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Besides, I’m not sure that he’ll accept anything from me. What I had in mind was to give the vicar a sum of money to use, anonymously, as he sees fit for the boy and his grandmother. I don’t want anyone to feel beholden to me.”
    “The boy needs more than material things. He’s an orphan, Jo. He needs a friend.”
    “Fine. Then you be his friend.”
    “Jo—”
    “No.” She sighed and gave a tiny shrug. “Aunt, you know me. I feel awkward around children. I never know what to say to them. And they take advantage of me at every turn. I don’t find them innocent and sweet. I find them devious and mischievous. I’m sure the fault is in me, but there it is.”
    When her aunt’s brows rose fractionally, Jo was sorry she had said so much. They both understood what the real problem was. It wasn’t that she was awkward around children. The problem was that when she lost John, she’d lost her chance to have children too.
    She and John had both wanted children. In fact, the first thing they did when they moved into the house was furnish the nursery. Then they’d settled down to wait for the arrival of their first child. And they’d waited and waited. They hadn’t given up hope, or so they told themselves. They were still young. But after four years, the unthinkable happened.
    Suddenly, the pain she thought she’d locked away flared up as though she’d lost John yesterday. This shouldn’t have happened, not to John. He was a good man, good and decent and honorable. The world was full of scoundrels. Why was he taken?
    She couldn’t remember clearly the weeks that followed. She stopped eating. She didn’t go out or have friends in. She knew that her friends and family were worried about her, but she couldn’t seem to care. All she wanted was to be left alone.
    The turning point came when the
Journal
’s managing editor gave notice six months after John’s death. Without John at the helm, he said, the paper was failing and he had decided to move on.
    When Jo couldn’t find anyone to replace him, Chloë encouraged her to take over. Everyone else was shocked at the idea. Respectable ladies did not soil their hands with commerce. That was a man’s job.
    Thank God she had listened to Chloë. The
Journal
had given her a purpose. She hadn’t had the time to wallow in self-pity. But as much as she loved what she was doing now, it could never take the place of John.
    She stirred when her aunt got up. “What did you say?”
    Mrs. Daventry’s eyes were soft with understanding. She spoke gently. “Cook can help me put the parcel together.”
    Jo hastened to add, “And I’ll give the vicar the sum of money I promised.”
    And that’s how it was left.
             
    While Mrs. Daventry went to confer with Cook, Jo went upstairs to change for dinner. After washing her hands and face, she studied her reflection in the mirror. Uncle Daventry had once said that she was the image of her mother, but Jo couldn’t see it. It was true that they had the same gray-green eyes, but Mama’s hair was as dark as mahogany. Her own hair was the bane of her existence. Not only could she do nothing with it, but she hated the color, neither red nor blond but something in between.
    Her mother was an accredited beauty; everyone said so. Jo didn’t want to be beautiful. What she wanted was to look intelligent. She wanted to be taken seriously.
    It was the truth, but it wasn’t the whole truth. What she didn’t want was to be compared to her parents.
    Her father, Sir Vivian Moore, was a celebrated playwright. Her mother had, at one time, been an actress. Their lives had never been settled, so Jo was passed from one relative to the next as they pursued their careers.
    She had never forgotten Uncle Daventry’s remark when, at six years old, she’d been introduced to him. “Good Lord! She’s Gertrude’s image! Let’s hope that’s where the resemblance ends.” Aunt Daventry had shushed him, but the words had stuck in Jo’s