If only I had been able to retrieve the calling card from the parlor before that awful housekeeper saw it. Alas, I was too slow; her prying eyes spied it, lying serenely upon its silver tray.

“Madame,” said the vile Mrs. Cavendish to me, with the corners of her prim mouth turned up slightly in an evil smirk, “It appears Dr. Worley has been to visit you again. How unfortunate you were not at home.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Cavendish,” I replied, shortly. “That will do.”

Giving a slight nod of her head, the vile woman disappeared into the kitchen to sternly reprimand the parlor maid for failing to inform her of the good doctor’s visit.

I clutched the card to my heart and escaped to my boudoir to reflect on what this could mean.

Of course, a shriveled old crone like Mrs. Cavendish would not understand how a young girl with hopes and dreams felt; that the Burlingham Estate proved for me to be much less a haven than a prison. Marriage to a cruel, elderly man, no matter how wealthy or titled, left me melancholy and despairing. I was also largely alone, as my husband traveled extensively. I could not decide which was worse, his company or his absence.

But now, after more than a year of heartbreaking solitude, the heir to Stufford Manor arrived to take possession of the nearest estate to my own. His frequent visits had first consisted of inquiries after my health, considering her frail frame and pallid complexion at our initial meeting. But as I began strolling the grounds after dinner, secretly hoping to catch a glimpse of my heart’s desire as he took an evening ride on his horse, Shadowflanks, my health steadily increased.

As my color and figure returned, the young Dr. Worley’s visits also increased. However, our meetings have been nothing but proper and formal, despite the plaintive yearnings of my heart. As long as that horrid snoop Mrs. Cavendish remained in my husband’s employ, I knew nothing more could come of it.

Reluctantly, I released Dr. Worley’s card and placed it on my bedside table. Suddenly, I heard the front bell ring and murmured voices below.

I heard a light rap on my door. “Madame?” Sophie, the timid parlor made enquired. “Dr. Worley is here to see you, ma’am.”

Looking into the mirror, I quickly smoothed my dress and straightened my hair. “Thank you, Sophie. I’ll be down shortly.”

I descended the staircase, my breath catching in my throat at the sight of his dashing figure.

“Dr. Worley,” I smiled, extending my hand in greeting. “How lovely to see you, sir.”

“I wish I were here under more pleasant circumstances,” the doctor replied grimly. “Please sit down.”

Alarmed, I sank onto the nearest divan, as he sat next to me and gently took my hand.

Gazing tenderly into my eyes, Dr. Worley said gravely, “I regret to inform you your husband died this very morning, of a heart attack.”
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