Chapter 2

Chapter Two

"M iss Heywood?" Miss Winthrop stood from her chair at the small table in the corner of Molland's. A dark-haired girl with a solemn countenance, she was soberly and unostentatiously dressed in a round-brimmed bonnet and a gown of toffee brown wool. The light through the mullioned window glinted on the gold frames of her spectacles.

Any unease Hannah had felt entering the busy pastry shop receded at the sight of her long-time correspondent. She came forward to meet her through the crowd, the heavy skirts of her day dress brushing against people as she passed.

Hannah's newly appointed lady's maid, Ernsby, followed in her wake. At home Hannah had been accustomed to looking after herself, but such independent ways wouldn't serve in Bath. Here, she must take care to observe every propriety. There could be no more outings unaccompanied. No more dressing herself or arranging her own hair. Her parents had hired Ernsby for that purpose. A superior-minded sort of creature, well-schooled in the rigors of her position, she had traveled down with them from Heywood House in the servants' carriage.

"Miss Winthrop?" Hannah queried with a tentative smile. "How do you do?"

"Very well, thank you." Miss Winthrop curtsied. "I'm pleased to meet you at last."

Hannah curtsied in return. "And I you. I so rarely have the opportunity to meet my correspondents face to face."

"Nor do I. Most of mine live in London or Paris or even America. I've long resigned myself that we shall never cross paths in person." Miss Winthrop gestured to the table by the window. "Shall we sit down? We've much to discuss."

Hannah took a seat. Outside the window, Milsom Street was still damp from this morning's rain. Ladies and gentlemen in heavy cloaks and overcoats stepped over the puddles, undeterred, to visit the fashionable shops that lined the street.

It was doubtless the reason why Molland's was so busy; everyone having dropped in to take the chill off. Hannah's own pink cashmere pelisse remained buttoned to her chin as she drew her chair up to the table. She had brought a shawl as well, along with an umbrella, not willing to risk catching cold so close to her debut. She placed them on the seat beside her.

Ernsby settled herself nearby, availing herself of a cup of tea while Hannah and Miss Winthrop ordered for themselves.

"It's a laudable undertaking," Hannah said sometime later, after they'd been warmed by their tea and had dispensed with the necessary pleasantries. "I've thought so from the first, but…" She flipped through the pages of the slim journal that Miss Winthrop had paid a local printer to produce, examining the essays and illustrations with building admiration. "I hadn't any idea it would look so impressive."

Miss Winthrop beamed. "I aim for the Animal Advocate to be as well regarded as any journal produced by a traditional publisher."

"It seems to me you've succeeded." Turning another page, Hannah found her article on the benefit of horses to a person's health and happiness. It was a short piece, not more than five hundred words, included among dozens of other essays, poems, and short stories written by animal welfare advocates. Among them, none of the authors were identified by gender. Only their first initial and surname were used. Hannah's piece was attributed to H. Heywood.

Looking at it, she felt a swell of pride. "I've never seen my words in print before. Not with my real name attached to them."

Miss Winthrop leaned across the table to examine the essay along with Hannah. "I hope I've done them justice."

"Indeed, you have. They appear ever so much more commanding here than they did when I set them down with my quill."

"Print has that effect. The only difficulty lies in establishing our authority for making such claims. A gentleman's journal would cite the author's full name and credentials. Whereas we ladies must strive to maintain our anonymity. Absent that, many of us dare not speak freely without risk of being labeled dangerous eccentrics."

Hannah's mouth compressed in a disapproving frown. "I refuse to believe that compassion can ever be equated to eccentricity."

"But you must believe it, Miss Heywood. You of all people. A young lady making her debut can't be too careful. I know. My own come out was tainted by gossip about my peculiarity."

Hannah didn't know anything about Miss Winthrop's personal history, other than that she was the daughter of a clergyman in the nearby village of Locksmore. Their letters had largely been limited to the subject of animal welfare. "Did you make your debut in Bath?" she asked.

"Two years ago," Miss Winthrop admitted grimly. "Had I the ability to go backward in time, I'd never have done it. It was a dreadful experience, and—as my father says—far too costly for so little return." She paused for a moment before explaining, "I'm told that I talked too much on serious subjects, and was altogether too opinionated for people's comfort. I'm also an abysmal dancer, which meant I served no purpose at parties, not even to make up numbers. By the close of my season, all the invitations had completely dried up."

"I'm sincerely sorry to hear it," Hannah said. "Social events are trying at the best of times. I know too well how easily things can all go wrong."

Miss Winthrop pushed her spectacles further up on her nose. "Some of us are ill-suited for fashionable society. Both by aspect and by nature. I don't refine on it too much. My attentions are better served elsewhere."

"The journal does you credit." Hannah resumed turning the pages. At the end of the thin publication, there were several small sketches of animals—two dogs, a cat, and even a donkey. The latter was distinguished by one white ear and one white fetlock. The words Lost or Stolen were emblazoned above. "Are these?—?"

"Reports of animals who have gone missing in the West Country. That one is Sweet William, a girl's pet donkey taken from Fallkirk's Farm six months ago in Bidbury, a village outside of Saltford. The Animal Advocate hasn't a large list of subscribers at present, but it will help to get the word out. Perhaps he and the other missing pets can be found."

"Poor little dears," Hannah murmured. She couldn't imagine the pain of losing one of her own pets. "When will you send out the first issue?"

"It went out in the post this morning. I'll send the rest as orders come in."

"I look forward to receiving my copy."

"Take that one," Miss Winthrop said. "I have others at home."

Hannah accepted it gratefully. "Have you given any thought to your next issue?"

"Oh yes. If all goes to plan, the journal will go out monthly. I've already begun accepting contributions for the May issue."

"You are ambitious," Hannah said. "I admire you for it."

"It is in a worthy cause." Drawing on her gloves, Miss Winthrop moved to stand. "Perhaps we might meet again?"

"Assuredly." Hannah stood, gathering the journal, her umbrella, and shawl. "Not all of my hours will be consumed by balls and assemblies during my visit. I shall have ample time for my friends."

Miss Winthrop smiled. "I should like to call you friend, Miss Heywood."

"Hannah, please."

"Mattie," Miss Winthrop replied, returning the courtesy. "Shall I call on you in Camden Place?"

"Please, do," Hannah said. "My parents are arriving this afternoon with the remainder of the servants, and my horse and dogs, so it may be a bit busy for company, but anytime tomorrow or the next day would be convenient, I'm sure."

After taking her leave from her new friend, Hannah returned to her family's rented house in Camden Place, along with her maid. She and Ernsby entered to find the hall crowded with packing cases and trunks.

"Your parents have just arrived, Miss Heywood," Mrs. Pritchett said.

Hannah quickly divested herself of her bonnet, gloves, and pelisse. She handed them to Ernsby. "Where are they?"

"Your father is in the library with your brother," Mrs. Pritchett replied, "and your mother is in her room, unpacking. She has your dogs with her."

"Thank you," Hannah said, heading for the stairs.

By her room, she understood the housekeeper to mean their room. The choice of words was a matter of delicacy. Most fashionable couples didn't share a bedchamber. Hannah's parents had always been an exception. They shared a room just as they shared every other aspect of their lives. It was a scandalous fact to some of the servants. To Hannah, it was an example for her own future marriage.

She ascended the steps to the third floor, her skirts clutched in her hands. The master's chamber was located at the end of a floral-carpeted corridor. She rapped softly on the door. The faint sound was answered by the high-pitched barking of Evangeline and Tippo.

"Come in!" her mother called in answer. "But pray don't let them out!"

Hannah slipped into the room, shutting the door behind her. The grizzled pug and the three-legged black spaniel barreled toward her, wiggling with happiness. Hannah sank down on the floor, sweeping them up in her arms as they licked her face.

"You're all right, Evangeline," she said, kissing first one and then the other. "And you, Tippo, you foolish boy. I'm not going anywhere."

Hannah's mother, Phyllida Heywood, looked on with an expression of tender affection. A profoundly gentle lady, with dark auburn hair and a sweetly beautiful face, it was she who had taught Hannah to love and advocate for animals. Hannah couldn't recall her mother ever having been without an injured mongrel on the mend, not during all the years of Hannah's childhood.

Her mother's lady's maid, Gregson, stood beside the mahogany four-poster bed at the center of the room, single-mindedly unpacking a traveling case. There were trunks and boxes scattered over the mattress and on the upholstered chairs and small settee near the fireplace.

"They missed you dreadfully," Mama said as Hannah stood. "And so did I." She crossed the room to enfold her daughter in a warm, rose-scented embrace.

"It's only been one day and night, Mama," Hannah said, hugging her mother in return.

Her mother kissed her cheek before releasing her. "To Evangeline and Tippo, it has been an age. You were right to insist on us bringing them to Bath. I've been keeping them with me while Gregson and I unpack. A new house can be overwhelming to sensitive creatures. I advise accustoming them to it gradually."

"No fear," Hannah said. "I shall take charge of them now." She paused. "What of the other dogs?"

"Far happier at home," Mama said. "Flurry, Twig, Ignatius, and Odysseus require familiar hearths and wide-open spaces. William and Sara will look after them in our absence."

Hannah nodded, satisfied with the answer. The Heywoods' married butler and housekeeper, William and Sara, had been with the family all of Hannah's life. There were no servants Hannah trusted more.

Her mother returned to the sarsnet-curtained bed where Gregson was removing a tissue-wrapped amber silk dress from the traveling case—a ball gown by the look of it. "Thank you, Gregson," she said. "If you would give us a moment?"

"Yes, ma'am." Setting aside the dress, the lady's maid dropped a curtsy before withdrawing into the dressing room.

"Is your father still with Charles?" Mama asked.

"In the library, Mrs. Pritchett said."

"Then we have time to talk." Mama sat down on the edge of the bed. She patted the place beside her. "Come. Sit with me a moment."

Hannah joined her mother, sinking down beside her on the mattress. Their full skirts bunched against each other.

Mama took Hannah's hand gently in both of hers. "Your brother tells me that Lord St. Clare called yesterday."

Hannah tensed. "Along with Kate, yes."

"And how do you feel about that, darling?"

Hannah's brow furrowed. She was used to sharing her thoughts and feelings with her parents. They had always treated her opinions with respect, never judging or ridiculing her, even when they must override one of her decisions for her own good. But confiding her feelings—such feelings that she had—about the cold, handsome viscount was a different matter. Hannah found herself unusually reticent.

" Should I feel something?" she asked.

"Your brother fears Lord St. Clare has developed a tendre for you."

Hannah was surprised into a laugh. The idea was too ludicrous to allow for any other reaction. "Indeed, he has not."

Her mother searched her eyes. "You're certain of that?"

Hannah's smile of amusement faded in the face of her mother's seriousness. She cast her mind back on the few interactions she'd had with Lord St. Clare, combing her memories for any sign of attraction on his part. There was nothing. Not a word. Not a look.

"He is civil," she allowed. "But I have never detected any particular warmth in his treatment of me."

"No," Mama murmured thoughtfully. "He is not, I suspect, a warm man."

Hannah looked at her mother. She knew her parents were very much in love. They took no pains to hide it. But Hannah's father wasn't a demonstrative man, for all that. He was solemn and reserved. Even grumpy, some might say if they didn't know him.

"Was Papa very warm to you when you first met him?" she asked her mother.

"Not warm, no. He is a serious gentleman, and at the time, prone to brooding. He had not long been back from the war. His thoughts were often turned inward. Still… I had a sense of him."

"You knew he was in love with you?"

"No, not then. I didn't know he loved me until after we married. But I knew he was my friend, and that my happiness was ever at the forefront of his mind. From the first, I felt safe with him."

Hannah compared her mother's description to her own overpowering feelings of shyness and discomfort whenever she was in Lord St. Clare's presence. There was no similarity at all. "I hope I shall have the same sense when I meet the gentleman I'm to marry."

"I pray you shall." Mama brushed a lock of Hannah's hair behind her ear. "If you don't, you must ask your father and me for our advice. We have experience on our side to guide you."

"You don't approve of Lord St. Clare?"

Mama was quiet a moment. "I have no reason to disapprove of him. When his family came to stay last month, he was all politeness. But I confess…I would prefer to see your fate joined to a gentleman of warmth and affection. One who values you exactly as you are, and who would not attempt to change you to suit his lofty standards."

"Lord St. Clare has never indicated a wish to change me. To be sure, he is in most every way a stranger. If not for Charles marrying Kate, I doubt I would have met him at all."

"But you have met him. And you are very beautiful, my dear," Mama said gently. "Some men see only that. They value outward appearance above all traits. It compels them to make inadvisable matches."

Hannah's brows lifted. A match between her and Viscount St. Clare? The prospect was too outlandish to contemplate. "Lord St. Clare has no interest in me. Not in that way."

She would know it if he had. She'd have felt it by now. Women could feel such things, couldn't they?

"And your interest?" her mother prompted.

"I have none. Not for him." Hannah gave her mother's hand a reassuring squeeze. "You're very sweet to worry, Mama, but you have no cause to. Whatever happens this season, I can promise you that Lord St. Clare is the last gentleman on earth I should ever choose to marry."