In Honour Bound (Brides By Chance Regency Adventures Book 1)

by Elizabeth Bailey

  “I’m used to it, miss. Mrs Pennyfather would have my guts for garters if I let you help, miss.”

  Isolde took a firm grasp of the can. “Then don’t tell her.”

  The maid giggled, but she shook her head too. “I dursn’t for my life, miss.” She set the big can down on the floor. “You could bring your jug so I can fill it, if you like, miss.”

  Isolde went to the basin and ewer set on a commode in a corner of the room and brought the jug across, setting it down and holding it steady while the younger girl filled it with the steaming hot water.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, miss.” The maid lifted up the large can with apparent ease and went to the door. She turned there as she set her fingers upon the handle. “Ain’t none in this house ever offered afore, miss. You won’t take it amiss if I say as it won’t do to be trying to help us servants. Mr Topham’d get all uppity and say as you weren’t no lady, miss.”

  Isolde sighed, resisting the impulse to tell the girl she had no desire to be a lady, especially if it meant that she must watch others do things she was perfectly well able to do for herself. “Thank you for the warning. What’s your name?”

  “Becky, miss.”

  Isolde gave her a smile and was pleased to see the maid’s face light up. She was little more than a child. “Well, Becky, I’m very glad to have made a friend in this house. I have a suspicion I’m going to need one.”

  Another giggle broke from the girl at this, and she hastily smothered it, dropped a curtsy, and left the room.

  A little cheered, but with apprehension returning, Isolde began upon her ablutions. Hadn’t she known how badly equipped she was to become a proper lady? Already she’d made a fool of herself. Even the maid knew better than she did what was expected of a female of her station.

  She was already dressed when Madge came to fetch her.

  “That Mrs Pennyfather is coming to take you to the breakfast parlour.”

  Isolde was quick to catch the emphasis. “Me? What about you?”

  “I’ve had a tray in my room.”

  There was a spark in Madge’s eye and Isolde eyed her with misgiving. “What’s happened, Madge?”

  Her erstwhile duenna shrugged. “Nothing to worry you, my pet, but I’ll not be staying any longer.”

  “But Lord Alderton asked you to stay for a couple of days.”

  “So he did, but as I told him, I’m waited on and I can’t be delaying. It’s plain to see his lordship is after taking care of you, one way or another, so my duty’s done and I can leave you with my conscience clear.”

  Isolde was not fooled. She had not been around the camp women for years without learning to recognise when offence was taken. Had something been said? Or hinted at? If so, she had a shrewd notion what it might be, but there was no speaking of that. She tried again. “Madge, you’re upset, I know you are.”

  “Well, if I am, it’s all the more reason to be taking myself off.”

  A toss of the head accompanied these words and Isolde recognised the flash of anger in Madge’s eyes. She tensed, remembering quarrels that had erupted between this woman and Papa on occasion. She eyed the woman askance, and Madge caught the look.

  “You’ve no need to look at me so, me dearie. It’s no worse than I’d expect, folks being what they are.”

  Now Isolde was certain she understood. Never having openly discussed the matter, she could not mention it now. Madge must be allowed her dignity.

  Instead, she threw her arms about her duenna’s neck and hugged her, a tremulous note in her voice. “I don’t care, Madge. You’ve been a mother to me. I understand you have to go, but I don’t know how I’ll go on without you.”

  The embrace was returned with fervour.

  “You’re a strong lass, Izzy, my pet. You’ll do.” She pulled back and her eyes were rueful. “I could never have stayed, you know that, don’t you?”

  The hurt stabbed. “They won’t accept me any more than you, Madge. I’m not like them.”

  “But you were born to it, Izzy, and you’ll be finding your feet in a while.” She let out a reluctant laugh. “And if you ask me, that young lord won’t be after dealing you short shrift. I’m thinking he’s the dutiful kind. He’ll stand buff.”

  A stealthy sound alerted him and Richard looked up from his plate in time to see the Cavanagh girl slip into the breakfast parlour to stand by the door, regarding him with a frowning stare. He rose.

  “Good morning, Miss Cavanagh. I trust you slept well?” He nodded to the footman, who immediately set a chair for her. Richard waved her across. “Do sit down. James will serve you. What would you like?”

  He watched her trip across the room, a wary look creeping into her face. Without the concealing hat and great-coat, she looked nervous and very young. He noted the bright hair, caught up at the back and curling into her neck, a few short tendrils escaping to lie against her cheek. Her features were pale, her eyes dilated.

  As she came closer, Richard found himself gazing at those eyes, their indeterminate colouring again a puzzle.

  The girl’s head dropped as she took her seat, veiling them from his glance.

  Richard sat down again. “Coffee?”

  She looked up quickly and nodded. He signed to the footman, who upended her cup and poured the dark liquid. Her gaze followed the movements, but still she did not speak.

  Richard tried again. “We have eggs, ham and beef. What is your choice?”

  She looked at him and he caught the tremble in her lip. “Madge is leaving.” The words were blurted out, a faint accusation in them.

  Richard frowned. “Your duenna?”

  “She isn’t that. She never was.”

  Damnation! Hadn’t he requested the woman to remain, if only briefly? He looked to the footman. “Send someone to fetch Mrs Quick here at once.” James immediately left the room, and Richard infused reassurance into his tone. “She can’t leave without my help, you know. The coachman couldn’t wait.”

  Isolde looked startled. “They’ve gone?”

  “I sent them away.”

  “Madge won’t like it.”

  “When she wants to go, I’ll send her in my own coach.”

  The girl’s eyes narrowed. “She wants to go now. She’s insulted.”

  Richard blinked. “She’s what? Who insulted her?”

  “You did,” she accused. “Your housekeeper told us it was because you thought we’d rather eat alone, but that’s not why, is it? Madge isn’t quality and you don’t want her to share your board.”

  The tone was low, but Richard could hear the anger vibrating within it. He took his time about his answer. The girl was shrewd, no doubt of that. “As a matter of fact, I expected her to come in with you this morning.”

  “Then it wasn’t by your orders she had a tray in her room for breakfast?”

  “Certainly not.” He was prevented from saying more by the re-entrance of the footman.

  “I’ve sent a maid for Mrs Quick, my lord.”

  He nodded and then gestured at Isolde’s empty plate. “It won’t serve any useful purpose to starve. What will you eat?”

  She let out a little sigh and some of the belligerence faded. “Eggs, if you please.”

  Richard glanced at James, who was already picking up the requisite silver dish from the sideboard. He waited while Isolde was served, and then resumed his own meal. “You may give me a trifle more ham, James.”

  The man complied and Richard watched the young girl hesitate before picking up a fork. It flashed into his mind that she was unsure which utensil she should use. Was she really so ignorant of social customs?

  Before he could pursue the thought, the door opened to admit the older female, who strode in with a bold step and came to rest at the other end of the table, radiating displeasure.

  “You sent for me, me lord?”

  Bent on disarming her, Richard smiled and gestured to the chair at his other side. “Good morning. Won’t you take a
cup of coffee, Mrs Quick?”

  He noted Isolde’s quick glance go from her chaperon to himself and back again. Puzzled by his tactics?

  “You’ll not be after inviting the likes of me to sit at your table.”

  Richard rose. “On the contrary. Please.”

  He gestured again, and the woman sniffed, her chin going up. Richard waited, refusing to look at Isolde, yet aware she was eyeing him.

  Mrs Quick gave in, her shoulders dropping as she moved to take the indicated chair.

  Isolde leaned a little across the table, whispering, “It wasn’t his fault, Madge. He says he didn’t order it.”

  In fact Richard had said nothing beyond suggesting the parlour meal last night. The only thought in his mind had been a wish to delay further discussion with the child until he’d had time to think about the situation. Pennyfather had taken it in a literal spirit. Or had she made a more accurate judgement of Mrs Quick’s status than he had? He could determine that later. At this present, his sole desire was to keep the woman here until his sister should be home to lend Isolde countenance.

  “I understand from Miss Cavanagh that you were planning to leave this morning.”

  The woman’s fire flashed. “I am going, sir. You won’t stop me.”

  “Madge, he sent away the coach. You can’t go yet.”

  “Oh, can’t I?” She turned an irate face on Richard. “Am I to take it you took it upon yourself to pay off the coach? I’d the hiring of it to take me to catch the stage from Harwich.”

  “I am aware of that.”

  “Then you’ll be good enough to send me there in your own vehicle, or I’ll know the reason why.”

  Richard played his ace. “But would you not be more comfortable travelling post?”

  She was momentarily silenced. Richard caught Isolde staring, open-mouthed, and was obliged to bite down on a laugh.

  Mrs Quick found her tongue. “All the way to Ireland? You’ve windmills in your head, me lord.”

  “At my expense, of course.” He saw her eyes widen in shock, and added in tones of silk, “Assuming, of course, you are ready to oblige me by remaining for a space to chaperon Miss Cavanagh.”

  “That’s bribery, is that.” But the tone held grudging respect.

  Richard laughed. “Just so, Mrs Quick. I will lose no sleep over it, for my reason is sufficient.”

  The woman’s features hardened. “Aye, and so is mine.” She shook her head. “I’ll not be beholden. Nor I won’t be held to ransom. I’ve done as I said I’d do, and I’ll not stay to be slighted.”

  “No one will slight you, Mrs Quick. I must apologise if any in this household has received you with less respect than you deserve.”

  Unexpectedly, the matron let out a laugh. “Well, and we’ll be saying nothing of deserts, if you please. But I won’t remain, for all of that.” Richard opened his mouth to speak, but the woman held up a hand. “Oh, I have your measure, me lord. But you’ll not get your servants to pretend. I’d feel it every moment, and I’ll not stay for it.”

  “Then will you stay for Isolde?” said Richard, trying one last desperate throw.

  The girl interrupted before Mrs Quick could respond. “She won’t. Madge owes me nothing. I told you before, she doesn’t want the charge of me.”

  “No, and you know why, Izzy.”

  Despite himself, Richard was unable to keep the exasperation from his voice. “No one expects you to take charge of her. I am merely asking you to wait until my sister returns from London.”

  “Pray when might that be?”

  “A few days at most. I’ll write to her today.”

  Mrs Quick sighed. “It’s no manner of use, me lord. Besides, from what I hear, there’s another lady in the house.”

  “My mother is far too unwell to act as chaperon.”

  Mrs Quick rose from the chair. “I’ve nothing more to say, except to ask you to let me have your coach as far as Harwich. I’ll take that much, seeing as you took it upon yourself to strand me here.”

  Pride kept Richard from further argument. It struck him that the woman’s determination had been fixed yesterday, and she would not swerve from it. He told James to ring the bell, wondering what he was missing. The woman must have pressing reasons of her own for this inexplicable obstinacy. He recalled Isolde saying the woman did not want the charge of her. It occurred to him now to wonder why.

  Chapter Six

  The coach rumbled slowly down the drive and Isolde watched it out of sight, tightness gathering in her chest. The last link with her father, with the life she’d known, was disappearing along with Madge. Bereft, she struggled for the courage to hide the lonely despair, an echo of the grief she’d felt at her father’s last farewell.

  She’d stood with his company, dry-eyed and still, as the makeshift coffin was lowered into the ground, the sound of the bugle burning its message into her heart.

  “Miss Cavanagh?”

  She started, turning to find Lord Alderton at the top of the steps.

  “You’ll take cold. Come inside.”

  The tone was a command and Isolde obeyed, climbing the steps and walking swiftly past him, head lowered. She went through the front door the butler was holding open and came to a halt in the middle of the hall.

  Where was she to go? What was she to do? She had no place here, and no one to help her find it.

  “Come into the library.”

  Lord Alderton was at her side, a hand on her elbow, guiding her to the back of the hall behind the staircase and into a corridor with several doors leading off it. Isolde found herself in a huge room lined with bookshelves, bright from the light streaming in through massive windows, where cushioned seats sat in the alcoves. She vaguely took in the ample desk to one side, the set of globes and the big and clumsy library steps, and then the hand at her elbow persuaded her down into a deep chair to one side of a marbled fireplace, where the warmth from the grate pervaded the ice in her bosom.

  She watched Lord Alderton take a seat in an identical chair set opposite and met his glance as he looked across.

  “I’m sorry I could not persuade her to stay.”

  Isolde pushed her voice up through the fog. “I knew she wouldn’t.”

  “Do you know why?”

  The question penetrated her absorption. “She told you why.”

  “I’m not sure I believe her.”

  Isolde was swept with a new sensation, of apprehension mixed with a liberal dose of suspicion. “What do you mean?”

  A faint smile crossed his features, softening them, and Isolde felt a stir of warmth and hope. “I had no intention of being obtuse. I suspect Mrs Quick had some other reason than she chose to reveal to me.”

  Wary now, Isolde eyed him. Had he divined the truth? He might hazard a guess. Mrs Pennyfather had not hesitated to show her suspicions. She hastened to deflect him. “What are you going to do with me?”

  His look became enigmatic, but he held her eyes. “That, Isolde, is the question that is exercising my mind.”

  His use of her name sent an odd flitter down her veins, though Isolde could not have said why. She waited for what he might say next.

  “Have you any notions of your own?”

  That was unexpected. She drew a quick breath and let it out. “I told you in the first place. I don’t know how to be a lady.” She hesitated, but he did not speak, merely holding her with a gaze that told her nothing of his thoughts. “I can work. I told you that too.”

  His brows rose. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I can cook and clean, wash clothes.” He said nothing, and Isolde was emboldened to enumerate a few of her other skills. “I know it won’t be needed in England, but I used to set up camp within the hour, and have the fire going and a meal in the pot in a trice. Rabbit, or a chicken if we could get one. I’m good with horses too.”

  “You ride?”

  She did not miss the note of relief, and warmth stole into her cheeks. If he supposed there was at least one
thing she did that didn’t flout convention, he was sadly mistaken. “Yes, but I know I wouldn’t be allowed to here.”

  “Why not? Ladies do in England, you know.”

  “Not astride.”

  His eyebrows shot up and Isolde collapsed with dejection.

  “I knew you’d hate me. I told Madge.”

  To her surprise, and indeed dismay, he laughed. “My dear Miss Cavanagh, how should I hate you? I barely know you. A state of affairs I am trying to remedy.” The softer look vanished. “Well, let us be a little more realistic, shall we? I appreciate that you have lived something of a gypsy life, but surely Mrs Quick must have taught you a little of what you need to know to take your place in society?”

  Isolde shook a miserable head. “Nothing. She doesn’t know any more than I do.”

  “But there must have been other ladies in the camp.”

  He sounded incredulous and Isolde could not help feeling resentful. Was it her fault she had been brought up to follow the drum? Until now she had prided herself on her ability to care for Papa’s needs. His batman had looked to his personal belongings, of course, but as soon as she was old enough, Isolde had learned fast to do what she might to make him comfortable. In return, he’d taught her all the skills he would have taught a son. Until Madge came into their lives.

  “Madge made me live like a female,” she disclosed, with some reluctance, “but there wasn’t anyone else. The colonel’s wife didn’t stay in camp and none of the other wives came to Holland. I heard they went to Ireland, but Papa wasn’t sent there because we were still travelling back from the Cape. And Sergeant Quick died on board and that’s when Madge and Papa —”

  She broke off, horrified at what she’d been about to reveal. Dreading the inevitable question, she eyed Lord Alderton. There was nothing to be read in his face, although his gaze met hers. A faint frown formed between his brows and Isolde braced herself.

  “You’ve come from Holland?”

  Relieved to be spared embarrassment, Isolde seized the change of subject, falling over her words in an effort to divert him from the dangerous truth. “Papa died there. At Bergen. We lost, you know.”