wasn’t that she had a decision to make. She’d already made it. That was the easy part. Yet speaking the words would change everything, and that’s why she needed to muster her courage. She understood Jennifer’s silence now more than ever, yet at the same time she thanked God that Jennifer had found the strength to tell Gordon’s story.
Finally, she was ready. She’d sent the dinner tray back uneaten and poured herself a brandy in preparation for this meeting.
When Jennifer entered the room, Ellen smiled, then indicated the end of the sofa.
“You wanted to talk to me, Ellen? If it’s about not returning to Adaire Hall, I can’t be talked out of my decision.”
“Nor would I try to do so, my dear girl. We need to discuss something much more serious.”
Jennifer looked at her inquisitively, but didn’t speak as she sat.
Ellen raised the brandy snifter. “Can I interest you in one of these?”
Jennifer shook her head. Ellen wondered if she would change her mind after a while. A little brandy did wonders in difficult situations.
Once Jennifer was settled, Ellen sat back and said another prayer. She’d been praying most of the day.
“Mary Adaire was one of the most wonderful people I’ve ever known,” she began.
Jennifer nodded.
“She was kind. She was understanding. Even if she didn’t condone a certain behavior, she tried to see beyond it to the human being who’d performed it. She was gracious. She was the perfect countess. When she married Alex, I thought it was a wonderful union. It was evident, to everyone, how much they loved each other. I never knew anyone like her. She even charmed my parents, who’d become very strict Church of Scotland. They liked her. Even better, they respected her. I think they secretly admired her as well. You didn’t know her the way I did, Jennifer, but she was a beautiful woman. She had this glorious auburn hair and these beautiful blue eyes.”
Ellen stared down at the brandy, remembering how jealous she’d been when first meeting Mary and how quickly that feeling had dissipated in view of the woman’s charm and grace.
“My parents allowed me a season. They hadn’t found religion yet, you see. I was an only child, expected to be the apple of my parents’ eye. I was to be perfect, but I fell far short of that.”
She was going too far afield. Jennifer was too polite to ask why she was suddenly talking about people she had never met.
“You know about the fire, of course.”
Jennifer nodded again. She leaned forward, clasping her hands, intent on Ellen’s words. Did she have some kind of precognitive ability? Did she realize that what Ellen was going to say next would change her entire life?
“What you don’t know is that the fire altered their marriage. Not the fire, exactly, but what happened when Mary fell from the second floor. They couldn’t be together any longer. It was too painful for her.”
She knew how much that had mattered to both of them. Yet she doubted if Alex would have ever been unfaithful to his wife. He loved her too much. In addition, the man was a paragon of virtue himself. He was a good man, and it was evident that Gordon took after him.
“As I said, Mary was very understanding. Perhaps the word isn’t understanding. Perhaps it’s compassionate. Generous. Kind.”
She took another sip of the brandy and realized that it wasn’t going to help. She was simply going to have to tell this story, as difficult as it was.
“All around me, my friends were getting married, but I did not have any affection whatsoever for any of the young men who seemed interested in me. It was all too evident that I was going to remain a spinster, caring for my parents until their elderly days. Maybe that’s why I did what I did.” She shook her head, determined to be honest. “No, that’s not why. I was entranced and flattered and pleased. A handsome young man began to pay me attention, and it went to my head, I think. That was before I learned my own value. I didn’t respect myself enough. So I fell for his blandishments, ardent as they were, and found myself in a precarious position. Especially since he decided to marry an heiress and leave me without a backward glance.”
She could still remember the humiliation of learning of Ronald McCormick’s betrothal. First had come the hurt, then the panic.
“I confided in Mary. I was, in fact, about to