How swiftly a day can turn from joy to utter, utter sorrow!
The early showers had cleared, leaving silver pathways and a sweet, dank dew. Graymarsh prepared the carriage and we drove to the post office, that I might send my letter to Sir Thomas Biggleswade without Papa’s detection. A great weight lifted from my shoulders as I passed the envelope across the counter to the old postmistress, who pushed her spectacles up her nose to read my direction.
‘Will that be all, miss?’ She savoured my title, hoping, no doubt, to unsettle me. An unmarried lady, writing to a man! Her beady eyes said I know very well what you are up to, but I did not permit myself to become flustered.
‘That is everything, thank you,’ I said, doling out my coin and leaving the office.
Air rushed into my lungs, tasting of freedom. How pleasant it was to know the thing was done, and Sir Thomas rejected! Compassionately rejected, with much delicacy and gratitude threaded through the words. He can be in no doubt of my regard, even if he does not possess my heart. Mama would not blame me for such a kind answer to her friend’s kin. Papa, however … Yet I hope David and I shall be safe in London before he makes the discovery.
From the post office we headed to the botanical gardens, where all of nature’s beauty began to unfold. Wet spiderwebs hung in sparkling chains across the hedges, concealing the violets and primrose within. Petals of blossom flecked the lawns, a white and pink confetti, but none remained in the trees. Buds had exploded into leaf, bulbs had pushed their heads far above ground, and nothing remained buried beneath the soil.
My conversation with David was short, but no less satisfying for that. Our seconds together hung like the raindrops on the branches. He had not heard any news about the position in London, but for the first time the future felt truly within our reach. Palpable, our new life as a married couple an event that would certainly happen, and soon.
‘You look mighty bright today, Miss Truelove,’ he smiled.
I did! Would that I had stayed there all afternoon with the damp-wool scent from his coat on the breeze, and Tilda clucking behind us. But I came home.
And everything went awry.
The carriage caught my eye long before we had reached the house. I recognised those matched greys with a sinking feeling. What business had she in my home? It was not my time to receive calls, she should know that I was out on my errands.
But then my cheeks glowed hot. Perhaps she did know. I peered through the glass and saw that her carriage was vacant. They would have told her at the door that I was not present, yet she had crossed the threshold all the same.
Gone inside to be alone with Papa.
‘Looks like you have a visitor, miss,’ Tilda remarked. She did not sound overly surprised.
We walked in silence through the front door into the reception hall. Nothing looked real. It was a doll’s house, not my beloved home. As Tilda took my bonnet and gloves, a high-pitched laugh jangled through the corridors and sank into my back teeth.
‘I will go to my room,’ I announced.
But fortune did not favour me. They must have heard the carriage pulling round to the stables, or my feet clacking across the floor, for Papa’s voice boomed behind the closed library door.
‘Dora? Dora, is that you?’
I paused at the bottom of the stairs, trapped. My instincts told me to ignore him and run, as fast as I could, to my room and shut the door like a little girl. Yet there was Tilda, watching me, and a footman standing on the landing. How could I disobey Papa before them?
A bump from the library. ‘Come here, Dorothea. I wish to speak with you.’
Every step cost me the agony of walking upon broken glass. I remembered Ruth, relating how she had trembled her way towards the captain’s room alone in the dark. That was how I felt now.
I opened the door.
The red curtain had been pulled across the window. Steam misted the cases containing the raven and the snarling fox.
Papa stood behind the desk with Mrs Pearce, their hands clasped.
‘My dear Dorothea!’ she beamed.
Her lantern jaw, her mustard gown, the ridiculous hair sculpture fallen crooked on her head: all of these were an affront to me. But to hear my Christian name, my mother’s name, upon her lips – that was the sting.
It was only with great difficulty that I composed myself sufficiently to bob a curtsey and wish her good day.
‘I have glad tidings for you, my dear,’ said Papa. His collar had not been buttoned on properly. A sheen of sweat sat upon his forehead. ‘Prepare yourself for something wonderful.’
I knew what he was going to say. Part of me yearned to dash over, place my fingers upon his lips and beg him to never, ever speak the dreadful words. But I could only act in this manner towards my papa. And this was not him. I saw another man, a base creature, no relation to me at all.
‘I am delighted to inform you that Mrs Pearce has agreed to become my wife. I am the happiest man alive.’
She simpered. ‘Oh, Reginald.’
Curious, to look back upon it. What shocks me most is my detachment. I felt dispassionate, cold, removed far from the scene, and these people, who were strangers to me. Only my lips, curling back from my teeth in disgust, betrayed any emotion. ‘Well, fancy that.’
Papa’s eyes turned a deeper shade of grey.
‘Will you not congratulate us?’ he demanded, straightening his jacket. ‘Will you not kiss your …’ Our eyes met.
Do go on, a wicked part of me willed him. Say it, say what you truly mean.
But it was Mrs Pearce who bumbled forward, thrusting out her nauseous cloud of jasmine. ‘Come and kiss your new mama.’