things, I suppose,” she said, swiftly twitching the braid back and forth. “I will simply have to catalog them, Jemma, not carry them round in my pockets.”
“Well, you don’t look like a governess,” said Jemima, “or a librarian, or whatever it is you’re going to be.”
The ugly word Lady Petershaw had used flashed through Isabella’s mind.
But she must not think of that now. She must think only of all the back rent she had just paid, and of the monstrous goose Mrs. Barbour had just hung in the larder.
“Promise me, Georgie, that you will behave for Mrs. Barbour,” Isabella said, reaching for the comb, “and for Jemma, too. I’m counting on you both. Help wash and clear after dinner, please, and clean your teeth without being asked.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the girls in unison.
“I hope you will like Mr. Mowbrey,” Jemima added more hopefully, “and that he’ll give you lots of time to write home.”
“Of course he will,” said Isabella, “so long as I get the cataloging done.”
But Isabella deeply disliked misleading the girls, and the notion that had seemed so tolerable a few days ago in Lady Petershaw’s withdrawing room had begun to feel more like a trip to the gallows.
“Am I done?” Georgina craned her head back.
Isabella snatched the last ribbon and tied it. “Yes, off to school with you,” she said, giving the girl a little scoot. “Quick, kiss me. Oh, have you your reader and copybook?”
“I left it in the kitchen.” Hastily, the child gave Isabella one last peck on the cheek. “Love you, love you, love you, Bella!” she said, darting out and down the stairs, her tiny footsteps light.
But Jemima was still sitting on the edge of the bed, one coltish leg dangling. “I like your hat,” she said in a voice that was uncomfortably grown-up. “That shade of aubergine becomes you.”
“Thank you, Jemma.” Isabella stood and smoothed her hands down her skirts. “I like it, too.”
The carriage dress of aubergine velvet had come with Lady Petershaw’s letter, along with a faintly frivolous velvet hat with a dramatically curling black feather. Isabella had recognized both as having belonged to the marchioness. And while the ensemble was by no means outré, it was the sort of thing Isabella had not worn in a very long while.
“You look glamorous, Bella, as you used to do at Thornhill,” said Jemima quietly. “Before all the gray, when I was very little.”
Isabella wanted to stroke the child’s hair and tell her that she was still little. That she was a good, sweet child who deserved to be protected from the world’s harsh realities. But the realities already told in Jemima’s fraying cuffs and in the disquiet that shadowed her eyes.
“It is going to be all right, Jemma,” said Isabella, bending over to tuck a loose lock of hair behind the girl’s ear. “I promise. Things are looking up for us.”
Just then there was a harsh tattoo upon the door. “She’s come, Mrs. Aldridge,” said Mrs. Barbour through the planks. “I daresay you’d best go down.”
Isabella tipped up Jemima’s chin. “I’m off, then, my love,” she said. “I wish I did not have to ask you to look after your sister, but I do.”
It was a dance they had done a score of times before. Jemima slid off the bed and silently hugged her.
“I can do it, Bella,” she finally said.
“I know,” Isabella whispered into the girl’s hair. “I’m counting on you. And thank you.”
There was little more to be said. After a moment, Isabella released her stepsister, blinking back an unexpected tear. “Well, then,” she managed. “Don’t be late for school.”
Then, before she began to cry in earnest, Isabella turned and went out the door to find Mrs. Barbour still standing there.
“I shall say it again, miss,” the elderly cook grumbled, handing her the marchioness’s ivory calling card, “but I don’t like the sound of this business.”
“Oh, pray do not scold me,
“Well, you don’t look like a governess,” said Jemima, “or a librarian, or whatever it is you’re going to be.”
The ugly word Lady Petershaw had used flashed through Isabella’s mind.
But she must not think of that now. She must think only of all the back rent she had just paid, and of the monstrous goose Mrs. Barbour had just hung in the larder.
“Promise me, Georgie, that you will behave for Mrs. Barbour,” Isabella said, reaching for the comb, “and for Jemma, too. I’m counting on you both. Help wash and clear after dinner, please, and clean your teeth without being asked.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the girls in unison.
“I hope you will like Mr. Mowbrey,” Jemima added more hopefully, “and that he’ll give you lots of time to write home.”
“Of course he will,” said Isabella, “so long as I get the cataloging done.”
But Isabella deeply disliked misleading the girls, and the notion that had seemed so tolerable a few days ago in Lady Petershaw’s withdrawing room had begun to feel more like a trip to the gallows.
“Am I done?” Georgina craned her head back.
Isabella snatched the last ribbon and tied it. “Yes, off to school with you,” she said, giving the girl a little scoot. “Quick, kiss me. Oh, have you your reader and copybook?”
“I left it in the kitchen.” Hastily, the child gave Isabella one last peck on the cheek. “Love you, love you, love you, Bella!” she said, darting out and down the stairs, her tiny footsteps light.
But Jemima was still sitting on the edge of the bed, one coltish leg dangling. “I like your hat,” she said in a voice that was uncomfortably grown-up. “That shade of aubergine becomes you.”
“Thank you, Jemma.” Isabella stood and smoothed her hands down her skirts. “I like it, too.”
The carriage dress of aubergine velvet had come with Lady Petershaw’s letter, along with a faintly frivolous velvet hat with a dramatically curling black feather. Isabella had recognized both as having belonged to the marchioness. And while the ensemble was by no means outré, it was the sort of thing Isabella had not worn in a very long while.
“You look glamorous, Bella, as you used to do at Thornhill,” said Jemima quietly. “Before all the gray, when I was very little.”
Isabella wanted to stroke the child’s hair and tell her that she was still little. That she was a good, sweet child who deserved to be protected from the world’s harsh realities. But the realities already told in Jemima’s fraying cuffs and in the disquiet that shadowed her eyes.
“It is going to be all right, Jemma,” said Isabella, bending over to tuck a loose lock of hair behind the girl’s ear. “I promise. Things are looking up for us.”
Just then there was a harsh tattoo upon the door. “She’s come, Mrs. Aldridge,” said Mrs. Barbour through the planks. “I daresay you’d best go down.”
Isabella tipped up Jemima’s chin. “I’m off, then, my love,” she said. “I wish I did not have to ask you to look after your sister, but I do.”
It was a dance they had done a score of times before. Jemima slid off the bed and silently hugged her.
“I can do it, Bella,” she finally said.
“I know,” Isabella whispered into the girl’s hair. “I’m counting on you. And thank you.”
There was little more to be said. After a moment, Isabella released her stepsister, blinking back an unexpected tear. “Well, then,” she managed. “Don’t be late for school.”
Then, before she began to cry in earnest, Isabella turned and went out the door to find Mrs. Barbour still standing there.
“I shall say it again, miss,” the elderly cook grumbled, handing her the marchioness’s ivory calling card, “but I don’t like the sound of this business.”
“Oh, pray do not scold me,
Similar Books
