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‘But I can’t bear any more loss.’

Mrs Priddy lifted Leonora’s head and looked intently into her tear-stained face. ‘If you’re worried about losing Lord Rokeby, you must stop now. He’s been snatched once from the jaws of death. Now it’s his turn to live.’ Leonora nodded as Nanny P added, ‘And you have no excuse not to live as bravely as he does.’

‘But what if I’m not as loved by him as he is beloved by me? I have treated him so ill, have doubted his word. What an insult to a proud and honourable man! What if he despises me after showing such a mean and jealous aspect of myself?’

Mrs Priddy shook her. ‘No more of this talk, my dear. We are all fallible before God and all is forgiven by Him!’

Despite her tears, Leonora laughed. ‘Now you’re sounding just like Curate Fopling!’

‘Well, he’s a fine young man and you could take some lessons from him.’ Mrs Priddy’s pale blue eyes twinkled.

Leonora hugged her again. ‘I am happy that Charlotte will marry and leave me, but I don’t want you to ever leave, my dearest Nanny P.’

‘Oh, come now! You know, my love, I won’t leave you until you have your own family.’ She kissed her on the forehead. ‘Now play that lovely tune.’

10

IS AN OFFICER A GENTLEMAN?

Leonora could barely sleep. Old impulses of fear of loss had not yet given way to this new certainty of where her heart belonged. Instead she was restless, locked in fevered jealous dreams. Only as the thin light of dawn seeped through the curtains did she fall into sleep at last. She woke late and drowsy as Flora knocked and entered with a steaming jug of water. ‘Good morning, Miss Appleby, may I draw the curtains?’

Leonora struggled to sit, puzzled that Flora was still working in Lady Bucklebury’s house. ‘Is Amy recovering?’

Flora walked back from the dressing room. ‘Her sickness has receded but she still needs rest.’

Leonora watched her. ‘Flora, do you remember seeing me at the Manor when you lived in Hasterleigh? Did we ever meet?’

Flora had a newly washed and ironed chemise in her hands and turned away to fold then refold it, not meeting Leonora’s eyes. She answered in a neutral voice, ‘I think I saw you a couple of times in the lane, Miss Appleby. You were just a girl.’ She then placed the chemise on the bed and at the doorway turned to say, ‘Miss Charlotte needs help with her hair. If you need me, I’ll be with her.’

Charlotte had also had a troubled night, occasioned by Captain Ormonde’s note. She knew the sole purpose of the Countess sponsoring her for the Season was to find her a suitable husband, and Guy Ormonde was a most unsuitable match. He lacked a fortune and Lord Rokeby nurtured an old animosity against him that was close to contempt. But she thought him attractive and attentive, admirable too with his tales of military exploits. Her susceptible heart found something thrilling in his roguery, but she could not understand why he was so set against the Earl of Rokeby when she, and the world, considered him the most admirable of humankind.

While she struggled with the conundrum of Captain Ormonde and his motives, her mind returned, like a ship to harbour, to the comfortable figure of George Lockwood. His height and breadth, his cheerful good humour, made her feel safe and at ease. She knew by the way he looked at her that he found her attractive too, although he was warm and civil to all in his orbit, and Charlotte wondered if perhaps everyone had the benefit of his generosity of spirit. She had newly come to the thought that as the daughter of a hero, perhaps she had been born for braver things than comfort and safety? The idea of Mr Lockwood had an even more troubling aspect; if she were to marry him, she would then move into the Manor, Leonora’s home, while her friend was displaced to the Lodge. That thought made Charlotte recoil; she did not wish to feel an imposter and a thief.

A light tap woke her from fitful sleep and Flora entered bearing a jug of hot water for her morning’s toilette. ‘Good morning, Miss Blythe.’

‘Good morning, Flora. Would you accompany me to Bullock’s Museum this afternoon?’

‘Yes, miss, I’ve been there before. It’s full of wonders.’

‘I’d forgotten you’ve lived in London for years.’ Charlotte rubbed her eyes and yawned.

‘Is Miss Appleby not going with you?’

Charlotte had climbed out of bed and sat at the dressing table where she gazed in dismay at the birds’ nest that seemed to have arrived on her head. ‘No. I’m meeting a friend who is a captain in the army.’

Flora stood behind her and began to gently brush out the tangles of fine fair hair, a slight frown on her usually serene features. ‘Is it Captain Ormonde?’

Charlotte turned to face her. ‘Yes, how do you know?’

‘I’ve heard talk of him. Nothing much escapes us maids you know.’ Her usually equable face had turned grim as she continued the delicate untangling.

‘What do the maids say?’ Charlotte’s heart lurched with foreboding.

The women caught each other’s eyes in the looking glass and with a sudden determination, Flora said, ‘I will pass on what the maids say as I don’t wish you to be ill-used or compromised. We all warn each other about the men who cannot be trusted. And Captain Ormonde cannot be trusted.’ She looked down, embarrassed yet defiant. She continued in a firm, quiet voice, ‘It’s also rumoured his debts are so extensive and pressing he’s threatened with prison or exile.’

Charlotte knew that Flora had broken a golden rule that separated Upstairs from Downstairs; she had offered an opinion on one of her betters, and Charlotte was grateful for her courage. Shocked by both revelations, she accepted that, if true, Captain Ormonde was no longer such a heroic figure, but the news could not deflect her purpose. She had to play the hero now.

‘Thank you, Flora. I appreciate your frankness. But I’m afraid it’s a matter of my family’s honour that I must go.’ Flora’s clever fingers had just finished sculpting Charlotte’s hair into a charming chignon with ringlets round her face, set in rags the night before.