Page 2 of Undone

"I have no interest in what can be proved in a court," the widow continued. "I am interested in what a determined woman can accomplish when no one thinks to watch her. What you did was considered. Deliberate. You left only enough for someone as patient as I am to understand what had happened." She regarded the younger woman steadily. "Patient women are exceedingly difficult to find. I have searched for one for a very long time."

The young woman said nothing for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice had lost its edge, though not its caution. "What is it you want of me?"

"Discretion. The kind that holds for years, if years are what it takes, without growing careless or sentimental. Are you such a woman?"

"I have never yet grown sentimental over anything I could not sell," the younger woman said.

"Good. I have no use for sentiment. I have considerable use for patience."

The younger woman narrowed her eyes slightly. "You have been at this a long while, then. Whateverthisis."

"I have learned what qualities are worth cultivating," the widow replied evenly. "The rest is none of your concern for now."

"And what, precisely, do you expect of me, if I am told nothing?"

"One day you will be required to enter a particular household. In what capacity remains to be seen. Circumstances have a way of opening doors for those prepared to walk through them, and I am very good at arranging circumstances." The widow paused only a moment. "It may be a year before I send for you, or five. When I do, you will enter that household and remain there until I tell you otherwise."

"For what purpose?"

"That is not yet your concern."

"You ask a great deal of trust from a stranger."

"I ask nothing of the kind. I intend only to pay you well enough that trust need not enter into it." The widow drew a small leather purse from her reticule and set it upon the table between them. It landed with a soft, unmistakable weight.

"There are one hundred pounds in gold before you. They are yours upon your acceptance of the engagement, whether or not you are ever called upon to act. Fifty pounds each year thereafter, for so long as you remain available to me. And five hundred pounds more, the day the work is done to my satisfaction."

The young woman looked at the purse for a long moment before she reached for it. When at last she loosened the drawstring, the gleam of gold answered her. Her fingers did not tremble, though they moved with more haste than her composure had shown until then.

"That is a very great deal of money for a woman who has told me nothing."

"It is a very great deal of money for what I shall require of you."

A stretch of silence passed between them. The younger woman's hand remained upon the purse. Whatever questions remained were plainly outweighed by its weight.

"There is a young man," the widow said at length. "Whom I have observed for some years. He possesses charm enough to be useful and vanity enough to require careful handling. In time I may ask you to make his acquaintance and judge whether he is equal to the purpose I have in mind. Until then, forget that I have mentioned him."

"Purpose?"

"Whether his loyalty lies where he imagines it does." The widow waved a hand dismissively. "You need not concern yourself with him yet."

The young woman drew the purse towards her and rose to take her leave.

"I do not know your purpose," she said, "but I will do whatever you ask of me."

"Good," the widow said. "I was hoping you would say so. Now that you have been paid, do not think you may reconsider this agreement."

She rose, standing only a few inches above the younger woman, and let the silence linger a moment before she spoke again. "I do not care to be deceived. Should you ever decide to betray my confidence, I would advise you to be very certain you have succeeded."

The younger woman swallowed, plainly weighing the threat and finding it entirely credible. "I do not intend to discover the extent of your displeasure, ma'am."

"Good." The widow allowed herself a brief smile. "I shall be in touch. Good day."

The young woman left the way she had come, unhurried, and did not look back.

Alone, the widow drew a small portrait from the pocket of her gown. The gilt frame had worn thin at one corner, rubbed smooth by years of handling. She did not look at it long. She never did.

It had been a long time coming, she thought. A very long time. And not once, in all of it, had she been careless.