Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

S carlett slowly pushed in her chair, then reached over to pick up the newspaper where the reverend had laid it. She threw it then, as hard as she could, watching with satisfaction as it fell into disarray.

Repentance came quickly, and she hastened to take up the pages. Very meticulously, she folded them along the existing creases, taking great care to make it look as though no one had ever touched it before.

I have a good life here , she told herself. Friends, a roof over my head, no fears for the morrow.

She had never been the sort of girl to covet that which she did not have. She did not read the tattle sheets from London and imagine herself in silks and lace, gadding about to fancy parties every minute of the day. She did not even look at Bess—with her carefree ways and indulgent mother—with any degree of longing whatsoever. It was not merely a desire to live among the highborn which left her now feeling hollowed out.

Rather, it was the sense that she did not belong. She had a good life, but was it really hers ? Yes, she had been cared for , but had she ever been cared about ? Was anyone concerned with her hopes and dreams, her general happiness in life? It was a question that had nagged at her for many years, a sense that something was going on without her. She had always dismissed it as ennui, or the usual melancholy of adolescence, but what if it was more? What if she had, in some manner, known that she was not a Margrave?

But why should you think the people who left you had any thought for you? She left the breakfast room, not really knowing where she was going. They abandoned you, and would not likely wish to be reminded of you.

She paused at the bottom of the stair, hearing Mrs Hobson’s footsteps hurrying towards her. “Miss Scarlett?”

“Yes?”

Mrs Hobson’s face was creased into planes of worry. She peered anxiously at Scarlett’s countenance. “Are you well, dear?”

Scarlett nodded, then shook her head, and then reached up to cover her face with her hands, feeling dangerously close to crying for a moment. She regained control of herself quickly—she had that much in common with her mother and father, the ability to suppress any emotion. “I was surprised,” she said cautiously. “You have known, I suppose?”

“I only found out very recently myself,” Mrs Hobson said. “I had asked him a question about…some accounts I saw, and he showed me but told me to say nothing to anyone else.” Then with a little click of her tongue, she drew Scarlett into an embrace. When they separated, she added, “They ought to have told you. You are old enough to know.”

A fresh wave of sorrow went through her, but Scarlett held it at bay. “I daresay it does not truly signify,” she forced herself to say. “I have wanted for nothing, and the good Lord only knows what worse fates could have befallen me.”

“A very admirable view of things, my dear.” For the briefest moment, it seemed like Mrs Hobson might say more but she did not, instead only nodding and going about her business. Scarlett reckoned she ought to do the same.

There was always a great deal to be done for the parish. It fell to Scarlett to arrange teas for the ladies, to visit the needy, to make the reverend aware of potential problems or disputes. She took baskets of food to the elderly and sewed clothing for the poor. It was good work, and it was important work; she simply did not feel she ought to have it assigned to her for life, without some sort of choice on her part.

Her distress prevented her from embarking on her good works. Instead, her feet moved her to Bess’s house where she hoped she would find her friend in a state to hear of her troubles.

As it was, Bess was still in bed, a half-empty breakfast tray in front of her. “Forgive me for calling so early,” Scarlett said, her voice sounding benumbed and detached to even her own ears. “I could not wait to acquaint you with my news.”

“Lord Worthe came to you in the middle of the night and proposed?” Bess teased.

Scarlett smiled wanly as she sank onto her friend’s bed. Hardly knowing where to begin, she decided to start with the most salient points. “I am not a Margrave. I am not eighteen.”

“What?” Bess breathed the word in shock as the grin faded from her countenance. “You cannot be in earnest!”

“My father began to scold me this morning—oh, I hardly even know what he was about by now!—so to stop him, I told him about the lady in London who looked like me?—”

“The one Lord Worthe mentioned to you?”

His name doused her with a fresh wave of agony, but she only nodded. “The reverend was…dismissive about it. He scolded me for believing myself a hidden heiress—which I assure you, I do not—and wished only to inform me that I was mistaken in my fancies. I got overset and began to demand answers?—”

“Well done,” Bess said with a firm little nod.

“And it all came out. They were prevailed upon to take me in when the orphanage where I was—Princess Caroline’s Home for the Care of Unfortunate Waifs—burnt down. They did not really want a child but took me out of Christian duty.”

“Oh, I am sure that is not true.” Bess laid a consoling hand on Scarlett’s arm. “I would bet anything?—”

“It is true,” Scarlett replied flatly. “He said so himself. No love, no real interest, just duty and the notion that I would take care of them when they were in their dotage.”

Bess frowned at that but said nothing more.

“So I am twenty, not eighteen, I have no idea who my people are, whether I have brothers or sisters or…anything. Who knows, perhaps this lady in London is my sister, or my cousin, or…some other sort of relation to me.”

“You should come to London, then! Meet this lady who looks like you and see what happens from there!” Bess’s eyes were lit with such eager hope it nearly made Scarlett groan.

“The reverend is even less likely to permit it now than he was before, and before my chances were almost non-existent.” Scarlett sighed, considering it. The thought that she might have a sister, a twin, was tantalising, but too incredible to take seriously. She dared not allow herself to consider it. “In any case, what if I went all that way to find the lady really looked nothing like me, or said ‘no, I am absolutely positive I have no relations to speak of’? Then where would I be? ”

“No worse off than you are now.”

“It does not bear thinking about. He will not permit it, much less grant me the necessary funds to do it, and I can hardly defy him.” She sighed again, feeling an imaginary weight descend upon her, like a heavy mantle on her shoulders. “There is really nothing to do but go along as I have been and think of this no more. For whatever I might have been, for now I am a Margrave. No more and no less.”

It burnt inside her, truly it did, the notion that there might be more out there for her than the pale simulacrum of life that she knew. It dangled, just beyond her reach, but she knew not how to get to it. Indeed, there was no way to get to it. It was across a wide chasm and to miss her mark would surely mean she fell, tumbling to her proverbial death.

“Scarlett, I could give you some money. Not much, but added to the sum you have tucked away?—”

“No, no.” It was true Scarlett did have money tucked away. Little jobs she had done for people here and there: helping little Percival Fitzgerald learn to read, teaching Annie Jones how to do her sums, for example; she had never expected nor asked to be paid, but every so often a grateful father had pressed a few coins into her hand. But even she, unworldly as she was, knew it was nothing.

“How much do you have?” Bess persisted. “I bet it would get you on the mail stage, at least!”

“I must leave.” Scarlett rose, suddenly, the movement almost tumbling Bess’s tray off the bed. “Forgive me,” she said, righting it.

“No wait, I really think we ought to?—”

“No, I cannot think of it.” Scarlett shook her head, forestalling further conversation. “When do you go to London?” she asked with false brightness.

“My maid informed me this morning that we would go the day after tomorrow.” Bess’s mouth pursed in a sympathetic pout. “I daresay Mama would like to get me there before Mr Beamish arrives so that I might have my head turned by another suitor.”

“I thought she approved of Mr Beamish?”

“She thinks him a bit of a rake.” Bess shrugged. “She is not entirely wrong, I suppose.”

Scarlett sank back onto the bed again. “Well if you love him, I am sure she will come round to it.”

“She might. She does wish to see me settled, and soon,” Bess admitted. “I would like it myself, even though the thought of being separated from you makes me wish otherwise.”

Scarlett locked eyes with her friend and at once the myriad differences between them loomed large. Bess’s life was going off in an exciting, new direction; she would become a wife, and eventually a mother, and she would live in Hertfordshire with Mr Beamish, or in some other county with some other man. They would write—at first—but Scarlett’s letters would be dull and uninteresting, the same sort of events happening to the same people, any news within them already reported by Bess’s own mother.

Scarlett forced a smile to her lips. “Do not be silly,” she half-scolded. “We will always be dearest friends no matter if you are some man’s wife, or my dear little Bess.”