Chapter 3

The sun blazed into the dining room. Bernadette stared at her plate and tried to ignore the words that Mama threw at her across the table.

"I can't believe it! All that time and effort! Securing an invitation from Lady Cobham...everything. And you go and hide on the terrace all evening."

"I didn't hide all evening," Bernadette commented, her voice small and thin.

"Don't argue with your mother," Father interrupted, looking up from the roast fish they ate for lunch.

She looked out of the window, feeling desperate. Viola's family townhouse was a brisk walk across town in Pall Mall, but Bernadette didn't feel as though she had the energy to go there after the ball yesterday. Viola would be visiting for tea tomorrow, but that meant she had the whole of one day shut in the house with her critical family.

"You don't even try! What do you expect? That the nice gown and the hairstyle will do all the work while you stand on the terrace like a potted fern?"

"Mama, please," Bernadette whispered. Her parents' reproaches were like knives. She couldn't stand having many more of them thrown her way. She sipped lemonade, her stomach lurching queasily. She'd tried to force herself to eat the soup they had for the first course, but it didn't sit well, and she knew she had to escape soon. "I would like to be excused..."

"There you go! Hiding again! What is wrong with you?" Her mother shrilled. "You're the daughter of a baron. Can you not behave as one?"

Father looked up from his plate of food. "Amelia," he addressed her mother thinly. "Please...not so loud. I'm trying to think."

Bernadette gaped. It was fine when Mama shouted at her, but if it disturbed his afternoon musing, then it was wrong. She looked from one to the other, her heart aching. She could see no love when they looked at her. All that was written in their gazes was censure and ambition. In their world, she just needed to be like everyone else, to secure a fine match and blend seamlessly into the Ton like others of their social standing. But that wasn't possible for her. She was too sensitive, too nervous, too unsure of herself. And the weight of their expectations was a hard one to bear.

"Please, Mama. Father. I feel ill. I beg to be excused." She pushed back her chair, the sound loud in the silence.

"Well, don't be long. We have an appointment with the seamstress at two o' clock this afternoon. Your new gown for your appearance at Almack's Assembly needs a fitting. It's to be a fine one—fit to face the whole of high society in." She looked satisfied.

Bernadette stared at her mother. Was that all she thought about? Balls and parties and impressing other people in the Ton ?

Without speaking to either of them, she turned and walked out of the room. Hurrying to her bedroom, she shut the door and sat down on her bed, heart thudding. Her stomach roiled queasily, and she thought for a moment she was actually sick with something.

God, help me, she thought in a silent prayer. It was all too much. The Season was a round of torment for someone shy like her; three months of London, balls, parties, and the never-ending, soul-shredding criticism. She needed to escape.

I can't spend the rest of my life like this.

She swallowed hard. The rest of her life was a gloomy prospect. She would be trapped here with Mama and Father forever, a silent shadow in their household, constantly drawing their critical gaze. Unless she could escape and find work somewhere, that was her life. And what work could a baron's daughter do? Being a governess would ruin her family's reputation, and that was the best of the possible jobs she could take.

Unless Aunt has an answer.

She shut her eyes again, hope flooding through her. Aunt Rachel was her only chance of escaping her parents and the intractable problem of trying to be part of society when she simply couldn't be. An elderly woman, kindly and good-hearted, Aunt Rachel was a dowager viscountess and capable of sustaining Bernadette in her household as a companion. She'd written to Aunt Rachel a week ago, requesting a position in her house, and she hoped that she would soon receive a reply.

"Milady? Are you in there, Miss Rowland?" Bernadette looked up at the sound of a voice at the door. It was Judy, her maid. She hurriedly stood up to see what the matter was.

"Judy. What is it?" she asked, calling through the door.

"Can I come in? I have your gown for this afternoon with me."

"Please do," Bernadette said kindly.

She watched as the door opened and Judy came in, a long red gown in her arms. She hung it up carefully on the wardrobe door. Bernadette felt her stomach twist. Mama would insist on red. It was the latest fashionable color. Even a trip to the modiste required one to look fashionable, it seemed—their modiste was in Bond Street, and to sashay down Bond Street was to draw the eyes of high society. Nothing, clearly, could be informal or simple in her mother's world.

"Thank you," Bernadette said dully.

"Milady? Do you feel unwell?" her maid asked kindly. Judy was her own age, with red hair that she wore tied back in a bun and a long, slim face.

"No..." Bernadette murmured. "Not really. I'm just tired. It was a long ball last night."

"It was milady. Try and sleep," Judy said kindly. "I'll come directly if you need anything."

"Thank you, Judy," Bernadette whispered. She felt her throat tighten. At least someone in the household thought her health was worth caring about.

"Not at all, milady. Rest, now," Judy murmured. "I'll accompany you on a walk later, if you'd like to take the air."

"Thank you, Judy," Bernadette answered softly. "That would be very kind."

Judy served as her chaperone as well as her maid, escorting her across town or to the shops or the park if she needed a walk. It was a good arrangement, since Judy genuinely was caring and kind, and Bernadette felt safer on the London streets with her than she would have with anyone else.

"Mayhap I should visit Viola," she told her reflection as Judy slipped silently out through the door. The day already seemed somewhat colder, the rain that their butler, Mr. Hadley, had gloomily predicted, blowing in from the west. A walk didn't seem a pleasant prospect and she sat down on the bed.

Her reflection gazed back at her from the surface of the dressing-table mirror. Her large hazel-brown eyes were blank, her pale oval face expressionless. She studied her features intently, trying to see just what it was that made her so easy to ignore. She had a thin nose, a mouth like a small, pert bow, and dark brows and lashes. Her hair was a soft brown, the color of darkish honey, and her chin a dainty knob. Her face was a little serious, perhaps, with pale skin and an oval shape. Her hair was quite thick, and her neck long and gracious.

"What is wrong with me?" she whispered to her reflection.

No answer came to her. Perhaps it was just that there was no particular flair in her looks—she didn't have the lustrous black eyes, or the wondrous blonde curls so admired in society. She was not curvaceous and pretty like Lady Cobham's daughters, nor tall and elegant like Lady Beatrice, their neighbor's daughter, who was admired wherever she went. She was personable enough, but not striking.

"A pox on it," she whispered, cheeks burning with sadness, and then with embarrassment at her mild swearing. She sighed. She couldn't sit there in her room all afternoon—she'd drive herself mad. Occupying her mind was necessary.

Her thoughts drifted to her father as she stood and walked to the door. He seemed unusually preoccupied at breakfast. Normally, he was more talkative, but he'd been gazing at her speculatively and she wondered what was on his mind.

Nothing that concerns me, or he'd tell me.

One thing, she told herself wryly, was that her parents didn't spare her. Whatever Father was thinking, no matter how horrid it might be, he'd be sure to tell her.

She reached the drawing room and sat down at the pianoforte. Large and graciously made, with ivory keys and brass candle holders, the pianoforte was her favorite thing about the London house. It had belonged to her grandmother, who had been, by all accounts, an excellent pianist. Bernadette rested her hands on the keys. Nobody could criticize her own performance at the pianoforte. That was one thing that she excelled at and one thing that made her feel safe.

She reached up to the shelf where the music was kept, grateful to Mrs. Sedgewick, her music tutor, who had ensured that all the latest works were supplied to the household. Her parents likely wouldn't have bothered to buy sheet music for her, even though it was her dearest interest in the world. There were enough music books in the house for their daughter to seem accomplished and that was all they had wanted when they found her a tutor.

She settled down at the pianoforte, her fingers finding the notes. Dreamy, sad music drifted through the room, and she shut her eyes as she played.

"My lady?"

Bernadette whipped round to find Mr. Hadley, the butler, there in the doorway. She smiled, relieved that it was him. He was not about to criticize or reprimand her.

"Yes? What is it?"

He was holding a letter and he passed it to her. "This arrived, my lady. It's addressed to you. From Orley House."

"Thank you!" Bernadette took the letter, hurrying to the window where the light was better so she could read it. She slipped her finger under the simple seal of a flower and opened it. Her eyes moved swiftly over the small, flowing lines of text.

"My dear niece," she read as Mr. Hadley hurried out. "I was grateful to receive your letter. It finds me in good health. I was pleased with your offer and of course would be delighted to accept. I will have a room made ready for you. I look forward to your arrival. Please inform me of your day of departure so that I can have matters in order when you reach Orley Manor. With anticipation, Rachel."

Bernadette shut her eyes. Relief flooded her. She had to admit living with Aunt Rachel wasn't exactly a diverting prospect—Orley Manor was old, drafty, and isolated on its property in the Yorkshire Dales. Yet it was also a safe place, somewhere to hide and a chance to make her own way in life without her parents' unreasonable expectations.

She took a deep breath. This was the deciding moment of her life. She went to the writing desk at the window and settled down to write. She'd have to find a way of explaining her choice to her parents. Her stomach twisted painfully. She needed to do this, to find the boldness somewhere within her to do it.

She lifted the pen. As she wrote, footsteps echoed. She looked up to see Mr. Hadley with her father.

"Daughter! There you are. Could you come to the study for a moment? I have something to tell you."