Free Bride of a Stranger (Classic Gothics Collection) by Jennifer Blake Page B

the name of the plantation before it became Sans Songe. What had Octavia meant? Claire pondered it after the older woman had gone. She did not know, but it seemed to be sound advice that the older woman had given her. She was in no hurry to learn the dark secrets of her unwanted husband.
    Because of the custom of the five days, Claire had had no visitors to her bedroom. Now that was changed. True to Octavia’s prediction, toward the middle of the morning there was a knock on the door and before she could call entrez , two women stepped into the room.
    “I bid you a good morning,” the woman in the lead said, and Claire, hearing the slow, rather bored tones, did not need the introduction to know that this was Justin’s mother. She was tall for a woman, and painfully thin, with delicate features in a heart-shaped face and enormous, purple-shadowed dark eyes. At one time she might have been a beauty, but now there was a ravaged look about her face. Her hair was fading into gray and her apparently permanent state of tension could be seen in the taut tendons that corded her neck and the backs of her slender hands. But though unhappiness had marked her, she had at least a visible personality. That was more than could be said for the woman in black who trailed into the room behind her.
    “My sister-in-law, Berthe. Her husband and mine were brothers. As you can readily see, however, she is a widow—and I am certain that you know that the blame for that state lies at the door of my son.”
    The woman called Berthe was a colorless nonentity with watery brown eyes surrounded by such pale lashes that she seemed to have none. Her hair was stuffed under a cap of black muslin edged with black ribbon with long streamers hanging down her back. Her high-necked, long-sleeved dress was of black sarsenet with an empire waist and wide skirts over several layers of petticoats that gave her a ludicrous appearance of width, not helped by her tendency toward plumpness.
    Her pasty face turned a shade paler as she gasped in a thin voice, “Helene, you should not say such things, not to your son’s bride. It—it is shocking.”
    “But true, and if she doesn’t know it now she is sure to hear it eventually. I find it hard to believe that she could be ignorant of it.”
    “I—I knew of the unfortunate incident, of course.”
    “There! I told you. Unpleasant things have a way of coming to our attention.”
    Searching her mind for a change of topic, Claire bethought herself of the duties of one receiving guests.
    “Won’t you please sit down, there in the slipper chairs if you could pull them closer? And perhaps you would like a cup of coffee and a few small cakes?”
    “That is very kind of you,” Helene said, taking her seat, “but you need not trouble yourself. I have only this moment finished my morning coffee and I never indulge in sweets before dinner.” She let her eyes flick in the direction of short, plump Berthe.
    “No, no, nothing for me,” Berthe said hurriedly.
    An unpleasant smile touched Helene’s mouth, then she raised her eyes and looked around the room. “I hope you are comfortable here, and that you have everything that you desire. If not, you have only to ask and it will be brought to you—within reason, of course. This is a nice room; I have always thought it one of the best in the house. My husband and I used it, you know, when we were first married. It has been close to ten years since was last in it. Unbelievable, isn’t it?”
    “The room is—very nice,” Claire said, choosing the one thing in what Helene had said with which she could agree.
    “And Rachel, she is acceptable?”
    “Oh, yes, she is surprisingly well trained, considering that she was a parlor maid and not versed in tending to ladies.”
    “I am glad she pleases you. I chose her for you myself.”
    “Th-thank you,” Claire said, glad that she had expressed approval of the girl. “I am most grateful. I am sure I don’t know what I would