Jane could not bear it anymore. She walked downstairs and heard Emily and Agatha playing with the children in the drawing room. Jane frowned. The thought of laughter and games when her entire life seemed upside down was too much. Agatha had returned from London that morning. In fact, the older lady had been gone almost the entire time Jane and Emily had been staying at Hemmingly. There was no doubt that Agatha had been working at Whitehall. Had she news of Roderick? No, she would have told her already. Surely, the lady would know if he was dead. No news was probably good news. Oh, Roderick, Jane thought sadly. What have we done to each other? Heartbroken, Jane spun around and strode back up stairs, clasping a hand to her stomach, feeling a sudden twinge. It was nothing, she thought, only the pain of missing Roderick. With a sob, she entered her bedchamber and grabbed Roderick’s neckcloth from beneath her pillow. “Oh, Roderick,” she said, muffling her face against the smell of bayberry soap and sandalwood.
