Sarah’s fingers worked like automatons, her expression was serene, but behind her eyes the maelstrom raged. Jenny stood by the table where she’d been slicing carrots for the women’s midday meal, her hands now stilled. “How bad is she, Edgar?” “Eh, Miss Jenny, Doris says the cough’s already in ’er lungs, she thinks.” Edgar pulled at his cap in his hands. “’Is lordship of ’Awkesmoor is beside ’isself, Doris says.” The man who had come in peace, Sarah thought. Ariel had laughed bitterly when she’d first told of the Hawkesmoor’s absurd ambition—to bring an end to the blood feud between their families. She had laughed bitterly and in complete disbelief, convinced that mere greed had prompted the man to instigate such an unnatural connection. But then Sarah sensed that Ariel’s attitude had changed, that she now believed the earl of Hawkesmoor had genuinely if unrealistically wished with this marriage to heal the wounds of history. And Sarah could have told her that Hawkesmoors, for all their passion and driving ambitions, were always more interested in love than in hate.
