The carriage slowed, then stopped, before a comfortable-looking home on a modest street near St James’s Park. Catherine peered out of the window at the place where Jocelyn was living, thinking of the many letters she had written to this address and how she had never been able to imagine it. She stared until her eyes began to water. Blinking, she eased herself out of the carriage seat. The coachman, a fatherly sort, held the door and helped her down.
“I shall not be long,” Catherine said. He nodded, and stepped back to watch her grip the rail beside the two shallow steps. She hesitated, then rapped at the door. It was answered almost immediately by a buxom young maid.
“Good day,” Catherine began. She could not help it; her eyes wandered, taking in the sturdy, sensible curtains, the dun-co
