She turned abruptly from me to summon her porter. I listened to the hasty slap of her slippers upon the floorboards, and the sweep of her skirts. I heard doors open and her voice call out the names of those servants whom I had come to regard almost as my own. I listened but I did not look. I could no more bear to gaze upon her than I could the cruellest, most remorseless Judas.

Chapter 25

WHEN I QUIT her house, I did not look back. I lowered my head and followed Langlois as he led us through a side passage and into a yard. From there we strode out into the thick folds of mist. We turned away from the road and wove a passage through the woods where we were less likely to meet with soldiers. As Mrs Elliott’s house was at the top of a hill, this route was a treacherous one, a damp slide of black mouldering leaves, through which I could see little further than my outstretched hand. Langlois offered me his large, steady arm and guided me gently down into a forest of spindly beeches and oaks.

I said nothing to him as we progressed, listening only to the constant sound of our feet shifting the loose ground beneath us. I studied my toes, encased in their black half-boots, emerging from the bottom of my drab skirts as I walked. My face stung with tears and cold and shame. I kept my neck bent, occasionally blotting my nose and eyes as they ran.

I cannot say for how long we continued through this forlorn landscape; two or maybe three hours passed. In walking, I found the turmoil in my heart eventually loosened and spread like an ailment into my head. It began to throb with my troubles. It played out the scene with Mrs Elliot until I had committed each one of her sharp words to memory, until every barbed deception lodged itself deep into my heart. Oh how they pricked when I considered my errors and misunderstandings, my blindness to that which lay all about me. To think how Mrs Elliott had tricked and used me so ill. Not one assurance had been real, not one endearment spoken without artifice, not one pledge uttered without self-interest. How I ached to think of that which had been perpetrated upon me, and how easily I had fallen prey to her falsehoods, how apparent were my weaknesses. What bitter loathing I felt for her, as well as for myself. Madame de Buffon would berate me for my foolishness, to be sure.