She wore her hair down more often than not, a dark mane that Henry spent hours running his hands through. She was no longer a shadow. She was the absolute center of the house. The outside world intruded only once.
It was a cold, bright Tuesday. The post rider managed to force his way through the snowdrifts, carrying a heavy leather satchel. Norah was in the drawing room, sitting on the rug in front of the fire, reviewing a list of winter supplies. Henry sat in the armchair behind her, reading a book, his hand casually resting on her shoulder.
Mrs. Gordon entered, carrying a silver tray. On it sat a single thick envelope made of expensive cream vellum, sealed with red wax. "From London, Your Grace," the housekeeper said. Henry took the letter.
He broke the seal, unfolded the heavy paper, and read. Norah watched his face. She felt a sudden, cold spike of dread. Was it Parliament?
Was it the Crown? Was the scandal finally reaching out its long aristocratic claws to drag them back? Henry finished reading. His expression remained entirely neutral.
He handed the letter down to Norah. She took it. The handwriting was sharp and looping, from a society gossip he had once known. "The absolute scandal of the season, Henry."
"Richard Penhalagon has fled to Calais to escape his creditors. The estate was auctioned last month. It was entirely pathetic. Victoria, left with nothing, has hastily married Baron Hemlock."
"You remember him? The man with the gout and the three dreadful chins who lives in that damp manor in Sussex. They say she cried through the entire ceremony." Norah stopped reading.
She looked at the elegant script. She thought about Victoria. She thought about the pale yellow silk, the vicious shove, the desperate, clawing need to be superior at all costs. She pictured Victoria trapped in a damp Sussex manor with an old man, her youth and beauty rotting away in bitter poverty.
Revenge, Norah realized, was not hot. It was incredibly, profoundly cold. "Do you feel sorry for her?" Henry asked quietly. Norah looked at the fire.
"No. I feel nothing for her at all. She is a ghost." She took the heavy cream vellum, folded it carefully, and tossed it into the roaring hearth.
The flames licked the edges, curling the paper until the red wax melted and the words turned to black ash, disappearing up the chimney. "Good," Henry said. He slid off the armchair, sitting on the rug behind her. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back solidly against his chest.
He rested his chin on the top of her head. "I don't want ghosts in my house." Norah leaned back into him. The heat of him seeped through her woolen dress.