cherish it always.
‘Goodbye, Will. I’ll never forget you, you know that. I promise I’ll write and let you know what it’s like in England.’
‘You go and make your ma proud,’ Will said, his voice hoarse with emotion, wondering where she would send her letters to when he had disappeared into the backwoods of North America. ‘You’re going to do all those things she talked about. You’ll dazzle all those English gents—you see if you don’t. Remember it’s what your ma wanted. She told you that.’
‘I do remember, Will, and I’ll never forget. Ever.’
Will’s eyes met those of Henry Montgomery in mutual concern. Unbeknown to Angelina, Will had told the Englishman what had happened to her on the night of the Shawnee massacre, and how he had rescued her. He hoped that, in knowing, the English duke would have a deeper understanding of his ward.
Henry had listened to all Will had said with a sense of horror. Will had told him that there was still something about that night Angelina refused to speak of. It was like an inner wound that was bleeding. The secret lurked in her gaze. Was it the shock of the massacre and her father’s death that caused it—or something else? Whatever it was might be eased when she reached England. A new country, a new home—a new life.
Chapter Two
The sky was overcast as the carriage ventured north towards Mayfair. Angelina devoured the sights and sounds of what her mother had told her was the most exciting city in the world. On reaching Brook Street she gaped in awe when the door of one of the impressive houses was opened by a servant meticulously garbed in white wig, mulberry coat edged in gold and white breeches. His face was impassive as he stepped aside to let them enter.
‘Welcome to Brook Street,’ Henry said, smiling as he watched his ward’s reaction.
Angelina was completely overwhelmed by the beauty and wealth of the house. Standing in the centre of the white marble floor she looked dazedly about her, wondering if she had not been brought to some royal palace by mistake. She wasn’t to know that compared to Mowbray Park, Henry’s home in Sussex, this house on Brook Street was considered to be of moderate proportions. Craning her neck and looking upward, she was almost dazzled by the huge chandelier suspended from the ceiling, dripping with hundreds of tiny crystal pieces.
A superior-looking man with a dignified bearing and dressed all in black stepped forward. ‘Welcome back, your Grace. You are expected. I trust you had a pleasant crossing from America.’
‘Yes, thank you, Bramwell. Is my nephew at home?’
The butler replied, ‘No, your Grace. He’s out of town for a few days, staying with Sir Nathan and his wife in Surrey.’
‘I see.’ Henry smiled at Angelina, who looked visibly relieved by the reprieve. ‘Perhaps you would like to see your room and freshen up before dinner, my dear. Show Miss Hamilton to her room, will you, Bramwell.’
‘Certainly, your Grace. The green room has been prepared. I’m certain it will meet with Miss Hamilton’s approval. It’s quiet and overlooks the garden,’ he told Angelina, before leading her up the elegant staircase.
Entering a large room on the first floor, Angelina blinked at the extravagance and unaccustomed luxury. The walls were lined with mirrors and pictures depicting placid rural scenes, and the bed hangings were in the same pale green brocade embroidered with ivory silk as the windows.
‘Oh, what a lovely room,’ she gasped.
‘I thought you’d like it.’ Bramwell directed his gaze towards the dressing room when a fresh-faced young maid emerged, her arms full of linen. ‘This is Miss Bates, Miss Hamilton. She has been appointed your personal maid.’
When Bramwell had departed Angelina smiled warmly at her maid, who bobbed a curtsy. Two or three years older than Angelina, she was quite pretty, small and rather plump, with the majority of her dark brown hair concealed beneath a modest white cap.
‘I’ve never had a personal maid before,’ Angelina confessed. ‘What does it mean?’ She saw surprise register on Miss Bates’s face, which was replaced by an indulgent little smile. No doubt she had decided that, as she was from America, her new mistress’s ignorance could be excused, that perhaps people over there weren’t as civilised or refined as they were in England.
‘Why—I see to all your personal needs—take care of your clothes—everything, really,’ she explained cheerfully.
‘Well, it seems you will have to teach me—and I have much to learn. Where I come from, unless you are very rich, one doesn’t have personal maids.’
Miss Bates seemed to be lost for words at this candid admission. ‘I’m sure you’ll soon get used to having me do things for you.’
‘Perhaps, but I simply refuse to call you Miss Bates. What is your Christian name?’
‘Pauline, miss.’
‘Then since we are to spend a good deal of time together, I shall address you as Pauline,’ she said, as two footmen entered with her trunk.
The following afternoon while her uncle was resting, and feeling hemmed in and restless at having to remain indoors because of the rain that continued to pour down, Angelina wandered through the house. Her uneducated eye was unable to place a value on the things she saw, but she was able to appreciate and admire the quality of the beautifully furnished rooms.
The library, with its highly polished floor and vividly coloured oriental carpets, was like an Aladdin’s cave—a treasure trove of precious leatherbound tomes. It was a room which, to Angelina, encapsulated every culture and civilisation of the universe, where bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling, broken only by a huge white marble fireplace and long windows. Happily she browsed along the shelves, looking for a book to suit her mood, eventually finding just what she was looking for.
Unaccustomed to being indoors for such a long period, she placed her books on the desk and went to the window, leaning her shoulder against the window frame, gazing in a somewhat disconsolate manner at the garden, glad to see it had stopped raining and envying the gardener pottering about among the flower beds. Unable to resist the temptation to join him, but not wishing to dirty her dainty slippers, she dashed to her room and donned an old pair of stout boots she had brought with her.
She entered the garden by the long French windows in the library, and spent half an hour chatting to the gardener and helping him debud some of the sodden roses—which Jarvis thought highly irregular considering who she was. Then the rain came down again and the wind rose with a vengeance, so she made a dash for the house. On entering the library she was unable to prevent the sudden gust that sent some loose papers blowing off the desk all over the place and a tiny figurine from crashing to the floor.
‘You stupid, reckless little fool. Do you have to enter the house like a bloody whirlwind?’ a voice thundered.
Angelina’s face was a frozen mask. In her struggle to keep the door from blowing off its hinges, she hadn’t seen the man sitting at the desk with damp, unruly locks of raven black hair tumbling wildly over his head. Scraping his chair back, he stood up and strode towards her, his face livid.
Like an animal on the defensive, Angelina’s eyes narrowed and flashed. ‘You are just about the rudest man I have ever come
