All her father had said about it was, “Pounds. Fromher.”
Isabel’s dream was so close. She would go to London and there was a modiste who would be called in and she would attend balls and meet gentlemen. Somewhere, on some night, she would meetthegentleman, the one she would marry.
In her letters, the duchess had assured her father that she would carefully scrutinize any gentleman coming into Isabel’s sphere and allow only the most elevated to proceed.
Isabel was determined to bring credit to this duchess-savior. It seemed she and Her Grace were very much similar in the ideas they had. Only the safest choices would be let through. As for herself, Isabel would be everything the duchess wished for and would not put a foot out of place.
She had spent the intervening days carefully going over her dresses and neatly stitching anything frayed. She’d practiced on the pianoforte though it remained out of tune. She’d fallen asleep each night with a book in her hand, determined to cram last minute bits of knowledge into her head. She’d reread her book on manners. She could not bear it if the duchess were disappointed in her.
Her sister Margaret was irate about the whole thing. She claimed it should have been her, had she not been married. Isabel sympathized, as she was no doubt right. But then, one could not guess what lay around corners and Margaret had not dared to turn the squire down for an opportunity that might never have arrived.
Someday, when she had her own pin money, she would send Margaret half of whatever it was to smooth her ruffled feathers and provide her the means to treat herself well. In later years, she would put as much effort into her sister’s children being settled as she did for her own.
She had written Margaret a long letter that she would receive after Isabel had left for London, outlining those plans. She hoped it would turn her sister from irate to complacent and praying for her success. Margaret could be flighty and difficult, but she had a healthy respect for her own interests.
For that matter, Isabel realized she’d probably have to send her father some money too, else she did not know how he would carry on.
And then there was Rogers to think about. He could not carry out his duties too much longer and would need some sort of pension.
She supposed that, with all these different recipients the pin money would be divided between, she’d better marry someone on the generous side of things.
Isabel laid the duchess’ letters back in the box she kept them in and prepared to go down to dinner. The windows to her bedchamber were open, the fresh breeze wafting in as if to drive away all the lean and scrimping years. The rain had stopped, the moon was rising bright, and the duchess was coming to collect her in the morning.
It was to be the last night of her life that she would have to run to dinner lest there be nothing left when she arrived.
Her new life was about to begin. Her one lucky chance had arrived, and she would hold onto it with both hands.
Chapter Three
When the duchessand Lady Easton had been shown into Lord Bertridge’s drawing room the preceding evening, they had met a surprising sight. Lady Bertridge was decidedly pregnant.
Lady Easton had stared at Caroline’s midsection until the lady finally said, “I see you have guessed—I am with child.”
“Guessed? What is there to guess at? But,” Lady Easton sputtered, “why was I not told? Richard, why did you not write?”
“We wished to be certain, that is Caroline thought…” Lord Bertridge trailed off.
“We wished to be certain I was past all early danger,” Caroline said.
“How much more certain were you planning to get?” Lady Easton cried.
“Do not be cross, Lady Easton,” Caroline said cheerfully. “You are here now, and we are delighted. You are the first to know our news.”
“The first, well, if I am the very first, then I suppose that’s at least a consolation,” Lady Easton said, seeming cheered by the idea that she was the first to know, however late the news was in coming.
The duchess found this entirely amusing, as everybody in the neighborhood could not have failed to have noticed that Lady Bertridge was markedly with child.
“Yes, let us put this oversight behind us,” Lady Easton said. “Now, everything must be done for this child! Richard, I have always known what your children will be—intelligent, comely, and proceeding carefully in life. They will be guided by ordered thinking, you understand.”
The duchess sighed. Clara had seemed to throw over her disdain for Louisa’s and Penelope’s irrationality about babies and jumped on the wagon herself. What now? Were they to hear of the Very Ordered Baby? VAB, VAB, VOB—would the madness never end?
“I can have my things sent from Town easily enough,” Lady Easton said, beginning to pace to assist her thinking. “My maid can bring what I require—she will know what I want. Goodness, there is so much to arrange, everything must be done just right. The house must be in order.”
The duchess had pressed her lips together. The house must be in order for the very ordered baby. Naturally, the looks that had passed between Lord Bertridge and his wife over this idea were less than enthusiastic. She might even describe them as panicked. She supposed it would matter little what either one of them thought about it. Clara was moving in, and they’d better hope their clocks were all set correctly.
“Lady Easton, that is not at all necessary,” Caroline said hurriedly. “At least not so soon. I am not due for another two months.”
Lady Easton nodded. “Two months ought to be enough time to get this household in tiptop shape. If I work from dawn to dusk.”
