Chapter 24

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

F irst light, in the opinion of Reverend Margrave, meant well before first light, but Scarlett did not mind. She had lain awake all night, thinking of what had happened, what would come next, and how she might extricate herself from it all. The doubt that had shown on the faces of all of them was too much to be borne; the mortification of it made her writhe all night long. Was the word of a man to be so much more trusted than hers, even one who so clearly appeared to be a madman?

A hack chaise had been arranged to take them to the posting inn. Sir Humphrey had arisen to see them off, and a footman was there in the event that they needed assistance with their bags. Scarlett needed no assistance with the satchel she had brought, meagre as it was, and only nodded at the boy as she went past him.

“Allow me, miss,” he said, reaching for the satchel.

“Do not worry about it, John. It scarcely weighs anything,” she said. Seeing him brought a fresh wave of humiliation over her—what must the servants think of all of this? Did they think her some charlatan who had tried to insert herself into better society?

“Really, miss. Allow me .” He reached again for her satchel and she surrendered it to him, utterly amazed when she saw him quickly slip what looked like a letter inside before placing it into the chaise. She looked at him in astonishment for a moment, but he only averted his eyes and extended his arm to hand her in.

She climbed into the chaise, utterly mad to know what it was he had given her, who it was from. I do not dare look while the reverend is sitting there. Her best hope was that Reverend Margrave would fall asleep, and even then she did not know if she would dare.

Mercifully, the early hour meant that the reverend was all too happy to be silent for the first miles of their journey back to Stanbridge. They were travelling by stage, crowded in amongst others, so any conversation of significance would have been impossible. She refused to look at him, her head turned to the side so severely it made her neck ache, and replied in the fewest syllables possible when a reply was unavoidable.

Humiliation made her burn. She had many faults, but none of them included being a liar. She had always been honest, even to her detriment; to be doubted was more painful than a physical blow would have been. His demeanour the entire morning, smug and self-righteous, made her wish she was a man, for if she was, she would have called him out for having insulted her honour.

In St Albans, Reverend Margrave undertook the surprising act of hiring them private conveyance to return them to Stanbridge. Scarlett entered the carriage with dread, closing her eyes as she leant back into the threadbare squabs, hoping, rather than believing, that conversation might be forestalled. It did not discourage the reverend in the least from beginning the enquiry.

“And did it suit you to embroil yourself in Satan’s city? To enmesh yourself amongst those whose only purpose is pleasure and vice?”

“I do not think it just to say so,” she replied flatly. “There are good and decent people to be found even in London.”

“Good and decent?” The reverend’s tone was almost taunting. “Is it good and decent to mislead a young woman? Or to be a man who encourages you to indulge your own sinful nature, pressing your loins against his body, then turning his back on you?—”

She opened her eyes quickly, sitting upright. “He did not?—”

“Of course he did,” the reverend said smoothly. “It is always thus, Scarlett. In Genesis we learn that woman was the downfall of man, but I must say, in our modern society, it seems generally to be the other way round. I understood completely what that young ne’er-do-well was about the moment I set eyes upon him.”

“He is not a ne’er-do-well! He is an earl! ”

“Oh! My! An earl—and what has he done to earn that designation, I wonder? Oh, yes. Be born. That is all.”

Scarlett did not reply to that.

“I must confess, by the looks of you, I cannot see that one jot of this served any edifying purpose. You look tired and drawn, not at all like the contented young lady I know.”

Scarlett still said nothing. She turned to stare out of the window at the passing landscape, mortified when a tear slipped down her cheek. She could only hope the reverend had not noticed.

“I would just like to observe, my dear, that for all their protestations of being your family, they did give you up rather quickly, did they not? Quickly come and quickly go, including your friend the earl who went from wishing a private audience with me to haring out of there like the dogs of Hell pursued him.”

“Because you lied to them,” Scarlett retorted, knowing she would pay for her impudence but not quite caring. “Shockingly, I might add. I cannot quite understand it.”

“A father does as he must to protect his daughter,” the reverend replied blithely. “I would much rather tell a few falsehoods than lose you to such dissolute people.”

“They are not dissolute people.”

“I disagree. They gave you up in the first place, did they not? Never came to look for you in eighteen long years. ”

“Because they had no notion of my existence,” she protested. “I am certain that they might have come once they knew.”

“They know of you now, do they not? We shall see whether they give you so much as a passing thought. I would wager all that I have that they will never even think of you again. Such a life, with such people, is not what you were born for, Scarlett.”

Scarlett could easily see how it had all been rewritten in his eyes. He, the protector of her faith and virtue, had been forced to go into the lion’s den that was London, and had done as he must to rescue and extricate her. In his own perfidy, he found virtue; it was a marvellous talent he possessed to always prove—at least to himself—that his way was the best, most virtuous way.

“Now do not distress yourself further about this. It is all over and we shall be, soon, as we generally are.”

“What of this engagement you announced? I suppose that was a falsehood as well?” She hoped it was. Things would be that much more complicated if some other man was involved.

The reverend was quiet for a moment before saying, “You are the sort of girl to be content at home, Scarlett. You have a mission, a calling?—”

“No, I do not,” she replied sharply. “ You were called to this life, not me, and I refuse to pretend otherwise. If you intend to lock me away, do it, but pray do not pretend that I wish for it because I do not.”

Peculiarly, her outburst seemed to have amused him. A smile played at his lips, a smile quickly pressed into hiding before he said, “In any case, no, there is no engagement, nor should I think one advisable. I only wished for that person—Lord Worthless? Was that his name?—I wished for him to be gone, and so he was. Without a look back.”

She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing that his words had injured her. How she hoped and prayed the little missive, still hidden away in the satchel, was from Worthe!