Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Each passing day was a descent further into despair for Imogen. Armed with her ducal reference, she had approached three high-ranking families in search of a post. Each time, the interview had started with promise, only to end in a cold, abrupt rejection.
The first interview had taken place in a morning room so white and pristine it felt like an ice palace. Lady Danvers had reviewed the ducal reference with an appreciative hum until she reached the signature.
“His Grace, the Duke of Welton, speaks very highly of your… versatility,” Lady Danvers said, her eyes narrowing as they flicked from the parchment to Imogen’s face.
“Tell me, Miss Lewis, how does a young woman of your station manage to secure such a glowing, personal testimonial from a man known to be so notoriously uninterested in matters of one’s household? ”
Imogen had opened her mouth to speak of her hard work, but the Lady’s gaze had already soured, likely recalling some of the more salacious rumors about the once rakish Duke. “I think it best we look for someone with a less… conspicuous history, with more than a single reference.”
“I can assure you, My Lady,” Imogen started with a small smile, mustering up strength to press.
“Good day, Miss Lewis,” she said with a wave, her shrill voice going up Imogen’s spine.
“Good day, My Lady,” Imogen said as she gathered her cloak and followed the butler out.
The second attempt led to an even shorter interview if that was possible. The Marchioness hadn’t even invited Imogen to sit. She held the letter between two fingers as if it were contaminated.
“A Duke’s reference is indeed rare, as such things of the household usually come from the Duchess,” the Marchioness remarked, her voice dripping with practiced condescension as she narrowed her chestnut eyes.
“I find it curious that a woman of your talents is seeking a new position so quickly. One wonders if you are running away from a scandal, or if His Grace found a more efficient way to dispose of a complication.”
“It is not like that, My Lady,” Imogen had protested, her cheeks burning. “I am not leaving by choice—”
“Ah,” the Marchioness cooed, leaning forward in anticipation of gossip to spread. “I see…”
“It is not like that! I served the household with the utmost—”
“I have impressionable young daughters to protect, Miss Lewis. I cannot have their reputations tarnished by association with a woman who carries such intimate praise from a bachelor Duke. It is not personal… you may see yourself out.”
By the third interview, Imogen’s confidence was a frayed thread.
Yet she forced herself to keep her shoulders back and her chin high as she walked into the home of Mrs. Sterling, a wealthy merchant’s wife.
Imogen had learned that Mr. and Mrs. Sterling were eager to climb the social ladder.
To Imogen’s advantage, Mrs. Sterling was immediately dazzled by the ducal seal.
However, after a brief hushed conversation with her husband in the hallway, she returned with a face like flint.
Imogen could not for the life of her determine what had shifted her impression so, nor that of her husband.
“I don’t understand,” Imogen muttered to herself as she walked back to the inn through the biting wind, pulling her thin shawl tighter around her shoulders. “A reference from His Grace should be as good as gold… Why do they look at me as if I’m carrying the bloody plague?”
She stared at the elegant script on the paper in her hand.
Ambrose had meant it as a gift, one that she requested as a shield to protect her future.
But in the cruel, gossiping world of the ton, his high praise had somehow become a brand.
The more he lauded her character, the more they suspected her virtue had been compromised. Especially without other references.
It does not make any sense. How am I so unsuccessful?
The answer arrived an hour later in the serpentine form of darkness herself, Lady Presholm.
The older woman swept into the room Imogen occupied at the inn with her nose wrinkled in disgust at the smell of stale ale and damp wool. “What a charming little rat-hole you’ve found for yourself, Imogen. I’d send some of your old bed linens, but fear we’ve turned them into rags already.”
“Lady Presholm,” Imogen said, standing tall despite her exhaustion. “What on Earth are you doing here?”
“I came to see the fruits of my labor,” Julia purred, settling onto the room’s only sturdy chair and peeling off her pristine white gloves, one finger at a time and laying the pair on her lap. “I imagine the job hunt hasn’t been going well?” She asked, looking up with a raised eyebrow.
“You didn’t…”
“It’s a small world, the ton. A few well-placed words at a tea table about a difficult girl of unstable parentage can do wonders for one’s employment prospects. Spreads quicker than fire, when done right…”
Imogen’s blood ran cold, and she curled her hands into tight fists at her sides. “You… you’ve been telling people not to hire me.”
“Not quite so pointedly—”
“Why? I left. I gave up everything to protect the boys and the family name, further distancing myself from your new home. We have no ties to each other! Why are you so intent on destroying my life?”
The Countess’ face transformed, the mask of society beauty falling away to reveal a raw, jagged hatred.
“Because you shouldn’t exist at all!” she hissed, her voice trembling with vitriol. “Every time I look at you, I see my husband’s betrayal.”
“I did not ask to be born!”
“All I can see… is that common, golden-haired creature he preferred over his own wife. You are a walking, breathing reminder of every lie he told me!”
“I am not my mother,” Imogen cried out. “I never knew her! I never asked for any of this! Why can’t you just let me be a miserable creature in peace?”
“You are her shadow!” Julia screamed, stepping toward her. “You think you’re so pure, so noble, sacrificing yourself for the Duke? I see through it all, I always have. You’re just a bastard brat who got lucky. And you couldn’t even hold onto that.”
“It is for their well-being that I left!”
“And they are lucky for that! You don’t deserve a life, Imogen.
You deserve to rot in the gutter where you belong.
I will make sure no door in this city ever opens for you.
I will hunt you until there is nothing left but the shame of your birth.
” The Countess’ eyes were wild, fueled by years of bitterness and a redirected rage that Imogen could not fight.
“Get out,” Imogen whispered, her strength failing as she flopped down on the bed. “Just… get out, Julia.”
“With pleasure,” her stepmother sneered, adjusting her silk wrap. “Enjoy the silence, Imogen. It’s all you’ll ever have.”
When the door slammed shut, Imogen collapsed entirely onto the bed, wrecked. She yanked down the bed sheets and slipped in, pulling them up to her chin. Imogen was truly trapped in a cage then, more than she ever had been before. And Julia had just locked it and thrown away the key.
I am doomed.
The door hadn’t been closed for five minutes before it flew open again. This time, there was no silk or perfume, but only the sharp, metallic tang of lye and the heavy thud of the Scottish maid’s boots.
The girl, whose name Imogen now knew was Isla, stood over the bed with her hands planted firmly on her round hips.
Her apron was wetter than it had been that morning, and her face was set in a grim, practical line.
She didn’t look at the tear-stained pillow.
She looked at the empty space on the bedside table where a purse should have been.
“Well? Did the fine lady in the silk wrap leave ye a fortune, or just a bad taste in yer mouth?” Isla asked, her shrill voice cracking like a whip.
Imogen didn’t look up from the wall. “She left me nothing but a warning.”
“Aye, they’re good at that, the gentry. Warnings are free.
Bread isnae,” she snapped. She stepped closer, the floorboards groaning.
“The innkeeper has been at the ledger, lassie. He’s seen no coin in his palm.
He says if the rent isnae settled by tomorrow, yer trunk stays here and ye go out the door.
He’s a man of his word when it comes to bein’ a bastard. I am… I am sorry, lassie.”
Imogen finally pushed herself up, her brown curls a tangled halo in the gray light.
“I have almost nothing, Isla. Three interviews, and they looked at me like I was a leper. It is hopeless. I have a shilling and a locket.”
Isla’s expression softened, just a fraction, as she gave a pirate smile and pulled out a rolled cigarette. She lit it on a nearby candle and reached into her pocket and pulled out a crumpled scrap of newsprint, tossing it onto the lumpy duvet.
“Want a cigarette, love?”
“No, thank you,” Imogen said. “I do not smoke.”
“Well, there’s one way to keep a roof o’er yer head, though it’s a roof made of soot and misery,” she said quietly as she puffed on her cigarette. “My cousin works the laundry at the St. Jude’s Union. It’s the workhouse.”
Imogen’s eyes grew heavy as she looked at Isla with a frown.
“Ye cannae look at me like that! It is a roof. They’re desperate for able-bodied women for the picking and the wash-tubs. Ye look like ye ken yer way around a maid’s duties.”
“Sadly, I do.” Imogen stared at the paper. “The workhouse? Isla, while I have no qualms about hard work… I am a governess now. I have taught Virgil and calculus. I have talents and passion and—”
“Ye were a governess,” Isla interrupted, her voice hard. “Now, ye are a girl in a rat hole with a debt to a crabby innkeeper. At St. Jude’s, they’ll take ye without a reference. They daenae care who yer father was or which Duke wanted to bed ye.”
“It wasn’t like that!”
“Regardless, they only care if ye can scrub until yer fingers bleed. Sound wages, a bed, and a bowl of gruel. It is better than the river, is it nae?”
Imogen picked up the paper, her fingers trembling. “They take your clothes. They cut your hair. They separate families.”
“From what I can see, ye have nay family left to separate, lassie. Just tryin’ to help ye.”
“Thank you,” Imogen whispered.
“That woman who was just here? She’s yer enemy, nae yer kin,” Isla said, walking toward the door. “I can get ye in the side gate tomorrow mornin’. Me cousin owes me a favor. It’ll keep ye off the streets while the ton forgets yer name. But ye have to decide. The street or the tubs?”