She had sent Maude away an hour or two ago, and Philomena, exasperated with her unwillingness to talk to her, had at last left her in peace. As she stared at her hands without seeing them, Fidelia wondered why she could not lift herself out of the misery she felt. It was like a black cloud had descended on her and blocked everything else from sight. If she had any thoughts at all, it was of Jasper. She replayed their last meeting over and over again, the impossible ecstasy and wildness of those kisses, neither of them caring whether she was being put at risk or not, and then the utter confusion and misery that followed when Charlotte made her announcement. She never considered herself capable of such extremes of emotion. All her life she had been told what a calm and sweet-natured little thing she was. That such enormity of emotion could exist for all these years, unexperienced, seemed impossible. How could she not have known how pastel coloured her world had been?
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