Page 53 of Dare it all for Love

Dear diary,

At last! I thought the day would never come, but with a great deal of plotting, some spectacular intrigues, a little spying, and a soupçon of luck, I did it!

I finally got hold of a copy of The Ghosts of Castle Madruzzo!

And this time, no one is going to stop me reading it.

―Excerpt of an entry to the diary of Lady Catherine ‘Cat’ Barrington, (youngest daughter of the Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu).

Evening of the 17th of August 1839, Holbrook House, Sussex.

Florence retired to the library after dinner. She was not ready to go to sleep yet. The events of the day had been too exciting for her to think of closing her eyes.

Henry loved her. She had expected to need to fight harder for him, or at least to gain the declaration she had wanted. It was clear his all too public jilting had hurt him deeply and made him distrustful of women, even of his own heart. So for him to give her those words….

She gave a happy sigh.

The amount of trust he was putting in her was astonishing, humbling, and she only hoped she could live up to it. No doubt he’d had many sophisticated lovers in his years abroad, women with experience of life and love and bedding, that she did not have. Would he grow bored with her? No, she scolded herself. She was well educated, and she had opinions, too many opinions some would say. Not Henry, though, and if there was something she did not know or understand then she would learn. Henry would help her. She smiled at the idea. Henry would enjoy teaching her, like he had taught her this afternoon, under the oak tree. He had enjoyed that a good deal, so had she… until Papa had arrived and spoiled it.

Florence sighed. Poor Papa. He couldn’t look at her this afternoon, or she at him if she were honest, and she had the rather lowering sensation that he was disappointed in her. Mama had assured her that wasn’t true, just that he was struggling with the idea she was a grown woman and no longer his little girl. Though, really, she had been out in society since she was eighteen, surely it couldn’t be that much of a surprise? She wondered who on earth had sent that odd letter to him. Her father had showed it to them, and the correspondent had been barely literate, the writing execrable. Was this the person who was making the corn dolls and causing Henry such strife? Surely, it must be connected.

She pondered this for a while before setting her book aside. She’d barely glanced at it, so there was no point in trying to read. The clock in the hallway struck ten and Florence sighed. It wasn’t late but, if she was just going to sit and stare at the wall, she may as well go to bed and do it in comfort. She was just crossing the hall when a slender figure moved in the shadows, hurrying towards the servant’s staircase.

“Susan? Susan Cooper?”

The girl stilled, staring at Florence as though she’d been caught out.

“It’s all right,” Florence assured her. “You’re not in any trouble. I just wanted to speak to you. If you have a moment?”

The girl hesitated, clearly not wanting to be rude but needing to get about her business.

“I’m sorry, I know you’ve work to do, and I expect you want to get finished and go to bed. Do you think I might speak with you tomorrow morning?”

“I… I bring you hot water in the morning. Perhaps then, just for a moment… but why, miss? Are you sure I’m not in trouble?”

It was Florence’s turn to hesitate, for in truth she did not know if the girl was involved with the trouble at the Hall after what Mrs Simmons had said. It seemed unlikely, though. This girl would have been a child when Henry left. She was younger than Florence, no more than sixteen or seventeen.

“I just want to speak with you about your grandmother, that’s all,” Florence said, realising she had not answered the question.

“Gran?” Susan stared at her, suddenly defensive. “What do you want to know about Gran?”

There was an edge to her voice which was hardly surprising. It must seem exceedingly odd that one of her employer’s guests was asking after a lower servant’s grandmother.

“I know it seems peculiar,” Florence said with an apologetic smile. “Look, don’t worry about it now. I just wish to ask you a few questions. I’ll explain in the morning and then you can answer me—or not, as you choose—once you’ve heard me out.”

“Very well, miss. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

The girl dipped a curtsey and hurried away.

Florence watched her go, wondering if she was wasting her time, or if the girl’s anxiety was not simply unease at the odd question, but guilt.

It was not until later that evening that Henry remembered why he’d been so intent on finding Florence earlier. The events of the afternoon had rather forced everything else from his mind. Helena had calmed her husband down sufficiently to talk him into receiving Henry tomorrow afternoon. The spectre of this daunting interview had been enough to fully occupy Henry’s thoughts for the rest of the evening. So, it was not until after dinner when he remembered Florence’s reckless scheme to interview the staff at Holbrook in search of a witch, of all things.

Still, she could hardly be interrogating anyone at this time of night. He must ask Helena if he could have a quiet word with Florence in the morning, before his interview with Gabriel. Hell. How did one go about persuading a young woman’s father you were the best choice for her husband, when you didn’t actually believe it yourself? He would simply have to be honest, which would likely mean Gabriel would agree he wasn’t good enough and tell him to sling his hook.

Henry was considering this as he readied himself for bed when the sound of breaking china reached him.

“Damnation, not again.”