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laundress would be
unable to remove all the stains. Betsy wouldn’t want the garment, nor any of
the servants, the dress so far past salvation that even the lowliest maid would
refuse to wear it. She had adored this gown and now it was fit for nothing but
the rag bag.
    With the
exception of the day her parents had informed her she was being sent to live in
this hinterland, today was undoubtedly the worst of her life.
    Long minutes
later, they finally arrived at their destination. One of the footmen hurried to
assist her from the coach, casting his eyes respectfully downward. And well he
should, she thought, remembering the way he’d laughed along with the rest of
them. Then again, she supposed it would be wrong to put the blame upon him or
any of the others. They’d only reacted to the moment out of normal, human
surprise.
    No, there was
only one man responsible and the devil’s name was O’Brien.
    The shame of her
humiliation welled afresh, raw and painful as a handful of blazing cinders. The
feeling only increased when a tiny white-haired woman in a rather old-fashioned
mobcap and gown emerged from the house, her placid gray eyes widening to their
utmost proportions as they encountered Jeannette.
    The little woman
paused in the driveway, a delicate hand lifting to cover the rounded O of her
mouth. She blinked twice, then seemed to recover herself, rushing forward.
    “Cousin
Jeannette, is it you? Oh, my poor child, whatever has befallen you? Bertie and
I were beginning to wonder if you would arrive today as expected since evening
is nearly upon us, but never mind that now. I’m your cousin Wilda. Wilda
Merriweather. Welcome to Brambleberry Hall.”
    The woman’s kind
greeting proved Jeannette’s undoing, a tear running over her mud-smudged cheek.
    Earlier inside
the carriage, Betsy had done her best to clean her up, but without water the
effort had been hopeless at best. Jeannette’s face felt tight and dry, as if
her skin might crack from its coating of grime. And here she had wanted to make
an elegant first impression, only to arrive looking a complete wreck. Being
red-nosed and puffy-eyed would have been preferable to this. Now she was
red-nosed, puffy-eyed and splattered in mud!
    “Was there a
mishap, dear?” Wilda extended a sympathetic hand. “Come and tell me all about
it.”
    More tears wet
Jeannette’s cheeks as she went childlike into the older woman’s embrace. “It…it
was terrible,” she wailed as Wilda wrapped a comforting arm around her waist.
    “The
coach…stuck…” she said, trying to talk around her tears, “…man came…made me get
out…sun burned…mud, mud, mud everywhere…beast laughed. Oh, my dress…and my
pretty
boots.
” Then, to her complete mortification, she burst into a
fit of messy sobs.
    “There, there,
child,” the older woman hushed. “Everything will be set right, you’ll see. Come
inside and we’ll get you straight up to your room for a hot bath and a lie
down. You must be exhausted, simply exhausted after such a long trip. Why, the
occasional journey to Waterford quite wears me through to the bone, right to
the bone, so I can only imagine how fatigued you must be. You cry all you want,
dearie, all you want.”
    Jeannette gave in
to her misery, weeping copiously into her handkerchief as she let her cousin
lead her into the house and up the stairs.
    She’d barely
gazed around the cheerful, yellow bedchamber that, she supposed, was to be
hers, when Betsy came forward to divest her of her ruined attire. A large tub
was carried into an adjoining dressing room, steaming water poured into the
bath by the bucketful. The room grew quiet as everyone left except her maid.
    Sniffing, eyes
swollen and undoubtedly as red-rimmed as she’d feared, Jeannette slid into the
lovely warmth. Betsy soaped and rinsed her long hair, then left her alone to
relax. Five minutes later, her head resting on the copper rim of the tub, she
fell asleep.
    Betsy awakened
her with a gentle