Mary groaned. “You’re not,” said Jane, smoothing her brow. “You’re just in love.” “With an earl!” she cried, lifting her head from her friend’s lap. “With a member of the peerage. His country house was built two centuries ago. He has more money than Croesus. He’s an earl.” “And you’re Mary Woodward,” said Elizabeth, who draped a blanket over Mary’s feet. “What does it matter?” Except it did matter and both of her friends knew it. She’d explained it all when she’d arrived—well, as soon as the tears dried up enough that she could form a complete sentence punctuated by undignified hiccups. Elizabeth had sat there, feeding her cups of tea, until her husband returned with Jane in tow. Then the three of them decamped to the drawing room, locked Edward out, and began to pick over the problem of Mary’s life. It was an unequivocal mess.
