Pentland? He—he …’ He had warned her. She realised that now, that’s what he meant when he told her not to expect to be treated as a heroine. ‘I don’t think—I don’t know exactly what he thought, but I suspect he didn’t believe me, either,’ Henrietta admitted reluctantly.
Lady Ipswich nodded several times. ‘Lord Pentland clearly attaches as much credence to your tale as I do. You are disgraced, Miss Markham, and I have found you out. Now get out of my sight.’
Chapter Three
Wearily climbing the stairs to her attic room, Henrietta struggled with the resentment that welled up in her breast. She was furious and shocked, but also ashamed—for soon it would be common knowledge in the household. Most of all, though, she was petrified.
Sitting on the narrow bed in her room on the third floor, she stared blindly at the opposite wall while pulling a perfectly good cotton handkerchief to shreds. She had been dismissed from her post. Lady Ipswich had branded her a thief. Heaven knows what Rafe St Alban would make of that. Not that it mattered what Rafe St Alban thought. Not that he’d actually give her a second thought, anyway, except maybe to congratulate himself for not becoming embroiled.
‘Oh, merciful heavens! If I am brought to trial, he would be called as a witness.’ He’d see her clapped in irons in the dock, wearing rags and probably with gaol fever. She knew all about gaol fever. Maisy Masters, who had been teaching her how to make jam from rosehips, had described it in lurid detail. Maisy’s brother had spent six months in prison awaiting trial for poaching. Normally the most taciturn of women, Maisy had been almost too forthcoming on the subject of gaol fever. There was the rash. Then there was the cough and the headaches and the fever. Then there were the sores caused by sleeping on fetid straw and being bitten by fleas. Oh God, and the smells. She would smell in the dock. Maisy told her that the lawyers all carried vials of perfume, it was so bad. She would be shamed. Even if she was found innocent, she would be ruined. And if she was not found innocent, she might even be headed for the scaffold. Maisy had told her all about that, too, though she’d tried very hard not to listen. They would sell pamphlets with lurid descriptions of her heinous crime; they would come to watch her, to cheer her last few moments. Mama and Papa would …
Deep breaths.
‘Mama and Papa are in Ireland,’ she reminded herself, ‘and therefore blissfully unaware of my plight.’ Which was a blessing, for the moment, at least.
More deep breaths.
They wouldn’t find out. They wouldn’t ever know. They absolutely could not ever be allowed to know. She must, simply must, find a way to clear her name before they returned to England. Even more importantly, she must find a way to avoid actually being clapped in irons, because once she was in gaol she had no chance of tracking down the real culprit.
Though how she was going to do that she had no idea. ‘No matter how you look at it,’ she said to herself, ‘the situation does not look good. Not good at all.’ Just because she had truth on her side did not mean that justice would automatically follow. Malicious or not, Lady Ipswich’s version of events had an authentic ring. And she had influence, too.
‘Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh dear.’ Henrietta sniffed woefully. She would not cry. She would not. Blinking frantically and sniffing loudly, she wandered about the confines of her bedchamber. She stared out of the casement window on to the kitchen gardens and wondered who was looking after her charges. They would be missing her. Or perhaps Rafe St Alban was right and they would quickly forget her. Though perhaps she would be too notorious for them to forget about her, once they heard that she was a thief. Or in league with one. Worse. Boys being boys, they might even admire her in a misguided way. What kind of example was that to set? She must speak to them somehow, explain. Oh God, what was she to do? What on earth was she to do?
Helplessly, Henrietta sank down once more upon the bed. Perhaps by tomorrow Lady Ipswich would have come to her senses. But tomorrow—maybe even by the end of today—would come the Bow Street Runner. And he would take her away to gaol until the next Quarterly Assizes, which were almost two full months away. She could not wait two full months to clear her name. And even if she did, how could she hope to do so with no money to pay anyone to speak on her behalf? She didn’t even know if she was permitted to employ a lawyer and, even if she was, she had absolutely no idea how to go about finding one. The authorities would most likely summon Papa, too, and then …
‘No!’ She couldn’t stay here. Whatever happened, she couldn’t just sit here and meekly await her fate. She had to get out. Away. Now!
Without giving herself any more time to think, Henrietta grabbed her bandbox from the cupboard and began to throw her clothes into it willy-nilly. She had few possessions, but as she sat on the lid in a futile effort to make it close, she decided she must make do with fewer still. Her second-best dress was abandoned and the bandbox finally fastened.
She spent a further half-hour composing a note to her charges. In the end, it was most unsatisfactory, simply begging their forgiveness for her sudden departure, bidding them stick to their lessons and not to think ill of her, no matter what they heard.
It was by now well past noon. The servants would be at their dinner. Lady Ipswich would be in her boudoir. Tying the ribbons of her plain-straw poke bonnet in a neat bow under her chin, Henrietta draped her cloak around her shoulders and cautiously opened the door.
Stealing down the steps in a manner quite befitting the housebreaker’s accomplice she was purported to be, she slipped through a side door into the kitchen garden and thence on to the gravelled path that led from the stables, without once allowing herself to look back. At the gates she turned on to the road that led to the village. A short distance further on, Henrietta sat down on an inviting tree trunk with her back to the road and indulged in a hearty bout of tears.
She was not given to self-pity, but at this moment she felt she was entitled to be just a little sorry for herself. Already she was regretting her impulsive behaviour. All very well to make her escape with some vague idea of clearing her name, but how, exactly, did she propose to do that?
The dispiriting truth was that she had no idea. ‘And now that I have run away, they will think it simply confirms my guilt,’ she said to her shoe. A large tear splashed on to the ground. ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid,’ she muttered, sniffing valiantly.
She had not a soul in the world to turn to. Her only relative, as far as she knew, was Mama’s sister; Henrietta could hardly turn up on the doorstep of an aunt whom she had never met and introduce herself as her long-lost niece and a fugitive from the law, to boot. Besides, there was the small matter of the rift between Mama and her sibling. They had not spoken for many years. No, that was not an option.
But she could not go back, either. She had been badly shaken by the ease with which her employer had accepted her guilt, and that, on top of Rafe St Alban’s scepticism, made her question whether anyone would take her side without proof. No, there was no going back. The only way was forwards. And the only path she could think of taking was to London. Such distinctive jewellery must be got rid of somehow and London was surely the place. She would head to the city. And once there she would—she would—Oh, she would think about that, once she was on her way.
What she needed to think about now was how to get there. Henrietta rummaged in her bandbox for her stocking purse and carefully counted out the total of her wealth, which came to the grand sum of eight shillings and sixpence. She gazed at the small mound of coins, wondering vaguely if it was enough to pay for a seat on the mail, realised
