Page 96 of The Gentlewoman Companion

“I’m sorry, old chap.”

James’s footsteps clipped on cobblestone, the sharp clatter giving rhythm to the turmoil in his chest. The cloudy night sky emitted nothing to guide his path while cutting wind threw his cape around him. He marched toward home, images of Louisa’s smiles once so beguiling morphing into something cruel and unseemly.

There must be another way to understand Hugh’s story. But her own words condemned her. You do not know me. I am far worse than a disobedient daughter.

A group of inebriated young men stumbled past, full of laughter that mocked his foolishness. He loved her. Loved her. He loved each of her impulsive tricks and wanted a life where anything was possible because Louisa, wild and impetuous, was beside him. He had scolded her for racing through Hyde Park, but he bloody loved every second.

The vast leaden pit inside him burned with every step closer to his home, where Louisa likely sat beside his mother, who thought of her like a daughter. This news, true or false, would break her heart, but she must be told. Gossip always surrounded Louisa, but this rumor was ruinous.

He found his key, hand trembling and fumbling with the lock. He pushed the door open and stumbled into the hall. Pressing his back against the door, he paused to listen. Quiet. But a glow came from the parlor. He made his way down the hall. Inside, his mother sat reading by candlelight.

“Gracious, James. What is the matter?”

He asked Louisa’s whereabouts.

“She went with Miss Trelawney to a private ball—a last-minute invitation, though I don’t know why she suffers Miss Trelawney’s company. I needed rest after the salon, so I stayed.” She scrutinized him. “What’s happened”

He cleared his throat. “Hugh told me that Louisa’s brother was at White’s the other evening. Drunk and gambling. Mr. Thorpe announced to everyone present that Louisa… She supposedly eloped and was discarded at an inn.”

She set down her book. “Rubbish. You don’t believe that?”

“She has hinted to some grave error she cannot speak of. Well, I no longer need wonder what it is.”

“The poor child! Heavens. But we must not jump to conclusions, James.”

“Mother! She misrepresented herself. We called her courageous for running away from her father, but this…” He sat and put his head between his knees. “She is not who we thought she was, and she won’t survive the scorn it will bring.”

“I won’t allow her to be cast out like Miss Cron. If we stand by her, she may withstand the inevitable criticism until society finds its next victim.” She took his hand. “I see how this hurts you. I know you love her, but her story cannot be told in a few sentences by a drunken scoundrel. Give her a chance to speak for herself.”

The sound of the front door opening silenced them both.