end?”
“I’m of the opinion that Mowbrey is an assumed name,” said the marchioness, “one taken merely for discretion’s sake, I hope.”
“An assumed name?”
The marchioness shrugged. “It’s a common ruse when a well-known gentleman is scouting about for a new mistress,” she said, “but it makes my scrutiny difficult. So if you find the gentleman acceptable, kindly hang a handkerchief out your window each evening. Just a few inches will do. It is but a small lodge in the countryside; there cannot be too many windows.”
“I expect not,” Isabella agreed. “But why?”
“If no handkerchief appears on a given night, Dillon will come to collect you the next morning,” the marchioness answered evenly. “He’s to say there’s been a death in your family—we could do nicely without Lady Meredith, could we not?—and you’re wanted immediately.”
“How extraordinary,” murmured Isabella.
“One cannot be too careful in such matters,” said the marchioness knowingly. “If Dillon is given any nonsense, the next face Mr. Mowbrey will see shall be mine.”
A silence fell across the shabby parlor, punctuated only by the clatter of bare branches beyond the window. “My lady,” Isabella finally said, “why are you doing all this for me?”
The marchioness flashed a wincing smile. “If I do not help you establish yourself, you’ll do it anyway, my dear, and make a hash of it,” she said. “And yet, if I get you into it, I feel it falls to me to get you out again. Moreover, I deeply dislike seeing intelligent women forced into poverty through the vindictiveness of men.”
“Lady Petershaw, my problems with Cousin Everett—the current Baron Tafford, I mean—are my own.”
The lady shrugged, then patted Isabella’s hand. “Now, you will write to me as soon as you have judged the man sane,” she reminded her. “If I’ve had no letter in that first fortnight, I will assume the worst—handkerchief or no.”
Isabella nodded. “In which case I can again expect my aunt’s demise?”
“Followed by my visit if you don’t turn up on my doorstep the next day,” Lady Petershaw added.
“Thank you,” said Isabella, bowing her head.
The marchioness flicked a glance at the clock on the mantelpiece. “I thought you should leave at once,” she said, “before dread sets in. Your trunks are already loaded—the brown one was full of books—and I assume you’ve a portmanteau?”
Isabella did, now filled with garments of lace, and even a bottle of perfume she would otherwise never have dared purchase. But the tools of her trade were no longer books and chalk, Isabella considered, but something altogether different.
“There’s little point burdening your horses with the brown trunk,” she said quietly. “Where I go now, I shall scarcely need schoolbooks.”
“No,” said the marchioness a little somberly. “No, you will not.”
Then she went to the front door, threw it open, and shouted at Dillon. “Bring in the brown one,” she commanded, “and carry it upstairs.”
Isabella gave a long, inward sigh.
Her journey into darkness had just begun.
CHAPTER 5
M r. Mowbrey’s rural lodge lay in a long, low wood a few miles northwest of Chesham, approached by means of a carriage drive lined by fieldstone walls to either side. Isabella looked about, disconcerted by how deep in the countryside they were.
Along the wall, the trees seemed to bow almost formally toward one another, forming a skeletal canopy of gray that would have been beautiful in the summer but now looked merely bleak. The lane was rutted, the center tufted with frostbitten grass, giving one the impression the road was rarely used. Isabella hung on to the strap, craning this way and that in hope of seeing some sign of civilization.
But there was nothing until, after some two miles, a clearing came suddenly into view and the lane simply ended. She looked out to see a pretty Georgian manor of red brick with an arbor
“I’m of the opinion that Mowbrey is an assumed name,” said the marchioness, “one taken merely for discretion’s sake, I hope.”
“An assumed name?”
The marchioness shrugged. “It’s a common ruse when a well-known gentleman is scouting about for a new mistress,” she said, “but it makes my scrutiny difficult. So if you find the gentleman acceptable, kindly hang a handkerchief out your window each evening. Just a few inches will do. It is but a small lodge in the countryside; there cannot be too many windows.”
“I expect not,” Isabella agreed. “But why?”
“If no handkerchief appears on a given night, Dillon will come to collect you the next morning,” the marchioness answered evenly. “He’s to say there’s been a death in your family—we could do nicely without Lady Meredith, could we not?—and you’re wanted immediately.”
“How extraordinary,” murmured Isabella.
“One cannot be too careful in such matters,” said the marchioness knowingly. “If Dillon is given any nonsense, the next face Mr. Mowbrey will see shall be mine.”
A silence fell across the shabby parlor, punctuated only by the clatter of bare branches beyond the window. “My lady,” Isabella finally said, “why are you doing all this for me?”
The marchioness flashed a wincing smile. “If I do not help you establish yourself, you’ll do it anyway, my dear, and make a hash of it,” she said. “And yet, if I get you into it, I feel it falls to me to get you out again. Moreover, I deeply dislike seeing intelligent women forced into poverty through the vindictiveness of men.”
“Lady Petershaw, my problems with Cousin Everett—the current Baron Tafford, I mean—are my own.”
The lady shrugged, then patted Isabella’s hand. “Now, you will write to me as soon as you have judged the man sane,” she reminded her. “If I’ve had no letter in that first fortnight, I will assume the worst—handkerchief or no.”
Isabella nodded. “In which case I can again expect my aunt’s demise?”
“Followed by my visit if you don’t turn up on my doorstep the next day,” Lady Petershaw added.
“Thank you,” said Isabella, bowing her head.
The marchioness flicked a glance at the clock on the mantelpiece. “I thought you should leave at once,” she said, “before dread sets in. Your trunks are already loaded—the brown one was full of books—and I assume you’ve a portmanteau?”
Isabella did, now filled with garments of lace, and even a bottle of perfume she would otherwise never have dared purchase. But the tools of her trade were no longer books and chalk, Isabella considered, but something altogether different.
“There’s little point burdening your horses with the brown trunk,” she said quietly. “Where I go now, I shall scarcely need schoolbooks.”
“No,” said the marchioness a little somberly. “No, you will not.”
Then she went to the front door, threw it open, and shouted at Dillon. “Bring in the brown one,” she commanded, “and carry it upstairs.”
Isabella gave a long, inward sigh.
Her journey into darkness had just begun.
CHAPTER 5
M r. Mowbrey’s rural lodge lay in a long, low wood a few miles northwest of Chesham, approached by means of a carriage drive lined by fieldstone walls to either side. Isabella looked about, disconcerted by how deep in the countryside they were.
Along the wall, the trees seemed to bow almost formally toward one another, forming a skeletal canopy of gray that would have been beautiful in the summer but now looked merely bleak. The lane was rutted, the center tufted with frostbitten grass, giving one the impression the road was rarely used. Isabella hung on to the strap, craning this way and that in hope of seeing some sign of civilization.
But there was nothing until, after some two miles, a clearing came suddenly into view and the lane simply ended. She looked out to see a pretty Georgian manor of red brick with an arbor
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