Annabelle lay in bed, very still, staring up at the canopy. Her soul felt as white and numb and empty as the day outside. Somewhere at the very edges of her mind she knew that pain and humiliation were waiting to crowd in. But, for the moment, all she wanted to do was lie very still and think of absolutely nothing. Betty came in with her morning chocolate and drew the curtains, filling the room with white light. Soon the fire was crackling in the hearth. Annabelle caught the look that Betty threw in her direction: sly, gleeful, full of recently relayed gossip. The maid went out and Annabelle wearily sat up. She felt she had not slept at all. Then it all came crushing back in a great red wave of pain. Minerva. Prim, staid, correct Minerva untying Lord Sylvester’s cravat. The passionate embrace. Clear as a bell, Lord Sylvester’s voice sounded in her brain: ‘So kiss me, Minerva, and let’s forget about that tiresome child.’ Annabelle writhed in an agony of humiliation.
