December 22, 1888

SHE WAS BETTER NOW. SHE still shivered, but the blanket and the fire had finally warmed her. When she had first stumbled into her bedroom, she had been so terribly cold and weak, and the raw ache would not cease. She had tried to undo her dress, but her hands trembled so. It was only then that she realized she was bleeding. She knew not to cry out, but she must have whimpered, because suddenly her maid was there.

Lucy had taken off her torn dress and soiled undergarments and fetched one of her own dressing gowns, so that there would be no evidence for her parents to discover. It was Lucy who had covered the chaise in old towels, and then wrapped another one around her, assuring her the bleeding would soon stop on its own. Then, she might finally get into bed. It was Lucy who had built up the fire and then crept to the kitchen to prepare a glass of warm milk laced with brandy. And, most of all, it was Lucy who had held her in her arms as she sobbed noiselessly, listening as the entire horrible tale came pouring out.

It had all been just as she had imagined, a perfect evening. He had been so attentive, so charming, so vulnerable in his need for her. First, there had been the walk in the garden in the clear frosty night, she wrapped in his coat. So many stars in the sky. He had taken her hand. Then, to talk, to confide, he led her back into the house, and up the back stairs into one of the spare bedrooms.

But there had been no talk, no confiding—only struggle, pain, and humiliation. When she had begged him to stop, he laughed, and then growled at her in breath sweet with wine that he knew she had done it before.