I... I wish it undone."

Gina lifted her hands again, touched Ivy's face gently. "You are... a miracle," she whispered. "How do you know any of this?"

"I saw you with my sister," Ivy said, and reached up to take one of Gina's hands in her own. "I saw you with my family, so gracious and friendly and kind. I've seen you with your neighbors, polite even to the deadly bores. You are not the kind of woman who would do those things of your own will." She stopped, swallowed. "Love forces us to deadly things, impossible things, things we could never see ourselves doing otherwise." She glanced up, smiled a bit. "For example, I would never have kissed you, if I did not love you, but that is a rather different kind of thing."

"Yes," Gina said, and indulged herself by burshing the corner of Ivy's smiling mouth. "Very different. If you are sure..."

"More than sure," Ivy interrupted, her face setting in resolute lines.

"...then I will raise no further objections," Gina finished, and laughed from sheer happiness at the brilliant beaming smile that appeared on Ivy's face.

"I love you," Ivy said, and dropped her hand, moving forward, framing Gina's waist with her arms.

"I love you," Gina said, and gave herself up to the happiness swelling through her.

--

It was a beautiful day—really impossibly beautiful, for England in the fall. The sun shone bright and warm, the grass looked green as ever it was in the summer, and the trees were all lit with orange and yellow leaves, the darker, heavier pine trees a deep green backdrop. Gina did not even need a shawl in this warm weather, only a blanket to spread out over the grass, and the company of someone dearly beloved.

"How lovely," Ivy exclaimed, twirling across the grass. She paused for a moment beneath a tree with leaves the exact copper color of her hair—Gina wondered if she did it on purpose, and could do no more than smile foolishly at her. "This is why I love to live in the country."

"I am coming around to your point of view very quickly, I must say." She unfolded the blanket she carried over her arm and sent it sailing out over the grass with a sharp snap of her wrists. It floated lightly down, a safe seat for two. Gina settled herself atop it and patted the blanket beside her invitingly.

Ivy came trotting back and sat—well, sat was an elegant word for it. She plopped down on the blanket beside Gina and smiled at her, that wide beautiful smile that always left Gina breathless. "Good," she said, "because I should like to always live in the country." She reached over and caught up Gina's hand, pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist. "It's so much... freer, here."

That, Gina could understand. In town they could walk arm in arm, perhaps, or kiss each other's cheeks, but the intimacies they dared here—Ivy's arms around her waist, a deep kiss at the window, twining together on the garden swing beneath an arch of roses—oh, in town they could never be seen doing any of those things. Strange how the lack of neighbors, the famous country isolation, could be so curiously uniting.

She smiled at Ivy, and kissed her truly, mouth to mouth and breast to breast under the autumn sky.