Free Elyse Mady by The White Swan Affair

returned as fresh and as vivid as though their deaths had occurred yesterday.
    She wept uncontrollably against Mrs. Hannaford’s shoulder, while the elderly lady stroked her hair. When the worst of the tumult had passed, Mrs. Hannaford handed her a fresh linen square and Hester patted her swollen eyes.
    “Come downstairs. You’ll feel more yourself once you have a little supper inside you. Everything is easier to face when your belly is full, eh?”
    “You’ve heard about Robert’s difficulties?” Hester asked, forcing the words out despite a throat made raw and tender from tears, keeping her eyes fixed on the borrowed handkerchief in her hands. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded rough and she busied herself, folding the linen into even quarters, unwilling to meet her neighbour’s eyes.
    Mrs. Hannaford paused on the landing outside her door. “Yes. A most unfortunate business. But let us wait until you have eaten before we discuss the unhappy circumstances any further.” Lifting the latch to her rooms, she led Hester into her parlour. The table was laid for one, but there were two chairs drawn up beside it. “Cold tongue, a little salad and a glass of small ale, to revive you.” She gestured at the plate and waited expectantly until Hester seated herself.
    “It is…it’s kind of you,” Hester murmured, taking a tentative bite. The tongue was delicious. Her stomach growled. She’d been too worried to eat much of anything during the course of the day and now, her appetite had returned with a vengeance.
    Behind her gold-rimmed spectacles, Mrs. Hannaford’s eyes were knowing. “You will meet with some great unkindness in this business, I am sure, but you must know that you will always find a friend in me, Miss Aspinall, whatever others may say or do.”
    “Thank you.” This straightforward avowal warmed her. It was doubtful the woman could offer anything by way of material aid but her staunch friendship was a balm on her bruised spirit.
    She cut another morsel of the jellied tongue and swallowed it silently, grateful for the charity the simple meal represented. The room darkened as the summer night descended, and by the time she had consumed the fresh fruit set out for the meal’s conclusion, her hostess had risen to light the wax tapers with a rush.
    “Will you sit with me? There are some matters I would discuss with you.” Mrs. Hannaford carried the candles from the table and set them on an occasional table between two worn armchairs facing the cold fireplace.
    “Of course.” Hester rose and followed. With a gesture of long-standing familiarity, she stooped down to collect the sewing box she knew to be stored there, before seating herself in one of the soft chairs. Her hostess’s eyes were not what they once were and while she still took great pride in cutting out her son’s shirts, even plain sewing troubled her greatly. Hester did not mind doing this small thing for her friend, for despite the years between them, there existed a steady regard that saw them both enriched by the acquaintance. In this room at least, it was possible to believe that the events of the day were nothing but unpleasant imaginings, and that when she arose to return to her own rooms, everything would be as it was.
    While Hester ran her thread through a cake of beeswax, Mrs. Hannaford collected a skein of fine linen thread and began to wind it round a tiny mother-of-pearl thread winder. At last, she spoke, her voice gentle.
    “You have been a great comfort to me these three years, Hester. Your friendship has been very important and I care for you as I would one of my own daughters.”
    “And I you,” Hester said sincerely.
    “Your brother’s arrest must have caused you great distress.”
    “It did,” she confessed. “I am still unable to fathom it. I feel as though I have been plucked up and set in some convoluted farce, an actress who knows not what role she is to play and who wants nothing more than to flee the