3. Chapter 3
Kitty Bruce stared out the stagecoach window, taking in every fresh sight as they passed. She had never been further south than Manchester, and now she was leaving the north behind for good. Whatever the outcome of this journey, she had no money to fund the trip back home.
Not that she had a home any more. Her grandfather was dead, and the house where they had lived had been rented to others. With her brother gone to war, there was nothing left for her in Pendlebury.
She dragged her eyes away from the window and unfolded the letter clutched in her hands. Looking at her grandfather’s words again would not bring him back, but there was something reassuring about hearing him speak to her one last time, even if it was only on paper.
My dearest Kitty,
If you are reading this, I have gone to be with my Maker, and you, I fear, are left alone. I am so sorry. When I let your brother go off to war, I did you a disservice. I never meant it to be like this. I had hoped you would have your own people around you to comfort you.
Do not mourn for me. I have lived a long life, and though I had precious few years with your grandmother, what we had was special.
Your father was a gift to us both, for he brought me you and your brother.
Never compromise on love, Kitty. It is better to follow your heart and live in poverty than to marry without love.
You will have learned by now what you probably already realised, as you have a wise head on your young shoulders.
I have but a few pounds to leave you. What should have been your dowry was spent on your brother’s commission.
It was important to us both that he joined the fight against Bonaparte as an officer.
You knew as well as I did that he would have enlisted in the army even if I had forbidden it.
May God keep you both safe, so that you may be reunited in this life, while I await you in the next.
If you choose not to marry the curate—and I would think the better of you if you did not—buy yourself a ticket on the stage and travel to the south coast. Go to my sister, Mrs Barrington, at Dumbarton House in Wyke Regis near Weymouth, in Dorset, and she will tell you what I could not.
I pray she’ll take care of you for the love she once had for me.
God bless you.
Walter Bruce.
Kitty refolded the letter and tucked it away in her reticule. Her grandfather’s words raised more questions than they answered, but he had been right about one thing. She had not wanted to marry the self-righteous curate.
The man had described her in such unflattering terms when he proposed, she did not fear she had wounded his heart by her refusal. He had prided himself on his generosity in offering marriage despite her lank brown hair, her pox-scarred forehead and her almost manly height, which surpassed his own.
Why in heaven’s name had he asked for her hand if she was so repugnant to him?
Probably because he thought it would be cheaper to keep a wife than to pay a housekeeper.
And to give him even more opportunities to criticise her—a pastime he seemed to delight in.
She wished he had not bothered to bring himself up to scratch.
A wisp of a smile passed over her lips. It was just as well she had refused him, or he would have been forced to shut his eyes tight before he could summon up the courage to kiss her.
After refusing the curate, Kitty had set about fulfilling her grandfather’s last wish—to visit his sister. It gave her a sense of direction. God willing, if Edward came home in one piece, perhaps she could keep house for him or become governess to his children. Until then, she belonged to nobody.
Whether or not Mrs Barrington made her welcome, she was ready for a fresh start—as a housekeeper, if need be, but for a salary, not as someone’s unloved wife.
Having written to her brother to inform him of her new direction, she had sewn her mother’s pearls and two guineas into the hem of her petticoat and packed all her belongings into a battered trunk.
With the rest of her money stored safely in her reticule, she had boarded the stagecoach with no regrets and set off for the unknown.
After travelling for three days, Kitty’s confidence was waning.
Her stock of coins was running thin, and she’d already broken into one of the guinea pieces in her petticoat.
She had also had far too much time to think.
What if Mrs Barrington was dead or away?
If she was at home, would she welcome her visit?
There was a real possibility she wouldn’t.
What did the closing line of the letter say?
For the love she once had for me. It sounded as if there had been a falling out and, given the fact that her grandfather had never mentioned he had a sister, Kitty could only assume it had happened a long time ago.
If Mrs Barrington refused to see her, what would she do?
Before panic could take a grip, she took herself to task. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Catherine Bruce. You will do what you always do—trust God and use your common sense.
As the stagecoach trundled down the turnpike from Dorchester and passed over the ridge, Kitty glimpsed the sea for the first time and forgot all else until it disappeared from sight as the road dipped on its approach to Weymouth.
After passing through the last tollgate, the coach veered right and swept along the seafront.
The waves rolled in, white and frothy, over the sand.
The stagecoach turned off the Esplanade and continued down what she thought must be the main street of the town, boasting a variety of shops and the church. Before it reached the end of the road, it turned into the yard of the Golden Lion and came to a halt.
Clutching her reticule to her stomach, Kitty allowed the other occupants of the carriage to leave before descending the steps.
Her feet tottered as they touched the ground.
The journey had seemed endless, and it took a few moments for her to get used to the lack of motion.
She gazed at the busyness surrounding her.
The ostlers unharnessing the horses, the coachman shouting to someone on the other side of the yard, and her fellow passengers waiting with growing impatience for the assortment of trunks and parcels and bandboxes stowed on the coach roof to be unloaded.
A man deposited her trunk at her feet, bringing Kitty back to the reality of her situation.
This was not her journey’s end. If she were to arrive at Dumbarton House today, she needed to hire a conveyance as soon as possible.
She glanced down at her pelisse and grimaced.
She was in a far less pristine condition than that in which she’d left.
Her clothes were creased from sitting for so long, and her skin was itching for a wash.
It was tempting to stop to freshen up her appearance, but she dared not spend any more of her slim funds, as she did not know what lay ahead.
Though she would have liked to walk down to the seafront to more fully appreciate the water lapping over the beach, it would do no good to put off the meeting.
After several attempts, she secured an ostler’s attention. “Please, is there someone who can take me and my trunk to Dumbarton House in Wyke Regis?”
The lad whistled. “Hey, Drake. Lady needs transport to Mrs B’s place in Wyke.”
That was a start. At least it sounded as though Mrs Barrington was alive and still at the address her grandfather had given her.
An older man walked toward her. “That your trunk, miss?”
When Kitty nodded, he lifted it onto his shoulder as if it weighed no more than her bandbox, strode across the yard and deposited it in the back of his cart. He offered her a hand to climb up onto the bench and then took his place beside her.
Mr Drake drove through the archway and along the street where the church stood, and turned right, toward the harbour. Almost at once, they passed over a bridge and headed up a steep hill. As they reached the brow, he gave her a sideways glance before returning his attention to his horse.
“What takes a lass like yourself to Mrs Barrington’s house, miss, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Family,” Kitty replied, unwilling to say more, though the man’s interest sounded fatherly rather than impertinent.
“Oh.” The man lapsed into silence. That didn’t inspire confidence. What manner of woman would she find at her destination?
Kitty concentrated on the pleasure of the drive in the open air after being cooped up in the coach for so long. The road rose high behind the town, and the view over the fields toward the blue sea beyond was delightful.
Mr Drake pulled up his carriage at a modest white building. It seemed rather presumptuous to have named anything so small Dumbarton House. Then her eyes drifted to the imposing iron gates beside it and Kitty realised her mistake. This was just the lodge.
At Mr Drake’s call, a man came outside. “Yes?”
“I’ve a lady to see Mrs Barrington.”
“Leave her here. ‘Tis only a new maid. She can walk.”
“I said I have a lady here, Smith. Open up so I can drive her to the door.”
Amidst excessive grumbling, the man did as he was bid, and Mr Drake drove through the gates, up the tree-lined avenue, and stopped outside a white house with a pillared entranceway.
Mr Drake jumped down from the bench and turned to help her. He might only be a carrier, but he acted like a gentleman. He hefted the trunk out from the back of his cart and placed it on the ground beside her.
Kitty fished into her reticule for the agreed amount, trying not to notice how slim her supply of coins had become. With a word of thanks, she handed over the sum, and he was about to remount the bench when he seemed to have second thoughts.
“Are you sure you’ll be all right, lass? Wouldn’t you rather wait until morning? I can bring you back on the morrow, if you like.”