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No. No, indeed.
Mercy sank into that soothing enclosure and, clinging to him, wept as if her heart was broken.
For the sake of my wards, I am retaining their current governess.
At least for the time being. I’ll explain more when I return to London.
I found Miss Feathers’s letter of recommendation amongst Masterson’s papers
from a Mrs. Hester Shepherd of Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Youn
Women located in Essex. Might I impose upon you to use your considerable influence to look
into the establishment and Mrs. Shepherd for me? Miss Feathers seems vaguely familiar,
as if we’ve met before, though I know that is implausible.
~ Ronan Brockman, in a letter to his father, the Marquess of Trentholm
The outskirts of London
10 March 1818
Early evening
Oxonian hat low on his forehead and arms folded across his greatcoat, Ronan unabashedly observed Mercy, as he’d come to think of her. The sun, muted by plumy clouds, balanced low on the rosy-orange horizon, as the well-sprung coach trundled onward.
Their departure had been delayed by several days.
Initially, Ronan had thought to leave the disbursement of Masterson’s estate in Joseph Bralen’s hands. However, what little respect he’d had for the solicitor went up in a wisp of cindery ashes after Ronan had learned of Mercy’s innocence.
Instead, he’d contacted his man of business and asked him to meet Ronan in Rochester.
That, of course, also meant posting a letter to his father explaining his delay in returning with his wards. It required a missive to Mr. Bralen terminating his services too.
A satisfied smile inched Ronan’s mouth up on one side.
The slimy solicitor had sought to see Mercy discharged and instead found himself sacked.
Justice, swift and appropriate, Ronan thought.
Besides, the man rubbed him the wrong way, and after he’d disparaged Mercy, Ronan itched to wring his scrawny neck. He refused to work with anyone lacking integrity and common decency. Bralen had quite obviously dispensed with both qualities decades earlier, despite his self-appointed piety.
Once his man of affairs, Basil Kline, had arrived, Ronan had set about pensioning off Mrs. Stanley and Mr. Norman. Both servants had agreed to stay on until the livestock, house, and contents were sold.
Ronan had spared Mercy the task of explaining to Arabelle and Bellamy that they wouldn’t be returning to their home. He assured Mercy he would inform the girls once they were in London. The past several hours, however, as they put more and more distance between them and Rochester, he’d wondered if that had been a wise decision.
Shouldn’t he have allowed Bellamy and Arabelle a chance to say goodbye to their home? Their horses and servants?
He grimaced.
Blister it.
What did he know of what was best for little girls?
God help him. And them.
Ronan wasn’t a particularly religious man. Yes, he attended church on Sunday as most of the ton was wont to do. It was expected, just as using the correct fork and spoon while dining was. However, the hypocrisy he witnessed on a nearly daily basis among the upper ten thousand made it tough to take to heart anything preached from the pulpit.
