THE DUKE of Cranwell led his visitors along the upper cloisters of his home. They had been built, he explained, during the first three years of his dukedom as an easier form of access to the upstairs rooms. They had been constructed around all four sides of the central courtyard, with the result that this area had been considerably reduced. But the convenience of the new closed-in corridors and the beauty of their Gothic architecture more than compensated for the loss, he said.
The whole party dutifully looked up to the delicately arched ceiling and windows. They looked at the cedar and walnut chests that lined the walls and the marble busts dating back to ancient Roman days that Cranwell himself had gathered during his travels. And they viewed the dinner service of Meissen china displayed in a glass-fronted case. The two-hundred-and-fifty-piece set was used only on state occasions, their host explained.
Throughout it all, Sarah hung in the background, embarrassed. It was all very beautiful, she knew, and she wished that she were free to look and appreciate. But she could not. She suffered agonies from having to look at George and listen to him on his favorite topic, the one that he had talked about so much with her during their courtship. And she suffered untold humiliation in wondering what he must think of her for joining the group like this. It was not as if everyone had come. His own uncle and aunt and two of their children already knew the house. Lady Cavendish and Hannah had been shown around a few days before. Fanny had declined to come. Two of Hannah's cousins had gone riding.
"You see here one of the greatest treasures" of the house," Cranwell was saying, stopping at one of the pictures on the wall. "It is a winter scene painted by Jan Brueghel in the first part of the seventeenth century."
Everyone looked.
"How delightfully pretty!" Lady Murdoch declared. "Look at all the dear little children playing. Not but what it is lacking in some color. I must admit I prefer something a little brighter, your grace."
Cranwell inclined his head in acknowledgment of her opinion. "You will prefer some of the portraits and ceilings in the state rooms, ma'am," he said. "I shall be taking you there directly."
Sarah moved closer to the picture as the group dispersed. It had been one of his favorites as a boy. She could vividly remember his saying so. Oh, and she could see why. There were children skating on a frozen pond, all in an individual dynamic position. There were other figures moving along the snowy streets, some driving carts, others carrying burdens on their heads. Others merely gossiped in groups or watched the skaters. And one could almost feel the crisp cold. The buildings glowed with their snow-covered roofs. The crooked and bare trees shivered toward the sky. The sky itself was weighted down with unshed snow. And it had been painted two hundred years before!
"Are you coming, Miss Fifield?" a quiet voice said at her shoulder.
Sarah turned with a start and gazed blankly into the blue eyes of her host. Then she noticed with embarrassment that they were alone. The sound of voices came from an open doorway nearby.
"Oh," she said foolishly, "yes. I was looking at the picture. It is very pretty."
What an inane statement, she thought with dismay as she heard the words come out of her mouth.
She walked through the doorway ahead of Cranwell and felt her breath catch in her throat. They were in one of the state rooms, the smaller of two drawing rooms, he explained to an admiring audience. Sarah's eyes traveled up the pine-paneled walls, painted white with a carved cornice of gold leaf, to the arched ceiling above. It was covered with richly colored painted figures. She could hear Lady Murdoch exclaiming appreciatively from across the room. The scene was the birth of Venus, Cranwell was explaining. The paintings on the walls were all portraits of his mother's family, the Tenbys, he told them. He had spent many years finding them and persuading the owners to sell to him.
Sarah lagged behind again as the whole chattering group moved through the high double doors, flanked by massive pillars, into the larger state room, twice the size of the one they had just exited. In his own lifetime, Cranwell explained, it had been used only rarely, and as a ballroom. When there was dancing, of course, the Persian rug that covered all but the outer rim of the floor was rolled up.
As a child he had always loved to watch a long line of footmen undertake the difficult task of rolling it up neatly, he had told Sarah a long time before.
The ballroom was similar in design and decoration to the smaller drawing room. Sarah found her eyes feasting on the portraits of the Montagu family, which dominated the walls. These were all his ancestors. Was there any family resemblance? she wondered. While the rest of the party exclaimed over each wonder pointed out to them by their host, she turned her attention to the largest painting of all, a Van Dyck, which almost covered the width of the room along the south wall.
It was a picture of an earlier duke and duchess and their large family. The fashions and the hairstyles were very different from today's. Quite magnificent, in fact. How would she feel in those voluminous silk skirts and sleeves, and with the massed cluster of ringlets around her head? How would George look with the curled shoulder-length hair of his ancestor and the pointed beard and curled mustache? He would look very handsome, she decided, and smiled.
"It is the pride and joy of the house," Cranwell said from close behind her. "Do you like it?"
"It would be just too inadequate to say that it is lovely or magnificent," Sarah said, her eyes still on the painting. "Can you imagine that once this canvas was blank and the painter planned and executed this! How did he know where to start?"
"What I always like best about the picture," Cranwell said, "is the cluster of little cherub angels in the top corner. Apparently they were the children of the duke and duchess who died in infancy."
Sarah chuckled. "What a charming idea," she said. "I wonder if it pained the parents to look at them painted here."
"They had a large enough family without them," Cranwell said. "Four sons and three daughters."
"And two dogs," Sarah added, pointing to a pair of greyhounds sniffing at the clothes of one of the sons. "Oh!" She laughed outright. "This one looks like you, George. Look. If you take away those long curls, he has your face exactly."
"My height, too," Cranwell said ruefully, pointing to the difference between the son in question and his taller brother. "Come and see this picture, Sarah. It has always been my favorite painting in the house. But I rarely point it out to visitors because it is so small. I find that most people prefer what is more obviously magnificent to the eye. But you will appreciate it."
He took her to a comparatively small canvas on an adjoining wall, set in a circular frame. It was another Van Dyck, a charming portrait of three young children, grand and formal in their state garments. A brown-and-white spaniel sat docilely at the feet of the eldest.
"These are the grandchildren of the duke in the large portrait," Cranwell explained. "This one is my ancestor-the boy with the dog."
"Oh, it is charming," Sarah said. "Just look at how well the painter has captured the delicacy of the lace at the boy's collar and the hems of the girls' dresses. And the rosettes on the boy's shoes! And how he has caught the chubby, fresh complexions of childhood." She laughed. "I can remember your telling me about this picture, George. You said that when you were very young you liked the spaniel best."
"I always loved the lopsided look the brown patch over one ear and one eye gives him," Cranwell agreed. "I desperately wanted one like him."
They both laughed and turned to each other to share their amusement. They were very close. Blue eyes smiled into green-for perhaps five seconds. Then both flushed painfully and turned away in confusion. The rest of the group sounded quite faint in the distance. They must have been two rooms farther on already.
"I must join Cousin Adelaide," Sarah muttered, hardly knowing what she was saying. "She may need my support."
"I am sorry, ma'am," he said at the same time. "I am keeping you from the rest of the house and neglecting my other guests."
Sarah turned toward the doorway leading through to an anteroom, and would have hurried away without another glance at her host. But he detained her suddenly with a hand on her wrist.
"Sarah," he said, "what have you been doing since? What have you been doing for the last four years?"
The words were impulsively spoken. But Sarah's mind was in too distraught a state to notice their impertinence. She did not think to tell him that it was no concern of his what she had been doing.
"I left Uncle Randolph's," she said. "Not that he turned me off. In fact, he was very upset that I should leave. But I could not involve him and Aunt Myrtle in my shame. I rented a cottage in a village ten miles away and lived there until Cousin Adelaide found me.”
"Alone?" he asked.
"Dorothy came with me," she said. "My maid."
"What did you do?" he persisted. "How did you live?"
She smiled fleetingly. "I was happy," she said. "Contented, at least. I tended my garden and did a great deal of needlework. And I read and read. I was fortunate enough to make friends with the vicar and his wife. And he had a wonderful library, inherited from some family member. I helped them a little with parish visiting."
"Did they know who you were?" Cranwell asked, frowning.
"No," she said. "They were far removed from high society and all its scandals. But I told them all about myself. They were my friends anyway." She tilted her chin and looked at him almost defiantly, her eyes glistening with unusual brightness.
He said nothing. He still held her wrist tightly. Sarah's eyes dropped to his hand, slim, well-manicured, strong despite its elegance. The curious silver ring was twisted to the inside of his finger. She smiled nervously down at his hand.
"It is not what you expected to hear, is it?" she said. "Of course, perhaps you do not believe me." She looked determinedly back into his eyes. "But it does not matter to me what you believe. With the Reverend Clarence and his wife I learned to live with myself. That is all that matters."
Cranwell still said nothing. But he looked intently back at her and retained still his vise-like grip of her wrist.
"Oh, I believe you," he said at last. "Both Fanny and Lady Murdoch have told me something similar."
He looked down at his hand on her wrist, almost as if he did not know it was there. He frowned and released his hold on her.
"There are the state bedrooms and the library still to show," he said. "I hope my guests have not given up waiting for me. Are you coming, Sarah?"
"No," she said. "If you will show me the way back to the living apartments, I shall return there. I feel a little faint."
He led the way silently through the anteroom and out onto the upper landing of the grand curved staircase that was the official entryway to the state rooms.
"If you turn to your left at the foot of the stairs," Cranwell said, "you will find yourself out in the lower cloister."
"Thank you," Sarah said, and moved hurriedly to the staircase.
"Sarah," he said abruptly, "are you all right?"
"Oh yes," she assured him without looking back. "I merely need some fresh air."
And she fled down the stairs and through the doorway to the left at the bottom until she could no longer feel his eyes following her.
Cranwell stood and stared at the staircase long after Sarah had disappeared from view. He leaned his arms on the oak banister. His guests, whose voices had now faded beyond hearing, were forgotten.
He felt bereft, almost as if he were only now losing her for the first time. A few minutes before, she had been vibrant, interested, absorbed in his world. In his mind he had been back in the time before their marriage, the time after he had overcome her reticence and had shared his inner life with her. He had been almost unaware of her as a separate entity. As then, he had talked to her without conscious thought, almost as if she were another part of his being. And she had responded in kind. He had to believe that she had been as forgetful as he of the bitter years between now and the time when they had talked and shared their thoughts and grown to love each other.
And now she was gone. She was the other Sarah again, the one whose existence he had not even suspected until their wedding night. She was the one with whom he must forever feel uncomfortable, whom he must always treat with suspicion and hostility. The one from whom he must protect his sister and his betrothed.
But was she really the other Sarah? And did that other woman exist with any more reality than the one he had known in those days of courtship? Who was the real Sarah? Since his marriage and divorce he had looked back on those early days with bitterness and assumed that everything she had said and done had been a calculated part of a plan to trap him. Had he been quite fair to those memories? She had not been acting this morning. He would wager his life on it. She had been genuinely interested in his paintings, and her memories had been tender ones of what he had said about himself as a child.
Would he ever understand her? And did it really matter now if he never did? Yes, he decided immediately, it did matter. Very much. However much he must hate her, he must also admit to himself that Sarah had been a very important person in his life. Perhaps the most important. She had been his first love. And his only love. He was marrying Hannah for other reasons. — Cranwell frowned suddenly. What an enigma she was! She had spent the four years since their divorce living with one servant in a cottage in a village that apparently had little contact with the fashionable world. Gardening, doing her needlework, reading. And visiting the sick and poor. Her only friends a vicar and his wife. Learning to live with herself, she had said. A vicar, no less! Yes, her life had been different indeed from what he had imagined.
She must have reformed her life very soon after their marriage. There had been the adultery-how many times repeated, he did not know. But she must have succeeded in putting it all behind her. Had he acted too hastily? If he had given her a little time, would she have returned to him? Was it possible that they might have been able to patch up their marriage and have learned to live together? To love again?
Cranwell swallowed convulsively. The thought did not bear contemplating. They might have had four years together. By now they might have been happy, the past merely a bad memory. They might have had children.
She had left her uncle's house voluntarily, she had said, to avoid forcing him and her aunt to share in her shame. Had she felt it, then, that shame? How much had he made her suffer? Until he began his divorce action against her, presumably only he and the men with whom she had erred had been aware of her indiscretions. His actions had informed the gossip-hungry society of a nation that Sarah Montagu, Duchess of Cranwell, was no better than a whore. How had it felt to be so regarded by everyone who looked at her? And had it been fair to force her through that when deceit and corruption raged beneath the surface of so much of the seemingly respectable society of which he was part? He had not been a virgin himself on his wedding night.
For the first time Cranwell faced his own part in the events of four years before with some unease. Of one thing he was sure before he turned from the staircase and went in search of any of his guests who might still linger in the state rooms. He must no longer treat Sarah Fifield as if she had some sort of deadly infectious disease. Whatever she might have been in the past, she had obviously taken great pains to turn away from her errors and reshape her life. The least he could do was treat her with proper courtesy.
He turned and looked back through the open doorways of the anteroom and the ballroom. How lovely she would look dancing in there, her hair bright, her face alive with color and animation. He could almost picture her. His duchess!
His jaw set suddenly as he clamped his teeth together. He turned abruptly away and strode in the direction of the state dining room.
Sarah hurried along the lower cloister until she came to the stairway leading up to the bedrooms. She felt pursued, though she knew that she was long out of sight of Cranwell. She went up to her bedroom, intending to stay there until she had had time to compose herself. But two chambermaids were cleaning her room, and she left again clutching a shawl that did not even match her dress, after muttering an excuse about having come for a wrap before going outside. She went down the stairs again and along to the morning room, but she could hear voices coming from inside. She threw the shawl over her shoulders and turned to the main doors, which a liveried footman opened for her. A minute later her thin slippers were crunching over the gravel of the formal gardens.
She slowed her steps and blew her breath out through puffed cheeks. She would sit down on one of the benches here and try to sort out her thoughts. She would regain control of herself before having to face everyone at luncheon.
"Miss Fifield," a cheerful voice called, and Sarah looked up in dismay to find Fanny and Hannah seated on a wrought-iron seat not far distant, Winston between them. Fanny was the one who had called. She was waving and smiling.
Sarah smiled too. "How sensible of you all to be outside," she said. "The weather is beautiful."
Winston stood up and held out a hand for hers. "Have you escaped too, my love?" he asked. "I must confess that gazing at art treasures all morning when one might be gazing at living beauty instead is not entirely to my liking." He kissed her hand and turned a smiling face to include the other two girls in his compliment.
He motioned to Sarah to sit between the two girls and stood before them, his hands clasped behind his" back.
"Either I am unusually fortunate," he said, "or the other gentlemen of this party are incredible slowtops. How comes it that I have the exclusive company of three such lovely ladies?"
Fanny was clearly enjoying herself. "The others are all being very good and listening to George's history and art lecture," she said. "Not everyone is such a shameless truant as you, Lord Laing."
"Shameless, indeed!" he said. "I am feeling very proud of myself." His grin drew answering smiles from the two girls who flanked Sarah.
"My only regret," Winston continued, "is that there is room on the seat for only three. I must stand here. Now, which of you ladies can I prevail upon to walk with me to the bridge? Lady Fanny?"
She smiled up at him but shook her head. "I have had no chance at all to talk to Miss Fifield since she arrived yesterday," she said. "Do you go, Hannah. But beware, Lord Laing. Both your fiancee and I will be watching."
His eyes widened. "I am all fear and trembling, ma'am," he said. "Lady Hannah?"
The girl blushed and looked inquiringly at Sarah. Then she got to her feet and timidly linked her arm through Winston's. Sarah and Fanny watched them go until they were out of earshot.
"I am so pleased that you were able to come, Miss Fifield," Fanny said. "I really did not have a chance to get to know you in Bath as I would have wished."
Sarah smiled. "Both Lady Murdoch and Winston were eager that I come," she said. "And I am glad I did. The house is lovely."
"You are very different from what I expected, — " Fanny said, looking directly into the face of the guest.
Sarah flushed. So the girl had decided to come out into the open with her knowledge, had she? It was easier to pretend. She did not really wish to pursue any frank conversation, least of all at the present.
"What did you expect?" she asked reluctantly.
"Oh, I don't know," Fanny said. "I do not know exactly what happened in the past, you know. George always used to tell me that I was too young to know, and now he says that it is past history and not worth resurrecting. But I suppose I imagined someone vulgar and quite heartless. Though why I should have expected that, I do not know. George would never have fallen in love with someone like that. And he was in love. He suffered dreadfully for a long time. And I do not believe he has ever recovered his spirits completely."
Sarah turned and found that the girl was still looking directly into her face. "Did he?" she asked. "And has he not? I am sorry."
"I would guess that you suffered just as much and have recovered just as little," Fanny continued relentlessly. "I can tell. It is true, is it not?"
Sarah hesitated. "It was inevitable that we both suffer," she said. "Divorce is so very rare in our society. And to be separated so completely from someone with whom one has been so intimately connected is bound to be painful. But I think your brother is right, Fanny. It is ancient history and best forgotten about. We both have other lives now and bright futures."
"What did happen?" Fanny asked, leaning forward slightly. "And please do not tell me that I am too young to know. You were only two years older than I am now, were you not, when you married George?"
Sarah glanced at her in distress and away again. "Please," she said, "I do not mean to be uncommunicative, but I cannot talk about it. I will say only that the fault was entirely mine. I did something very bad. Your brother was not at all to blame. Please believe that."
"I cannot believe that you did anything so very bad," Fanny said. "You are a very sensible and kind person, Miss Fifield. I do admire your patience with Lady Murdoch. I mean no disrespect, but I think I should be driven insane if I had to spend one hour in close contact with her. I think I should have liked to have you as a sister."
Sarah looked at her in agony. "Please," she said. "You must not think that way. Geor… your brother has chosen your new sister, and I am sure you and she will deal famously together. And I shall soon be married to someone else too."
"Lord Laing," Fanny said. "He is very handsome. Far more handsome than George. And very charming. George does not go to great pains to ingratiate himself with other people. Do you love him, Miss Fifield?"
"Love him? I…" Sarah floundered in her embarrassment. "I loved him once, of course. When I married him I loved him. I have no right to love him now or to have any feelings for him beyond respect. I do respect him."
"I meant Lord Laing," Fanny said quietly, her eyes riveted to Sarah's face.
"Oh!" Sarah could have died of mortification. "Win? Well, of course. He is to be my husband. As you say, he is very handsome and very charming. What woman would not wish to be his wife?" Her laugh sounded unconvincing to her own ears.
Fanny did not smile. "Shall we go into the house?" she said. "I think it must be close to luncheon time, and even George is scared of the chef when his concoctions are ruined by our tardiness."
Sarah gulped with relief, but Fanny did not immediately rise from the seat.
"You must dislike me intensely," she said. "I know I have embarrassed and distressed you. But please try to understand. I have no parents. George has been like a father to me for most of my life. And I do so want to understand the most important event in his life. Now more than ever. I can no longer picture some sort of witch and think him well out of the marriage. I like you very much. I can understand why he loved you. I think the two of you suit perfectly."
Sarah got to her feet and pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. "Yes, I am embarrassed," she said. "But I know I shall look back on this conversation with gratitude. I have not had many votes of confidence in my life. It feels good to be liked by someone who was my sister for a brief time. I do not resent you, Fanny. I admire your concern for your brother."
She hurried along the gravel walk ahead of Fanny. As soon as they had passed through the doorway into the hall, she mumbled something about getting tidied up for luncheon and hurried up the stairs without looking back. She almost ran into her room, where finally she could shut the door and be alone. She closed her eyes and sagged back against the door.
Why, oh why, had she come? It would have been better far to have stayed away, to have let Win come on his own, even. She had been here less than twenty-four hours and already she had gone from one embarrassment to another. She would have to get away. But how? Could she persuade Win to leave after all? Promise him anything? Only one argument might work with him. If she could persuade him that she was desperate to sleep with him but was too afraid to do so with so many people around them, he might agree to take her away to an inn. And once away, she could lure him on to some other place and finally back home for their wedding.
Sarah shuddered and put one hand over her mouth. Could she do it? And should she? She was already well aware of just how shaky was their betrothal. Win had agreed to marry her because of the money. He had the money. What was to stop him now from turning his attention to Fanny after all and adding her fortune to what Sarah had given him? He would do it, too, if he thought he could get away with it.
Oh, would Win always, always have his own way? she asked herself. She had thought herself free of him after Graham died. When she had moved away to her cottage, she had thought she need never have anything more to do with her past.
And indeed, the first time Win came, she had succeeded in sending him packing with relative ease. She had felt very satisfied with herself. But he had come back again when her new life was already more than three years old and seemed secure. He needed money, was quite desperate for some, in fact. And he knew, of course, that Cranwell had given her some, though he must have been aware that it was no fortune.
He had used all the arguments she expected: it would be merely a loan; he was her cousin and had treated her like a sister when she was newly orphaned; his father was desperately sick and must not he troubled with financial problems. She had resisted it all, though that last argument had pained her. She was proud of her new strength of character. She would not give in again, whatever the threats or blandishments. Let him do his worst!
And then, a mere two weeks later, Uncle Randolph had finally succumbed to his consumption. She had realized immediately that now Win would take over the management of her money, and she had written for it. She would ask the Reverend Clarence what to do with it to keep it safe. Winston had written back to say there would be some delay. His father had borrowed the money to repay some debt, he wrote. Sarah had understood what that meant. Win himself had used the money to pay some gaming debts or merely to gamble with. She had also realized that she would never see the money again. She was destitute. Perhaps it had been Win's way of trying to force her to return to the home that was now his. Instead, she had applied for a position.
Now Win appeared to be maneuvering after all to attach Fanny's affections. And he would marry her, too, if he had the chance. He would do it in the cheerful belief that he could still win Sarah for his mistress. Win seemed quite firm in the belief that she desired him more than anything else in life.
And she knew that he desired her. Their long-dead affair seemed only to have whetted his appetite. And this desire was her only hold over him, the only fact that might make him continue with his plans to marry her. If she gave herself to him now before their wedding, he would have no need to marry her at all. He would take her, have his fill of pleasure for a few days, and probably return to court Fanny. Sarah was sure that she had not imagined that his attentions had been quite marked to the girl since their arrival the day before.
She could not lure him away, then. She must wait quietly and live through this week of torture. Then she must return home, marry Win, and face a lifetime of misery so that George and Fanny would be free from the man who had ruined her own life. But she must watch Win. She did not trust him not to cheat her. She must make an effort to be alluring to him, so that his appetite would be aroused and his mercurial instinct dulled. She must focus his attention on herself, however much pain it caused her to do so.
Sarah crossed the room to the wardrobe where her shawl was kept. She folded it and put it neatly away. She crossed to the washstand and began to splash cold water over her face.
Oh God, she was aching with love for him. For George. She pressed her hands over her wet face and concentrated on not giving in to the instinct to cry. What was it about him that could make her forget herself so easily? It had always been so. At the Saxtons' house party she had been determined not to become involved with any of the guests. Yet before many days had passed she was drawn into an easy yet deep friendship with George. It had happened entirely against her plans. And the same thing had happened the following year when he came to her uncle's house day after day to court her. She had been so determined to resist, for his sake. Yet before she knew it, she had forgotten her resolve and relaxed into the warmth of his friendship and his love again.
But to have allowed it to happen again today! After all that had happened between them. Despite the embarrassment of her predicament in finding herself the houseguest of her former husband. It was true, though. While they had looked at those two paintings together, the years had rolled away without trace. She had once again been with her closest friend, the man with whom she felt so relaxed that he hardly seemed a separate being. She had shown enthusiasm for some of his most treasured possessions. And worse, she had reminisced about the past, just as if those memories could bring only pleasure to them both.
Still with her hands over her face, Sarah shook her head violently from side to side, as if by doing so she could shake away what had happened earlier. How utterly mortifying. What must he think of her?
She removed one hand and groped around for a towel. She patted at her face, hoping that no telltale red marks would be visible when she went downstairs. The fact was, though, the puzzling fact, that the same thing had happened to him. She was sure of it. The years had rolled back for both of them. He had taken her to show her his favorite painting, telling her that only she would appreciate it. And she knew that it really was his favorite. He had told her so years ago. And he had looked at it with her, his head bent close to hers. They had laughed together.
"Oh, George," she said aloud. If only the years really could be taken away. If only she had a second chance. Would the outcome have been different if she had gathered the courage to tell him the full truth before their wedding? If she had told him everything-about Win and Graham and the fact that she had never consented willingly to their couplings, would he have forgiven her? Would he have married her, and would they be together now? She might be in this very house now, its mistress. George's wife. His lover.
No, she must not think such things. If she did, she would surely start to cry. And how would she explain red eyes downstairs?
The meeting with Fanny had been disturbing. It was true that she felt an unwilling sort of warmth about the heart to know that she was liked by George's sister, that the girl thought well of her and thought she suited her brother. She knew that for the rest of her life she would hug to herself the girl's opinion that George must have loved her very much and had never fully recovered from her loss.
But it was not right to allow George's sister to develop an affection for her. What she really ought to do was go back to Fanny and tell her exactly what had happened. Everything. All the sordid details. Then the girl would turn from her with horror and disgust as she should. Sarah herself would then find it easy to do what she knew she should do: stay away from those two young and impressionable girls, the women in George's life.
That was what she should do. But she knew that she would not do so, perhaps for much the same reason that she had not told George before their wedding. It is a dreadful thing deliberately to destroy the esteem that another feels for one. It is too tempting to bask in that person's love or admiration, even when one knows oneself wholly unworthy of those feelings. No, she would not tell. She must just continue to avoid Fanny as much as she possibly could.
Sarah drew a few steadying breaths. It was becoming harder and harder to leave her own sanctuary and face other people. Finally she opened her door and descended the staircase, a determined spring in her step. She went in search of Winston, intent on flirting with him over luncheon.