Sarah Mallory - The Regency Season - Blackmailed Brides

Instead, she kept her head up, chin defiantly raised. She would not stare at the ground like some humble, subservient creature. Consequently she could not avoid at least one quick glance at the man’s face. It was rugged rather than handsome, black-browed and with a deep cleft in his chin. There was a latent strength about him that sat oddly with his fashionable dress—clearly he was no Bond Street Beau. Whatever his status, Lucy’s main concern was that he was blocking her way. His curly-brimmed hat almost brushed the roof of the alley and his broad shoulders filled the narrow space.

She observed all this in the time it took her to cover the short distance between them, and it struck her in the same instant that he was the most solid and immovable object she had ever encountered. She stopped, but refused to be intimidated and returned his direct gaze with a steady look. His grey eyes were curiously compelling and again she felt that tremor run through her. An odd, unfamiliar mixture of excitement and attraction that had her wanting to know more about this man and at the same time to turn around and run for her life.

Lucy quelled such feelings immediately. She was not the sort to run away from a problem—not that there had ever been many problems in her life until now. She realised a little sadly that her parents had protected her from the harsher realities of life. Perhaps a little too much. But all that was at an end. She must now stand up for herself and that meant not being intimidated by this solid wall of man standing in her way. She wondered if she was going to have to ask him to move, but at that moment he stepped back, pushing the door open with one hand.

Silently, Lucy sailed past him and up the stairs. She had the uncomfortable sensation that he was watching her ascent, for her spine tingled uncomfortably, but when she reached the landing and looked back there was no one below and the door was firmly shut.

* * *

An iron-haired woman was guarding the small reception room at the top of the stairs. She showed Lucy into Mrs Killinghurst’s office, invited her to remove her cloak and bonnet and sit down, then she shut the door upon her. Left alone, Lucy folded her cloak neatly and laid it on a chair then carefully placed her bonnet on top. There was no mirror in the room, so she could only put her hands up to make sure her soft brown hair was still neatly confined in a knot at the back of her head. She had put on the same high-necked gown she had worn for her first interview, a plain closed robe of pewter-coloured wool, and hoped she portrayed the modest, unassuming character that an employer would be looking for.

After a few moments alone, Lucy became prey to uncertainty. She thought over her previous visit, wondering if she had perhaps mistaken the day.

No, she had been sitting on this very chair, facing Mrs Killinghurst across the desk, exactly two weeks ago. Lucy had been encouraged by the lady’s businesslike air, and once she had explained her circumstances and answered a number of searching questions, the lady had risen and disappeared through a door at the back of the room. Some personal inner sanctum, thought Lucy, for she had glimpsed the carved and gilded edge of a picture frame. This had surprised her a little, for the walls of the office and the reception room were singularly bare of ornament, and Lucy had been puzzling over this when Mrs Killinghurst had returned, saying that, yes, she did think there was a suitable position for Lucy.

‘It is rather an unusual position but perfectly respectable, I assure you, and the remuneration is extremely generous, considering that it is only a temporary position. You will only be required for a short period—part of May and the whole of June. However, I need to ascertain from my client—that is—you will need to come back. Shall we say two weeks from today, at eleven o’clock?’

Lucy had agreed immediately. Another two weeks in her uncle’s house would be a trial, but she would manage, somehow. The date and time of the next meeting had been repeated and confirmed, Lucy remembered, with Mrs Killinghurst promising that she would then be in a position to explain the post in detail. Lucy had thanked her and prepared to leave, but now she recalled that at that point the proprietress had shown a diffidence that had not been apparent throughout the rest of their meeting.

‘Good day to you, Miss Halbrook and—my dear, should you find another post in the meantime I hope you will feel free to take it. A little note to me explaining the situation will suffice...’

Lucy had looked at her in surprise.

‘I assure you, Mrs Killinghurst, I am more than content to wait two weeks, unless perhaps you think there is some doubt about my suitability for the post you have in mind?’

‘Oh, no, no, I think you are eminently suitable.’ Thinking back, Lucy remembered the slightly anxious timbre of the lady’s voice, as if she regretted the circumstance. She had looked a little uncomfortable as she continued, ‘Of course, this post is by no means guaranteed, and if something else should come up I would be failing you if I did not advise you to accept it.’

‘But you do not have anything else to offer me?’

‘Well, no, not at present.’

Lucy had thought it an odd way to go about business, suggesting that she should look elsewhere for employment, but she guessed it was some sort of a test of her loyalty, and she had been quick to reassure Mrs Killinghurst that she would return in two weeks’ time at the agreed hour.

‘And here I am,’ she announced to the empty room. ‘Ready and waiting to know my fate.’

The rattle of the doorknob made her jump, and she wondered if someone had been listening, for at that moment the door to the inner sanctum opened, and Mrs Killinghurst came in, smiling and apologising for keeping Lucy waiting. She went to her desk and in her haste left the door slightly ajar.

‘Now then, Miss Halbrook, where were we?’ She sat down, pulling a sheaf of papers towards her. ‘Ah, yes. The character references I have received for you are excellent. As I mentioned when we last met, this is an unusual post. My client is looking for an accomplished young lady of gentle birth to spend some time at his house in the north.’

A movement from Lucy caused the lady to pause.

‘Excuse me, ma’am, but your client is a married gentleman, I assume?’

Mrs Killinghurst shook her head.

‘He is a widower, but quite respectable,’ she added quickly, a little too hastily perhaps.

Lucy felt her heart sinking. She decided she must speak frankly.

‘Mrs Killinghurst, is—is there anything, ah, questionable about this particular post?’

‘Oh, no, no, nothing like that! My client assures me that a chaperone will be provided, and you will be treated with the utmost respect during your stay. You are to live at the house, as his guest. And the remuneration is extremely generous.’

She mentioned a sum that made Lucy’s eyebrows fly up.

‘But I do not understand. Your, ah, client wishes to pay me to be a guest in his house?’

‘Yes.’

‘But, why?’

Mrs Killinghurst began to straighten the papers on her desk.

‘I believe he wishes you to be there as his hostess.’

Lucy’s disappointment was searing. For the past two weeks she had been looking forward to this meeting, speculating about the ‘lucrative post’ that Mrs Killinghurst had in mind. A governess, perhaps, or companion to some elderly and infirm lady, or even a gentleman. The temporary nature of the post had indicated that perhaps she was being engaged to make someone’s last months on this earth as comfortable as possible. Now she realised that her daydreams and speculation had been wildly inaccurate and naive. An unmarried man—even a widower—would not hire a hostess for any respectable purpose. Thoughts of Uncle Edgeworth and his wandering hands came to her mind.