Page 3 of The Beloved Escapade

“There now,” Bessy said. “You are fit for company.”

Lucy stood. Her legs would not stay still. She skipped once, twice, and pressed her cold hands to her hot face.

“He is here, Bessy. He must be. Did you hear the door?”

Bessy’s mouth pulled a little at the corner. “I heard the door, aye.”

Lucy caught up her shawl, the soft cream one from Bath, and threw it around her shoulders and went out into the gallery.

The house was cold in the mornings until the fires had been going a while. She liked the feel of the worn carpet under her slippers as she went to the stair-head. Anticipation fizzed under her skin like a kettle coming to boil.

She put her hand on the balustrade and leaned over to listen.

Voices below. Papa’s voice. Raised. Papa never raised his voice.

“—at this hour? Are you certain?”

“I am, sir. He rode up not a quarter hour past. He says it is official business.”

Whitby the butler sounded as calm as ever.

“Show him into the study. At once. Have Cook send hot coffee.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And rouse your mistress. Ask her to come to me.”

A rustle of garments and the click of a door and then silence.

Lucy stood at the top of the stairs with her hand tight on the rail and thought.

An official messenger.

Papa was a barrister at the King’s Bench in London. London did not send official messengers to a country house at eight in the morning unless something bad had happened. She knew that from years of listening at doors when she should not. Messengers came for wills and injuries and lawsuits and sudden deaths and business failures.

Her stomach went tight and cold.

Then she remembered. Papa had told her only last week that a client was sending important papers about the Yorkshire estate that was in dispute. The courier might come any day. That must be it. Papa was startled, that was all. Uncle Henry would still come. He always came for her birthday. Uncle Henry could not be stopped by a messenger with papers.

Whitby returned to the study with the messenger, then left again.

Lucy went down the stairs.

The back study door was shut. The house felt too quiet. She thought about putting her ear to the door and then decided against it. Not on her birthday. Not with her hair up and the moss-green gown on and Uncle Henry due any minute. She would not be caught listening like a child of eight. She was grown now, even if her stomach did little flips thinking about what gift Uncle Henry would bring her today.

She turned in to the drawing room instead. A fire was burning up nicely there. She sat by the window that looked out on the front lawn and the drive curving away through the trees. From here, she would see any carriage long before it reached the house.

Her mother’s light footsteps moved swiftly down the hall, then the study door opened and clicked shut once more.

Lucy smoothed her skirts. Adjusted her shawl. Sat as if she had not been waiting at a window since before dawn.

The fire crackled. A clock struck somewhere. Nine.

Where are you, Uncle Henry?

The study door opened.

She heard the latch and the hinge and then footsteps in the hall. Two sets. Slower than usual. She half rose from the chair and then made herself sit back and fuss with the tassels on her shawl instead. It would not do to appear too eager. Papa always said a lady did not show eagerness, though Mama said a lady could do as she pleased in her own drawing room.