Page 107 of The Gentlewoman Companion

Lady Molesworth clutched her chest. “A young widow, adrift in a sea of grief so deep she left her senses behind, along with her servants. Unmoored and unseeing, she seeks shelter in a desolate cottage.”

La! If novels were dangerous, this woman was evidence enough of that. Louisa considered leaving the whimsy alone, but she was only thirty miles from her father’s home. The truth would eventually make its way over or filter in from London.

She could not live in fear of her life collapsing again. Even if this lady would dramatize the tale and spread it with the delight of a child blowing dandelion fluff into the wind.

Louisa began walking again and stepped around a deep puddle. “These roads do need tending,” she said, giving herself a moment to gather her thoughts and courage. Tight were the cords wrapping around her truth, endeavoring to keep her silent, bidding her to protect herself.

She inhaled and released a slow, deliberate breath, working to loose the tension inside her. If she could not claim her mistake, she was not entitled to the lessons she’d learned. She opened her mouth. “Some months past, my father betrothed me to a man I did not know and did not wish to marry.”

With a few steady words, Louisa told her story. Though her actions had been shameful, she stated the facts with dignity, forgiving herself for the rash actions of a young, desperate woman. In telling her truth, not only to this stranger but to herself, she neither excused the past nor denied it. The telling was an unwinding of fear, of guilt, of the frantic energy that had kept her aloft like a bird too long in flight, wings trembling, heart wild.

In the stillness that followed the confession, it came: the release. Her shoulders softened, her breath deepened. She landed—not broken, but whole. She had made a mistake, but she was also all the goodness she had ever created, all the generosity she had ever shared. Gathering wisdom from the wreckage and leaving the rest behind, she grounded herself, no longer willing to be defined by what had once undone her.

“Well,” Lady Molesworth huffed. “I just recalled. I am expected at the rectory.”

She turned and left Louisa without another word.

Tears burned. Louisa’s throat swelled as she watched Lady Molesworth’s short steps turn away from her. She had not truly expected the woman to accept her, but she was glad to have spoken the truth—a painful but necessary victory.

The church bell tolled the hour—four o’clock. The kitten! Louisa ran for the market stall and found the good woman packing up the day. Beside her a fluffy, white angora lay sleeping in a crate.

“You were almost too late,” the woman said, placing the kitten in Louisa’s arms.

Louisa reached into her reticule to pay for the cat.

“I’ll not hear of it. I’m glad to spare his life.”

“Have you any remaining pies?” Louisa asked.

“Six.”

“I’ll take them. Also, I’m in need of a housekeeper. Do you know where I might enquire?”

“My niece⁠—”

“Before you volunteer your kin, you should know that I once did something terrible. My reputation may taint whoever serves me.”

“You killed a man?”

Louisa smiled. “Sometimes I wish I had. I was beguiled into attempting an elopement.”

“Bah. We are no strangers to shame.” The woman stopped loading her crate and fisted her hands on her hips. “My sister became a widow and was left to support herself and her daughter. She worked as a housemaid but was caught with a silver spoon in her apron and more under her bed. If you will employ the daughter of a thief, she’ll take no issue with your desire to end a man’s life.”

Louisa snorted then broke into a full laugh that loosened any remaining doubt that she could thrive. This new acquaintance was indeed an improvement on her misfortune. “What is your name?”

“Mrs. Cox.”

Louisa introduced herself. “When can your niece begin?”

“Her name’s Jenny. I’ll send her tomorrow morning if it suits you. She is fifteen but a hard worker who makes a fine meal.”

Louisa agreed and with a firm step made her way toward Stillwater, the kitten purring into her neck. No rat waited inside the cottage door, but the cat’s ears twitched, and he jumped from her arms, ready to prowl.

Later, under the warmth of candlelight and a blazing kitchen fire, the cat reappeared with Louisa’s disemboweled nemesis dangling from his teeth.

“Well done, but let’s keep your prize out of the kitchen.” She offered the cat a pie, which he exchanged for the rat. Louisa swept the rodent outside and sat close to the fire with a cup of peppermint tea. The kitty thoroughly bathed himself in front of the hearth. He stared with regal, golden eyes at his mistress, then with supreme arrogance sauntered to Louisa and leapt into her lap.

She laughed. “I shall call you Hal.” She gathered him to her and kissed the top of his head, his silk-soft coat gliding between her fingers.

A memory, foggy with time, drifted to her mind. She must have been five or six, for that was when she had contracted scarlet fever. A bowl of peonies cheered her bedside table. She reached to stroke the petals and knocked the bowl to the floor. When her mother entered, drawn by the clatter, she wept. The bowl had belonged to Louisa’s great-grandmother and was the last of a set.

Later that afternoon, her mother entered the sick room with a stout, aged cat, whose main interest was sleeping. She tucked the cat under the blanket, kissed Louisa’s forehead, and said, “Never forget—I love you. There is nothing you could do to lose that love.”

Louisa continued to pet Hal and settled back into her chair. “Thank you, Mama,” she whispered, “for finding me, for leading me to discover myself.”