The Lie and the Lady by Kate Noble

it.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œHeavens, is that the time?” He glanced at the mantel clock. “I’ll have to excuse myself, m’dear. We have traveled so far today, and I’m badly in need of one of Mrs. Dillon’s poultices for my foot.”
    â€œSir Barty!” Leticia exclaimed, shocked.
    â€œNow, if I don’t attend to my foot, I will wake with it swollen, and then we shan’t be able to attend church in the morning. Which we need to do to have the banns read proper like.” He stood—with a modicum of difficulty—travel really was very hard on his gout—and came over and kissed the top of Leticia’s head. “I must beg you excuse me, m’dear. Give Cook my praise for supper—always enjoy her meat pies. I will see you in the morning.”
    And with that, he retrieved his cane from one of the manservants and exited in the same direction as his daughter.
    Abandoning Leticia at the dining room table with enough food to feed a small army and enough worries to keep her awake and fitful all night.
    Even though she hardly slept well, she was alert and at her ruthless best next morning. Today she would not allow herself to be seen at any disadvantage.
    Because today, she would be meeting the village of Helmsley.
    There was a very fine line one had to walk when being introduced to new surroundings. One wished to be seen as approachable, but as the Countess of Churzy, commanding a certain level of awe was expected. Indeed, some might be disappointed if she wasn’t sufficiently grand—how often does one meet a real, live countess in a tiny market town off the Lincolnshire Wolds?
    She chose her deep, curry-colored cambric gown—it brought out the hints of gold in her dark eyes, and paired with a gorgeous Indian shawl prompted thoughts of luxury . . . and hid the fact that the cut of the gown was a season or two behind the times. She pinned a straw hat to the top of her head—not a bonnet, no. Bonnets and their attendant fripperies hid her long neck, which was one of her best features. There were little clusters of cherries decorating the hat—just a pop of color, bringing out the red hints in the shawl and invoking the idea of warmth. Of vibrancy and humanity.
    And to remind everyone that this vibrant, warm human was in fact a countess, Leticia dug deep into her trunk and pulled out the only thing she had left from that time. Her sapphire wedding ring—saved from being hawked only by Sir Barty’s well-timed arrival in Paris. She put it on her right hand, polished it against her shawl, and let it sparkle.
    Konrad had left her with so little, but she would now make the most of all of it.
    She was downstairs ten minutes before anyone else. Ready to conquer the day and the town.
    Her punctuality was observed with surprise from Margaret—who came down precisely on time, wearing the same simple frock from the night before, with a neat blue spencer over it, and a practical, unadorned bonnet—and with delight from Sir Barty.
    â€œI knew I had chosen a good woman, but one that won’t keep me waiting for hours on end before we go out? You, m’dear, are priceless.” He placed a chaste peck on Leticia’s cheek as he led them out to the carriage, and she was satisfied to see the shock of it on Margaret’s face. But they were both widowed after all, not naive virgins blushing at the idea of holding hands. Best the girl got used to the idea.
    On the drive into town, Sir Barty peppered the carriage with facts about the people they would meet at the church—people, it seemed, he had known his entire life and knew every little detail of.
    â€œAnd that building there is owned by Mr. Fisher—who is not a fisherman, as you might have thought, but rather an attorney. He tried to be a puffed-up Londoner for a bit, but came back here when his father died and he inherited the building that now houses his solicitor