Emily, entering the drawing-room, stood for a moment, watching her aunts in their black mourning silk and jet beads and, for a moment, they appeared like birds of prey, dark and menacing in the dim light. The family had gathered to mourn the death of Thomas Grenfell, weighed down by the shame of losing all his money, overcome by a sickness that he had no will to resist. Pride gave a lift to Emily’s chin as she braced herself to move further into the room and greet her kinswomen. ‘Emily, my poor child, what will you do with no-one to protect you against the world?’ Aunt Sophie embraced her warmly and the soft scent of lavender rose from the pleated bodice of her gown. ‘Don’t worry about me, aunt,’ Emily forced a note of firmness into her voice. ‘I am quite capable of taking care of myself.’ ‘Nonsense, you are little more than a slip of a girl, you would be prey to all sorts of men, fortune hunters and the like. You need someone to look after you.’ ‘You forget, aunt, I have no fortune,’ Emily said, secretly appalled at the prospect of being ‘looked after’ by her well-intentioned aunt.
