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Laurent
scowled. “I then heard them speaking, about your very unfortunate circumstances,
and they were extremely pleased.”
    Evelyn felt a new tension arise. She did not want to recall her
childhood now. “My aunt was never kindly disposed toward me, Laurent, and she
was furious I made such a good match with Henri, when her daughter was far more
eligible. She dared to say so, several times, directly to me—when I had nothing
to do with Henri’s suit. I am not surprised that they inspected this house. Nor
am I surprised that they are happy I am currently impoverished.” She shrugged.
“The past is passed, and I intend to be a gracious hostess.”
    But Evelyn bit her lip, as memories of her childhood tried to
rush up and engulf her. She suddenly recalled spending the day pressing her
cousin Lucille’s gowns, her fingers burned from the hot iron, her stomach so
empty it was aching. She couldn’t recall what mischief she had been accused of
committing, but Lucille had habitually fabricated attacks upon her, causing her
aunt to find some suitable punishment.
    She hadn’t seen her cousin, now married to a squire, since her
wedding, and she hoped Lucille had matured, and had better things to do than
amuse herself at Evelyn’s expense. But clearly, her aunt remained inclined
against her. It was so petty.
    “Then you must remember that she is merely a gentlewoman, while
you are the Comtesse D’Orsay,” Laurent said firmly.
    Evelyn did smile at him. But she had no intention of throwing
her title in anyone’s face, especially not when her finances were so strained.
She hesitated on the threshold of the salon, which was as threadbare as her
bedroom. The walls were painted a pleasing yellow, and the wainscoting and
woodwork were very fine, but only a striped gold-and-white sofa and two
cream-colored chairs remained in the room, surrounding a lonely marble-topped
table. And everyone she had seen at the funeral was now crowded into the
room.
    Evelyn entered the salon and turned immediately to her closest
guests. A big, bluff man with dark hair bowed awkwardly over her hand, his tiny
wife at his side. Evelyn fought to identify him.
    “John Trim, my lady, of the Black Briar Inn. I saw your husband
once or twice, when he was on the road to London and he stopped for a drink and
eats. My wife baked you scones. And we have brought you some very fine
Darjeeling tea.”
    “I am Mrs. Trim.” A tiny, dark-haired woman stepped forward.
“Oh, you poor dear, I can’t imagine what you are going through! And your
daughter is so pretty—just like you! She will love the scones, I am certain. The
tea, of course, is for you.”
    Evelyn was speechless.
    “Come down to the inn when you can. We have some very fine
teas, my lady, and you will enjoy them.” She was firm. “We take care of our own,
we do.”
    Evelyn realized that this Cornishwoman considered her a
neighbor, still, never mind that she had spent five years living in France, and
that she had married a Frenchman. Now she regretted never stopping by the Black
Briar Inn for tea since moving to Roselynd. If she had, she would know these
good, kind people.
    And as she began greeting the villagers, she realized that
everyone seemed genuinely sympathetic and that most of the women present had
brought her pies, muffins, dried preserves or some other kind of edible gift.
Evelyn was so moved. She knew she was going to become undone by all of the
compassion her neighbors were evincing.
    The villagers finally drifted away, leaving for their homes.
Evelyn now saw her aunt and uncle, as only her family remained in the room.
    Aunt Enid stood with her two daughters by the marble mantel
above the fireplace. Enid Faraday was a stout woman in a beautiful gray-satin
gown and pearls. Her eldest daughter, Lucille—the initiator of so many of
Evelyn’s childhood woes—also wore pearls and an expensive and fashionable dark
blue velvet gown. She was now pleasantly plump, but she was still a