At breakfast the next morning I astonished Christopher with a long, impassioned diatribe against the blind prejudice and injustice of conventions that decreed women ineligible to fight in duels. And because men could fight in duels was precisely the reason that I didn’t tell Christopher the things Lesley Peterby had said to me in the Ingrams’ garden. You never know but what Kit might take it in his head to do if he thought my honor had been questioned. Questioned? That adder Peterby had gone further than questioning! My memory dwelt fondly on the slap I had dealt him and I smiled privately at my own audacity.
I looked at Kit across the breakfast table, where he sat in his patterned dressing gown with a Belcher scarf knotted loosely around his neck. He was gazing gloomily at the front page of the newspaper and taking small sips from a steaming coffee cup. I wondered what he would say if I asked him if he’d had a ballet dancer as a mistress last year. Probably spill his coffee, drop his newspaper and stammer, “Well, really,” for half an hour. My favorite playmate had some pretty fancy toys. Still, it was none of my business to puff up like a Puritan about it.
Briefly, too, I considered sending a note to Lord Peterby telling him that if he ever decided to jump off a cliff, I, for one, wouldn’t die of heartbreak. I abandoned the idea. I could imagine the reaction of the marquis’s starchy underfootman if I asked him to deliver a note to Lord Peterby for me.
I knew, somewhere in my heart of hearts, that the most painful shock of last evening had been the sight of Lady Catherine in Lord Dearborne’s arms. You have to be an awfully rigid moralist to deprecate a man kissing his inamorata, so I was forced to admit it was not the moral aspect of the sight that had left me with such a queasy feeling in my stomach. There was one logical explanation, but it was just too unpalatable. I wasn’t jealous, I couldn’t be, it was impossible, absurd. I forced myself to stop thinking about it but I was shaken, nonetheless.
After breakfast, Lady Anne took my sisters and me on a shopping expedition to New Bond Street. I was glad for the chance to go. I wanted to buy a pair of silk stockings for my friend Janey Coleman.
I suppose someone could have slipped the note into my reticule anytime that morning, in any of the crowded shops or busy sidewalks. Anyway, it was there when I got home. On one side of the note was a sentimental ballad, the kind ragged children sell for ha’pennies. But on the other, in a light, backhand scrawl: “Do you want to learn more about Henri’s death? Tell no one about this note and come alone to the Cuckold’s Comfort gin shoppe at the hour of ten tonight! There is Danger, do not Fail.” There was an address at the bottom of the page, presumably that of the “gin shoppe,” and it was signed, simply, Bon Chance. Good luck?
I thought for a moment of Pandora’s box, but admitted I was more influenced by the adventures of Jason and the Argonauts. Could I turn down a teaser like “there is danger”? Not while there is a thimble of spirit left in me. I spent the rest of the day planning my outing.
To get out of the house unnoticed, I devised a master plan of great cunning and verve—wait until no one is looking and sneak out! Rope ladders are strictly for elopements.
The success of the plan hinged upon being able to stay home from the theater that night. As Christopher and Anne were engaged to go with a large group of friends, they could scarcely cancel the entire party to stay home with me if I pleaded ill. I underestimated them. When I announced that I wanted to stay home to nurse a sick headache, they showed such alarming solicitude that if I ever really do get a headache, I’m certainly never going to tell them! I fought off attempts to summon physicians, to burn feathers under my nose, and a dosing with a potion that Lady Anne assured me her mother had sworn by. I finally took the potion to satisfy her and let me tell you that I can see why her mother swore by it. It made me want to swear at it.
Dear Mrs. Goodbody rescued me by chasing everyone out of my room, saying that I was overtired and would do very well if I could have some time to rest. She told Christopher and Anne that they would only distress me if they stayed home too. She didn’t know how right she was. If she knew that she was assisting me in a gambol around London at night she would have had a fit.
I chose my attire for the evening with more care than I had expended on the most fashionable gatherings. Deciding that it was best to look as inconspicuous as possible, I donned a battered gray poplin gown of pre–Lord Dearborne days, completing the ensemble with a plain straw bonnet. Whispering a quick prayer, I sneaked down the smooth marble staircase, rather guiltily, with a petition to Vesta, protector of virgins.
Once out in the street it was fairly simple to find a hackney coach to convey me to the address on the note. The jarvey shook his head when he saw the address. He followed the head-shake with a long lecture on the evils of gin, going on at such length that I feared I would never reach my destination. Of all the hacks in London, I would have to get one driven by a Methodist.
I am glad this Methodist knew the way because I would never have found it on my own. I stepped down in front of the Cuckold’s Comfort a little early, and cast about for a while, killing time. It was the first time I had really been immersed in the streets of London, and I found it fascinating. I was not frightened, but instead felt comforted by the bustle and clamor of the crowd, which appeared to be going at full bore even though it was nearly ten o’clock. I stopped for a few minutes to watch a Punch-and-Judy show, but gave up as it was impossible to follow the action over the full-throated yelling of the throng. Ballad singers were crooning loudly and melodiously; political pamphleteers were hawking their wares from street corners and arguing venomously among themselves and with passersby. All sorts of vendors were selling all sorts of things—cat’s-meat, cheese, tissue-paper flowers—to what seemed to me a largely indifferent crowd intent on brushing past each other in the greatest hurry to be somewhere else. I was somewhat shocked at the number of children on the scene, scampering through the hustle and bustle playing tag, jump-the-knacker, and threepenny hop. This at an hour when my sisters were safe and sound in their beds. I saw one group of naughty boys harassing the poor lamplighter, who was doing his best to keep the scene illuminated. Every time he would nearly have the flame lit on the corner, one of the boys would run up behind and yank his coattails hard enough to throw him off balance; he would lose the flame and have to start over again.
I left this not unfriendly scene with some regrets, to make my way into the Cuckold’s Comfort. The powerful, acrid smell and smoke of the interior set me at odds for a moment as I peered about. The place was very crowded, shoulder to threadbare shoulder, and everyone was shouting at once, just like on the street outside. The furnishings consisted of long, roughhewn wooden tables. I peered into the rough, grimy faces of the men and women near to me and received nothing back but a few uncomfortably appraising stares.
It suddenly occurred to me that I didn’t have the slightest idea whom I was looking for. The note had been unspecific on this point. I mentally floundered, forcing down a wave of nausea. I suppose I had envisioned a secluded, unfrequented little club, not this raw pandemonium. There was nothing to do but wait for a time and perhaps my correspondent would seek me out. I stood by the door in what I hoped was a conspicuous place. It proved to be too conspicuous. A group of three ragged-looking, odoriferous men soon materialized out of the crowd to stand near to me, leering and talking in low, dirty voices. I made a sign with my fingers at them, something Christopher had taught me, and they took their attentions elsewhere. I made a mental note to learn from Christopher the exact meaning of that handy sign.
The harassment was undeniably making me nervous, so I decided to sit down. Earlier, I had noticed a gabby old woman sitting in a corner who grabbed the ear of anyone who went by and talked to them unintelligibly and interminably. As a consequence, she was eventually left quite alone. I decided it would go easier for me if it looked like I was with someone; this woman was the likeliest candidate. Before joining her, I laid a coin down on the rough bar like I had seen others doing, and the bartender, after some long, jostled moments, responded by desultorily sliding a flagon of gin down to me.
“Little young for the old Blue Ruin, eh miss?” he said. It was obvious that he would have sold the gin to a babe in arms.
“I appreciate your concern,” I said tartly. I couldn’t tell if he heard me or not. I picked up the flagon and made my way to the old woman. Sitting down next to her, I copied the slouch of the people around me and unobtrusively let fall some strands of hair from my too-neat coiffure. To pass the time, I began listening with half an ear to my companion, scanning the crowd for my contact all the while.
“To think that I, the illegitimate daughter of Marie Antoinette, would be reduced to selling fish in the market. And damn good fish they are too,” she was saying. “Fish is good for a pretty young lady like yourself, ain’t that right? Ain’t that right, I say?” I nodded vigorously. “Ye’re a young woman of sense to treat me so politely. Even though I sell fish in the market I am the illegitimate daughter of Marie Antoinette. I will remember you and when I am restored to the throne of France I will reward you. You can be a lady-in-waiting.”
The appointment struck me as being a mixed blessing. Lady-in-waiting to a gin-swilling old fishmonger sitting on the throne of France. I observed the crowd. In some ways it was not very different from those at some of the posh parties I had been to of late. They shouted the toast “bung-ho” with the same amount of rough, brawling energy that the men of my acquaintance would shout “to our gracious monarch,” or some such patriotic phrase. They, too, were arguing about politics, though with a slight difference in viewpoint. But their opinions seemed to me just as valid. Everyone argues the same under the influence of hard liquor, regardless of social class. I reflected on how well-rounded this experience was going to make me; I had now observed all facets of English society firsthand, low-life taverns to high society balls.
As time went on, though, my reflections grew more dismal. No mysterious informant appeared and I was beginning to wonder if anyone would show up at all. I knew I had been here at least an hour, for it seemed far longer. Perhaps the writer of the note was unable to keep the rendezvous. Perhaps he hadn’t been able to get me a message telling me not to come. Perhaps… but my head was aching so from the smoke and the noise that I didn’t feel able to sort it out now. I had better just get home before anyone noticed that I was missing.
Having made the decision to leave, I discovered I couldn’t wait to get out of the place. I stood up abruptly, and the old woman spilled her flagon of gin down the front of my dress, muttering a drunken apology as she did so. I hastily began to make my way through the crowd.
“Oh, I’m s’ sorry, miss, please come back,” wailed the old woman. “I am the illegitimate daughter of Marie Antoinette.”
Two more steps and I would be out the door. The night air felt good in my lungs. I inhaled it deeply and looked about for a hackney. There were none in sight. Furthermore, the vendors had disappeared and the crowd had thinned out alarmingly. I suppressed an uneasy feeling and decided that my best course would be to walk in the direction the hackney had come and I would eventually run into a main thoroughfare. So I embarked, using as firm a footstep as I could muster. It was best not to look irresolute to anyone who might be observing me. There were a few groups of men wandering about, some of them listing sharply, and before I walked very far, I nearly tripped over what appeared to be a pile of old clothes in the dimly lit street. The pile of old clothes grunted like a sow in the barnyard, and turned out to have human form.
“Oh, excuse me,” I said, but the old wreck only looked at me with stark terror in its eyes and shambled down the street, caroming occasionally off a lamppost.
I walked on, hoping my thoroughfare was around the next bend. The bend turned out to be a twist, then a jog, and I began to realize it was impossible to walk directly to anything in this section of London. I paused for a moment to ascertain my bearings, but walked on when I noticed a man in a doorway to my left flipping a dagger over and over in his hand, the blade glinting in the light from the lamp on the corner. There seemed to be another tavern up ahead; I could ask for directions there; but when I reached it, the people sitting on the steps in front formed a wall with their eyes and I passed quickly without looking at them. It was getting very dark now. A rat skittered in front of me and I heard dripping water. It was a maze. I tried to think clearly. I couldn’t bear to go back to the Cuckold’s Comfort and would probably never find my way anyway; perhaps I should change direction.
Off to my left was an alley, running downhill; I peered into it for signs of habitation. Perhaps that would do. I took off down it, faltering now in spite of myself as it made another sharp turn. It was so dark now I could see almost nothing. A feminine voice spoke in my ear:
“It’s a little lost lamb strayed from the flock. Shall we help it find the way, girls?”
Maybe there were decent people in this horrible place after all, I thought to myself.
“Where are you?” I said.
“Where are we? Where are you?” echoed another voice.
“We are over here,” said a third female voice. A hand grabbed my arm and yanked me so violently into what was probably a doorway that my teeth snapped.
“Let me go,” I begged, unable to scream.
“Don’t be loud, little one, we are only going to help you find your way.”
“It would be easier to travel without this,” said a woman’s voice. I felt my reticule being torn from my hands.
“And this bonnet; no need for that on a lovely night like this one.” It was gone. Then to my horror, I felt my gown being ripped up the back and I was standing in my shift. Rough hands frisked me up and down.
“An honest little one,” said a voice. “No money hidden.”
“Now you can find your way,” said one of my tormentors. I was pushed out of the doorway with such force that I fell down hard on my knees. I was too frightened to sob, too frightened to move.
“Run away, little lamb. London is out there waiting for you,” said the voice behind me now, and there was a chorus of wicked cackles.
Oh my God, I thought to myself, and I began to make my way down the alley, the pain from my gashed knees making me cry out. I felt the blood running down my leg. I was away from them now and I didn’t care what happened to me. I leaned against a cool, mossy wall and realized that I was shaking convulsively.
“Do ye have a sixpence for a poor old beggar?” Someone was begging me for money. Through my haze of agitation I saw a wizened panhandler standing directly in front of me.
“Sorry,” I said. “I haven’t a farthing.” The beggar reached out a hand and pinched my arm.
“Haven’t a farthing,” he mimicked in a whining falsetto. “Then ye have a wee kiss for a lonely old man.”
“I have no such thing.” I was dimly aware of a loud shouting and to-do now, echoing eerily from down the alley.
“Ye haven’t a kiss for me, eh? Let me tell ye somet’ing, miss. Them’s the peep-of-the-day boys acomin’, and they’ll be wantin’ more than a kiss.” He gave me a horrid wink. The shouting was very near. “May as well give me the kiss willingly now because when they are through wi’ the likes of you, you won’t be wantin’ to kiss nobody.”
“Go away,” I screamed, but he was already gone. Peep-of-the-day boys? I cringed against the wall and tried to make myself invisible. A group of six or seven men were coming around the corner, making enough hue and cry for twenty. I saw a gin bottle go flying through the air to fragment itself on the pavement.
“Look over there, boys. Something for George to do.” I had been spotted. I pressed against the wall and hoped that George, whoever he was, was a gentleman. As they came closer I noticed the aristocratic cut of their clothes, but something about their demeanor made me wish I was elsewhere. I was now close to being surrounded, and a man who appeared to be crippled in one leg made his way toward me ahead of the others. In a daze of terror I caught a glimpse of a curly brown head and a reek of gin as he pressed me against the wall. A scream involuntarily forced its way out of my throat as I felt fumbling hands pushing my shift up from my thighs. “Be good to Childe Harold, little slut.”
“The devil… Leave her alone, Gordon. I know her!” A strangely familiar voice cut through the group. “I said leave her,” and the attacker was gone, skidding on his face down the side of the wall. That voice. In the garden. Lesley Peterby.
“You gents go on without me, I’ll see to this one,” he said.
“We know you will,” they chorused, and I was alone with him.
His eyes traveled slowly up my quivering frame, taking in every detail of my miserable condition. He shook his head slowly.
“I don’t know what you’re doing here and I don’t want to know.” He pulled off his light cape and I felt it flow about my shoulders.
When he spoke again, it was an impatient growl. “Follow me and I’ll take you home.”
He started down the alley with a long stride and I followed him, stumbling. Once he stopped to curse, telling me to hurry or be left to the rats. One filthy, narrow street slid into another. Finally, miraculously, the street widened enough to permit traffic and I heard Lord Peterby hail an empty hackney coach. I tried to climb into the coach but the step was so high that my aching knees wouldn’t respond. Peterby swore again, then lifted me bodily into the dark, smelly interior. He gave the direction of Lorne House to the jarvey and climbed in beside me, slamming the door with unnecessary vigor.
I made an effort to pull myself together. “I’m very much obliged to you…” I stopped, shocked by the whimpering quality of my voice.
“Then for God’s sake, don’t cry. I have a strong distaste for whining women.” Lesley slumped into the corner with his hands crossed behind his neck, surveying me with unfriendly dispassion. “Jesus, you look like someone’s set the dogs on you. And you reek of gin. Nicky is likely to put a bullet through me and ask questions later if I walk in the door with you in this condition.”
I had hoped somehow to be able to sneak into the house unnoticed; it would be impossible though, because all the doors would be locked, and I was keyless. I shuddered, imagining the scene that would meet my arrival if I waltzed into the house at midnight with Lord Lesley in tow and clad only in a torn shift.
I said miserably, “Perhaps you should have left me back there in the gutter. Considering the humor you were in last night I am surprised that you didn’t.”
“Ah, last night.” My rescuer pulled a small metal comb out of his pocket and flipped it carelessly across the seat to me. “Here, at least comb your hair. Last night I was operating under the misapprehension that you were Warrington’s chère amie. Lady Cat threw that tidbit my way, the stupid jade. Today I found out, it doesn’t matter to you how, that you’re not one of the ladybirds that Christopher flies with.”
“Lady Catherine!” I ejaculated, my mind fastening on this piece of information. “Why on earth would she tell you something like that?”
“Probably, my innocent, because she hoped that it would give me the incentive to… shall we say, force my attentions on you.” His face hardened. “I make love to please myself, not to further any of Cat’s schemes.”
It seemed incredible that Lady Catherine could feel any malice toward me. “But why would she want to harm me? I haven’t met her above three times in all my life.”
“She’s obviously seen you enough to consider you competition for your cold-blooded guardian. The fool is living under the illusion that she’ll be able to entice Dearborne into marrying her.” He smiled unpleasantly. “Far from showing any inclination to declare himself, Nicholas has become rapidly bored and makes no attempt to hide it.”
“He didn’t look bored last night in the Ingrams’ gatehouse,” I said doubtfully.
Lord Lesley shrugged. “That was nothing. One amuses oneself,” he replied cynically. I returned the comb to him, too tired to make any further effort with my hair, which fell in a heavy snarling mass down my shoulders.
“But how could I be a threat to Lady Catherine?” I wondered out loud.
“You’re not. Dearborne isn’t libertine enough to take an innnocent girl under his protection as his fancy-piece, nor is he going to marry a country nobody with only her beauty to recommend her. Cat needs somewhere to put the blame for her failure. She could hardly admit that there was a deficiency in her charms.”
I felt as though I were smothering in the clinging folds of my borrowed cape, which I had pulled closely about me for modesty’s sake. It was impossible to digest Peterby’s remarks, so I leaned my face against the greasy window and stared disconsolately out at the dark cityscape. If only, by some miracle, I could manage to sneak into Lorne House without being observed.
Well, miracles will occur only at capricious intervals. I had already had all the luck that I was going to that night, though you would think I deserved some more after what I had been through.
When we reached Lorne House, Lord Lesley dragged the hood of his cape roughly over my hair, telling me it was better to try to prevent me from being recognized. He then hauled me unceremoniously from the hack and rapped sharply on the imposing doorway. The door was opened almost immediately by Roger, Lord Dearborne’s valet. Lesley demanded the marquis and Roger led us to the library with a carefully wooden countenance. I was aware of Lord Dearborne but kept my eyes riveted to the floor. Lord Peterby’s voice came harshly:
“Before you try to cut out my liver, you might as well know that I’m not the one who’s responsible for her present condition. I want five minutes to explain how I found her. After that you can call me out if you still want to.”
“As you wish,” Lord Dearborne sounded cool, even slightly bored. “Miss Cordell, why don’t you sit down? I’ll return to wait on you in a moment.”
I walked stiffly over to the blue damask sofa, taking meticulous care to avoid glimpsing myself in the reflecting panes of the bay windows. Once seated in the luxurious splendor of the library, I felt even more bedraggled and downtrodden. Wishing I had made more assiduous use of Lesley’s comb, I made a few ineffectual attempts to untangle the silky knots with my shaking fingers. Elizabeth Cordell, early Christian martyr, waiting for the arrival of the lion.
When the lion returned to the room, he walked to the ornate Oriental cabinet and poured brandy from its crystal decanter into an elaborate piece of stemware. He placed the goblet on the shining kidney-shaped table next to me and motioned for me to drink. When I lifted the glass to my lips, the scent of the brandy brought back the memory of cheap gin fumes. I set the glass down rather quickly.
“Oh no, my pet, you’re going to drink that.” Lord Dearborne set the goblet back into my hands. “It’s obvious that you are on the verge of vapors. You might find my methods of dealing with hysterical women not to your liking.” The words were spoken with an almost cordial urbanity, but I wasn’t fool enough to miss the underlying threat. I choked down several swallows of the burning liquid, which brought tears to my eyes in stinging waves.
“What an obedient girl,” commented the marquis sarcastically. I could see that this interview was going to be a new low in an already hellish night. “You were limping when you came in. I take it that you’ve injured yourself? Show me.” I pulled back the cape dumbly to expose badly scraped knees.
“Heartrending,” said Lord Dearborne in a voice totally devoid of sympathy. He took my chin between his long fingers and turned my face up to look at him. “Lesley tells me that he found you clad only in your shift. Were you hurt in any other way? No, don’t jerk your head away. I want an answer.”
“No,” I snapped, goaded. “I wasn’t hurt in any other way, as you so delicately phrase it. But I have been harassed, insulted, robbed, and humiliated in every imaginable manner tonight, on top of getting lost in a horrible jungle of a place that I thought I would never get out of.” I rose with what dignity I could muster. “Will that be all, Milord? Because I should very much like to retire.” And cry in peace.
“Sit down.” His voice cracked like a whip and I sat back down hastily. I watched nervously as he went back to the cabinet to bring out a clean linen napkin and a container of spring water. “Perhaps you’ll be so indulgent as to relate the tale of your adventure?” he said, coolly sardonic, and began gently to clean the muck off my knees. The last thing I was in the mood for was a verbal re-enactment of my harrowing experiences, but I could see that Lord Dearborne was determined to drag it all out of me. I might as well get it over with. I told him everything, starting from the time I left the Cuckold’s Comfort. I was careful to make no mention of what I was doing there in the first place. The note had been explicit that I should tell no one, and I felt myself bound by it. It had said “there is danger.” I had no intention of letting my loose tongue endanger anyone. After tonight danger had a whole new meaning to me.
When I finished my story, I saw that if I had expected to receive any sympathy from Lord Dearborne, I might well have spared my breath. He merely remarked callously:
“Amazing. You’ve been trotting around in an area of London which no decent woman can enter, even during the day, and a little rough treatment is all that you have to show for it. And if what you’ve just described includes every ‘imaginable humiliation,’ then your imagination must be remarkably restrained. Naturally you are aware that you’ve neglected to mention what you were doing in that part of the city at night alone when the household believes you to be sleeping safely in your bed? I trust you intend to enlighten me?”
If I could have thought of an acceptable lie, I would have told it. What plausible reason could I have for making a solo visit to the Cuckold’s Comfort? I replied weakly:
“I can’t tell you.”
“You went there to meet someone, didn’t you? Don’t bother to shake your head at me—someone must have told you how to get there. Who are you protecting? Is it a lover,” he sneered, “or a traitor?”
I think I must have gasped because the marquis shoved the brandy glass into my hand again—apparently under the misapprehension that I was beginning to sob. I swallowed the contents of the glass—I would rather have expired on the spot than let Lord Dearborne see me cry. He took the glass from my hand and set it on the side table, then turned to regard me searchingly.
“You know, my little doe, I’m not sure whether you are a very clever woman or only a pathetic dupe. I will assume, for charity’s sake, that you don’t realize what you’re getting yourself into. This won’t be the first time that one of my household has been approached by enemy agents hoping for an inside contact. There are two things that you should know. First, these are dangerous men who will not hesitate to get rid of you as soon as you cease to be of use, no matter what they may tell you now. Witness the fate of Henri, the cook, the strange accidental death you have been so interested in.”
“Henri? Then he didn’t die falling from the roof? He was murdered?” I roused slightly from my state of stunned misery.
“Henri was strangled with a dishcloth and tossed from the roof. A pretty set of fellows you are in with.”
“I’m not in with anybody,” I objected.
“Secondly,” he continued, ignoring my feeble protest, “if you are caught intriguing with the French government, there is nothing I could do to protect you from a traitor’s fate.”
A searing pain began to course through my breast. “That is the most insensitive, unfeeling accusation I have ever had to endure in my life!” I choked out. I was proven wrong almost immediately.
“I’m making a terrible misjudgment of you, am I? You’re wandering around in the stews of London in the dark of night and you won’t tell me who you are meeting or why? What kind of lover would ask to meet you in such a place? Even the likes of Peterby can call on you here. I would advise you to examine your associates. I am beginning to think you are a very good actress, Miss Cordell. It takes a definite toughness, not immediately visible in your character, to tryst with somebody in the stews of London.”
I was now goaded beyond discretion. “I don’t care what you think, Lord Dearborne. You may think me wanton or a traitor, it matters not a whit to me, it does not concern me in the slightest. It is obvious that people in this contemptible town believe what they wish to believe, and if you believe me to be those things, then it comes from your own purposes and desires and not my actions.”
My hands were clenched into fists beneath the cloak which rippled from contact with my trembling shoulders. I felt ill. And too angry now to waste energy on tears, though my eyes stupidly persisted in shedding them. I wiped a couple of the obnoxious intruders away with the back of my hand, staring defiantly at Lord Dearborne. Some of the freezing harshness left his face; it was replaced by something more rational, though speculative. He lifted his hands to rest lightly on my shoulders and when he spoke, his voice was gentle.
“My only purpose and desire is to help you. Trust me, Elizabeth. Tell me what kind of trouble you are in.”
He made it very tempting. There was a part of me that cried out to clear myself, to deny those bitter accusations. Yet there was another part of me that stubbornly refused to dignify insults with justifications. The hurt was too fresh. If he had so little faith in me, then what was the point of defending myself? I had been tried, judged, and sentenced without a fair trial—I might as well let him hang me, too.
“Would you oblige me by releasing my shoulders,” I said. “Immediately!”
“Very well.” I was released so abruptly that I almost fell. I turned to walk stiffly to the door, but before I reached it a thought occurred to me.
“If Mrs. Goodbody and my sisters haven’t found out that I was out of the house tonight, could you please not mention it? It… would be pointless to distress them, don’t you think?”
He countered my nervous look with one of uncomfortable irony. “Quite pointless. Your affairs are your own business.”