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“Flatterer.” Her eyes narrowed. “You must want something from me. Maybe we can trade. My granddaughter for…?”
“I’m here, in fact, to inquire about the past. You were friends with Miss Abigail Troworth, were you not?”
“I was. I still miss her.”
“She had a companion. A young girl. She would have been around fifteen at the time.”
“No.” Mrs. Wallace shook her head. “She absolutely didn’t.”
“Perhaps she would not have brought her about everywhere. But I am positive that Lady Camilla Worth was her companion.”
“Angela Burbury was her companion, and she was fifty years of age.” Mrs. Wallace frowned. “But… Camilla? Lady Camilla?”
“Yes.”
Her frown deepened. “Tall thing? Skinny? Freckled? Dark hair, brown eyes?”
“Yes,” Christian said. “So you do know her.”
“She had a lady’s maid named Camilla,” Mrs. Wallace returned. “Something of a maid-of-all-work, actually. But not a lady. Surely not a lady, for all she could ape proper speech.”
Christian didn’t say anything.
“Camilla Worth. Oh, dear. That was the family name of the Earl of Linney, was it not? That…unfortunate one who…”
She looked over at him and her lips pressed together.
“Her father was a traitor,” Christian said. “That doesn’t mean she should be passed around and used as a maid.”
“No, no.” The woman shook her head. “I am quite in agreement. I hate to think that is what happened—but.” Her frown grew. “She said something once. I am afraid—no, I am certain.” Her fingers tapped on the table in front of her in agitation. “This is why I hate the present. One is always learning dreadful things that rather destroy one’s appreciation of the past. When I was twenty, and I learned how sugar was made, I was most angry. I had not realized that sweets were so barbaric, and after that, I could never again appreciate a good biscuit.” She looked upward and shook her fist at the painted ceiling. “Damn you, knowledge! Ruining everything good, once again. Learning things is most inconvenient.”
It was likely less convenient, Christian suspected, to be the girl pressed into service. Or the slave who died producing white sugar.
“Do you happen to know where Lady Camilla went?”
“Ah.” Mrs. Wallace set her fingers to her temples. “I believe she went to Edwina Hastings, who lived here temporarily for her husband’s health. But then he died, thank God, and she went back to her mother’s people in Sussex. I believe that Ca—Lady Camilla, that is, went with the household. She was said to be good with children.”
Of course she had been.
Of course Judith had been in tears over what had happened to her sister. He could hardly blame her.
“Have you Mrs. Hasting’s direction?” he asked.
She had.
Chapter Twenty
When Christian sat down to write to Judith on the train to Sussex, he had at first intended to let her know everything he had discovered.
Somehow, however, his starts all became false starts.
Dear Judith,
Good news! Your sister is possibly not dead, although I won’t be certain until—
No. That was not the way to write this letter. He crumpled the paper, tossed it to the side, and started once more.
Dear Judith,
It appears that Miss Troworth in Bath did not quite claim Camilla as a companion. Instead, she used her as something of an unpaid servant. But on the plus side, the family who hired her thereafter may have intended to give her wages, so—
Not that either. A second ball of paper joined the first on the floor of the train carriage.
Dear Judith,
I’ve been reading your brother’s journals. You’ll be delighted to know that I was indeed overly optimistic in imagining what I might make of these names. Your brother was neither stupid nor ineffective. While I can discover everyone who violated England’s treaty with China, the more names I add to the list, the more I realize that I was foolish to imagine something could be done to held these men accountable. The small traders, perhaps, but some of these men are at the highest levels of government. I cannot imagine them being held to account.
What this means, I cannot say. In other news, your sister is still missing, so sorry, and…
No. He couldn’t say any of that, either.
Dear Judith,
I have discovered where your sister was four years ago, and with any luck, she might still be in service—
Dear Judith,
I’ve slept properly for the first time in months. It turns out, I was wrong. I didn’t need your brother’s journals. I needed a better plan. I—
Dear Judith,
Have you noticed that I have an unfortunate propensity to make the worst possible joke at the worst possible instant?
Well. I’ve been researching Camilla’s whereabouts, and I have absolutely nothing to say, so… Who was Shakespeare’s greatest chicken-killer?
No. Even I can’t continue after that. I give this letter up in disgust.
He settled on this:
Dear Judith,
My business is taking me longer than I had expected. I know you had a great many matters still pending when last we…
Talked? Kissed?
…saw one another. Please let me know if I can be of service.
Yours truly,
Christian Trent
Marquess of Ashford
Her reply made its way to him not in Sussex, but in Gloucester, where Mrs. Edwina Hastings had gone after remarrying.
Dear Christian,
Everything is as well as can be expected. It has only been five days, and I am entirely competent to manage my affairs for that length of time. We have shelter; we have bread. The latter is terrible, but I do what I must in the name of pedagogical soundness.
Thank you for your inquiry.
Judith Worth
Mistress of half the upper-floor bedroom
Dear Judith,
I see we’re making a snail’s progress: Climb two feet up the wall, slide down one while we’re resting. I certainly didn’t mean to imply any incompetence on your part. But as a personal matter, I’ve found that issues are easier dealt with when discussed with friends, instead of borne individually.
Try it; you might like it.
Christian
Master of all I see
(Particularly when my eyes are shut)
Dear Bill,
If you must know, I had been missing your advice—however ridiculous it is—with regards to my younger brother. He has suggested numerous occupations he might take on in lieu of returning to that group of youngsters who proclaimed him an ugly duckling.
To wit: He wants to join the Navy.
Or possibly, to just own a boat and/or ship of some sort. (They are apparently not the same thing.)
Or maybe, he prefers to simply run away. He and his sister have had lengthy conversations on this exact point, which I find increasingly disturbing. Young swans these days haven’t any sense whatsoever.
Any advice to give?
Yours,
Fred
Left pond, amongst the algae
My dearest Fred,
Young swans never have any sense, unfortunately. But luckily, they rarely have follow-through, either. Let him dream whatever he wishes for a few days, then demand that he figure out everything that must be done to achieve his dreams.
Chances are, the paperwork will catch him up.
Yours truly,
Bill
Dear Christian,
You were right. I assigned Benedict reading on trade routes, and he is currently complaining that everything is too difficult. It turns out, Newton is correct: Objects at rest tend to remain at rest, and twelve-year-old-boys are even more resistant to motion than regular matter.
Huzzah!
I have been so centered on my own worries that I have forgotten to inquire about you
r business. How goes it?
Judith
Dear Judith,
Well, I spent all yesterday walking to a town just north of Warwick. The stream had flooded, and while I could get past on the makeshift raft they’d rigged, the horses I’d hired from the station could not. It turns out that the man I’d needed to see was in Trowbridge, though, but the time wasn’t wasted.
