January, 1811
When the solicitor stopped speaking, Nell heard only the wild beat of her own heart. All sounds from outside Miss Mofty’s Select Academy for Young Ladies in Bath were muted by a blanket of snow. The corridors and stairways of the large house lay steeped in silence, for Miss Mofty’s noisy, highborn pupils had not yet returned from their Christmas holidays.
The most junior of Miss Mofty’s school mistresses huddled in a worn armchair in the tiny sitting room designated for the staff’s use. Looking like a child herself, she raised her face to the gray-haired gentleman who had come down from London especially to see her. The smile on his lined countenance was fatherly as he stood facing her, warming his coattails in the meager comfort of the stove.
Hardly daring to believe in her good fortune, in the possibility of fulfilling her most ardent desire, Nell asked, “Could you—would you, please, repeat what you just said, Mr. Forsythe?”
“Yes, of course, Miss Hetherington.” The solicitor met Nell’s clear gray eyes with a twinkle in his own. “Considering that Lady Augusta hid herself away in Cornwall and refused to enter into correspondence with her relations and friends these past fifteen years, I am not surprised that you find the news rather startling.”
“I never once met my godmother. She died two months ago, you said? And left me her London house?”
“I would have notified you sooner, but it took me all of six weeks to locate you. And then the snow storm—”
“Mr. Forsythe,” Nell interrupted. “That you found me at all is a miracle in itself. That Lady Augusta Fawnhope remembered me in her will is, well, it’s quite fantastic. A house in London!”
“To be precise, it is only half of a house. The north half of Fane House, as it was known years ago. Lady Augusta was a Fane on her mother’s side, and originally, the house was left jointly to her and her brother, the present Duke of Stanford. Fifteen years ago, Lady Augusta and the duke had a falling out. The upshot was that Lady Augusta instructed me to rent out her half. She moved to Cornwall and not once returned to town.”
Nell frowned. “Do I understand you correctly, sir? I must share the house with the Duke of Stanford?”
“Not at all, Miss Hetherington. Lady Augusta had a wall erected to divide the structure into two equal parts, and the double doors of the front entrance have been rebuilt into two separate doors. Your half of the house is Number Two-A, Chandos Street. Number Two is occupied by the duke’s grandson, Lady Augusta’s great-nephew.”
Nell’s brow smoothed. “I suppose,” she said, looking thoughtful, “Chandos Street is a fashionable address?”
“Indeed. It’s just off Cavendish Square. And now, if you’ll be kind enough to pour me another glass of port, my dear young lady, we must discuss what you wish to be done about the house.”
She nodded and reached for the decanter. I doubt you’ll enter into my schemes with enthusiasm, my good sir, she thought with some amusement.
“The house is rented at present,” Mr. Forsythe continued, “but the lease will expire at the end of April. Shall I arrange the sale of the property? I have already had an offer for it.”
“Sell it? Oh, no!” Nell spilled some of the wine, but paid no heed to the spreading stain on Miss Mofty’s lace cloth. “At the end of April, when the academy closes for the summer, I’ll terminate my employment. I shall come to London and live in the house.”
A feeling of gloom settled over the solicitor. He had taken an instant liking to this slip of a girl and had been looking forward to sending her a sizable draft after the sale of the house. He cautiously deposited his bulk on the brittle cane-seat of a straight-backed chair. With even greater caution, he took a few sips of the cheap, sour wine before addressing his client again.
“Forgive me, Miss Hetherington, but is that wise? Your mother succumbed to a fever in Portugal. Your father fell at Coruña. I was informed by the War Office that you are quite alone in the world.”
“You have been busy. As has the War Office.”
Bushy gray brows bristled on the solicitor’s broad forehead. “I might still be searching for you if a busy clerk at the War Office had not finally advised me to seek out Mr. Wicken, your father’s batman. It was Wicken who disclosed that he put you on the stagecoach to Bath after the transports from Coruña landed in Portsmouth.”
A smile curved her mouth. Wicken had been more than her father’s batman. He had appointed himself her nursemaid and later her groom. That was when the family had still lived in India. In Portugal, after Mama died, he had also been her chaperon and protector, for Papa had been on Sir John Moore’s staff and far too busy.
“Dear old Wicken. How is he, Mr. Forsythe? I believed him to be returned to Spain, fighting under Lord Wellington.”
“He planned to.” Mr. Forsythe finished his wine. “I believe his wound did not heal as it should. Gangrene set in.”
“They”—her tongue stumbled over the awful word—“amputated? But it was only a minor wound. A mere scratch.”
“Happens all the time, my dear. I suspect it wasn’t cleaned properly aboard the vessel. And when he was admitted to the hospital, it was too late to stave off the infection.” The solicitor looked at her curiously. “Why did you pick Bath, of all places?”
“My mother often spoke of Miss Mofty, who, before she established her own school here in Bath, was Mother’s governess. I hoped Miss Mofty would recommend me to some genteel family.”
“You were planning to become a governess?”
Nell chuckled. “Miss Mofty sounded just as incredulous. I promise you, though, I deal very well with the young ladies here at the academy. They have learned to respect me, despite my lack of inches.”
“My dear Miss Hetherington, I do not doubt that you’re an excellent teacher.”
“I may not have many qualifications to boast of,” Nell admitted, “but I am a proficient linguist, you must know. I am fluent in French, German, Spanish, and Portuguese, with a smattering of Italian and Urdu thrown in. Not,” she added with an impish grin, “that Urdu is of any use to me in Bath.”
“And neither will Urdu be of use in London.” Mr. Forsythe regarded her sternly. “Besides, you’re far too young to live alone. Properly speaking, you should have a guardian.”
Nell raised her chin. Her face, which moments ago had looked young and soft and very vulnerable, mirrored a proud and independent spirit. “I shall be twenty come September, and I shan’t be living alone in London.”
“Miss Hetherington, I cannot advise strongly enough against your move to town. How will you support yourself?”
She smiled, but that quite failed to soothe the solicitor’s misgivings. Her next words only increased his gloomy feelings.
“Mr. Forsythe,” Elinor Christina Hetherington said calmly. “I can support myself. I know exactly what I want to do with the house.”