A Lady of Esteem (7 page)

Anthony took Amelia’s hands in his own. “Your hand does go on my shoulder.” His voice was low, causing Amelia to lean in to hear him. “Mine rests at your back. I hold your right hand in mine.”

Amelia stared at their joined hands. How long since she’d been in the arms of a male? Fenton had never been much for hugging, but he had stopped entirely when she turned fifteen. She had forgotten the sensation of being protected and cared for that a man’s arms could project.

“Now we twirl about the room.” Anthony began to hum a tune.

He guided Amelia in the steps of the waltz, occasionally correcting the placement of her feet. “No, when I step in this direction, you will step to the other side and our arms will meet here, above our heads.”

Amelia tried to follow and ended up stepping on her own foot. As she strove to catch herself, her toe caught and shifted her slipper off of her heel. The following step sent the slipper skittering across the floor to bump against the wall.

She froze, staring at the offending shoe, unsure what the correct etiquette was for returning a slipper to one’s foot when in the presence of a man. “I believe, my lord, that I am destined to embarrass myself at every one of our meetings.”

Sighing, she maneuvered herself into the corner of the wall, holding her skirts to retain her modesty while she wiggled her foot back into her slipper. When she turned to face him, Anthony was grinning.

And alone. When had Miss Ryan and Fenton left the room?

“Perhaps we should try a quadrille. As you stated, you are unlikely to dance the waltz at your first ball.”

For the next hour, Anthony instructed Amelia on the basic steps of London’s more popular dances. While she would hardly shine as the most graceful woman in the ballroom, if she were asked to dance Thursday, she felt that she would indeed be able to execute the basic steps without crashing into too many people.

“Thank you, for a delightful afternoon.” Anthony accepted his hat and coat from Fenton, whose immediate appearance proved her servants hadn’t left her quite as alone as she’d thought.

“It is I who should thank you,” Amelia said. “If you had not come by, anyone seeing me dance Thursday would have immediately labeled me a provincial.”

“Anyone seeing you dance Thursday will be too busy being jealous of the gentleman you partner to worry about you missing a step or two.” He lifted her hand in his and brushed a light kiss over her fingers.

Amelia blushed once more, amazed she hadn’t caught fire in the past hour and a half, with the many compliments the marquis gave her. He must think her complexion was permanently flushed. With one last look into her eyes, Anthony donned his hat and hopped lightly down the stairs to the sidewalk.

Despite the bleakness of the next morning, Amelia’s spirits remained high. How could they not after the most amazing week of her life?

She rushed through her breakfast, anxious to put together a tray for Miss Ryan. Sometime in the night, the older woman had become quite ill. She would probably be in bed for days, but even that didn’t faze Amelia.

It was doubtful that Miss Ryan would be able to partake of anything more than tea, but Amelia loaded the tray with toast and a warmed mug of broth as well.

A loud knock echoed through the house as she crossed the hall to the main staircase. Fenton rushed by her to answer it. Though she was curious to see who would be calling this early in the morning in dismal weather, the tray was getting heavy and she still had to climb the stairs with it. She didn’t wait.

“May I help you, sir?” Fenton asked.

Amelia shook her head at the mix of condescension and graciousness in his voice. He was getting much better at answering the door of late. After seeing Anthony out the day before he’d claimed to be fitting in with the rest of the upper-crust butlers.

The rasp of hacking coughs greeted her as she shouldered her way into Miss Ryan’s room.

“Tea. Bless you!” Miss Ryan flopped back against her pillows, fever making her look pale and flushed at the same time.

“I brought some broth and toast as well. Perhaps you can stop coughing long enough to partake.” Amelia set the tray on the small writing desk and set about preparing Miss Ryan’s tea. She was handing Miss Ryan the cup when Fenton appeared in the doorway.

“Miss Amelia? There is a solicitor downstairs to see you.”

A solicitor? Here? What on earth for? She glanced to the window, now streaked with rain. “Oh my, he must be soaked. I’ll grab a blanket as I go down. Miss Ryan, I shall return as soon as possible. Fenton, please ask Mrs. Harris to come help Miss Ryan finish her soup.”

“Right away, ma’am.”

Amelia grabbed a blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed before scurrying down the stairs. A solicitor. Had he been sent by the viscount? Was he there to give her instructions on vacating the property by her birthday?

She bustled into the drawing room with part of her mind still abovestairs with Miss Ryan. The companion’s discomfort was a more immediate, though significantly less permanent, problem than the viscount’s cessation of support.

Awaiting her in the drawing room was a very short, very round man wearing round spectacles. Round water droplets ran slowly down his round top hat to splash in small round dots on the worn rug at his feet.

She extended the blanket. He didn’t take it.

“My name is Mr. Alexander Bates of the offices of Chandler, Bates, and Holmes. I need to speak with the personage in charge on a very important legal matter.” The man pulled himself up to his greatest height—which put him at the same height as Amelia’s nose—and made every attempt to appear as important as possible.

“I am in charge.” Amelia clutched the blanket to her chest. Dear Lord, help them. He was going to kick them all out immediately.

“Ah, the governess.”

“I beg your pardon?” She had thought of becoming a governess but as of yet hadn’t even applied for any such position. Had one of her friends taken it upon themselves to find her a position?

“The governess,” he repeated.

“The governess?”

The man harrumphed loudly. “For the child.”

“The child?” What was he talking about?

Mr. Bates looked very grim. Amelia thought about offering him the blanket again, but it didn’t appear as if he realized he was wet. Perhaps he had the wrong house.

“While it is no nevermind to me if a person hires those who are lacking in wits, you can be sure I will relay this exchange to the heir.” He snapped a packet of papers from his greatcoat pocket and held them in front of his eyes.

Heir? Oh no.
A sinking feeling hit Amelia in the stomach. If there were an heir, then that had to mean—

“On behalf of Chandler, Bates, and Holmes, I would like to extend heartfelt condolences for your recent loss.” The little man’s voice held no emotion as he read from the papers.

Amelia felt her jaw slacken. He was going to call her a lackwit and then carry on delivering his message without any explanation or apology?

The truth of her changed circumstances began to sink in. Amelia dropped into the closest chair. A soft
whoosh
hit her ears as the blanket fell to the floor. What was going to happen to them all now?

“As I am sure you are aware, there was no direct heir. An extensive tracing of the family tree has located the next male relation and he has been notified of his inheritance. He has agreed to take up the wardship of one Miss Amelia Stalwood, age eleven . . .” Here Mr. Bates paused and glanced up. “Though I suppose she might be twelve now.” He looked back down at his papers. “Regardless, the care of Miss Amelia Stalwood has been taken up by the new holder of the title.

“The heir has arranged for the child to live with his mother and stepfather at their estate in Essex until further arrangements are made. He wishes to place her with his family as soon as possible to help her deal with her grief. You and the child are to depart at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Amelia felt cold and pale. She never knew someone could actually feel pale. She couldn’t leave tomorrow. The ball was tomorrow. She didn’t want to leave London at all! There must be a way to delay their departure. “There is an engagement tomorrow—”

“Your comfort matters not.” The little man frowned, the first emotion he shown since he arrived. “He wishes the child stabilized immediately. It is your job to see that she is prepared.”

Were Amelia actually a child, she would likely appreciate the sentiment.

But she wasn’t a child. “I am not eleven.”

The man frowned. “I should hope not.”

“Amelia Stalwood is not eleven. Nor is she twelve. I’m afraid your information is outdated.”

He looked at his papers, as if he couldn’t fathom being wrong. “She is still here, isn’t she? The papers indicate she is to remain under the guardianship of Lord Stanford until she reaches the age of one and twenty.”

She could lie. Add a few months to her age and be free. But honesty was a trait that God praised, wasn’t it? Mrs. Bummel had always thought so. Would He honor her honesty? “Yes, I still live here, and—”

Mr. Bates continued as soon as he heard an affirmative answer. “The quarterly allowance will be adjusted accordingly for the departure of the ward and the governess. Further arrangements for the house will be made at a later date.”

Mr. Bates tipped his hat in Amelia’s direction, placed his stack of papers back into his coat, and exited the room, stepping on the blanket that had fallen from her cold fingers. He had never even taken a seat.

Amelia ran after him. “But, I—”

“Nine o’clock tomorrow. Good day.”

And then he was gone, leaving the drawing room before Amelia could draw in a breath.

“Sir, I insist you stop.” She chased the solicitor into the hall. “There’s been a misunderstanding and it must be corrected.”

He paused with his hand on the door latch, condescension and exasperation in every line on his round face. “We have established that Amelia Stalwood is not yet of age. Therefore she is bound by her guardian’s wishes. I have done my job by delivering the message despite this dreadful weather. If you have further problems, I suggest you take them up with the new guardian. Good day.”

He opened the door enough to slip from the house and slammed it behind him, as if he were afraid she’d chase him out into the street.

Rain continued to pelt the window, seeming to echo the words of the departed solicitor.
“Amelia Stalwood,
age eleven . . .”

She knew that the viscount never loved her, did not even think much of her. But to have meant so little to him that once she was out of his sight neither he nor his solicitors remembered that she would continue to age?

Tears were inevitable. Once the shock wore off, the hurt and fear would remain. She would curl into a little ball and feel the pain. But she welcomed her current numbness more than she would have ever imagined.

Placing one foot in front of the other, she trudged up the stairs and into Miss Ryan’s room, where she found the entirety of her little servant family. Lydia, the parlor maid, was changing Miss Ryan’s
sweat-soaked sheets. Mrs. Harris was trying to convince Miss Ryan to take one of her homemade remedies. Fenton was replacing the chamber pot. Miss Ryan must have cast up the soup Amelia had coaxed her into eating.

All activity stopped as Amelia stood in the doorway. How awful did she look? She felt small and thin, a piece of parchment poised to blow away in the wind. All three able-bodied servants began to rush toward her until Amelia held up her hand.

She looked into the face of everyone in the room before speaking again. “Lord Stanford has passed away. A carriage will arrive to carry me to my new guardian in the morning. Miss Ryan can follow once she is well.” If she needed to come at all. Perhaps Amelia could secure a position and Miss Ryan could seek work in London, where their connections could work in her favor. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to pack.”

Amelia did not meet anyone’s eyes as she turned and walked down the corridor to her own room.

It would not take her long to pack all that she considered her own. She had little left from her parents and had no reason to acquire many personal objects to remember life in London.

The new pink ball gown hung on the outside of the closet, reminding her of how close she’d come to a different life. There was nothing to do now but pack it up and let it remind her of the joyful moments.

More than anything, Amelia wished for the courage to stay, but there was little doubt she would be supporting herself soon. As soon as her true age was revealed to the new viscount, she’d be looking for work.

It would be better to find work in Essex. London held too many reminders of what almost was. Once away from those remembrances, she could be happy. She would make herself be happy.

A deep, steadying breath filled her lungs. As it whooshed out again, she wiped her hands firmly down the front of her skirt. Clothing wasn’t going to pack itself. There was much to do before the carriage arrived in the morning, and she still had to help take care of Miss Ryan.

Lydia appeared and began folding and packing Amelia’s few dresses in a trunk. “Why do you have to go?” Lydia whispered.

“I have no way of supporting myself if I don’t go. I confess I thought that I had months before facing the day I would be on my own. We were so ignored here, away from Lord Stanford’s books and studies, I thought I would be able to ease into making my own way in the world. I’m afraid I’m at the mercy of the new viscount.”

Lydia’s grin was as shaky as it was cheeky. “Maybe he’ll be young and single. The marquis seemed to like you well enough. A viscount’s not as good, but he’d be able to support you right and proper.”

Amelia threw a pillow at her friend. The beginnings of a smile reached the edges of her lips. With a shake of her head she turned back to the trunk.

Silence remained as they finished packing, but the air felt a little lighter.