Page 64 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

“I already nurse the sick and tend to the poor. The only difference is that I have a bit of money of my own. If I’d given it to you for your charitable causes, then I truly would have been a burden. You’d have resented me for having no means to support myself as surely as you resent me now.”

He uttered a scornful huff. “What do you expect to happen when I marry Miss Trent? That you’ll carry on in this parasitic existence? Doing as you please whenever you please, without any consequences?”

Parasitic?

Stella’s chest constricted as though recoiling from the sharp point of a knife. “I’ve always done more than my share. Always. I ask hardly anything for myself, except to ride Locket and to occasionally visit my friends.”

Her brother was too angry to listen, let alone acknowledge the truth of her words. “You won’t be visiting your friends anytime soon. Not under my chaperonage. I’ve discharged my duty to our father, escorting you to town so you might find a husband. But no more. This is my time now. If you insist on remaining here to live on my charity, by God, you will learn to behave yourself! Do you hear me?”

Stella was certain the whole house had heard him. She held herself rigid with the remaining threads of her dignity. “Is that all, Daniel?”

“That is not all.” He made a visible effort to regain his composure. “You will apologize to Miss Trent and her mother.”

“Very well.” Stella had planned to do that anyway. She might have already done so if either Amanda or her mother had deigned to appear at breakfast. Instead, they’d remained in their room—Stella’s room—as though Stella’s conduct had caused them a physical injury from which they still must recover.

“And you will write a note of apology to Squire Smalljoy,” Daniel said.

Stella stiffened at the prospect. “I will not.”

“It is not negotiable!” His fist came down with a crash onto the surface of his desk, making the scattered papers jump. “I want the note written and delivered before nightfall. You can send it to Castaway Green with your groom. It’s too late for the morning post. The wretched postboy came early today.”

Stella’s stomach sank. She’d thought, at the very least, she had dispensed with the threat of Squire Smalljoy. That threat would only be revived if she was obliged to write to him. He would doubtless take any apology as encouragement. And then where would she be?

But her brother could not be reasoned with.

“It will be as you wish.” Stella turned to leave.

“Take your post with you,” Daniel said.

She immediately went back for it. It wasn’t unusual for her to receive bundles of letters, newspapers, and ladies’ journals. There was little else to break the monotony in Fostonbury.

But there was only one letter today.

Her brother handed it to her—a thick envelope that had been sealed with a pale blue wafer. “Who is Mrs. Archer?” he asked.

Mrs. Archer!

Stella’s guttering sense of hope sprang into a brilliant flame. Taking the letter, she pored over the return address in a rush of excitement. It was sent from Devon—a house called Greyfriar’s Abbey in a place called King’s Abbot.

“She’s a lady I met in Hampshire,” she said distractedly. “The wife of a well-to-do tradesman the earl invited to view his roses.”

Daniel grunted. “Singular.”

“Not at all. There were many tradesmen in attendance. The earl has a wide and varied acquaintance.” Stella caught up the skirts of her morning dress, moving to the door. “If you’ll excuse me?”

Exiting the book room, she crossed the empty hall and bounded up the steps to the box room. There, the door shut firmly behind her, she sank down on the edge of the sagging mattress and broke the seal of Mrs. Archer’s letter. It was a lengthy one, if the thickness of the envelope was to judge.

But on unfolding the letter, it was revealed to consist of only a single outer page, with another, longer letter folded small inside of it.

Stella’s pulse quickened as she read the outer letter. It was merely a polite missive—cordial and frank in its offer of friendship, but quite clearly a tissue-thin formality to shield the possibility of scandal from the smaller letter within.

It was that letter Stella hastened to unfold, knowing full well who it was from.

My dear Miss Hobhouse (it began),

Forgive my sister’s complicity. I assured her that you would welcome a letter from me. I trust I’m right, and that I’ve not presumed too much upon our short acquaintance in Hampshire.

How are you faring in Fostonbury? How is that famous mare of yours? Have you been riding this past week—or should I say galloping?