ChapterOne
He introduced himself as he settled her in the small carriage. “My name is Gerald Crawford,” he said with a nod, closing the door and tapping on the roof.
Jessie thought for a moment. “Sir Gerald Crawford?”
He dipped his head in acknowledgement, and a measure of surprise. “You’ve heard of me then?”
She huffed out a sound between a laugh and a snort. “Everyone with an interest in finance has read your treatise on the current state of British banks, and how the impending difficulties in France are bound to affect England’s financial situation…”
He blinked and stared at her, speechless for a moment or two. “You have just astounded me, young lady. What is your name?”
She remembered her manners. “Forgive me, sir. I am Jessie Nightingale. Miss Jessie Nightingale.”
His eyes roamed her face. “And yet you are familiar in some way…”
She quickly turned to look out of the carriage window. “I do not believe we’ve ever met, sir. I would think it unlikely.”
“Why?” He grasped the handle above the door as the vehicle lurched around a poorly paved corner.
She raised her chin and stared ahead. “My childhood was spent in the country with my mother. I was informed my Papa had died in Europe fighting Napoleon’s forces. Mama contracted the ague and I was left alone at quite a young age. Luckily a distant relative required a governess, and because I showed aptitude with numbers, she engaged me for several years.”
“If you’ve read and understood my treatise, Miss Nightingale, I would say your familiarity with numbers goes way beyond a mere aptitude.” He lifted a sceptical eyebrow at her.
She shrugged. “Apparently my mind likes the logic of mathematics.”
“I venture to opine that you are unique in that regard. For your gender, especially.”
“I cannot take credit for it. It just is part of who I am.”
“And you are no longer a governess?” He urged her on, a kind note in his voice.
“No,” she replied shortly. “I was dismissed from that position.” Again she lifted her chin. “I became a maid for a while, then worked for a seamstress.”
“And?” he prompted.
She took a deep breath. “The circumstances of my birth have followed me like a malevolent shadow,” she said, folding her hands in her lap and fixing her gaze on them. “I have a likeness to the man who fathered me.” The hands clenched tightly. “The man who did not die bravely in Europe, but who roamed London’s ballrooms selecting his choice of a partner for the evening.”
Suddenly a warm hand covered hers. “You are one of Maitland’s bastards, then,” he breathed. “Yes, you do have the look of him. Very strongly.”
She wanted to pull free, but the comfort of his touch was too much for her to refuse. “Yes, Sir Gerald. I am indeed a Maitland bastard. And unfortunately, I am thus tainted goods, unfit to instruct a child, stitch a seam or wait on ladies.”
“How absurd,” he muttered. “A mind such as yours should be celebrated and utilised. You are not responsible for the circumstances of your birth, nor the taint of madness and violence that has besmirched some of your siblings.”
“A noble sentiment, sir, but you and I both know the truth of the matter. I may have escaped those stains, by the grace of God, but I will never be free of their shadows.”
He was silent then, still covering her hands, his eyes staring from the window. Jessie had to wonder where his thoughts roamed.
Then he released her. “Who was your mama, Miss Nightingale, if I may make so bold as to ask?”
She blinked at the question. “Er…Daphne Southwood, sir. Mrs Daphne Nightingale, of course, as I knew her to be for many years.”
“Daphne Southwood,” he smiled then. “You know, I remember a Miss Southwood. She was quite lovely, as I recall, but not in town for long.” The smile faded. “I have to assume Maitland was responsible for her disappearance, damn him.”
“You knew her?” She turned to him, her heart in her throat.
“I did, but casually. I believe she attended a ball or two where my daughter was present. I cannot be sure though…”
Jessie shook her head. “This is most strange.”
