by Martha Keyes
"But will he not rebuke me? I think I have been very wicked. But I didn’t mean to be! I promise!" She began to cry again.
"I am sure," said Isabel consolingly, wondering how such an innocent girl as Hetty obviously was could be wicked, "that you have not been so wicked as you think, my dear. Mr. Safford is my friend, and he only ever rebukes me when I forget that the Lord can forgive my sins."
Hetty looked hopeful and wiped at the tear streaming down her cheek. "I am sure I may trust you. You are so kind." She looked up at Isabel. "And very pretty."
Isabel opened her mouth only to shut it again. She couldn't remember ever being told she was pretty, much less ever thinking it. She cleared her throat and stood from the bench, extending a hand to Hetty, and the three of them walked into the church together.
Mr. Safford was walking down the aisle in between the pews, and he turned as he heard the group enter. He was nearing the end of his middle age, and the grey which had peppered his hair for the last few years had become widespread and was itself peppered with white now. His full cheeks always had a red tinge to them, and the lines around his eyes and mouth were evidence of the pleasant smile he generally wore. That smile widened significantly when he saw Isabel.
"My dear," he said, taking one of her hands within his. "You always brighten up the church when you come."
She returned his smile and handed him the book, thanking him for it and expressing a desire to discuss it with him sometime.
She turned toward Mr. Galbraith and Hetty to perform the necessary introductions. Mr. Galbraith and Mr. Safford were already acquainted with one another. Hetty, however, had become reserved when brought into the presence of Mr. Safford. When he put a hand out to invite hers, she looked at him with fearful eyes which began to overflow with tears.
"Forgive me," she sobbed.
Mr. Safford looked at Isabel, who grimaced to convey that she had no information to offer. Mr. Safford put an arm around Hetty and guided her to the pew just behind him.
Feeling that it was perhaps time to leave things in Mr. Safford's hands, Isabel met Mr. Galbraith’s eyes. He nodded his understanding. But as they turned to leave, Hetty stopped them.
"Oh no!" she cried out. "Please don't leave! You are my only friends." Her eyes were red, wet, and full of desperation.
Isabel looked over her shoulder at Mr. Galbraith. He looked pained by Hetty's plea and made his way to the pew nearest Hetty and the rector. Isabel followed suit, patting Hetty's hand reassuringly and then seating herself in the pew behind Mr. Galbraith.
Mr. Safford allowed Hetty a few moments to compose herself before inquiring what the matter was. Before Hetty would answer, though, she begged him not to send her back to her mother. Mr. Safford agreed, but his brows drew together.
She lowered her eyes. "I am—" she said in such a low whisper that they were all obliged to lean in to hear "—in a delicate condition." She quite unnecessarily placed a cupped hand on her stomach as if to make her meaning clear.
Though Isabel tried to stifle any response to the pronouncement, her eyes grew round. Hetty hardly seemed old enough to be in the family way.
Mr. Safford grimaced and then placed a comforting hand on Hetty's shoulder. "And the father?"
"Does not acknowledge us," she whispered on a sob, still holding a hand to her stomach. "And I know he won't. No matter what Mama says. He is not a man who can be threatened. I tried. But I see now that he is not at all kind or considerate. He is quite awful, and I don't want to marry him. I won't!"
She became frantic, and Isabel rushed over to sit beside her, wrapping a comforting arm around Hetty's shoulders and saying, "Calm yourself, Hetty. It will all be all right."
She looked up at Mr. Safford as if hoping to receive her own reassurance from him.
He let out a large sigh and grimaced. "Who is the father, my dear?" he asked gently. Seeing her become agitated at the question, he put a hand up to gently silence her, saying, "Even if you do not wish to marry him, he is legally bound to offer a certain amount of support."
Hetty looked up with painful hope in her eyes. "Is that true? Mama said that we won't get a farthing from him unless he marries me."
The rector clenched his lips together, and Mr. Galbraith rolled his eyes.
"Your mother is mistaken," said the rector. "Until the child is seven, he must provide support. And though I don't wish to alarm you, the law also requires you to name the father."
Hetty looked nervous, her eyes darting from Isabel to the rector to Mr. Galbraith. "Robert Farrow," she said with a nervous glance at them.
A small clanging sound interrupted the conversation. Mr. Galbraith stooped down and emerged holding his pocket watch which he seemed to have dropped on the floor. His color was heightened, and his expression stunned.
Isabel had never heard the name, and she looked back and forth between Mr. Galbraith and the rector, hoping to glean information.
Mr. Safford was frowning heavily. "I see," he said, bringing his hands together palm-to-palm and resting them against his mouth. A few moments in thought seemed to recompose him, though the sides of his mouth were turned down in a grim expression. He asked Hetty a few more questions and then said to Isabel and Mr. Galbraith, "May I have a word with you both?"
The three of them walked a short distance from Hetty where Mr. Safford shook his head and interlocked his fingers.
"It is a very unfortunate situation," he said, shaking his head. "Her family is only recently moved to town—new money, I understand—and their manners fairly coarse, though the girl seems better off in that regard than her parents. They are unused to the ways of higher society. I am also somewhat acquainted with the father of the baby, and I have grave doubts that he can be brought to claim the child. It will likely require intervention from the local justices whom I have found, in similar situations, to be all too willing to accept bribes from fathers of illegitimate children who do not wish to acknowledge their responsibilities. If the girl won't return to her mother, she will become the concern of the parish and most likely end up in a workhouse."
Isabel and Mr. Galbraith's eyes widened simultaneously on hearing this. They looked at one another.
"She wouldn't survive," said Isabel. "I haven't known her more than half an hour, but it's plain that she's just a helpless child."
"Pampered and exploited by her mother," Mr. Galbraith said, shaking his head, "no doubt in hopes of precisely the type of situation she's now in—trapping a wealthy gentleman into marriage. The woman seems entirely reprehensible. And I agree with you, Mr. Safford. I am a little acquainted with Farrow myself. If I know him at all, he will avoid the financial responsibility at all costs, to say nothing of the moral one." His expression was grim, the hard set of his jaw returning.
Isabel chewed on her bottom lip, consumed by the problem before her. She was determined not to leave Hetty exposed to the conditions of a workhouse or to a mother seemingly desperate to turn her daughter's beauty into a financial windfall, no matter the means required.
"Let her come home with me," Isabel said. "Perhaps I can convince my mother to let her stay on in the household. If not, it will at least give me time to see if there isn't perhaps another situation for her among our acquaintances. I will simply say to anyone who might inquire that she is a cousin visiting."
Mr. Safford looked at her with a sort of paternal pride. "You have a heart of gold, Miss Cosgrove."
Isabel felt her cheeks heating up.
"I, too,” Mr. Galbraith offered, “will see if I can hear of any situation that might suit her, though I admit that I have difficulty imagining what role she would be suited for."
Isabel had the same thought. Surely the girl must have some skill to recommend her, though. If she had no relation who would take her in, perhaps she could be an abigail or lady's maid? It would not be the sort of life she might have had, to be sure, but her situation seemed somewhat desperate, given the apparent lack of support her family was offering.
&nbs
p; It was, at all events, better than the workhouse.
Finding a position for a young woman who would soon be confined for the birth of an illegitimate child, though, was an impediment to be reckoned with. How Isabel could convince her mother to house such a young woman, particularly one whose beauty rivaled that of Cecilia, was a problem Isabel relegated to the future.
"God surely smiles upon your willing and charitable hearts," Mr. Safford said. He turned to Isabel. "But remember that you have no responsibility toward the girl."
Isabel looked at Hetty. She was still seated on the bench, pulling distractedly at a loose thread on her dress. It seemed unthinkable to abandon her to the potential fate she faced.
Isabel smiled bracingly at Mr. Safford and said, "Perhaps I don’t have any legal obligation. But a Christian duty, I think."
Mr. Safford took her hands in his. "Bless you, child."
When they returned to Hetty, she looked up at them, fear etched on her face. Her lip trembled. "Am I to be sent home?"
When she learned that she was instead to return home with Isabel, her face lit up. She had taken quickly to "her sweet Izzy," as she called her, and was spilling over with gratitude, overwhelming Isabel with appreciation and praise.
Mr. Galbraith seemed very amused by Hetty's dramatic praise and almost equally so by how uncomfortable it made Isabel. He assured Isabel that he would stay in touch with her as he did his own due diligence in seeking a situation for Hetty, and they parted with a handshake. He seemed to be in much higher spirits leaving St. James’s Church than he had been when he arrived in Belport Street.
Isabel suppressed a sigh after bidding him farewell, aware that his lightened mood was likely due to his relief at her refusal of his marriage offer.
On the walk home, Hetty needed little encouragement to open up to Isabel about her situation. Isabel was able to piece much together from Hetty’s often incoherent dialogue. How her youthful naïveté had been preserved was a mystery.
As Isabel had suspected, Hetty's mother had great social ambitions, and fate had gifted her an exquisitely beautiful daughter in Hetty. So, when their financial situation allowed them to move to London, she had jumped at the chance to showcase her daughter to gentlemen of rank and wealth.
Mrs. Robson's aspirations had clearly proven to be well-placed. It was clear to Isabel that Hetty had been too naïve to understand the attention being paid her by gentlemen or to perceive their intentions. Her mother had given her to understand in no uncertain terms which of her suitors' attentions she was to encourage and made her to believe that she was not to naysay those gentlemen on any account.
Piecing together the situation, Isabel hardly wondered at Hetty's current sad circumstances. The girl's guileless nature made her mother’s conduct all the more reprehensible, to say nothing of Mr. Farrow himself.
When Hetty spoke of the man it was with awe and some fear.
"He was so kind to me," she said wistfully. "He bought me the loveliest gloves and even an emerald brooch. And though Mrs. Jessop said the gloves were cheaply-made, Mama said it is only because Mrs. Jessop is eaten with jealousy. Mr. Farrow snubbed her daughter Agatha, you know."
Hetty's smile faded, and she began wringing her hands. "But then he stopped coming by the house which made Mama and Papa very cross at me, wondering what I had done to offend him. But indeed, I did nothing! I never upset him or refused him, just as Mama taught me. He even told me he loved me and always would as long as he lived." She began to cry again, and Isabel put an arm around her.
"When he stopped coming, I thought that perhaps he had become ill or even died. He had told me he couldn't stay away from me. 'Not even for a day,' he said. Mama insisted that I go apologize to him for whatever I had done, and she took me to his lodgings and insisted that he see me. But when the footman returned, he said Mr. Farrow knew no one by the name Robson, and he told us to leave immediately."
"Coward," said Isabel with a flare of her nostrils.
"Mama was very cast down by it all until we discovered my delicate situation. She said I must go see Mr. Farrow again, and she sent me with a note which the footman took to him. And then he showed me into a room. And when Mr. Farrow came in, he was furious and insisted he didn't know me and that he wouldn't pay for another man's brat. He told me that if I ever came back to his lodgings, he would have me thrown in Bedlam because my wits were clearly disordered."
She put a hand on her stomach again, crying freely.
"Well," said Isabel, wanting nothing more than to speak a piece of her mind to Mr. Farrow. "You know what I say to Mr. Farrow? And to all men, for I'm convinced they are scoundrels one and all," she added, leaning in toward Hetty. "They may go to the devil!"
Hetty inhaled sharply and then giggled tearfully. "Yes," she cried, emboldened. "Go to the devil, Mr. Farrow!"
Not expecting Hetty to repeat her impulsive words, Isabel's eyes widened. She glanced at the woman walking a few feet away who had turned on hearing Hetty's exclamation, outrage written on her face.
"Oh dear," said Isabel, smiling apologetically at the woman. "I make a very bad role model, Hetty. What is it they say? Ah, yes. Do as I say, not as I do." She made a mental vow to be a more positive influence.
“Well,” Hetty replied in a sheepish voice, “I am afraid that I did do something very wrong, but I was so very upset and hurt that I didn’t think it through!”
Isabel felt a pit form in her stomach. “I am sure it was nothing so very wrong. But do tell me, for I think it best that I be acquainted with all the particulars of your situation.”
Hetty looked up at her hesitantly. “I wrote him a letter.” She paused and clenched her teeth. “An angry one.”
Isabel tried not to betray any of her unsettling emotions. “Oh, and what did it say?”
“That he was a liar, and that I would tell everyone I met that the baby was his, besides telling them all his other secrets, and that I hoped everyone would know him for the scoundrel he is.”
“Oh dear,” Isabel said. “He cannot have liked that at all.”
“No,” she said with a stricken expression, “I am sure he was mad as fire, for he has a terrible temper! Mama, too, was furious when she discovered from Matilda what I had done—she is my younger sister, you know, and she is always spying and telling tales on me.” She sighed. “And that is when I ran away.”
Isabel took in a deep breath. What had she got herself into? “Well, perhaps it was not the wisest course to write him a letter, though I can surely sympathize with you, as it is precisely what I would have wished to do in your place. We must hope that he was wise enough to realize that you did not mean any of it, and that he will leave you be.”
Knowing the little she did about Mr. Farrow, she had some doubts on the subject.
6
When they arrived back in Belport Street, Isabel hesitated a moment, debating whether Hetty's interests would be best served if she were present or absent when Isabel explained the situation to her mother. She looked at Hetty who, now that she had cheered up, was a vision to behold.
That decided things.
Though it might not be the most honest or forthcoming of the two options, having Hetty absent was decidedly the more convenient scenario. It would be quite a chore to convince Mrs. Cosgrove to house a girl in Hetty's situation, and Isabel was far from sure she could bring it off successfully. Her mother tended to be jealous when she perceived that any other young woman rivaled Cecilia in beauty, no matter how irrational the jealousy was.
"I hope to be back in a trice," Isabel told Hetty as she showed her into the library, "but please don't be alarmed if it takes a little longer for me to return."
Upon inquiring with the servants, she was informed that she would find her mother in the sitting room.
Isabel sighed and opened the door.
Her mother was sorting through correspondence and didn't look up. She seemed to be engrossed in reading one particular card. Isabel was unsure whether she had even remar
ked her presence.
"I can't think," Mrs. Cosgrove said aloud, "that the Foxtons would really expect a positive reply to this invitation after the appalling way they treated Cecilia last week. Can you imagine?" She folded the invitation unceremoniously, setting it aside with a sneer.
"What did they do to her?" Isabel asked. Her mother was overly-sensitive when it came to Cecilia.
Mrs. Cosgrove let out a huff. "I have it on good authority that Lady Foxton told her son not to ask Cecilia to dance. Apparently, she said that Cecy would be a waste of his potential. The audacity!" She gave an extra push to the invitation, sending it perilously near the edge of the table.
"Mama, I believe you're mistaken," said Isabel with heightened color and an instinctive straightening of the shoulders. "Lady Foxton did say those things. I heard her myself. But she was referring to me, not Cecilia."
Her mother paused in the act of opening another letter. She looked thoughtful but not convinced.
“I believe," Isabel walked over to the couch and straightened two pillows, "that when people refer to ‘Miss Cosgrove,’ many who are less acquainted with our family are prone to assume that Cecilia is being spoken of, not realizing I am the elder of the sisters. Whoever told you this must have assumed it was Cecilia rather than me."
Her mother's brow knit for a moment, and then she relaxed into her chair with a sigh. "That does make more sense. Well!" She picked up the discarded invitation, opened it, and smoothed it out again, smiling. "I shall send a response with our plans to attend. I hear that Lady Foxton has ordered three cartloads of orange and yellow tulips for the ball. Tulips! At this season!" She shook her head in awe and began writing a response.
Isabel chewed her bottom lip, hesitant to bring up Hetty. But her mother's preoccupation with social engagements and all things Cecilia might bode well for Hetty. What did she care whether a young woman needed a home or employment when there were invitations to sort through?
