Page 98 of The Gentlewoman Companion

“It might be some hours before they emerge. I’ll not call them from their beds unless this is some emergency.” The housekeeper brought tea despite her apparent disapproval.

Louisa watched December fog lift from the street as it filled with life. The voices of peddlers vying for attention reached Louisa. “Oysters, rare meltin’ oysters,” shouted a woman balancing a huge basket of shells on her head. In a cheerful sing-song voice, an old man bellowed about watercress while pushing a cart of vegetables.

The cogs of the great metropolis turned, rousing its inhabitants, pulling them into the streets as partakers of the struggles and joys of daily life. Louisa wished to walk among them, unnoticed and unabashed. She longed to once more browse the shops with her mistress or ride beside Lord Halverton in a phaeton. But she could not disgrace the Halvertons by remaining the countess’s companion. Even if that kind woman begged her to stay, Louisa would not watch Lady Halverton be persecuted.

Havenwood was the answer. For the benefit of everyone she held dear, Louisa must retreat to the country. There, she would study and attempt to make sense of life. At Havenwood, she would learn to be industrious and purposeful. Most of all, she would not be alone or cast out, ignored or looked over, as she had been the previous evening at the ball.

Miss Fischer entered. “Louisa! What is wrong?”

“Oh! All is at an end.”

“Is Lady Halverton ill?”

“Nothing like that. Only I must tell you something.”

They moved to a pair of chairs near the fire, and Louisa told her story as Miss Fischer listened with palpable interest. “I wondered if you would have me at Havenwood. I would work, learn to cook. I’ll even learn Latin if I must.” As Louisa spoke, Miss Fischer’s brows pinched, and her eyes seemed to lower. A pit stretched in Louisa’s stomach. “Oh, Miss Fischer. Don’t look at me with pity. Compassion yes, but not that.”

“We cannot take you.”

“But where else will I go? I was led to believe Havenwood housed women like me.”

“We take women who are outcasts for circumstances outside their control—disabled women, women of illegitimate birth, women abandoned by cruel husbands. But society looks more harshly on women who have chosen ill fates and made their own mistakes. We depend on the generosity of benefactors who will not provide for us if we house the unworthy—or those perceived as such—to partake of their charity.”

Unworthy. Was that what she was? Louisa refused to accept the word. Misunderstood. Misguided. Impulsive. All of that. But if she had learned a singular truth in her time as Lady Halverton’s companion, it was that she was a person of value. She held the capacity to learn and invent original ideas. She had tried to improve her decorum and poise, had abandoned her Cornish accent and grown confident in expressing her opinion. She was unafraid to jump a horse or steer a racing carriage. Did all this not indicate the value of her person?

Miss Fischer was still speaking, and Louisa tried focus.

“…learn to stand alone, make your own way. Take responsibility for what you’ve done and go home to your father.”

Her father, who had rejected her? “I cannot. I will never.” She withdrew her handkerchief and pressed it to her eyes.

“Save your energy and push forward.” Miss Fischer patted Louisa’s arm. “What family do you have? What resources?”

Louisa did not wish to live with her father and brother, and Aunt Mary and Mr. Fletcher were in Ireland, a place too far to consider. Cousin Sophia might take her, but she lived too close to Father. But…Stillwater Cottage, a place that reminded her of her mother’s love and safety.

“…never should have hid Miss Cron’s illegitimacy. I believe if we had not tried to conceal it, she would have grown accustomed to the disgrace.”

“Accustomed to disgrace?”

“People would have become used to it. Take Mr. Peasley as an example. He is the illegitimate son of a Duke.”

“Well, none of my relations are members of the peerage!” This discussion offered Louisa no relevant guidance. Miss Fischer’s lack of compassion was disappointing. “You suggest I inform everyone I meet that I attempted an elopement?”

“Don’t be angry, Louisa. I do not propose you broadcast your error, but you do need to accept it. Stop running from it. Take responsibility. Only then will you be free.”

“Walk on,” Louisa told Nimbus, guiding him around a bend into a lively, impoverished, unfamiliar part of town, but she was not afraid. There was nothing left to fear.

A woman with a tray of baked goods shouted directly at Louisa, “Hot buns! Sticky buns.”

Louisa’s reticule weighed against her thigh. She pulled it out, concealing the remainder of the jeweler’s payment as best she could, and found a farthing. Without dismounting, she purchased a sticky bun but could not eat. For what anguish awaited at Grosvenor Square?

Remaining with Lady Halverton was unthinkable. She would not be able to endure it if, after some period of enduring ridicule, Lady Halverton buckled under society’s pressure and cast Louisa out. And James had appeared almost ill the night before. When she’d faced him in the doorway, his curled upper lip had told her more than words ever could—every trace of tenderness he might have once held for her had withered into contempt.

The loss of his admiration struck like shards of glass to her chest. She pressed her hands against the piercing ache, attempting to stem a pain impossible to soothe. Too sharp to hold, too heavy to cast aside, she fought against the urge to crumple under its force and commanded her mind to concentrate on what her next step must be—to look to the future, as Miss Fischer advised.

In the distance, a conglomeration of masts emerged. It looked like home. She led Nimbus toward the Thames, doing her best to ignore the terrible smell that grew upon approach. The Pool of London, the heart of London’s port, bustled around her. She continued aimlessly, striving to tame the tumult of her thoughts.

Louisa was not entirely without resources. The money that remained in her reticule would help her start anew at Stillwater; why had she wasted a coin on a hot bun when she ought to be saving every farthing? Although the idea of living in a small cottage held little appeal, somehow, she felt her mother might meet her there, or at least memories of her. She could not think of Stillwater without remembering her mother—their walks into town, afternoons at the beach, mornings gathering wildflowers around the cottage. Every time they had visited the market, they’d dropped a leaf at one side of the bridge and waited for it at the other. The urge to return to Stillwater seemed to come from her mother, an invitation home where consolation waited.