A bench of stone slabs invited wayfarers to stop and admire the willows overhanging the small yet swiftly running stream. Though not seen at its best by night, the sound was soothing to overwrought nerves. The light rain had stopped, and the moon shone its face through a few dramatically piled clouds, golden at their edges. He tied off the reins and swung down to peek into the carriage window. “Will you come out, Rietta?” For a moment, there was only silence. Then a stirring of skirts and her face, white as the moon’s, swam toward him from the dim interior. Her eyes looked blind in the moonlight, for it reflected only her tears. Nick held out his hand and she groped for it. On the turf, she walked away from him, hiding her face while she dug in the reticule that still hung from her arm. Her handkerchief flashed white. When she sniffed, his heart was wrung. “Ah, don’t be crying now, love....” “I’m not,” she said, blowing her nose like the blast of an elfin trumpet. “It’s silly to cry over what can’t be helped.
