by Mary Balogh
She was not to travel alone, it seemed. When she was summoned to Miss Ford’s sitting room, she was introduced to Miss Knox, a solid, gray-haired, large-bosomed woman of severe mien, who had Anna thinking of Amazons. Miss Knox had been engaged by Mr. Brumford to accompany Anna to London, since apparently it was not proper for a young lady to travel any great distance alone.
It was the first Anna had heard of being a lady. She was very thankful for the company, however.
A few minutes later, out in the hall, Miss Ford shook hands firmly with Anna while Roger, the elderly porter, lifted her bag into the carriage. It was neither a large nor a heavy bag, but what was there to pack, after all, but her spare day dress and her Sunday dress, her best shoes, and a few sundries? A number of the girls, released temporarily from the regular routine of their day, rushed about her to hug her and shed tears over her and generally behave as though she were going to the ends of the earth in order to face her own execution. Anna shed a few tears of her own, for she shared their feelings. A few of the boys stood at a safe distance, where they were in no danger of being accidentally hugged, and beamed at her. She suspected that they smiled, the rascals, because they hoped her going would mean no school today.
“I will be gone for a mere few days,” she assured them all, “and will return with so many stories of my adventures that I will keep you up one whole night. Be good in the meanwhile.”
“I will pray for you, Miss Snow,” Winifred Hamlin promised piously through her tears.
As the carriage pulled away from the curb a couple of minutes later, children crowded the windows of the dining room again, smiling and waving and weeping. Anna waved back. This all felt alarmingly final, as though she would never return. And perhaps she would not. What was it about her future that needed to be discussed?
“Why has Mr. Brumford summoned me?” she asked Miss Knox.
But the woman’s face remained blank of all expression. “I have no idea, miss,” she said. “I was hired from the agency to come here and fetch you and see you safely delivered, and that is what I am doing.”
“Oh,” Anna said.
It was a long journey, with only a few brief stops along the way for refreshments and a change of horses and one night spent at an uncomfortable, noisy inn. Throughout it all Anna might as well have been alone, for Miss Knox did not utter more than a dozen words, and most of those were directed to other people. She had been hired to accompany Anna, it seemed, not to provide any sort of companionship.
Anna might have been intolerably bored if her heart had not been palpitating with a nervousness bordering on terror and if her mind had not still been spinning quite beyond her control. Everyone at the orphanage had learned of the letter, of course, and everyone had heard it read aloud. There had been no point in trying to keep its contents private even if Anna had felt so inclined. If she had done so, Bertha would have recounted what she recalled with heaven knew what embellishments, and the most hair-raising rumors would have been shooting about the home in no time at all.
Everyone had had an opinion. Everyone had had a theory.
The one most likely to be true was that Anna’s benefactor, whoever he or she was, was ready to turn her loose upon the world and withdraw the monetary support she had relied upon for the past twenty-one years. He—or she—did not have to summon her all the way to London in order to inform her of that, though. But perhaps he had found her employment there. What could it be? Would she agree to take it and begin a new phase of her life, cut off from everyone she had ever known and the only home she could remember? Or would she refuse and return to Bath and try to subsist on her teacher’s wages? She would have a choice, she assumed. The letter had, after all, stated that her future needed to be discussed. A discussion was a two-way communication.
She wondered if there were enough coins in her purse for a ticket home by stagecoach. She had no idea what the fare was, but she had a little money of her own—a very little—and Miss Ford had pressed a whole sovereign into her palm last night despite her protests. What if it was still not enough? What if she found herself stranded in London for the rest of her life? The very thought was enough to make her feel bilious, and the state of the road over which they were traveling did nothing to settle her stomach.
A few times she tried determinedly not to think. She tried instead to marvel at the unfamiliar sensation of being in a carriage, of actually leaving Bath, climbing the hill away from it until it was no longer in sight behind her when she peered back. She tried to marvel at the passing countryside. She tried to think of this experience as the adventure of a lifetime, one she would remember for the rest of her life. She imagined how she would tell the children at the orphanage about it—about the tollbooths and the villages through which they passed; about village greens and taverns with quaint names painted upon their swinging signs and small churches with pointed steeples; about the posting inns at which they stopped, the food they ate there, the lumpiness of the bed in which she tried to sleep, the bustle of hostlers and grooms in the innyards; the deep ruts in the road that rattled the very teeth in one’s head and even occasionally made Miss Knox look less like a sphinx.
Soon enough, however, her mind would spin back to the great, frightening unknown that lay ahead of her. What if she was about to meet the person who had taken her to the orphanage all those years ago and paid to keep her there ever since? Would it be the man with the gruff voice? What if she really was a princess and a prince was waiting to marry her now that she was grown-up and out of danger from the wicked king—or witch!—from whom she had been carefully hidden all these years? The absurd thought made Anna smile despite herself and almost laugh aloud. That had been nine-year-old Olga Norton’s theory after she had listened to Anna’s letter the night before last. It had been eagerly espoused by several of the other little girls and soundly ridiculed by most of the boys.
All she could do, Anna thought with great good sense for surely the two hundredth time in the last few days, was wait and see. But that was more easily said than done. Why had the summons come through a solicitor? And why was she traveling in a private carriage when stagecoach tickets must cost far less? And why had she been provided with a chaperone? What was to happen when she arrived in London?
What did happen was that the carriage kept driving and driving. London was endlessly large and endlessly dreary, even squalid, for what seemed like miles and miles. So much for the story of Dick Whittington and the gold-paved streets of London town, though admittedly it might all look more inviting in full daylight instead of the dusk that was falling upon the outside world.
But the carriage did stop eventually outside a large, imposing stone building that turned out to be a hotel. They stepped inside a reception hall, and Miss Knox spoke with a man in uniform behind a high oak desk, was handed a large brass key, and led the way up two broad, carpeted flights of stairs and along a corridor before setting the key in the lock of a door and opening it wide. There was a spacious, square, high-ceilinged sitting room beyond it with doors on either side, each standing open to show a bedchamber within. There was a lamp alight in each of the three rooms, a great extravagance to Anna’s weary mind. It was a huge improvement over last night’s accommodations.
“I am to stay here?” she asked, moving sharply to one side when she realized that another man in uniform had come along behind them, her bag and Miss Knox’s in his hands. He set them down, looked expectantly at Miss Knox, who ignored him, and withdrew with a scowl.
“The bigger room on the left is yours, miss,” the older woman said. “The other one is mine. Dinner will be fetched up soon. I shall go and wash my hands.”
She disappeared into the bedchamber to the right, taking her bag with her. Anna carried hers into the other room. It was at least three times larger than her room at the orphanage. The bed looked wide enough to accommodate four or five sleepers lying comfortably abreast. There was water in the jug on the washstand. She
poured some into the bowl and washed her hands and face and combed her hair. She ran her hands down her dress, which was sadly wrinkled after two days of sitting.
By the time she stepped back into the sitting room, two servants had come to set the table with a crisp white cloth and gleaming china, glass, and cutlery, and to deposit several covered tureens of something hot and steaming and delicious smelling. At least, Anna assumed it would smell delicious if only she were hungry and not so desperately tired.
She wished with all her heart that she was back at home.
* * *
Having a superlatively efficient secretary, Avery, Duke of Netherby, mused, was both a good thing and occasionally a bothersome one. On the one hand, one came to rely upon him to conduct all the troublesome and trivial business of one’s life, leaving oneself free simply to live and enjoy it. On the other hand, there was the odd occasion when one found oneself forced into something tedious that might have been avoided if one had been left to one’s own devices. It did not happen often, admittedly, for Edwin Goddard was well acquainted with what might be expected to bore his employer. This, however, was one of those infrequent occasions.
“Edwin,” Avery said with a pained sigh late one afternoon as he appeared in the doorway of the secretary’s office. “What is this, pray?”
He held aloft between a thumb and forefinger a card Goddard had left on the library desk with two other memos, one reminding His Grace of a ball he would wish to attend tonight because the Honorable Miss Edwards was to be there, and the other informing him that a pair of new boots for which he had been fitted last week was awaiting his pleasure at Hoby’s whenever he chose to go and try them on to make sure they fit like the glove that was always said to be so comfortable upon one’s foot. If it were really so, Avery mused, then it was strange that men persisted in wearing boots rather than gloves. But his thoughts had digressed.
“Mr. Josiah Brumford has requested an hour of your time here tomorrow morning, Your Grace,” Goddard explained. “Since he is the Earl of Riverdale’s solicitor and his lordship is your ward, I assumed you would be happy to grant his request. I have given instructions that the rose salon be prepared for ten o’clock.”
“Happy,” His Grace repeated faintly. “My dear Edwin, what a very peculiar choice of word. You have indeed mentioned here that this, ah, audience is to be granted in the rose salon at the time you stated. I can read. But you omitted a reason for the choice of room. The rose salon seems rather a large chamber for just one solicitor and my humble self to rattle about in. He is not bringing along with him any large sort of retinue, is he? The other Brumford, perhaps, or some of the ‘& Sons’? Or the whole lot of them? That would be too, too much, I am moved to inform you.”
“Mr. Brumford mentioned in his letter, Your Grace,” Goddard said, “that he has taken the liberty of requesting the attendance too of more persons, including the earl and the countess, his mother, and other members of his family.”
“Has he indeed?” Avery’s fingers curled about the handle of his quizzing glass as he strolled toward his secretary’s desk, dropped the memo upon it, and held out his hand. Goddard eyed it for a moment and then rummaged through a neat pile of papers on one corner of his desk in order to produce Brumford’s letter. It was as pompous as the man who had penned it, but it did indeed request the honor of addressing His Grace of Netherby at Archer House at ten o’clock tomorrow morning upon a matter of grave importance. It also begged His Grace’s pardon for having taken the liberty of inviting his ward and his lordship’s mother and sisters as well as other close family members, including Mr. Alexander Westcott, Mrs. Westcott, his mother, and Lady Overfield, his sister.
Avery returned the letter to his secretary without comment. Three weeks had passed since Brumford had stridden from Westcott House like a crusader bent upon the mission of sending forth his most trusted investigator to run one bastard orphan to earth in order to press riches upon her in return for her written promise never to appeal to Harry for more. Had not the arrangement been that Brumford report privately to Avery when the woman was found in order to discuss the exact sum to be settled upon her?
Was this meeting about something else altogether?
It had better be, by thunder, if Brumford did not wish to find himself strung up from the nearest tree by his thumbs. It had been the countess’s express wish that Harry and Camille and Abigail never know of the existence of their father’s by-blow. And why the devil had Alex Westcott been invited? And his mother and his sister? They were cousins of Harry’s—second cousins, to be exact, with maybe a remove or two. Westcott was also the heir to the earldom until such time as Harry settled down to marriage and the dutiful production of an heir of his own body and a couple of spares to be on the safe side. And who were the other close family members? What was this meeting? Had some secret will been unearthed after all?
Avery left the room and went in search of the duchess, his stepmother. She would be interested to know that they were to expect her sister-in-law and nephew and nieces tomorrow, as well as her cousins and other unidentified relatives. She had a mother and two sisters in town. Though perhaps she had received her own personal invitation and already knew. She would certainly wish to attend the meeting, as no doubt would Jess—Lady Jessica Archer, his half sister, who at the age of seventeen and three-quarters already had all ten toes lined up firmly at the threshold of the schoolroom doorway, ready to bolt free the very moment she turned eighteen. This time next year, perish the thought, he would probably be squiring her about to all the parties and balls and breakfasts and picnics and whatnots at which the great marriage mart conducted its business during the Season.
She might as well attend the meeting, he thought, since it was to be here in her own home. He looked into the drawing room and found her there with her mother, admiring a pile of brightly colored embroidery silks they must have just purchased. It would be hard to keep Jess away tomorrow anyway when she was informed that Abigail was coming. It would be well nigh impossible when she knew Harry was to be here too. She did not, Avery hoped, see him as future husband material since he was her first cousin, but she did worship and adore at the altar of his youthful good looks. However, her presence or absence would be for her mother to decide. Thank heaven for mothers.
A matter of grave importance, Brumford had written. The man ought to be on the stage. He really ought.
Both ladies looked up and smiled at him.
“Oh, Avery,” Jessica said, hurrying toward him, her face brightly eager, her hands clasped to her bosom, “guess who is coming here tomorrow morning.” But she did not wait for him to participate in the game she had set up. “Abby. And Harry. And Camille.”
In order of importance, it seemed.
* * *
“Brumford has a decided flair for the dramatic,” Alexander Westcott remarked to his mother and his sister as they dined together at home that same evening. “This gathering cannot be for the reading of Riverdale’s will. There apparently was no will. Besides, the solicitor would not have chosen Archer House for such a reading even if Netherby is Harry’s guardian. Why our presence is necessary for whatever the business happens to be, heaven knows. I suppose we had better put in an appearance, however.”
“I have not seen either Louise or Viola since the funeral,” his mother said, naming the Duchess of Netherby and the Countess of Riverdale. “I shall enjoy a chat with them. And if we are invited, perhaps Cousin Eugenia and Matilda and Mildred will be there too.” Cousin Eugenia was the Dowager Countess of Riverdale, the late earl’s mother, the other two ladies her eldest and youngest daughters.
“And you must admit, Alex,” Elizabeth, Lady Overfield, said with a twinkle in her eye, “that a mystery is always intriguing. You at least are Harry’s heir. Mama and I are not closely related to Harry.”
“Your papa and Harry’s papa were first cousins,” her mother reminded them, “though they
were never close. Your papa detested the man. So did everyone else, it seemed to me, and that probably included Viola, though she was ever the loyal wife.”
“Being Harry’s heir is not something I covet,” Alexander said. “Perhaps I am peculiar, but I am perfectly happy with who I am and what I have. He cannot be expected to marry soon, of course. He is not even of age yet. But I devoutly hope he marries young and fathers at least six sons in as many years to put the succession beyond doubt. In the meanwhile I hope he remains in perfect health.”
Elizabeth laughed and reached out to pat the back of his hand. “It is not peculiar at all,” she said. “You have worked hard to restore Riddings Park to prosperity after Papa ran it into the ground—pardon my bluntness, Mama—and you have succeeded and can be proud of yourself. You are much respected there, even loved, and I know you are contented. I know too that you are not overfond of being dragged to London just because it is the Season and you knew Mama and I fancied sampling some of the frivolities it has to offer this year. You did not really need to come with us, but I appreciate the fact that you did, and that you have leased this very comfortable house for us.”
“It was not entirely for your sakes I came,” he admitted after sipping his wine. “Mama is always urging me to live a little, as though being home on my own estate, which I love, were not living. But occasionally even I feel the urge to set aside my manure-encrusted boots and don dancing shoes instead.”
Elizabeth laughed again. “You dance well,” she said. “And you invariably cause a stir among the ladies whenever you set foot inside a ballroom, for you are always the most handsome gentleman in attendance.”
“Is there any hope,” their mother asked, looking at her son in some despair as though this were not the first or even the twenty-first time she had posed the question, “that somewhere among all those ladies you will find a bride, Alex?”
He hesitated before answering, and she looked hopeful enough to set down her knife and fork across her plate and lean slightly toward him.
