Somehow, Augustus had realized. When he’d become head of the family, he’d had the house cleared of most of what he called “rubbish,” and locked up the rest. Over the past year, Bella had become miserable enough to satisfy even his warped soul.
“I hear voices,” Lucinda declared, rushing to the mirror to check her cap. “Augustus is bringing someone here!”
Did she imagine the guest might be a suitor? At twenty-six, Lucinda was past her last hopes, but here she was, eyes bright, color high.
Bella devoutly wished Lucinda would marry. That would have to create a change in her own situation, for she couldn’t be left here alone. It would be a dangerous roll of the dice, but at this point the gates of hell would be tempting, if only because they would take her away from Carscourt.
The door opened and Augustus ushered in a rotund, cloaked gentleman. He quickly closed the door behind him. It was April, but still cool apart from the few rooms that had a fire.
Bella’s bedchamber was not, of course, one of those. Under Augustus’s rule, she hadn’t had a fire even in the depths of winter. She’d been tempted to start burning furniture.
Henry, the first footman, had come in behind. He helped the visitor to unwind a long, thick scarf and shed his cloak, revealing a genial gray- haired gentleman with a drip at the end of his nose. As Henry carried the items away, the guest dug out a handkerchief and blew.
Lucinda had risen excitedly, but Bella was still seated.
“Stand up, Isabella!” Augustus commanded.
Someone of his saintly reputation should be thin, but though not fat, Augustus was always slightly puffy, and he had a small mouth that pulled in so tightly when he disapproved that it looked like the mouth of a tight-drawn purse.
As Bella stood, he added, “I apologize, Mr. Clatterford, but as you can see, she is not quite as we might wish.”
Bella struggled to keep an impassive face as she desperately assessed a new and unexpected danger. Was this Clatterford a doctor, come to poke and bleed her? That had happened four years ago, when she’d refused to cover her shame by marrying Squire Thoroughgood, but Dr. Symons was a local man, and had been willing to go only so far in “restoring her health” and had refused to declare her insane. That threat too had been held over her back then, as they’d all tried to force her into that horrible marriage.
In her fury of outraged innocence, and still believing in her charmed life, she’d refused and refused and refused. As the years had passed she’d often thought that even marriage to a coarse man of unsavory reputation might be preferable to this interminable nonexistence. After all, a husband might die.
The visitor was looking at her kindly, but could she trust that?
Was Clatterford the keeper of an institution for the insane?
“I think Miss Isabella Barstowe was simply absorbed in her needlework,” he said, coming over to look at the handkerchief she still held. “Very pretty. Your great-grandmother showed me some pieces you sent her as gifts.”
“You knew Lady Raddall?” The ancient lady had proved to be Bella’s only friend in the world. With Bella confined at Carscourt and Lady Raddall fixed in Tunbridge Wells, too old to travel, they’d not met since the scandal, but from the first Lady Raddall had sent frequent, supportive letters. When she’d learned that Bella’s father opened and censored all Bella’s correspondence, she’d sent such a blistering objection even he had quailed.
Breaking the seal on one of Lady Raddall’s letters had been one of Bella’s few delights, now sadly gone.
“I was so sorry to hear of her death,” she said.
“Bella,” her brother protested. “She was a hundred years old!”
“No reason not to grieve her death,” Bella retorted. To Mr. Clatterford, she said, “I hope she didn’t suffer.”
“Only from some fear that she would not reach her century, Miss Isabella. Once she had that, she simply drifted away, smiling.” His eyes twinkled. “She ordered a clear statement of her achievement engraved on her headstone. In case, she said, some passersby could not do subtraction.”
Bella chuckled before she could help it, and it felt like cracking a sealed box. “That sounds just like her. Her mind was still young.”
Lucinda cleared her throat, and Bella was dragged back to reality. Still at Carscourt. Still a penitential prisoner. There would be a price to pay for a moment of pleasure.
Augustus frostily made the formal introductions, adding, “Mr. Clatterford has made the long journey from Tunbridge Wells on some business arising from our great-grandmother’s death. The will?” he asked, gesturing the guest to a chair and sitting himself.
Ah
, Bella thought, sitting down again. That would interest her brother. For some reason, there was never enough money here.
“I have wondered why we heard nothing sooner,” Augustus was saying, “though of course all will have gone to her grandson, the current Lord Raddall.”
Clatterford settled in a chair near the fire, rubbing his hands close to the heat. “Lord Raddall no longer has the obligation to pay the dowager’s jointure, sir, which is a substantial benefit. It was made generous by Lady Raddall’s husband, for it was a great love match, you know, but even he could not have expected that it would have to be paid for so long. Forty years a widow. Remarkable.”
“And a considerable burden on the estate,” said Augustus with feeling.
He openly resented the quarterly amounts he was obliged to pay to their mother, who would persist in staying alive and had also removed herself to the coast instead of staying at Carscourt, where a good part of her jointure could be held back to cover her keep. Bella didn’t blame her mother for escaping Carscourt as soon as she could, though she wished she’d attempted some rescue of herself. Lady Barstowe, of course, had also believed that Bella was an unrepentant sinner and liar and, truth to tell, had never been a fond mother to any of her children.
Clatterford turned to fully face Augustus. “The will contained a number of other bequests to faithful servants and friends, sir, and also to a charitable institution in Tunbridge Wells for aged gentlewomen. The remainder, however, is left to her great-granddaughter”—he turned not to Lucinda, but to Bella—“Isabella Clara Barstowe.”
“What!” The explosion came simultaneously from Augustus and Lucinda, drowning Bella’s gasp.
“Impossible,” Augustus snapped. “I will not allow it.”
“My dear sir, you have no power to forbid it, or to control the money in any way. Miss Isabella is of age.”
Bella’s birthday had been two weeks ago, but without money or any place of refuge in the world, she hadn’t imagined it could make a difference.
Mr. Clatterford’s demeanor was calm, but Bella caught the hint of a twinkle. He was enjoying himself, and so, all of a sudden, was she. Augustus looked as if he might choke to death. She was careful to try to stay blank, however. She could hardly believe in freedom, and if this failed, the consequences would be terrible.
“Augustus!” Lucinda shrieked, shooting to her feet, her neglected needlework spilling to the carpet. “This can’t be possible. I won’t have it. That . . . that . . . strumpet shall not have a large dowry when I am stuck without enough money to get a husband!”
“Your portion’s enough to get one if you had looks and temperament,” Augustus snapped, then turned on the solicitor. “I will contest this.”
“You have no grounds, sir.” Clatterford, unlike Augustus, had risen out of courtesy when Lucinda surged to her feet. “Moreover, Lady Raddall left precise instructions for this moment, which I, as executor, am obliged to carry out. Unless Miss Isabella herself objects, she is to leave Carscourt with me within the hour.”
The awful silence was broken by the door opening and Henry returning with a tea tray. Augustus snapped, “Get out!”
Henry, wide-eyed, went.
The short break had given Bella time to think, but her brain still felt scrambled and unable to make sense of it all. She was afraid to believe.
Augustus rose now and came to loom over her. “Leave here with this man and you will never return.”
As a threat, it had the opposite effect. Bella leapt to her feet, thinking,
Oh, please let it be so!
Lucinda spoke acidly. “I would have thought, Isabella, that you would have learned the folly of running off with strange men. What do you know of this . . . this Clatterford?”
That was a knife aimed at the heart, but for Bella it might as well have been made of wax. Her great-grandmother had mentioned Mr. Clatterford on a number of occasions. What an excellent solicitor he was. How well he managed her affairs. How trustworthy and kind. His charming family, which included five grand-children. Had she been preparing Bella for this moment, but indirectly?
Why not tell her outright?
Of course, Lady Raddall hadn’t known when she would die, and she might not have been certain that her letters were given to Bella unopened. She might have feared that Augustus would find a way to foil her plan.
Bella’s mind was still throwing up cautions, however. Never to return meant that Augustus would cast her out, would disown her. If this plan failed, she would have no refuge anywhere. . . .
“You see,” Augustus sneered, “she’s wit-addled. I really cannot permit her to leave my roof.”
Bella snapped to awareness, and to the only possible decision.
“It’s not wit-addled to consider a serious decision, brother, but I’ve done so and I’m leaving. I will collect what I want to take.”
She picked up her needlework and headed for the door, stomach in turmoil, braced for Augustus to physically prevent her. He moved as if to do just that, reaching out his hand that looked more like a claw. He’d been set upon in London a few years back and injured. It was unfortunate, but for some reason he’d added that to her catalog of sins.
She found the courage to meet his eyes, to offer a direct challenge. Even if this proved disastrous, this moment was worth it. He glared at her, his puffy face so red he looked as if he might literally explode.
Bella stepped around his claw and hurried out, but as soon as she’d closed the door she leaned against a wall, shivering, and not from the cold. She could hear Augustus and Lucinda berating Clatterford. Their fury proved this was real. The doors of her prison had opened, and even if they led to hell, she was going through them.
She raced along the corridor toward her bedchamber, but then halted and ran down the servants’ stairs to the kitchen. She interrupted an excited discussion, and the subject was clear.
They all stared at her, wide-eyed and wary. She was sure they were worried that she’d demand something of them that would get them into trouble. They’d always been in an awkward position, with her being one of the family but deprived of nearly all comforts. Most had been here before her disgrace, and old patterns of behavior died hard.
“I’m leaving,” she said to them. “Immediately. I need some valises or a small trunk. I used to have some. . . .”
After a long moment, the housekeeper said, “I hope you’re going somewhere better, Miss Bella.”
She saw that they were worried about her, and had to blink away tears. “Oh, yes! I’ve been left some money. . . .” She realized she had no idea how much, but it didn’t matter. “I must leave immediately.”
They all looked at her anxiously. Then Henry said, “I know where your trunk is, miss. I’ll bring it to your room.”
Lucinda’s lady’s maid bit her lip, but in the end didn’t offer help. It was Jane, the housemaid, who tossed her head and said, “I’ll come and help you, miss.”
In her room, Bella took everything out of the clothes-press and chest of drawers. A pitiful collection, but too much for the small trunk and hardly worth the bother. Despite the labor that had gone into these garments, she dearly hoped she’d soon own better.
How much money had she inherited? As Lady Raddall had expected her to leave Carscourt, it had to be enough to scrimp by on, but her jointure had died with her. How much more could there be? Would the inheritance cover indulgences? New stays, silk stockings, ribbons, perfumed soap . . . ?
Bella dreamed of shops as she and Jane packed all her underclothes, and two of her four made-over gowns.
The last things to go into the trunk were the thick bundles of letters from her great-grandmother, including their enclosures.
Once Lady Raddall had heard that Bella was receiving her letters unopened, she’d begun to sometimes enclose another—a letter from someone called Lady Fowler, who claimed to be trying to reform aristocratic society by revealing its sins.
The woman’s mad
, Lady Raddall had written.
I can’t imagine what good she thinks she’ll do by spreading tales of misbehavior in high places, but her letters are vastly amusing, especially to those of us unable to visit Town. Though sadly today’s rascals rarely hold a candle to the ones of my youth, a few show promise. The Marquess of Ashart is toothsome, and comes to the Wells now and then to visit his great-aunts. The Earl of Huntersdown’s a charming rascal. Men like those are another reason to read these letters, my dear. One day you’ll be free of your cage, but it’s a wicked world, and some of the wickedness comes in a pretty package. I’d not have you fall into its traps again.
Bella had not in fact run away with handsome Simon Naiscourt, but she’d agreed to a tryst with him, and that had been her doom.
At first, Bella had been shocked rather than amused by Lady Fowler’s letters. She’d thought herself so worldly-wise, but of course that had been folly at seventeen. She’d certainly been ignorant of some of the sins Lady Fowler detailed, and did think it wrong that they were common among peers and Parliament. There were even cases among the high clergy.
Lady Fowler also raged against the injustice of the law that gave women so few rights and gave men domination over them. Bella felt one in spirit with the lady on that. She realized she might now be able to donate some small amount to Lady Fowler’s Fund for the Moral Reform of London Society.