Page 47 of The Gentlewoman Companion (The Gentlewoman #4)
Louisa did not wish to live with her father and brother, and Aunt Mary and Mr. Fletcher were in Ireland, a place too far to consider. Cousin Sophia might take her, but she lived too close to Father. But…Stillwater Cottage, a place that reminded her of her mother’s love and safety.
“…never should have hid Miss Cron’s illegitimacy. I believe if we had not tried to conceal it, she would have grown accustomed to the disgrace.”
“Accustomed to disgrace?”
“People would have become used to it. Take Mr. Peasley as an example. He is the illegitimate son of a Duke.”
“Well, none of my relations are members of the peerage!” This discussion offered Louisa no relevant guidance. Miss Fischer’s lack of compassion was disappointing. “You suggest I inform everyone I meet that I attempted an elopement?”
“Don’t be angry, Louisa. I do not propose you broadcast your error, but you do need to accept it. Stop running from it. Take responsibility. Only then will you be free.”
“ W alk on,” Louisa told Nimbus, guiding him around a bend into a lively, impoverished, unfamiliar part of town, but she was not afraid. There was nothing left to fear.
A woman with a tray of baked goods shouted directly at Louisa, “Hot buns! Sticky buns.”
Louisa’s reticule weighed against her thigh. She pulled it out, concealing the remainder of the jeweler’s payment as best she could, and found a farthing. Without dismounting, she purchased a sticky bun but could not eat. For what anguish awaited at Grosvenor Square?
Remaining with Lady Halverton was unthinkable.
She would not be able to endure it if, after some period of enduring ridicule, Lady Halverton buckled under society’s pressure and cast Louisa out.
And James had appeared almost ill the night before.
When she’d faced him in the doorway, his curled upper lip had told her more than words ever could—every trace of tenderness he might have once held for her had withered into contempt.
The loss of his admiration struck like shards of glass to her chest. She pressed her hands against the piercing ache, attempting to stem a pain impossible to soothe.
Too sharp to hold, too heavy to cast aside, she fought against the urge to crumple under its force and commanded her mind to concentrate on what her next step must be—to look to the future, as Miss Fischer advised.
In the distance, a conglomeration of masts emerged.
It looked like home. She led Nimbus toward the Thames, doing her best to ignore the terrible smell that grew upon approach.
The Pool of London, the heart of London’s port, bustled around her.
She continued aimlessly, striving to tame the tumult of her thoughts.
Louisa was not entirely without resources.
The money that remained in her reticule would help her start anew at Stillwater; why had she wasted a coin on a hot bun when she ought to be saving every farthing?
Although the idea of living in a small cottage held little appeal, somehow, she felt her mother might meet her there, or at least memories of her.
She could not think of Stillwater without remembering her mother—their walks into town, afternoons at the beach, mornings gathering wildflowers around the cottage.
Every time they had visited the market, they’d dropped a leaf at one side of the bridge and waited for it at the other.
The urge to return to Stillwater seemed to come from her mother, an invitation home where consolation waited.
Was this an opportunity to practice the adages she’d scribbled in her journal? Improvement required continued growth and progress; she could improve without the countess guiding her studies. Couldn’t she?
Education was the key to advance one’s situation. Might she use her education in a manner that would make Mary Astell proud?
Misfortune was an opportunity to improve; what was she meant to learn from her terrible fall from social grace?
She had jumped a horse over a fence largely guided by instinct, and she had learned to drive a team with infallible confidence.
Surely setting the course for a new future was within her capabilities as well.
At Stillwater, she would own all the goodness she made, test her abilities without the Halvertons propping her up or shielding her from her mistakes.
Light flickered and stirred within her. Quiet, unexpected, but alive. Yet, to trust it, to be lured by that spark, felt perilous, like stepping onto a freshly frozen pond.
Like choosing to air her worries to a trusted friend rather than letting them fester.
Like taking responsibility for her actions.
Like extending kindness where it wasn’t warranted, as with Miss Trelawney or her efforts to help her brother...
Charles! His betrayal burned like a slap, reigniting a flame in the hot core of her body that consumed the hope she’d found.
He was the cause of her present misery! The cad.
The scoundrel. The insufferable bounder.
She clenched the leads in her palms and pulled the carriage out of the street to steady herself.
Shouting drew her attention before she could calm her fuming breath. Two burly men restrained a young man clad in patched sailor’s garb. They were followed by a man with a club.
“My mother will think me dead!” the sailor shouted.
“Your mates’ll let ’er know.”
“Take another man, I beg you!”
The press-gang ignored their captive’s pleas and led him to a ship—the HMS Frolic . Louisa looked again. The ship’s name was, indeed, Frolic . She almost smiled.
Cries from the young man being dragged up the gangway chased her mirth. Impressment was a brutal practice. Who deserved such unfair treatment?
She knew someone who did. Someone who had never applied himself except in seeking his own pleasure, who had accepted her sacrifice—how she missed the familiar weight of her mother’s brooch—and then disregarded it because he’d had what he wanted from her.
Oh, yes, she would offer Charles a kindness: the generosity of providing him, for the first time in his life, discipline and purpose.
Impressment was usually reserved for men with seafaring experience. Charles, though not a sailor, knew how to manage a small yacht. And there was the butcher’s son who had been taken, so it was not impossible…
A boy of about twelve skipped past her.
“You there,” she called. He turned. “Hold my carriage and I’ll give you a penny.”
His eyes lit.
“You can manage it?” she asked.
He nodded, and she ran off in the direction of HMS Frolic .
T he men of the press-gang laughed raucously as they agreed to her request. Their merriment did nothing to dampen the tiny sparks that danced, hummed, and thrilled inside Louisa at what was coming.
She did not care for their pleasure, only that her brother meet justice.
She demanded to follow the men to see the task done, and after little resistance, the men agreed, but in turn demanded a half-crown each in payment.
She was too impatient to disagree.
They followed her to Nimbus, where she relieved the boy of his charge and paid him.
“Call a hackney,” she told the men, giving them the location of the inn. “I will follow behind to be sure it is properly done. When he’s aboard, meet me here for payment.”
They agreed.
“Try not to hurt him.”
One of the press-gang raised his brows and another bared his teeth, but Louisa was not concerned, as she did not believe Charles had much fight. He’d obligingly walk with them, too drunk to care what was happening.
She trailed the hackney through London and waited outside the inn. Minutes slid by. What was taking so long?
Charles’s skulking form rounded a corner, and he entered the inn. Seconds later, he emerged, writhing against his captors. “Unhand me!”
A twinge of conscience inspired momentary pity. Poor Charles, detained on a boat going who knew where for who knew how long. But this was necessary. “Nimbus, he deserves this. Certainly, it will make a better man of him.”
Back in the dockyard, she bided her time, waiting for the men to approach the boat before she dismounted and left her carriage with another boy.
By the time she reached HMS Frolic , they were a quarter way up the gangway. She flapped her arms overhead until she caught her brother’s attention.
“Adieu, brother. May you find peace and feel the munificence of my gift to you. Farewell!” She waved her handkerchief.
“You!” he stopped walking, but the man restraining him pushed him forward. “Father will murd—” a hand clapped over his mouth and forced him to turn his head.
The press-gang collected their fee.
“How is he?” she asked, hoping Charles was reconciled to his fate.
“Secured in the cage with the others.” The man puffed his chest.
“A cage? I did not bargain for that.” Her breath hitched, panic clawing at her ribs. “Let him out. I am certain he will remain onboard, should the captain command him.”
“Out of our hands, miss,” one of them said. They strode away.
All the heat that had kindled her decision froze.
While not sorry that Charles was now a member of the Royal Navy, she did not wish cruelty upon him.
The sun dipped, and a chill wind swept the crowds from the streets.
Charles’s face rose in her mind as she returned to Nimbus.
All she could think was how her brother resembled their mother.