Chapter 9
Monday didn’t start auspiciously. The second housemaid fell down the back stairs and broke her leg.
“Two maids short,” Mrs. Early said, stout and agitated. “It can’t be done, ma’am. Not a house of this size, and with Miss Durham staying.”
After Isabella had soothed the housekeeper and sent her off to the registry office to hire a new housemaid, she carried the news upstairs to Mrs. Westin’s parlor, where she found not just her cousin, but Harriet as well.
“Oh, let me help!” cried Harriet, putting down the handkerchief she was hemming. “I can dust and make beds and—”
“Thank you, my dear, but it’s not necessary.” Isabella smiled at her. A pile of handkerchiefs lay on the sofa alongside the girl. Isabella picked up the top one. It had been hemmed so neatly that the stitches were almost invisible. In each corner a violet unfurled purple petals. “You did this?”
Harriet nodded.
The next handkerchief had yellow primroses at each corner, and the one underneath pink roses, each petal delicately rendered in thread. Isabella brushed a fingertip over one of the flowers. The needlework was superior to anything she was capable of. “Beautiful,” she said. “You’re a fine needlewoman.”
Harriet blushed shyly at the praise.
Isabella put down the handkerchiefs and turned to leave the room, holding the door open for Rufus, who followed—as always when she was at home—at her heels.
“Ma’am?”
Isabella turned back. “Yes?”
“Has . . . has the mail come this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Was there anything for me?”
“No, my dear.”
Tears filled Harriet’s eyes. She twisted her hands in her lap. “Oh, what shall I do if my aunt doesn’t—”
“There will be time enough for worry if the moment comes.” Mrs. Westin didn’t pause in her knitting. “Don’t borrow trouble, child.” There was no censure in her voice, just calmness.
Harriet bit her lower lip. She looked down at her lap, tears trembling on her lashes.
“My cousin is right.” Isabella smiled at the girl. “It’s too soon to worry.” But privately she was beginning to worry. It had been a full week. Surely a reply must come soon from the Lake District?
Little Grace Washburne came in the company of her mother, to ecstatically carry off the ginger kitten, and after a light luncheon Isabella sat down in the morning room to read the letter she had received from one of her sisters, the remaining kittens curled up in their basket and Rufus warm across her feet.
She was absorbed in a description of her nephew’s first venture astride a pony when the butler entered the room, carrying a visiting card on a salver. “A gentleman to see you, ma’am.”
Isabella examined the card. “Mr. Fernyhough? Who is he?”
But the butler didn’t know.
“Did he say why he wishes to see me?”
“A matter of business, ma’am.”
Isabella tapped the card with a fingertip. “I’ll see him in the drawing room, Hoban.”
She poked her head into Mrs. Westin’s parlor to warn Harriet that a visitor was in the house, and then went down one flight of stairs to the drawing room.
Mr. Fernyhough was dressed with great plainness and propriety. His bow was respectful, his face earnest. He looked to be not more than twenty-five. Something about the arrangement of his features, or perhaps his manner, reminded Isabella of a half-grown puppy.
“Forgive me for intruding, ma’am,” he said, upon being invited to sit. “A complete stranger! But I needed to be certain...” He bit his lip and then blurted: “Is Miss Durham all right?”
The name shocked Isabella into stillness. “Miss Durham?” she said cautiously.
“Miss Harriet Durham. I believe she’s in your care.” Mr. Fernyhough leaned forward, his expression even more earnest than it had been. “Is she all right?”
“I don’t perfectly understand, Mr. Fernyhough,” Isabella said, taking refuge in cool hauteur. “Why would I have a Miss Durham in my care?”
Mr. Fernyhough sat back in the crimson-upholstered armchair. His manner became flustered. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. I was given to understand— The landlady at the Rose and Crown in Stony Stratford told me that...” He fixed beseeching eyes on her face. “Miss Durham has run away and I’m trying to find her, to be certain she’s safe and well.”
“What is your relationship to Miss Durham?” Isabella asked carefully.
“We are friends,” Mr. Fernyhough said, but color rose in his cheeks.
Isabella lifted her eyebrows. “Friends, Mr. Fernyhough?”
Mr. Fernyhough’s face became scarlet. “At one time we hoped to marry.”
Isabella looked at him with interest. A very different man from Major Reynolds. Mild, with that puppy-dog face. “May I ask why you didn’t?”
“Her grandfather forbade it,” Mr. Fernyhough said simply. “He wanted Harriet to marry a military man, not a country parson.”
“You’re a man of the cloth?” Isabella asked, startled.
“Colonel Durham presented me with a living two years ago. I consider myself very fortunate to be distinguished by his patronage.” But Mr. Fernyhough didn’t look fortunate; he looked miserable.
Isabella abandoned the hauteur. “Harriet is upstairs. Would you like to see her?”
Mr. Fernyhough’s face lit up. “She’s here? Oh, yes, I should very much like to see her!” The joy left his face. “No,” he said, heavily. “I’d better not. If the colonel were to ask me... He has already accused me of harboring her, of aiding her.” His expression became indignant. “As if I’d do such a thing!”
But if you truly loved her, wouldn’t you? She didn’t say the words aloud, but perhaps Mr. Fernyhough read them on her face, for he flushed again and lowered his eyes. “I must support my mother and my brothers and sisters, ma’am. I depend upon Colonel Durham’s patronage. If he were to withdraw it...”
So it wasn’t backbone Mr. Fernyhough lacked, but rather an independent living. Isabella sighed.
“Would you give Miss Durham a letter from me?” Mr. Fernyhough’s eyes pleaded with her.
“Of course,” Isabella said. “You may be assured that Harriet is quite well. She’s upstairs with my cousin.”
Mr. Fernyhough hung onto those few words with painful eagerness.
“We’re waiting for a letter from her aunt,” Isabella continued, slightly disconcerted by the intensity of his gaze. “As soon as it comes I’ll send Harriet to her. By post-chaise, of course.”
“I’m most grateful to you, madam—as I’m persuaded Harriet must be, too.” Emotion choked Mr. Fernyhough’s voice. “Without your aid I don’t dare think what may have happened to her.”
“I will ensure that no harm comes to her,” Isabella said, uncomfortable at the gratitude shining in his brown eyes. “Of that you may be certain.”
“Her reputation . . .”
“Yes,” Isabella said quietly. “The damage is irrevocable. It is unfortunate.”
Mr. Fernyhough lowered his gaze to his clasped hands. His fingers were gripped tightly together. “I wish...” He swallowed and looked up and attempted a smile. “But it’s of no use.” He unclasped his hands, took a letter from his coat pocket, and extended the letter to her. “You may read it if you like, ma’am. There’s nothing improper.” He flushed again, faintly. “I just want to say goodbye to Harriet and... and wish her happy in the future.”
Isabella took the letter. She turned it over in her hands. “You’re certain you don’t want to see her?”
“I can’t,” Mr. Fernyhough said simply. “If Colonel Durham were to ask me...” He shook his head.
“A hot-tempered man?”
“Very.”
She had a vision of Mr. Fernyhough, his widowed mother, and countless brothers and sisters being turned out into the street.
If only. . .
Mr. Fernyhough stood and bowed. “Thank you, Lady Isabella. I’m more grateful than I can express.”
Inspiration struck as she rose to her feet. “I shall write to my brother, Mr. Fernyhough. He holds a number of livings in his gift. Perhaps, should one become vacant...”
Hope flared in Mr. Fernyhough’s face.
Isabella bit her lip. I shouldn’t have said that. What if there are none? And even if her brother had a vacant living, Mr. Fernyhough would still lack the colonel’s permission to marry Harriet. Although there was a solution to that problem: Gretna Green.
Isabella looked down at the letter in her hand. It was addressed to Harriet, care of Lady Isabella Knox, Clarges Street, London.
She glanced up at Mr. Fernyhough, suddenly uneasy. “The landlady gave you my name and direction?”
Mr. Fernyhough nodded.
Isabella bit her lip again. She looked down at the letter. Miss Harriet Durham, care of Lady Isabella Knox. “I had hoped... I sent a man to ensure she wouldn’t disclose the connection between Harriet and myself.”
“She didn’t release the information readily,” Mr. Fernyhough assured her. “It was only once I mentioned my vocation that she revealed she’d seen Harriet. Mrs. Botham is a very devout woman.”
Isabella pinched the letter tightly between her fingers. Dread crawled up her spine. She inhaled a deep breath and looked up at Mr. Fernyhough and smiled brightly. “I’ll give this to Harriet immediately.”
“Thank you.” Mr. Fernyhough bowed again.
Isabella opened the door. Voices came from the foyer. She recognized Major Reynolds’ baritone.
For a moment she stood frozen in panic, Mr. Fernyhough at her back, the letter in her hand, evidence of her guilt surrounding her—and then Lieutenant Mayhew’s familiar laugh floated along the corridor.
The kittens. They’re here for the kittens. Isabella released a shaky breath.
Mr. Fernyhough bowed once more, grateful and earnest, and took his leave. Isabella retreated into the drawing room. Her fingers trembled slightly as she hid the letter inside a book.
Her heart jerked at a knock on the door. She turned her head. A footman stood on the threshold. “Major Reynolds and Lieutenant Mayhew to see you, ma’am.”
“Thank you. I’ll be along in a minute.” She smiled and tried to speak calmly: “Can you please tell Miss Durham that we have more guests and that I desire her to stay with my cousin?”
“Certainly, ma’am.”
Isabella stood for a few moments, trying to steady her breathing. Then she smoothed her gown, arranged her lips into a smile, and went to greet her guests.