Chapter Twenty-Nine

THE PAST

February 1806

Louisa sat sightlessly, a handkerchief clutched in one hand, a fistful of her black, scratchy mourning dress in the other. Her chest felt as though it had been callously carved out with a spoon, grief tapping staccato against her ribs.

Her cousin, a man she had never seen before that day, leant towards her, his expression a mask of concern. "Are you all right?" he asked.

Louisa wanted to throw a vase at him. And then she wanted to scream.

Instead, she dragged in a deep breath and forced a smile. "Perfectly, sir."

It had been a week since her father had fallen from his horse in the middle of St James's Street and broken his neck. A week since her life had been turned upside down with no recourse.

Mr Joseph Picard, a man twenty years her senior, frowned at her in what seemed to be genuine solicitude. "You look pale," he said. "Let me call for someone. A physician, perhaps?"

She didn't need a physician: she needed her father back.

Beside Mr Picard, his wife sat demurely with her gloved hands delicately holding a handkerchief Louisa had yet to see her use. In fact, she had strong reason to believe Mrs Picard had never, in fact, met her father. And now she was to inherit everything her father had owned, while Louisa was left with next to nothing.

Louisa had never been so tempted to violence as when she had learnt the terms of her father's will. The estate was entailed away, and all she could do was rely on their generosity.

Her cousin, she suspected, would do everything in his power to make sure she was comfortable.

His wife, however, she was less sure of.

"You must know," he said earnestly, a friendly smile on his face, "that I do not begrudge your mother for her grief. It's most understandable, considering what she has lost."

Louisa made no attempt to explain that her mother's grief was less for her father and more for the style of living she had grown so accustomed to.

"Thank you," she said, casting her eyes downwards. "You are very kind."

"My husband," Mrs Angelica Picard said with emphasis, "is the best of men."

"You flatter me, my dear."

"No, not at all, Only consider what you are thinking of offering them. Five hundred a year!" She said the words as though it was an unreasonably large amount. "You are all generosity."

Louisa inhaled slowly. Five hundred a year. They had been accustomed to living on no less than fifteen thousand. All she had left was her indifferent dowry.

Mr Joseph Picard watched her anxiously, looking as though he felt the injustice of his wife's speech, a very little. "And of course you may have anything in the house that you feel any affection for," he told her with another smile. Poor man, to be ruled so utterly by his wife.

Angelica gave a sharp, derisive bark of laughter. "Indeed! You are all generosity, my darling."

"Thank you," Louisa said, barely managing to keep her resentment from slipping out between her teeth.

"And naturally you must remain in the house until you find somewhere to reside," Mr Picard said.

"I shall be more than happy to look for some eligible houses." Angelica dabbed at her dry eyes with her handkerchief. "It's the least I can do."

Of course you will , Louisa thought viciously. Anything to ensure they left the house sooner.

And, with only five hundred a year to their name, they would be forced to forgo the fashionable locations of London, not to mention most of their servants, their horses, their carriages. It was not cheap to stable a horse in London. Her sweet mare would have to be sold—no. Now it belonged to the new Mr and Mrs Picard.

None of this would have mattered if her father had lived the remainder of his natural lifespan. But that was not the case, and at a mere fifty-two years of age, he was gone.

"I should see to my mother," she said, rising and giving a mechanical curtsy. "She likely has not eaten yet today."

"Of course, of course. Don't let us keep you." Joseph rose to his feet. "And convey our good wishes to your mother. No doubt she is feeling this very acutely."

"I have some hartshorn with me," Angelica said with a saccharine smile. "Allow me to have some taken up."

Louisa curtsied again. "Thank you, Mrs Picard."

"Now then, you must call me Angelica. We are cousins, after all."

"Angelica," Louisa managed, and fled before she was any more tempted to ruin the very lovely vase her mother kept on the mantelpiece.

True to form, her mother was still abed, and Louisa rapped impatiently on the door. In the week since her father's death, the only time her mother had left her room was to attend the funeral with a veil over her face and so much loud weeping that Louisa had been embarrassed. Louisa's sorrow, in public, was a quiet, contained thing. Only when she was alone did she give way to tears.

There was too much for her to do for her to give way to such overwrought displays of sensibility.

"Mama?" she called.

"Go away."

"Mama, I must speak with you."

"You can have nothing pleasant to say."

"That is no excuse not to hear it." Biting back her impatience, Louisa pushed open the door and strode to the curtains, yanking them open. From the bed, her mother hissed. "It is midday, Mama. You must rise."

"What for? To wear black and listen to all those insufferable people telling me that they're sorry? What use are their apologies?" She looked at Louisa with that shrewd, hard gaze of hers, unadorned by grief. "Has that boy arrived yet?"

"My cousin Joseph? He is not much younger than you, Mama."

"No doubt he is threatening to turn us out of the house at the first possible opportunity, before your father is cold in his grave."

"I suspect Father is most definitely cold," Louisa said dryly. "And it will not matter if you refuse to go, because he will have ways and means of forcing us out, and it is best that we find something sooner than later. Angelica has offered to help us, and we can want nothing that she has found, I can guarantee it."

Her mother flung an arm over her eyes. "Then there is only one thing for it. You must marry."

"Marry?" Louisa reared back. "Now?"

"There must be a rich gentleman who will have you. Surely that pretty face cannot be for nothing . "

"Mama, we are in mourning."

She sat up, greying hair falling from its braid. "Is there no end to your selfishness? We are desperate, girl. I know how much they expect us to live on, and it cannot be done."

"To be sure it can, and others have lived on less, I daresay," Louisa retorted. "Dress, and then we shall give a thought to our next house."

"It must be a quiet wedding, of course, but it will save us."

Louisa yanked on the bellpull for her mother's maid, and a bell jangled. "I am not marrying, Mama."

Her mother's expression tightened as though she had been slapped. "That is your role. A young lady must know her place in the world or she is setting herself up for disappointment. You think a society ruled by men will bow to you because you have some talent with oils and no money? The only way you can ever have a comfortable life is if you marry and marry well. And now we are being cast out with nothing, the sooner you accept your fate, the better."

Louisa's hands curled into fists. "No doubt that is what you did."

"Naturally. I did my duty, and your father provided for us."

"And did that make you happy?"

"I would be happier if you knew your duty, Louisa. Your father had no right dying when he did, before you were settled. And he had no right letting you get all sorts of inflated ideas in your head. How will you marry well now? You have dissuaded every young gentleman who has shown you interest."

"Not every young gentleman."

Her lip curled. "No, not every one. Are you still pining after that Eynsham boy? He won't have you when it comes down to it. He needs to marry well too, my dear. And marry rich. The Shrewsbury estates are mortgaged to the hilt and decaying—they are one mistake from going under, mark my words."

Henry had never once hidden this from her, but he had also made it plain that once he had an independence, he would marry her, and they would contrive, for better or worse.

Things had changed now—her mother expected some kind of allowance, for one—but not enough for his intentions to falter. She had to believe that; he would not be false to her.

He loved her.

"You must rise, Mama," she said coldly as the lady's maid entered the room. "And find somewhere else to go before we are thrown out entirely."

Downstairs, Angelica was receiving a tour of the kitchens and her cousin was flirting amicably with the maid who had brought him tea. Louisa found she could bear to be with neither of them, but the butler caught her attention.

"Lord Eynsham here to see you," he said, and cast a significant glance at the drawing room. "I sent him to your painting room, miss."

"Thank you." Sending him a grateful smile, she picked up her skirts and fairly ran to the small room she had appropriated. As the butler had promised, Henry was already there, standing in the middle of the room, crisp and sharp in his navy coat. Before she could think too hard about what she was doing, she ran to him, throwing herself in his arms.

"Louisa," he said, catching her. Then her face was pressed into his coat and he smelt like smoke and rain, the fine wool faintly damp.

"Did you walk here?"

"From my father's house. It was no way at all." He held her closer against him. "I came as soon as I heard. I'm so sorry, Louisa."

"He was a good man." She heard the catch in her voice, heard the way it broke around the sound, and pressed her face deeper into the comfort of his shoulder. "I wish you could have known him better."

"So do I."

"We are to be turned out." She clung to him, needing his reassurance now, when no one else could offer any to her. "Papa's brother had a son, and he has inherited everything."

"Good God."

She gave a snotty laugh, and he eased her back so he could see her face. "Are you all right?" he asked, the stern lines of his face softened into concern.

"My cousin is offering us an allowance. We are grateful "—she sneered on the word—"to receive five hundred a year from his generosity."

"A year?" Henry looked mildly shocked. "Truly?"

"His wife informed me that he is the most generous man alive. We must find somewhere else to live—somewhere in London that is within our paltry budget. I hardly know if it's possible. We may have to rusticate." Her smile trembled on her lips. "Mama will not want to agree, but I see no other option for us."

"Then we'll think of something," he said, smoothing his thumbs over her cheeks. "Don't cry, don't cry."

"I don't mean to." More tears tracked down her cheeks and onto the warm skin of his hands. "I just can't help it."

"I'm here," he promised, and she let herself believe that he meant it. Perhaps he would even offer for her as a result of their plight. Though her mother was right about one thing: allying himself with her and her family now was a different beast from allying himself with her when her father was still alive and wealthy.

Her heart hurt. The ways of the world were cruel.

But Henry wasn't looking at her as though he was weighing her worth against bars of gold. He was looking at her with patient concern and—yes, that was love.

The worst of her fears melted in the face of that look. Whatever they were to face, at least they would do so together.