To think she might have felt sorry for him a few minutes before, at having mixed him up in this situation. And he must have some reason for doing what he had, and Jemima probably ought to force it out of him, but – she didn’t think it would make her feel better tonight. She didn’t think anything would make her feel better tonight.

She tensed, with a sharp inhale, at the gentle tug of her dress and the sensation of him at her shoulder again. Haven’t you done enough, Jemima wanted to snap; but she only bit down on the inside of her cheek, because the angrier she got the more likely it was that she would cry. And she couldn’t go out there with a tear-streaked face on top of all this, that would only draw more attention.

Mrs. Dempsey had told him to. Perhaps he may as well. Jemima didn’t look over her shoulder, but hand stilled, and, with great reluctance, she offered the remaining laces to him. It would be faster this way.

“Do you think she’ll – say anything?” she asked, still scarcely above a whisper. Discretion made no difference now, of course; he might have closed the door, but their fate was out of their hands. (And Jemima didn’t even like to think the word their, as if this was something they shared, but – well, he had not helped that, either.)

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