Slightly Married by Mary Balogh

here.”
    They had been going to buy a piece of land adjacent to Ringwood—at least
Eve
had been going to buy it after the year was over, with Percy's approval, and Ned had been going to manage it. They had been going to set it up as a farm where destitute, permanently maimed soldiers could live and work and become self-sufficient in a sort of commune. Eventually the price of the land would be paid back and it would be truly Ned's, though Eve had never planned to enforce that provision.
    “That is all right, Miss Morris,” he said. “I'll live. You are not to worry about me.”
    “Charlie. Dear Charlie.” Eve looked kindly at him. “I am going to speak to Mr. Robson and see if he will offer you employment. I will do my best.”
    “Did I do something wrong, Miss Morris?” he asked, looking utterly forlorn.
    Sam Patchett set a hand on his shoulder and promised to explain to him later.
    “Thelma.” But Eve could neither look at the girl nor say any more. She closed her eyes and pressed one hand over her mouth. There was a sharp ache in her throat and chest. Where would Thelma go? What would she do? Who would give her employment? How would she be able to feed and nurture Benjamin?
    “Eve,” Thelma said, “you are not responsible for me. Really you are not. You have been unbelievably kind to me. You have yourself to worry about now. I'll manage. I'll find something. I did before you took me in here.”
    Eve opened her eyes and gazed at her aunt. Her little cottage in Wales had been sold. The pension Papa had allotted her had not been mentioned in his will. Aunt Mari was old and worn out and half crippled. It had given Eve intense satisfaction to bring her to Ringwood and to pamper her with some of the luxuries she had never known before.
    “You are not to worry about me, my love,” Aunt Mari said firmly. “I'll go home where I belong and where I have friends to take me in. I'll make myself useful and earn my way. But what are
you
going to do? Your dada took you from your roots and brought you up as a lady, and now he has left you with nothing, the wicked man, all because he could not have his way. I'd tell him a thing or two if he was still alive to hear me. Believe me I would.”
    But Eve was not really listening. She was thinking about Davy and Becky. They were orphans. Their parents had died within days of each other of some virulent fever, and the children had been sent on an endless journey about England, passing from one to another of their surviving relatives, none of whom wanted them or were even willing to tolerate them. Last on the list had been their great-aunt, Mrs. Jemima Morris. Left to herself, Eve had always believed, Aunt Jemima would have opened both her home and her heart to the children, but Cecil had persuaded her that doing so would have shattered her nerves and ruined her health.
    Unknown to Cecil, Aunt Jemima had come running to Ringwood, and Eve had taken the children in even though there was no blood relationship between her and them. Her father had recently died, Percy was off at the wars, the wait for John's return seemed interminable, she was lonely despite the presence of Aunt Mari in her home—and she had been unable to withstand Aunt Jemima's pitiful tears.
    Mrs. Johnson, a widow from Heybridge who was known to have a way with children, had agreed to come and look after them, and Eve had set about the task of seeking a governess for them. A married friend of hers, now living thirty miles distant, had informed her of an unfortunate governess in her neighborhood who had been dismissed from her employment after it was discovered that she was increasing with her employer's child and had been grubbing out a meager existence ever since by taking in laundry. A week later Thelma Rice and her baby son had been established at Ringwood Manor.
    What was to happen to Becky and Davy? Could Cecil be persuaded to allow them to stay now that he would have a larger home and a larger fortune to enable