“Well, I can see you would prefer not to tell,” Emilia said, sounding a little defensive. “But please remember you can always call on me should you wish to. I always want to know if aught upsets you.”
“Thank you, Emilia,” Hestony replied. She wanted to cry. She knew she was hurting her friend by refusing to discuss the problem, but she didn’t even have words to try. It wasn’t a problem, as her mother pointed out. She should be glad!
“I’ll ride back now,” Emilia said gently. “The coach is waiting – I dropped in to ask you if you’d like to come back with me for tea.”
“Thank you,” Hestony said softly. “But I think it’s best if I stay here. I have a lot to think about.”
“Yes, of course.”
Hestony said her farewells to Emilia, and then turned to the window, watching the fields again. She felt a tear track down her cheek and brushed it away.
She hadn’t been alone for long before she heard footsteps in the hallway. It sounded like her mother, and she headed swiftly out, not wanting to risk another confrontation. As it was, a few minutes later, while she sat in the drawing-room trying to practice her new piece, she heard her mother’s step on the floor.
“Hestony?”
She felt her fingers tense and lowered her hands to her lap. No conversation with her mother was easy, and right now it was more likely to be difficult than neutral. She swallowed hard and looked up to face her. She was leaning on the chair, her face surprisingly-peaceful.
“Mother?” Hestony asked.
“Hestony. I wanted to tell you that Lord Osburne left his card. A very personable fellow.” She handed her the card, as if Hestony might want it.
Hestony took it woodenly, putting it on top of the pianoforte, where the Mozart piece she was practicing also reposed.
“I know this has come as a surprise,” her mother said carefully. “But you can see the advantages, I think?”
Hestony felt her throat close. “Yes,” she whispered. “I am aware of them.”
“What is it?” her mother sounded impatient. “You’re acting as if I’ve done something terrible! I only came to bring you good news, you know.”
Hestony stared at her. How could she possibly fail to know? In one or two sentences, she had robbed her of everything! And now she came to reinforce her reasons for doing it? As if Hestony needed to be reminded that there was only one thing this was about?
“You’re not my mother,” Hestony said tensely.
“What?” Lady Hartfield’s voice was high. “You ungrateful child! What is the meaning of that?”
“You don’t care about me, do you?” Hestony said under her breath. She was already halfway down the hall. “I’ve never wanted to see it. But now I can’t hide.”
She got back to her bedchamber and threw herself on the bed, having locked the door swiftly. She heard knocking on it, but she stayed where she was, silent, until she heard footsteps retreat away from her.
She felt her fingers uncurl from the card she still held. She looked down at it as if it was poisonous. She didn’t want to have anything to do with it. She resisted the urge to put it in the fire. Instead she put it in her desk and shut it tight.
“I hate him,” she whispered.
Thoughts of that cool, smooth voice twined through her thoughts, making her skin crawl. Of all the people she had ever met, Lord Osburne disconcerted her the most. She couldn’t quite say why, save that, whenever she looked into his eyes, she could discern no expression there. No interest, no smile. Only the same bland, cool expression that permeated his voice.
She hated him, and Mama had granted him permission to court her! Something she’d denied Hal for months! It was more than cruel.
“I should tell Emilia,” she murmured.
But what good would that do? Telling Emilia would mean having to share the whole sorry tale of their finances. And that would worry her, and could take a toll on the baby. No, it was best if as few people as possible knew. Hal knew.
He will come to understand.
Emilia might say he was upset, but surely, he would have the wit to realize that this was her only escape from poverty? She had to do something, after all.
No other choice made sense. Lord Osburne was their way out of the mess. It was also possible that life with him would be bearable – he was probably most often in London, or with his hunting. He could probably keep himself occupied for days. She could live in his house and have her mother safe in the dower-house and know that everybody would be safe until they died.
She just wished she didn’t have to do this.
Thoughts of their finances led her to go downstairs to discuss the matter of the party. The housekeeper must have an inkling that they were not able to afford what they could. It would be ridiculous to spend a fortune entertaining guests when they had no money for it.
“Mrs. Brookes?” she called as she tiptoed to the servants’ hallway. “Is she here?”
The cook looked up from the table as Hestony stuck her head around the kitchen door. The kitchen was dark, lit only by the glowing embers and a small, high window behind net curtains. Hestony breathed in the scent of spices and reused tea-leaves and let her eyes adjust to the gloom.
Mrs. Henderley, the cook, was sitting with the housekeeper at the table, a big pot of something steaming on the table between them. Mrs. Brookes stood.
“Good afternoon, My Lady.”
“I’m, um, here to discuss the meal for tomorrow’s soiree,” she said, feeling awkward. It was rare that she took part in any of the household organizing – her mother tended to act as if she might cause more harm than good by her involvement, and until recently, she’d believed it.
“Of course, My Lady,” Mrs. Brookes said, glancing at the cook. “Give us the table, will you, Marjorie?”
The cook stood and reluctantly left. Hestony sat down opposite Mrs. Brookes, feeling oddly nervous. The whole place was new – she had paid few enough visits to the kitchen at Hartfield, and she’d never been down to this one before. She peered around, focusing on Mrs. Brookes and the menu.
“Your mother said we should do quince pies and braised poultry, and those little petit-fours that Cook did last year for the first ball of the season…”
“I think we can do less of the poultry,” Hestony commented, underlining the figure written on the page. “I will speak to my mother and request that the guest-list is reduced slightly.”
“My Lady?” Mrs. Brookes stared as if she had committed some grave heresy. “You are sure?”
“I’m certain,” Hestony said, her voice tense. Her mother might be forcing her into hellish bondage, but she was not about to let her waste their last resources.