The Cinderella Countess. Sophia James
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in the preparation of his sister’s medicines.
Pulling the three pounds he had ready from his pocket, he offered them to her.
‘If it is too much I quite understand,’ she said, but he shook his head.
‘I can afford it, Miss Smith, and I am grateful that you would consent to attending my sister at such short notice.’
The same velvet purse he had seen yesterday came out of her pocket, the notes carefully tucked within it.
‘It will be useful to buy more supplies for those who cannot pay. There are many such folk here.’
‘You have lived in this house for a while?’
‘We have, your lordship. It is rented, but it is home.’
‘Yet you do not speak with the accent of the East End?’
She looked away, distracted as the same woman he had seen yesterday joined them, busy fingers tying the ribbons on her bonnet.
‘This is my friend, Mrs Rosemary Greene.’
‘We met briefly yesterday. Ma’am.’ He tipped his head and the older woman blushed dark red, but was saved from answering as Annabelle Smith caught at her arm and shepherded her towards the conveyance. When the footman helped each of them up Miss Smith took a deep breath, giving Lytton the impression she did not much wish to get in. He took the seat opposite them as the door closed, listening to the horses being called on.
‘Did you ever read the fairy tale Cendrillon by Charles Perrault, your lordship?’ Her dimples were on display, picked out by the incoming sunshine.
‘I did, Miss Smith.’
‘Your carriage reminds me of that. Ornate and absurdly comfortable.’
‘You read it in French?’
‘When I was a child I lived in France for a time with my aunt.’
The traffic at this time of the morning was busy and they were travelling so slowly it seemed as if all of London was on the road.
The silence inside the carriage lengthened, their last exchange throwing up questions. She did not give the impression of one born abroad for her words held only the accent of English privilege and wealth. How could that be?
He hoped like hell that any of his extended family would not converge on his town house this morning, for he wanted to allow Miss Smith some time to talk with his sister by herself. His mother would be present, of course, but she was lost in her own sadness these days and appeared befuddled most of the time. Today such confusion would aid him.
It was as if Lucy’s sickness had ripped the heart out of the Thorntons and trampled any happiness underfoot. It was probably why he had taken up with Susan Castleton to be honest, Lytton thought, her sense of devil-may-care just the attitude he had needed to counter the constant surge of melancholy.
Miss Smith was watching the passing streets with interest, her fingers laced together and still. When they went around a sharp corner, though, as their speed increased he saw her grasp at the seat beneath her, each knuckle white.
‘It is perfectly safe. My driver is one of the most skilled in London.’
Blue eyes washed over him and then looked back to the outside vistas.
‘People more usually come to see me, your lordship.’
‘You don’t use hackneys, then?’
‘Never.’
This was stated in such a way that left little room for debate and Mrs Greene caught his eye as he frowned, an awkward worry across her face.
Portman Square was now coming into view, the façade of his town house standing on one corner. He hoped that Annabelle Smith would not be flustered by the wealth of it, for in comparison to her living quarters in Whitechapel it suddenly looked enormous.
As they alighted an expression unlike any he had ever seen briefly crossed her face. Shock, he thought, and pure horror, her pallor white and the pulse at her throat fast. His hand reached out to take her arm as he imagined she might simply faint.
‘Are you well, Miss Smith?’
He saw the comprehension of what she had shown him reach her eyes, her shoulders stiffening, but she did not let him go, her fingers grabbing at the material of his jacket.
Then the door opened and his mother stood there, black fury on her face.
‘You cannot bring your doxies into this house, Thornton. I shall simply not allow it. Your valet has told me you were in the company of one of your mistresses, Mrs Castleton, last night and now you dare to bring in these two this morning. Your father, bless his soul, would be rolling in his grave and as for your sister...’
She stopped and twisted a large kerchief, dabbing at her nose as she left them, a discomfited silence all around.
‘I am sorry. My mother is not herself.’
It was all he could think to say, the fury roiling inside him pressed down. He needed Annabelle Smith to see his sister, that was his overriding thought, and he would deal with his mother’s unexpected accusations when he could.
* * *
The Earl of Thornton kept mistresses and his mother thought she and Rosemary were fallen woman? The haze of seeing the Thornton town house dispersed under such a ludicrous assassination of her character and if there had not been a patient inside awaiting she would have simply insisted upon being taken home.
This behaviour was so common with the very wealthy, this complete and utter disregard for others, and if the Earl had somehow inveigled her into thinking differently then the more fool she.
It was why Belle had always made it a policy to never do business with the aristocracy, her few very early forays into providing remedies for the wealthy ending in disaster. They either did not pay or they looked down their noses at her. However, she’d had none of the overt hatred shown by the Earl’s mother.
Well, here at least she had already been paid, the three-pound fee tucked firmly into her purse.
The Earl looked furious, the muscles in his jaw working up and down and as they entered into the entrance proper he asked them if they might wait for just a moment.
‘Yes of course, your lordship.’ As Rosemary answered she drew Annabelle over to a set of comfortable-looking armchairs arranged around a table, a vase of pastel-shaded flowers upon it that were made of dyed silk.
Belle sat in a haze, the smell of polish and cleaning product in the air. Everything was as familiar as it was strange and she could not understand this at all. She had seen a house just like this one in her dreams: the winding staircase, the black and white tiles, the numerous doors that led off the entrance hall to elaborately dressed and furnished salons, portraits of the past arranged solemnly on the walls up and down the staircase.
‘What on earth is wrong with you, Belle? You look like you have seen a ghost.’
‘I think I have.’
‘I cannot believe the Earl’s mother would have thought we were doxies.’ Rose looked horrified as she rearranged the red and green scarf draped about her neck into a more concealing style.
‘She has probably never seen one before and I suppose we dress differently from the people who live around here.’
Belle hoped the woman would not return to find them again just as she prayed she could have asked for her coat and hat and left.
But she’d been paid well for a consultation and the carriage outside had rumbled on already down the street. Their only avenue of escape was the Earl. He suddenly came down the passageway to one side, another servant accompanying him.
‘My sister’s suite is this way. There is a sitting room just outside if Mrs Greene would feel comfortable waiting there.’
Rose