Chapter 25

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“ G o and put your things away,” the reverend ordered when they arrived at the parsonage. “And then come to me in my study. No dawdling, now.”

It was not uncommon for Scarlett to wear a pinafore over her gowns while at home, and she donned one quickly now, one with pockets that could easily conceal her note. She would cross her hands over it while the reverend spoke to her, and pray that he was so intent on whatever sermonising he intended for her that he would notice nothing else.

She entered the study to find the reverend standing by the fireplace. “Sit, Scarlett,” he said, pointing to a hard wooden chair, and she obeyed him. Unsurprisingly, Scarlett found she was to be punished for longer this time. The reverend set her to one day of penance for each day she had been in London, though she was not expected to fast completely as she had been previously .

“Thank you,” she said as she rose from the chair. Moments later she was alone in the tiny attic room once again. She waited for the sounds of Mrs Hobson’s footsteps to recede and then at last could attend to her letter.

She quickly removed the note from her pocket and sat on the cot to read it. Her heart leapt the moment she saw the firm, masculine hand, and her eyes leapt to the bottom of the page which was signed only by a ‘W’. Relief made laughter bubble up in her chest even as tears collected in her eyes. She dashed them away so that she might read.

Darling,

Pray forgive my precipitate departure last evening. There is a fellow I know, a barrister, who I hoped might have some immediate remedy to the issue, and I wished to get his involvement at once. Alas, it proved that he could not immediately assist, though he did provide valuable advice to me, your uncle, and your brother. Know that I do not credit any word spoken by RM. He is plainly lost to every feeling of sympathy and truth. Oakley tells me that you are to leave London at first light, and while it certainly makes our plans more difficult, we will prevail, I am certain of that. We will discover the truth and do all we can to free from his tyranny.

You are too clever to mistake my intentions for us, and I only wish I had asked you the question that has burnt on my heart from the very first time I danced with you. We are meant to be, my sweet Scarlett, no matter what dragons I must slay, or what mountains I must climb in order to call you my own. I do not care whether you are a Richmond, or a Margrave, only that you become Lady Worthe. I shall not rest until you are.

I know not whether this engagement RM spoke of is truth, but if it is, you must not consent to anything. Tell the fellow to find another lady, for you are already spoken for—by me. Be patient, my darling girl, and do not lose faith in me. I love you.

I must be back into the night if I am to get this into the hand of an obliging servant in time for it to get to you before you are made to leave London, but I must tell you one last time that you are dearly loved.

W

Scarlett hardly knew how many times she read the short note over the next days, only that it was the first thing she reached for when she woke and the last thing she read before her candle guttered out at night. It sustained her, even as much as the thin soups and bread she was given were just enough to keep her from bitter hunger.

The reverend had again set her on a course of scripture study—obedience and abstinence being the foremost subjects of her reading—but there was still ample time to consider what came next. She knew not what the Richmonds believed, or even what Worthe believed—for his note, she felt, was somewhat unclear on that point—but she believed. Nay, she knew she was a Richmond, felt it in her bones. She had never felt anything as much as the certainty of kinship she felt with Adelaide and Oakley. The family had shown her acceptance, particularly Adelaide, and if the reverend’s lies had given them cause to doubt her, then she would simply have to prove she was who she said.

The question was, how to do so?

She paced the confines of the small room, deliberating and scheming, her rage fuelled by her helplessness and increasing hopelessness. If she could locate the original letter, it would prove the reverend had lied, but she was sure he was too clever for that. He would have disposed of it before coming to London, for certain. Nevertheless, she knew there must be something more. Papers, documents, a letter, anything at all that would prove her honest, and as soon as she was released from her penance, she would do as she must to find it.

It felt almost too good to be true that, when at last she was released, the reverend informed her over breakfast that he would be gone the next day for business in Bedford.

“I suspect,” he said, “that you will be able to occupy yourself well enough. I believe you have learnt to appreciate the comforts of home, have you not?”

To this Scarlett offered a demure smile. She had learnt something, although it was not what the reverend imagined. She had learnt that meekness of attitude and a subservient-looking smile could hide the most rebellious spirit, and that nodding one’s head complaisantly could mask any intentions. After all, why should she be honest in what she was feeling? She had been injured by his lies and thus felt no compunction in putting forth a few of her own. The reverend believed he had prevailed, and she was not yet prepared to disabuse him of that belief.

“I shall spend one night there,” the reverend continued, “and return the day following.”

“I bid you safe travels, sir,” she managed to say. “You will take the Leightons’ gig, I suppose?” He had done so for previous parish travel.

He confirmed that he would and the matter was dropped.

The next day Scarlett waited an hour complete to be certain that the reverend would not double back for any cause. Then, once she was absolutely positive he was well on his way to Bedford, she entered his study. Her hands shook as she began to rifle through his papers, from anticipation as much as anxiety. She had already concocted a story in the event Mrs Hobson saw her—a matter of doctrine that she wished to research.

The reverend was generally an organised man, but he was also a suspicious man. Documents pertaining to matters of sensitivity would not be organised in the most logical place but rather the place they were most unlikely to be found. It made her search a frustrating business, particularly as she knew not what she actually sought.

“Miss Scarlett?”

She yelped, from surprise as well as the quick impact of her shin against a partly opened desk drawer. Reaching down to rub her leg, she beheld Mrs Hobson in the doorway, looking curious. In as dignified a voice as she could muster, she said, “Yes?”

“May I be of assistance to you?”

“N-no, I am just looking for doctrine. That is to say, a doctrinal matter, to research. That I am researching, I mean.” Scarlett hated the sound of her trembling voice as well as the blush she felt heating her cheeks.

Mrs Hobson entered the room slowly. “As you know, the reverend does not like people in here while he is absent.”

“I do know,” Scarlett replied. She looked down at the still-open drawer and slowly pushed it completely closed with her knee. Impulsively, she said, “He would not approve of my search, but I think I deserve to look.”

Mrs Hobson cocked her head.

“The letter pertaining to my adoption,” Scarlett said resolutely. “I imagine he got rid of the one I saw?—”

Mrs Hobson nodded.

“So I hoped there might be something else. He told them I lied,” she confided in a rush. “He said I had never been adopted at all, and I cannot abide?—”

“Nor should you.” The good lady nodded again. “You need fear nothing from me, my dear. Have you looked in here?”

Moving to the bookshelves, Mrs Hobson removed a particularly ponderous-looking tome.

“No. Why would I look in there?”

With a smile, Mrs Hobson opened it. In the middle were pages, folded, that were not a part of the book itself. She removed them and laid the book aside. Then she opened the pages. “Hm, not this one,” she said. “These all pertain to his will. Let us keep looking.”

It was in the tenth book that Mrs Hobson found a letter written from Princess Caroline’s Home. She did not look at it, but handed it immediately to Scarlett. Hope blossomed in Scarlett’s chest as she opened the pages.

My dear sir,

Greetings in our Lord and Saviour.

It is against my nature to be contradictory or forceful, but I am, in this, forced to do so for the best interests of the children of our parish. Bishop Newcomer is certain that if you comprehended the plight of these poor dears, especially of one baby, that you would wish to be of service. Our need for a home for her has grown desperate, and we throw ourselves upon your Christian mercy .

Scarlett continues to be an amiable baby, and I encourage you to see her not in the light in which she presently stands, but in the light of later years in which you and Mrs Margrave might find yourselves in need of the care only a daughter can provide. I assure you that her father was a man of noble birth, and thus there can be no fault within the bloodline that might lead to problems as she progresses through her childhood.

You are too generous to ignore our pleas, I am sure. If you will bring your good wife to meet the girl in Harrowsford, I am certain all can be resolved to a satisfying conclusion.

Yours &c.

Mrs Martha Blythe

Mrs Hobson was obviously shocked, but pleased, by the manner in which Scarlett threw her arms around her, hugging her tightly. “Pray do not let him find it!” she urged. “He will hang us both!”

“Do not worry about that,” Scarlett assured her. “I have a place to hide it until I know what to do with it.”