Page 77 of The Belle of Belgrave Square

But Mary wasn’t her friend.

Despite all her scolding, advice, and the occasional offering of a sympathetic ear, Mary was a paid servant. A skilled servant, but a servant nonetheless.

And as of this moment, she was a remnant of Julia’s past, right along with the fine house, the richly made clothes, and the gleaming coach-and-four.

Julia refused to grieve for any of it.

What awaited her in Yorkshire may not be elegant or luxurious. It may not be easy. But it would be real. And it would be hers.

“If that’s how you feel,” she said, “you may go. I’ll not stop you.”

Mary hovered by the bed. “It’s not too late for you to reconsider.”

Julia didn’t dignify the statement. Her mind was made up. “If you would pass me my reticule?”

Mary mutely obeyed, handing Julia the small embroidered purse with its drawstring of silken cord.

Julia opened it and withdrew several banknotes. “This should be enough to see you through while you’re seeking a new position.” She stretched the notes out to Mary. “If my parents refuse to give you a character, I’ll provide one. You need only write to me in Yorkshire at Goldfinch Hall.”

“Goldfinch Hall?” Mary’s brow furrowed as she took the money. “Doesn’t sound like a haunted house.”

“No, it doesn’t. And Mary?”

“Yes, miss?”

Julia’s stomach tightened with resolve. “I won’t be alone.”

Eighteen

Julia had often imagined her wedding. It was difficult not to when one was romantic-minded. The groom had been in doubt—she’d never had a specific face or figure of a man in mind—but her dream of the day itself had always been crystal clear.

There would be a church, naturally. Someplace pretty and bright with sun streaming in through tall stained glass windows. A kind vicar with rosy cheeks and a smile would stand at the end of the aisle beside Julia’s nameless, faceless future husband, and she’d walk up to meet them, clothed in white satin, with a veil of Honiton lace and a bouquet of orange blossoms.

“Like Queen Victoria,” Anne had remarked dryly when Julia had once described it to her.

As Lord Ridgeway’s carriage departed the small church in Camden, with its sagging gate and overgrown cemetery, Julia couldn’t help but wonder what her best friend would have made of the slapdash ceremony Julia had just participated in.

It had been nothing like her dream.

The church had been dark and dreary, the vicar as cross as a badger at having his tea interrupted, and the ceremony itself—witnessed by two of the vicar’s slatternly servants—had been less evident of romance than expedience.

Julia didn’t regret any of it.

From the moment Jasper had insisted on carrying her down the stairs of Lord Ridgeway’s house and into the waiting carriage, he’d been all that was solicitous. A kind and caring groom, even if he hadn’t kissed her when they were pronounced man and wife, and even if he was presently sitting beside her, looking as cross as the vicar had as he’d read the wedding ceremony from the Book of Common Prayer.

She rested her head against his shoulder, crushing the cluster of lilacs that adorned the side of her fashionable leghorn bonnet.

“Are you all right?” he asked gruffly.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Just dreadfully weary.”

His arm came around her as the carriage rolled through the street, jostling them against each other. “We’re not far from King’s Cross. Once we’re on the train, you can sleep all the way to York.”

Julia didn’t answer. It seemed too much of an effort to talk. It was only as the carriage was pulling up outside of the bustling railway station that she gave voice to a niggling doubt. “You don’t think it was bad luck, do you?”

Jasper didn’t need to ask what she meant.

When signing the register, she’d mistakenly used her new name: Julia Blunt. The curmudgeonly vicar had immediately stricken it out, commanding her to sign with her maiden name. Julia had done so, but not before one of the servants muttered the two damning words: Bad luck.