Chapter Five

Inside an office at the Horse Guards, a secretary pored over a map. He did not understand or recognize any of the place names, nor did he care particularly. All he needed to do was to verify that this map was the one he had been instructed to copy. Yes, it must be. He had found it in the specified drawer, carefully left unlocked so he might complete his task.

Hastily he withdrew a sheet of paper from his pocket and, after locking the door of the office, set to work to copy the map outlines. Laboriously and diligently he copied the strange place-names and the unusual shape of the coastline.

Once he paused, rigid with fear, at the sound of voices outside the door. But whoever it was moved on, and he breathed freely once more.

When he had finished his task, he carefully replaced the original sketch in its allotted drawer and folded his copy into the specially made lining of his jacket. He returned the standish to its usual position. He blew gently on his pen to dry the nib, then slid it up his sleeve. He would replace it in his own office. There had been no pen on the desk in this room when he’d arrived. Its occupant had the reputation of being fussily careful about such things. He drew in his breath and set his ear to the door. No sound outside. He unlocked the door and slipped out.

****

The promised visit to Madame Férant threw the Yardley ladies into a fever of anticipation. Even though the tyrannical ogre Napoleon was everywhere condemned, French seamstresses certainly were not, particularly when they designed as well as this lady did. It was rumored that prior to the revolution Madame Férant had enjoyed all the trappings of one of the privileged class. No doubt the harrowing tale of her escape to England by being smuggled on board a boat owned by one of her English relatives had been exaggerated, but she was undoubtedly a dress designer of the first order. Once through the little blue door in Bruton Street the Yardley ladies found themselves in Aladdin’s cave. Rolls of cloth of every hue were strewn over stools and tables. Accessories such as ostrich feathers and pearl encrusted evening gloves were arranged artfully in one corner. Ariadne darted ecstatically from one corner to another, dragging the other ladies behind her.

“Just look at this lace, Caroline! Oh, Mama, did you ever see such a sweet pair of evening gloves? I simply must have a pair.”

Several attendants rushed hither and yon offering sweetmeats and coffee to all and sundry whilst the clients awaited their turn with Madame. She alone made all final decisions. It wouldn’t do to take the word of a mere assistant dressmaker.

This was the world Helena had known for such a short time. As she kept her charges entertained by pointing out various fabrics and colors, she wondered what she had seen in this fussy, overheated atmosphere. Having new clothes was one thing, but being poked and prodded and turned this way and that had been a trial. She knew that Caroline would not like it either.

Eventually they were rewarded with Madame’s full attention. In spite of her airs and graces she knew what she was doing and was able, with a few strokes of a pen, to sketch for them precisely the sort of dress Caroline most wanted.

Helena reflected that Madame Férand knew that if she were to establish herself as a leading dressmaker to the ton, she had first of all to start with the wealthy tradesmen and nabob’s wives and daughters. They would provide the financial base for her to advance herself to the more influential members of the ton who were not always as conscientious about paying their bills as were the bankers and business people.

“Simplicity, ma’am,” Madame Férand said to Mrs. Yardley firmly. “That is the thing when one is young. There is time enough later for more complicated designs and adornments, n’cest pas?” thus putting paid to Mrs. Yardley’s flights of fancy.

Helena was amused to note that Madame Férand was distinctly tyrannical, but as it bade well for Caroline she was satisfied. Madame also persuaded them that a cream color would become Caroline better than stark white. “Everyone has white, even when it does not suit their skin, my dear,” she said, waving her hands. “But you—you are such a pretty young lady. We must make the best of your assets.” Caroline shyly smiled.

Madame Férand’s sharp business sense fastened on Ariadne’s charms next, and she hinted to Mrs. Yardley that of course “the so beautiful sister must have a new gown too.” Naturally this took up the rest of the morning. Ariadne was in heaven and was much inclined to wonder why Madame Férand had not been commissioned to make her own coming-out dress the previous year.

“But you looked beautiful at your coming-out, Ariadne,” Caroline said in awe, and the awkward moment passed.

Helena had her own problems to overcome. When she had mentally reviewed the contents of her meager clothes closet, she wondered which of the dresses she had salvaged from her salad days could be refurbished to do justice to the reputation of the Misses Yardley. It was unlikely that anybody would notice the dress of a duenna, but it would still not be the thing to wear exactly the same gown to Caroline’s dress-party as she had to Ariadne’s. Dear Ariadne would be the first one to point it out. She wondered if she might resurrect a pastime of long ago and sew herself a simple sarcenet over-dress or even a new satin under-dress.

On their arrival home Mrs. Yardley was thrilled to find Mrs. Morris and her daughters being plied with refreshments by Stalley. “My dears! Such news! Let’s be comfortable, and we shall tell you all about the salon.”

“Good day, Miss Marshfield,” Mrs. Morris said, and her daughters bowed slightly in the governess’s direction. Mrs. Morris might come of similar stock to the Yardleys, but she had infinitely better manners.

“And how did you find Madame Férand, Caroline?”

“Oh Mrs. Morris, she was so kind to us. She…”

Taking advantage of her charges’ preoccupation with their visitors Helena went to her room and pulled out an old sketchbook, endeavoring to outline some of the ideas she had seen at the dressmaker’s. A simple dress was all that was required. Her evening slippers would suffice. After all, they were not used often, but a new pair of evening gloves was essential. Helena sighed wistfully thinking of how many pairs of evening gloves she had in the past put aside for her lady’s maid. She hoped Nanette had gained a good price for them at the markets.

Since the predicament their father had left them in, Helena had had many such deliberations with herself. She stringently adhered to the rules she had set for herself. It would not do to be noticed or be seen as putting herself forward, especially with her family history. Tongues would wag, and her life would become even more difficult. She still cringed inside when she remembered some of the whispers she had overheard in the months following her father’s demise.

Although the Yardleys were very kind, it was apparent that they had chosen her for her name in spite of that name being besmirched, a fact which Mr. Yardley seemed to have disregarded. Not being of the haut ton it did not occur to him that the Marshfield name was best forgotten. But the sad fact was that the Yardleys’ kindness did not make up for Helena’s sense of estrangement from her former life. She was employed as a governess/companion, and that was all she’d ever be. She was not one of the family, no matter how much the family tried to make her feel at home. All the family with the exception of Ariadne that is. Toward Helena, Ariadne was bumptious and uncivil. She had none of the sweet ways of Caroline, nor was she prepared to learn the lessons of decorum that Helena tried so hard to inculcate. Ariadne was sure that her beauty alone would carry any situation. She had no sense of duty toward dependents, and it was unlikely that she would ever be able to deal fairly with servants. She would make somebody a very bad wife.

No doubt endeavoring to improve Ariadne’s behavior was good for Helena’s character, but she’d always considered that strengthening one’s character was highly overrated.

Now there was the new problem. How would she cope with Robert if…when he came home from Spain? Perhaps there would be a pension. She was hazy about the actual amount he would receive on retirement from the army, should it come to that, but she doubted it would be little more than a mere pittance.

She had heard dreadful stories about injured soldiers reduced to begging. And to think that the monster Napoleon had improved conditions for his old soldiers by continuing the refurbishing of Les Invalides that the late king had begun! It made one wonder if perhaps he were as barbaric as he was painted.

Later that afternoon whilst the young Yardley ladies were visiting their cousins in the company of their mother, Helena applied herself to the agreeable task of shopping for dress fabric at the Western Exchange where she knew she would find the prices to her liking. It was fun to venture out alone, not having to check Ariadne at every turn from ogling young men, nor prevent Caroline from making unsuitable purchases. Now that she was a member of the working class it was acceptable for her to go shopping alone in areas such as these, something she could never have done were she still ‘Miss Marshfield.’ Life had some compensations.

She hovered pleasurably over an array of poplins, muslins, crêpes, taffetas, cambrics, sarcenets, and satins as she faced the entrancing task of choosing which she most admired.

“Do you require evening gloves to go with that, miss?” the bored shop assistant asked after she had finally selected a length of soft blue sarcenet.

“Yes, please. They must match the fabric exactly.” She could not return to select another pair if the shade was wrong. Not on £90 per year, most of which she hoarded, not having any idea what would happen to her at the end of her tenure with the Yardleys.

The bazaar was crowded, and the hum of conversation mingled with the cries of hawkers and the distant sound of carriage wheels. Helena was enjoying herself hugely. It was only when she was away from the Yardley household that she felt alive. In the townhouse she felt half-suffocated and effaced. She had the terrifying feeling that life was passing her by as she marked time in a half-world where she was neither servant nor master, but something in between. She had heard from other governesses that this was how most of them felt. A governess had nobody to confide in at the end of her working day. Loneliness was the overwhelming factor in their lives.

But here she was one of the throngs. It was hard to be lonely among such a disparate group of people. Around her cries of “a farthing for a crossing!” and “the best Brussels lace over here!” competed with the murmurs and exclamations of the shoppers. She was lucky to have this hour to herself.

With her purchases dangling in a string-tied package from her fingers she headed for home, well pleased. The hard work would now begin. And perhaps more difficult than the finicking stitchery would be the effort to keep her work secret. Even Caroline had no real idea how scanty Miss Marshfield’s meager wardrobe was. Helena still had pride, cold comfort though it was.

Whilst his family was busy, Mr. Yardley had spent the afternoon closeted with several government gentlemen, but he emerged from his study at dinner time ready to tell the ladies all about his plans for the dress-party.

“One of my associates has recommended an excellent orchestra, so I have already followed his advice and hired it. Now, my dears, I’ve settled on a date which I’m sure you will all agree with.”

Naturally his ladies agreed with him, but Caroline gasped when Papa mentioned how soon her dress-party would be taking place. “You must know, my dear, that to be one of the earliest of the Season’s entertainments is very important,” her father pointed out.

And the Yardleys were determined that although they might not be of the haut ton and still “smelt of the shop” as the phrase went, they intended that their daughters, and therefore of course their grandchildren, would be respectable.

As Helena knew to her cost, polite society was a fickle thing, needing always to be courted, and offering little by way of solace should one offend against its unspoken tenets. She prayed that the Yardleys would not be rebuffed by too many as they clung to its fringes.

The invitations were to be left to Helena. “You have the most magnificent copperplate, Miss Marshfield. And we would be grateful for your help as to whom to invite. Your knowledge of the proprieties will assure us of acceptances from the right people.”

Helena bit her lip. She doubted it.

The following morning saw Caroline and Helena in Mr. Yardley’s study designing invitations and the guest list. Helena was pleased to see that both Sir Ivor and his brother Ned Stafford were to receive invitations, but her face blanched when she saw Mr. Yardley add one particular name to the list. Lord Elverton. Please God, no!

Since Lord Elverton had, three years ago, vociferously condemned her father out of hand, Helena had not once seen him. He had ignored Robert and Helena since their father’s death. Yet prior to that date he had been her father’s greatest crony. In fact, Helena would have said that it was he who had introduced her father to the gaming tables where the steepest stakes were available. But perhaps she was doing him an injustice. She had been too young and heedless to be fully acquainted with the facts; even Robert was not privy to his father’s secrets. But a certain promissory note in her armoire nagged at her conscience. She had often wondered if that scrawled signature was an ‘E.’

For some reason the man gave her the horrors. There was something sinister about him that she was unable to define.

Why on earth had the Yardleys invited Lord Elverton to Caroline’s coming-out? She had not realized they even knew him. Hopefully he would ignore their invitation. What was Mr. Yardley’s connection with Lord Elverton? For Mr. Yardley was not naïve, and in spite of his ambitions for his daughters, he had no illusions about the attitude of the ton to people such as himself. When Helena had first come to work for the Yardleys, she had thought of Mr. Yardley as an amiable, middle-class businessman, but the longer she worked for him, the more puzzled she became about his wide variety of contacts and knowledge of politics. His acquaintance spread over a vast range of people such as members of the House of Commons and the House of Lords, bankers, nabobs who had made their fortunes on the Indian continent and many other business people such as merchants and shopkeepers and even the owners of several manufactories. Although Helena seldom accompanied the Yardleys en famille, she understood from Caroline that Mr. Yardley rarely appeared in public without encountering somebody he knew.

Helena ran her eye down the list of invitees. The Yardleys had noted all their especial friends on the list along with nearly every eligible bachelor present in London in the Season of 1809. There were a few people who would be hard put to it to recall the Yardleys at all, and for many young men, Ariadne would be the draw card. Some might be curious to see if Caroline matched Ariadne’s beauty. Most were probably well aware of the excellent dowries attaching to Helena’s young charges. She sincerely hoped that both daughters would become suitably riveted to young men of some substance so that they would not be married solely for their money. Of course Mr. Yardley would do his best to put a stop to that! Helena was particularly worried about Caroline who should be valued for her intellect and gentle nature. Naturally Ariadne would hold her own in any matrimonial disagreements. But Helena’s heart ached for little seventeen years old Caroline who had rarely been scolded because she had never needed to be, and who had a headful of dreams wherein her heroes resembled something out of the Greek legends.

Then Mr. Yardley confounded her by saying, “Now, Miss Marshfield, you must enjoy yourself too. We have invited Ned Stafford so that you will have at least one acquaintance to converse with.”

“No, no, Mr. Yardley. You mistake the matter. I have heard of Mr. Stafford but never met him. He was one of my brother’s friends. Besides, I am to keep an eye on the girls, not—”

“No, Miss Marshfield. At Caroline’s coming-out it is for us to chaperone our daughters. They are under our roof and so under our care. Mrs. Yardley and I expect you to simply enjoy the evening. You will have the initial organizing to do, so you will need some jollification after your exertions.” And Mr. Yardley laughed heartily.

With mixed feelings Helena sincerely hoped that Mr. Yardley would not force poor Ned Stafford—or anyone else—to acknowledge her. If Ned Stafford had the good manners of his brother, then he would probably offer her a civil bow. She prayed that he was not, like Lord Elverton, high in the instep. The Yardleys did not understand how society now viewed Helena and Robert. She herself had found it difficult to understand at first, but she had almost become inured to it.

A fever of activity now invaded the Yardley household, so much so that Mr. Yardley, when not at his warehouses in King Street, often had recourse to his club in order to gain peace and quiet. Ariadne maintained a steady bad-tempered irritation since she was no longer the center of attention. Her incessant cries of “Betsy? Betsy?” drove everyone, especially the unfortunate upstairs maid, away from whichever section of the house Ariadne was in.

Since Ariadne had been made much of for the past year, to now discover she was not the center of attention was a shock. Her mirror told her she was arrestingly striking. Her skin was that of a perfect peach, and her hazel eyes glittered when she was excited. She had tiny hands and feet “just like a doll’s” as a besotted Mr. Harold Simpson had said when he first espied her. Mr. Simpson was one of the faithful swains who flocked about Miss Yardley on all possible occasions.

Helena had observed that those “tiny doll’s hands” were capable of grasping anything Ariadne particularly desired, especially to the detriment of her younger sister. The governess sincerely hoped that some acceptable young man would make an offer for Ariadne soon, in order that Caroline could enjoy her time in the sun without her older sister’s inhibiting presence. Perhaps Ariadne would meet someone eligible at Caroline’s dress-party.

After several days of domestic upheaval, Mrs. Yardley admitted to Helena that she was unable to prevent Ariadne’s ill-tempered freaks. “Please, Miss Marshfield, see what you can do.”

When a particularly petulant outburst greeted a morning visitor to the house, Helena took Ariadne aside and in trenchant terms pointed out a few disagreeable facts. “It is my duty to tell you that you are making yourself universally unpopular. What if Mrs. Trewes chooses to tattle about you? She pretended to ignore your behavior, that is true, but she is not deaf.” This particular crony of Mrs. Yardley was a well-known gossip. Helena followed up her short homily with a shrug of her shoulders and commented, “But I notice that lately you don’t seem interested in what others think of you. It’s such a shame that a beautiful girl like you should ruin your own chances. However, when Caroline is married, I’m sure you will be a comforting companion to your parents in their old age.”

“What are you talking about, Helena? I shan’t be here. I shall be married too, of course.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t think so, Ariadne. Most gentlemen dislike having to deal with temperamental young women. I have often observed that it is kind, placid young women who are popular with everyone, even if they’re not particularly beautiful.”

She refused to discuss the matter further but hurried away to confer with Mrs. Yardley about decorations for the ballroom. Ariadne seemed to take very little notice of Helena’s homily at the time, apart from showing the governess a cold shoulder. However, over the next few days she tried to be helpful and even managed to enter into the spirit of her sister’s coming-out, albeit with a condescending and forced gaiety. Helena Marshfield was not optimistic that the acquiescent mood would last, but she hoped it would endure until after Caroline’s party at least. It would be dreadful if Ariadne were to treat everyone to one of her tantrums on that evening. Not only would it color Caroline’s recollections of her dress-party forever, it would also result in gossip dangerous to both girls’ reputations. Well did Helena Marshfield know just what a parcel of idle gossips could do, no matter what their station in life was.

For Helena, the days leading up to Caroline’s dress-party were frenetic. What with conferring with the cook, housekeeper, various tradesmen and food suppliers, as well as the dancing master, she was kept on the trot from morning till night. It was “Miss Marshfield, where should this go?” from Stalley and “Miss Marshfield, here is a message just delivered,” from Betsy or Katy.

Her greatest challenge was the dancing master for whom Ariadne had a decided tendre. It would be wonderful if she had not. Mr. Ferris was a tall, graceful young man of respectable breeding who knew just how to ingratiate himself with gullible mothers like Mrs. Yardley. He also knew how to charm susceptible young women. Ariadne was entranced with the man, because although Mr. Ferris was charged with teaching Caroline the steps of several country-dances, he often used Ariadne as a partner in order to demonstrate. Whilst Miss Marshfield played the spinet, more often than not Caroline found herself watching rather than participating.

“Isn’t he divine, Helena?” Ariadne enthused.

“Who?”

“Why…Mr. Ferris of course!”

“Of course, Ariadne. All dancing masters are divine,” Helena returned, laughing. “My dear, they are paid to be pleasant to young women. That is what their career demands.”

Ariadne pouted. “Spoilsport!”

“Not at all. I do not spoil your sport. Enjoy the young man while you may. Just remember that he is impecunious and your Papa would not look to see you riveted to a dancing master. After the end of next week, you will most likely never see him again.”

Ariadne thought for a minute. “I do not think I should like to marry a dancing master. He would always be with other women.”

“Precisely.”

Helena took Mr. Ferris aside. “Mr. Ferris, may I ask you to spend a little more time with Miss Caroline, who is, after all, the young woman Mrs. Yardley hired you to help? Thank you.” Mr. Ferris reddened, and his eyes followed Ariadne as she left the salon. Reflecting that Mr. Ferris would not last long as a dancing master if he made sheep’s eyes at the daughters of the houses where he worked, Helena found tasks to keep Ariadne away from the salon while the dancing lessons took place.

And she had enough on her plate without worrying about Ariadne, for as Mr. Yardley had predicted, his wife handed over the reins to Helena. Mrs. Yardley retired to the chaise longue in her boudoir content in the knowledge that Helena would cope with the myriad details necessary to bring off a successful evening.

And cope Helena did, although late at night in her ‘spare time’ she nodded over her stitchery as the candles guttered. As she sewed, she reflected that although life with the Yardleys was not particularly onerous, and indeed much of the time it was incredibly boring, it could on occasion be exciting, as it was now, organizing Caroline’s coming-out.

She smiled as she recollected how Mr. Yardley had first approached her when she had been employed at Miss Fichton’s Seminary for Young Ladies in Queen’s Square in Bath. He had bounced up to her without any introduction and put to her what he saw as a simple business transaction.

“Miss Marshfield, we are very impressed with the way you’ve taught our girls since they’ve been here at Miss Fichton’s. And they are very fond of you. It’s been ‘Miss Marshfield says this’ or ‘Miss Marshfield says that.’ ”

He laughed heartily, but she saw the determination underneath the façade. “However, they will leave here at year’s end. What would you say to coming to us in London, to governess Caroline for one last year and to act as chaperone for Ariadne when she comes out next month? Of course your wages would be of the highest.” She gained the impression that Josh Yardley had already inquired into governess’s wages. When she knew him better, she realized that the conditions and wages he offered her were nicely balanced—generous, but not quite at the top of the scale.

She had said no to his offer at first, because Miss Fichton had taken her on as junior mistress only as a special favor. It had taken Mr. Yardley some time to prise Miss Marshfield away from the safety of the seminary.

Miss Fichton had been Helena’s own governess prior to her coming-out. She was a talented and outstanding woman who had inculcated Helena with the pleasure of learning. Helena had been instructed in the Italian and French languages and the pianoforte, but above all she had learned to show a pleasant and serene face to the world.

These were attributes that had appealed to the Yardleys. They were searching for someone who could imbue their daughters with a layer of sophistication. Mr. Yardley had managed to elicit from Miss Fichton the information that Miss Marshfield’s family was now by way of being defunct. Her father, unable to face his debts, had chosen to dispatch himself with his expensive Henry Nock pistol—unpaid for—thereby leaving his son and daughter to fend for themselves. Apparently the man had committed the social solecism of doing so in a public place, namely Whites. He was not the first to do so, and he would not be the last. He had drunk a final glass of port, retired to the writing-room, and shot himself. Presumably he had decided that his heir could face the consequences of his unpaid debts.

But Mr. Yardley did not know all the facts.

Throughout the weeks following their father’s death, Helena and Robert had struggled to maintain their dignity. Helena decided that there was only one choice open to her: she would have to earn her own living. And there were precious few ways for a young, gently bred woman to do so. Much as her brother tried to remonstrate with her, she had known it was impossible for him to maintain a household whilst he was in the army, liable at any moment to be posted overseas.

“Darling Robert,” she had said to her anxious brother, “thank you for trying to assist me, but there is no need. It is in no way incumbent upon you to take over the responsibility that Papa abdicated. Yes, I do resent what Papa has done to us, but that must be overcome.”

She had had to work hard to convince Robert that he would be better off in barracks whilst she pursued a career. She knew he could not support her in lodgings as did some of the officers. To her brother, Helena showed a determined but serene face. Inside herself she was extremely frightened. The prospect of going into service was terrifying, and without anyone in the world to support her or show her how she should go on, she was desperately lonely. During her childhood she had not noticed the absence of a mother, but on the death of her father she had yearned for a loyal, loving mother such as some of her erstwhile friends had.

At first she had planned to become a companion to an elderly lady. But she had been out for only one year and discovered that young women of nineteen were not the sort of companions that older ladies required. Not only was Helena too young and attractive for any lady with susceptible male relatives to employ, she had also to live down the stigma of her father’s name. As one elderly Woolhampton resident had explained after Helena had wasted several preciously hoarded shillings for a seat on the stage to Woolhampton, “My dear, you are far too lovely. I have a very susceptible nephew who lives with me. He is betrothed to a young woman of my choice. Belinda is a sober, steady person, just the sort of young woman he needs. I don’t mean that you are not sober and steady, Miss Marshfield, but it has taken me several years to bring the boy under my thumb, and I do not wish to place temptation in his path. He has too much of his father in him. I’m afraid I need a biddable middle-aged spinster who will enjoy—not politely tolerate—the subdued jollifications of Woolhampton.”

She had then advised Helena to “Go to Bath or London where you may find a husband, my dear. So much more fun for you!” Unfortunately the dear lady had not specified how that was to be achieved.

In desperation Helena had applied to her old governess. Miss Fichton, recalling the pleasant years spent with the Marshfields and the large sum contributed by John Marshfield toward her purchase of Fichton’s Seminary for Young Ladies, happily agreed to assist.

Naturally, after three years of grinding boredom in the Queen’s Square establishment Helena was excited when Mr. Yardley offered her the post of governess/companion to his two daughters. Yet in loyalty to Miss Fichton, Helena had to demur. Many employers were fickle. Miss Fichton was not. She had offered Helena a place for life, whilst also expressing the hope that Helena would at some stage find more congenial employment. “My dear Helena, I urge you to seek a post where you may go out into the world a little. If you become known by the best families, one of them may find a role for you where you can obtain some of the niceties of life. I hate to see you like this.”

Helena had suppressed a shudder and thanked Miss Fichton. She had no wish to re-enter the world she had known. She now feared that world. Not one of her erstwhile ‘friends’ had made more than cursory inquiries of them after her father’s death. Most of them had cut her dead if they passed her in public. For months she had lived with a seething anger that was difficult to control. How dared they pass judgment on her and Robert? As though what their father had done was any of their doing! And many of those people condemning the Marshfields were living on tick by cheating their providers and tradesmen of their fees.

For Helena the loneliness was unbearable at times.

Helena, Robert, and their steward had paid off all Sir John’s debts as soon as possible. However, Helena dreaded the day that a stranger approached her, producing a duplicate of that promissory note she had found in her father’s desk. What would she do? She had no assets left, and no way to pay this last, mysterious debt.

****

On receiving a wary reception from Helena, Mr. Yardley had approached Miss Fichton. Miss Fichton strongly recommended to Helena that she take this golden opportunity. “My dear Helena, I am not comfortable with you burying yourself here in Bath. A Queens Square ladies’ seminary is not for you. Go to Mr. Yardley’s establishment. His family is not of the first stare, but you have said you do not wish to be part of the ton any longer. And the Yardleys, though their money comes from trade, are respectable enough. This might lead to other opportunities. Well-born, well-educated governesses are highly sought after. If you give satisfaction—and I know you will, my dear—you will probably be offered a position with another employer in the future. I shall write you a reference so that you may be easy in future. And of course you may always return here. You know you will be most welcome.”

So Helena had swallowed her pride once more—indeed, it was wondrous she had any left to swallow by now—and gone to the Yardleys. They had greeted her advent with pleasure and relief, and Mr. Yardley was well pleased with his bargain.

Helena had had very little cause to regret it. Both Mr. and Mrs. Yardley were as pleasant as they were ungenteel. Though sometimes Helena shuddered at some of Mrs. Yardley’s notions of what was proper for young ladies, and if Mr. Yardley tended to judge a man by his bank balance, well…there were those of the ton who were not so particular too. Thus, Helena re-entered the fringes of a life she had once enjoyed, albeit as a duenna where she was unlikely to chance a meeting with an old acquaintance.

Now that Robert was coming home with no prospects, the best she could hope for was that Caroline would become riveted to some respectable young man and they would require her assistance with their nursery. Helena grimaced as she stitched. She knew nothing about babies. No doubt she would learn.

Then on the eve of the party, Betsy toiled upstairs to Helena’s room. “Miss Marshfield, here. Another of those army letters,” she panted.

“Thank you, Betsy. So good of you. You should have waited till I came downstairs.”

“Oh no, miss. I thought you would want it at once.”

Full of dread, Helena broke the seal, and to her surprise and delight the letter was addressed ‘Portsmouth Hospital.’ Robert had written it himself, if it could be termed writing. It was a barely legible scrawl which he explained away by saying that he was temporarily learning to write with his left hand, his right being ‘out of commission for a short time.’ He said that he was gradually getting better. It seemed that so far the surgeons had not felt that amputating his leg was necessary as was first thought. Helena shuddered and read on. However, Robert did not think he would be likely to dance or ride again. He admitted to being very pulled by his injuries.

She wondered how long it had taken Sir Henry Paget’s letter to reach her. It had been undated, but Robert described in his letter how it had taken them two weeks’ sailing to return to England due to inclement weather. After putting out to sea they had had to return to shore to wait for storms to abate and had run out of stores early in the piece. She put the letter down and gazed out her casement window with unseeing eyes, imagining the appalling suffering of the injured crammed into the hold, and some no doubt on the open decks, all with very little medical assistance available. Robert did not specify the extent of his injuries, but she had no doubt that her brother had suffered terrible pain during the last few weeks.

‘Have faith and remember that every day that passes improves my strength,’ he wrote. He had apparently been injured when, acting as a messenger between his own and a Portuguese division, they had become engaged with the French in a rearguard action. Paget’s instructions from Sir John Hope were to demolish bridges as they retreated in orderly fashion to prevent the French army from following. Robert had been grazed by a spent musketball as he shepherded the remains of a Portuguese regiment toward the tail end of his company, but most of his injuries were caused by his horse, startled and terrified, rolling on top of him. According to him this was a common occurrence. ‘I shall write again in a few days when I am more myself. I very much look forward to seeing you again, my dear sister.’

He had glossed over the seriousness of his injuries and made no mention of the appalling losses the army must have suffered to instigate such a retreat.

“How will we manage?” she said to herself as she heated the iron to press the new sarcenet gown. Although at present her responsibility was to the Yardleys, she had an important responsibility toward her brother too. Unless he had made firm friends with some of his fellow officers, she did not know where he planned to recuperate. Irritated by the ceaseless worry, she clicked her tongue and concentrated on her ironing.

Betsy was very taken with the new dress. “Ooh, Miss Marshfield. Don’t it look pretty! You will look a picture!” She oohed and aahed so much that Helena became embarrassed. However, she had learned that the underservants took pleasure in the small favors sometimes extended to upper servants, so she showed Betsy the evening slippers and gloves too. Betsy would probably relate all the details to Cook and the kitchen maid, thus enlarging her own self-importance. Four years ago Helena would not have understood the importance of the hierarchy. Now she did, and she was always careful not to wound feelings. A governess had to tread carefully that thin line between the employers and the servants. Anyway, it was stupid to upset the lower servants because they could make life impossible for a governess if they chose. Instead of hot water in one’s washing bowl, cold water would be delivered, not a pleasant thing in early winter mornings. Lack of respect would show itself in little ways such as pretending not to hear requests from a governess, or unexpectedly shutting a door in her face. No, Helena knew better than to upset the lower servants. Besides, nearly all the servants at Yardley House were pleasant people, although Cook and Stalley were not easy to deal with. They took their tone from their employers and as a result Yardley House was often in an uproar over some minor domestic dispute.

She shook out the finished dress. Holding it against herself she peered into the cheval glass, the only mirror her room boasted. She would just have to trust to Providence that her stitching was as good as it used to be. After all, she could not change her mind at the last minute and wear something different as she had done in her salad days. She had nothing else suitable to wear.

“Anyway, nobody will notice you, Helena. All eyes will be on Caroline,” she admonished her reflection. Traitorous thoughts of steely gray eyes must be quashed immediately. It was useless to cherish false hope.

She collected all the incriminating pieces of thread and her needles and put them in the sewing basket in her closet.