Chapter 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

T he sun had long since set, and the moon was but a quarter full. Only Adelaide's knowledge of the path saved her feet from a soaking in the grass on one side and the gulley on the other. This approach to the house might be unlit, but the great stone edifice itself was lit up like a beacon. Candlelight blazed from every window on the principal floor, and singing could be heard drifting down from the music room. Enticing smells wafted from the kitchen block, and somewhere in the dark, a peacock screeched its goodnight. It was at once a heartening and a depressing prospect: the familiarity of the place vastly welcome; the inevitability of her return there considerably less so.

It had been a long three days. She had left Chiltern Court without any real idea of where she would go, only the conviction that she could not stay. To be a burden on her new family was the last thing Adelaide had ever desired. She well knew what happened to people thus imposed upon—they grew resentful. Having been the recipient of more than her share of resentment, she had not the stomach to sit about waiting for more to be directed her way. She had taken Lady Tipton's advice and resolved to keep her stay in that world short.

It had proved a decision easier in the making than the executing. Gratitude, affection, and an inconvenient bout of probity had prevented her from stealing a horse on which to make her escape. She had been obliged to leave on foot—a case full of clothes under her arm and a purse full of pin-money stuffed down her stays—and beg the assistance of a kindly passerby on his dogcart.

She was well used to staying out of trouble and knew to attach herself to other travellers whenever she could to avoid unwanted attention on the road. She had variously lied, pleaded, paid for, and demanded assistance as circumstance dictated. She had changed—at inns, in woods, behind stables, once in a church vestry—back and forth between her old brown work-clothes and new blue gown as best suited whatever means of travel was before her. She had slept one night on a stagecoach and walked right through another, too cold to stop moving.

She considered it good fortune to have only been accosted thrice. The first offender, a thief, had been disappointed enough at finding her pockets empty as to provoke an exceedingly credible threat of violence. That woman, Adelaide had outrun. The second, a clergyman wishing to make an example of her and a paragon of himself, had launched into a scathing attack on the immorality of young women travelling alone. He, Adelaide had outranked, and though he evidently knew not whether to believe her, informing him of it had been enough to stifle his diatribe. The third, a drunk, had wanted something far more valuable than piety or coin, and he Adelaide might not have evaded, but for Mrs Bunce's letter opener.

Adelaide's old gown was now in tatters, and her new blue one was almost completely brown. Her feet were blistered, her face and hands were filthy, and there was no quantity of pins and no bonnet gay enough to hide the disaster that was her hair. She had run out of money the previous afternoon and not eaten since she finished her last piece of bread that morning.

She had come to the only conclusion she could—this entire chapter of her life had been one huge mistake from beginning to end. Thus, as she approached the house, she reconciled her muddled feelings by telling herself that she really ought never to have left in the first place; this was clearly where she had belonged all along.

The door opened before she had quite reached it. She stopped, unsure how to explain herself.

"What are you doing back here?"

"I did not know where else to go."

"Well, you'd better sling your hook before anyone sees you. You'll likely not get a pleasant welcome."

"Who are you talking to, Gregory?" somebody called from within.

The footman called back "no one" then stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind him. "I am not overstating it. They were fuming when you left."

"They kicked me out!"

The door was abruptly yanked open, and the aperture filled with a looming silhouette, instantly identifiable as High Brook's butler by his stentorian voice.

"That is correct, young woman, we did. We also told you never to return, but you seem to have given that instruction considerably less credence. What do you want?"

Adelaide refused to cower. "I came to ask whether?—"

She stopped speaking when Mary's face appeared over Mr Hardcastle's shoulder and promptly contracted into a vicious sneer.

"Would you look at who it is! Miss high and mighty herself!"

"I am not high and mighty."

Mr Hardcastle scoffed and made no effort to curtail Mary's invective.

"Why have you come here dressed like that, then?" she asked spitefully. "Expecting us all to bow and scrape, were yer?"

Adelaide glanced down at her mud-encrusted gown, visible beneath her similarly bedraggled pelisse, mystified as to how Mary could think it any indication of superiority. Yet she could not deny that, even covered in dirt, both were still very clearly finer garments than a housemaid could ever hope to own. She sighed despondently.

"I would have changed, but?—"

"No point. Leopards cannot change their spots. You always were a snooty cow and looks like you still are. Or are you going to tell us you ain't related to the viscount after all?"

"No. I am definitely his sister. No—his cousin! I mean his cousin. "

"Get your story straight!" she said with a mocking laugh.

"Mary, get back to work this instant!"

Mary was unceremoniously bustled aside, and Mrs Bunce appeared in her place. She cast Adelaide an inscrutable look then turned to the butler. "I shall deal with this, Mr Hardcastle."

"She is no longer an employee of this house, Mrs Bunce, and therefore no longer comes under your jurisdiction. She will not set foot across this threshold."

"Unless it is your intention to make an enemy of the Earl and Countess of Tipton and Viscount Oakley, pray allow me to make Miss Richmond a cup of tea to warm her before she continues on her travels."

Mr Hardcastle's face was still in shadow, but Adelaide could perfectly picture the familiar curl of his lip. She could certainly hear it in his clipped tone when he replied, "Keep it brief, Mrs Bunce."

The housekeeper nodded once, reached to grab Adelaide's elbow, and tugged her through the door and all the way to her sitting room. She did not offer her a cup of tea. She did not even offer her a seat.

"I do not know what has happened between you and their lordships, but you cannot have a grain of sense in that pretty little head of yours, coming back here in this manner. What on earth were you hoping to achieve?"

Adelaide shrugged. "I did good work here, did I not? Now everyone knows the truth—that I was not carrying on improperly—I hoped I might be allowed to come back."

Mrs Bunce stared at her incredulously. "You thought— you actually thought—I would be at liberty to employ the granddaughter of an earl as one of my maids?"

"Well, no. In truth, I did not think about it in that light. I only thought of coming back to…to… I do not fit in at Chiltern Court. I do not have any—" She had been about to say ‘friends' but stopped when her eyes fell upon the chest of drawers in the shadowy corner of the room. Upon it lay the boar bristle hairbrush she had sent to Patty, unwrapped, and with hair amidst the bristles.

Mrs Bunce's gaze followed hers, and she had the decency to blush. "Patty is no longer with us. She left shortly after you. I was not about to let such a fine thing go to waste. Better to put it to good use than?—"

"Where did she go?" Adelaide felt as though the bottom had fallen out of her world. She had not truly wanted to return to service—no one in their right mind would. She had wanted to see her friend. And her friend had gone.

"I do not know," Mrs Bunce said. "I wrote her a character, but I have never been approached by anyone to verify it." When Adelaide said nothing more, she continued, "Should you like me to let the mistress know you are here? You would do better upstairs with the family."

"No, thank you."

The housekeeper observably wavered over her next words, but ultimately asked, "Have the Richmonds changed their minds? Have you been turned out?"

"No." Though they undoubtedly would now. "But I find I am not well suited to their way of life."

Mrs Bunce continued to regard her for a moment or two, during which Adelaide thought she might be forming some words of understanding or sympathy. She only sneered and shook her head.

"Her as cannot find a way to suit herself to the lap of luxury is as great a fool as ever I met. Not well suited? To what, pray? Were the beds too soft? The food too rich?" She tugged meanly at Adelaide's sleeve. "Clothes too comfortable? Heaven and earth, girl, what is it you were hoping for?"

I do not know! Adelaide cried in her head. She had discovered her true family; a brother and aunt who were trying, in their own way, to protect her, and an uncle who, if he could not love her, was at least willing to provide for her. And she had thrown their every kindness to the gutter for the conviction that it was not what any of them wanted—that she did not belong with them. What in blazes had made her think she belonged here instead was anyone's guess.

"I am sorry to have intruded on your evening. I shall leave you now." She dashed out of the room before Mrs Bunce could reply. Ignoring every curious look as she ran along the passageway, she was at the door before the housekeeper caught up with her.

"Here, take these." Mrs Bunce pressed a stale roll and a very sorry-looking carrot into her hands. "If you happen to pass Norbury Manor on the Kingsway, ask for Mrs Rushworth. She might have some work. Mind not to give your real name. It'll do you no favours if you truly mean to stay in service."

Adelaide whispered her thanks and fled into the night.