to put my duty above my feelings for Ellen, but I couldn’t. That damned house he is so proud of is an empty barn as far as I’m concerned. I know it has been in the family for centuries, but if I had my way I would pull it down and build something newer. Without Ellen, I should have nothing to live for. She is my life, Hal, and I am hers.’
And now Matt was dead and Ellen had lost all that she loved—unless it was true that she was carrying Matt’s child. Hal was thoughtful as he went out to his curricle, where his groom was waiting. If the child was a boy, he would be the rightful heir, and he was welcome to the house and the estate for all Hal cared. It would be difficult to make Lord Beverley accept it, but Ellen had the papers to prove that she was Matt’s wife and in law he would be forced to accept her child as his heir—and that would cause one hell of a row.
Hal would face that when it came to it. First of all, he had to find Ellen and make sure that she was well and had sufficient money to live on. Everything else could wait.
Jo Horne kissed her mother’s cheek and then hugged her sister, Lucy. Mama smiled and told her to be a good girl, but Lucy had tears in her eyes and was reluctant to let her go.
‘I shall miss you dreadfully,’ Lucy said and blew her nose on the handkerchief her mama handed her. ‘But I do hope you have a lovely time in Bath, Jo—and write to me often, please, to tell me what is happening in your story?’
‘Yes, of course I shall,’ Jo promised, ‘and when I come home I shall read you all the new chapters I’ve written for my novel.’ She glanced over her shoulder, knowing that her Aunt Wainwright was impatient for her to join her in the carriage. ‘Goodbye, Aunt Bertha. Thank you for having me here—and please take care of Mama and Lucy for me.’
‘Of course I shall, Jo,’ Lady Edgeworthy said, though in truth she knew that Mrs Horne was taking care of her. She pressed a little purse of money into the girl’s hand and closed her fingers over it as Jo protested. ‘Write to all of us as often as you can. Have a wonderful time with Lady Wainwright, and come home to us whenever you wish.’
‘Thank you,’ Jo said and kissed her cheek. ‘You are so generous, but I must go now. Aunt Wainwright has called for me twice.’
She walked to where the heavy travelling coach stood ready, turning for one last look at her family lined up in front of the house. A brave smile in place, she waved and then climbed into the coach. Lady Wainwright gave her a sour look, her harsh features bearing the stamp of irritation.
‘So you are ready at last, Josephine! I thought you would never make up your mind to leave. I hope this isn’t a sample of what I may expect from you in Bath. I think I deserve some consideration from you!’
‘Yes, of course, Aunt,’ Jo said. ‘Forgive me if I kept you waiting, but Lucy did not want to let me go. She has lost both her sisters now that Marianne is married, and it has upset her. She will have no one to share her pastimes.’
‘No doubt you will be returning at the end of a few weeks,’ Lady Wainwright said with a sniff of disapproval. ‘It will do her good to learn to be alone for a while. She is no longer a child, and must learn to employ her time usefully rather than playing foolish games.’
Jo was tempted to retaliate, for she did not like to hear Lady Wainwright speak so harshly of Lucy, but remembering what her elder sister had said to her before she married, about not quarrelling with their aunt, she held her tongue. It was to have been Marianne who was taken to Bath by Lady Wainwright, for she was the beauty of the family. Instead, Marianne had come down to Cornwall to be with Great-aunt Bertha, and by being there had saved her from a rogue who had tried to cheat her out of her estate and might have murdered her. Lady Edgeworthy had been so grateful that she had asked Marianne’s whole family to come and live with her. Now Marianne was married to her marquis and Jo was the one to accompany Aunt Wainwright to Bath.
Jo was under no illusions that her aunt was satisfied with the arrangement. She would have much preferred to take Marianne, but Jo’s beautiful sister had made an excellent marriage with no help from anyone. Jo suspected that Aunt Wainwright was a little annoyed about that, because she had told them that, as Marianne had no dowry, she would be lucky to marry a baronet, but might do so if her aunt introduced her into society. It had piqued her to know that Marianne had made an even better marriage than her daughter Annette, and her uncertain temper seemed sharper than ever.
‘Well, has the cat got your tongue?’
Jo looked at her aunt, considering her reply carefully. ‘I was just wondering where Marianne and Lord Marlbeck are now. I believe they were to travel to his estate for a few days before going on board the ship.’
‘Yes, I dare say,’ Lady Wainwright said and sniffed again disapprovingly. ‘In my day we did not bother with long honeymoons. Your uncle took me to Devon for two weeks and then we returned to his estate. I do not think that I should care to be jolted over foreign roads.’
‘It would be exciting to see Italy. I have seen pictures of various treasures of art and architecture, of course, but to visit them…to see Venice…would be wonderful.’
‘I dare say you will have to content yourself with pictures,’ Lady Wainwright said. ‘Marianne may have married a marquis, but it is not likely to happen to you, Josephine. That hair of yours is much too wild to be attractive. You must hide it or pull it back into a knot so that it is at least tidy.’
‘Yes, I know it is awful,’ Jo replied. The one thing she could agree with her aunt about was her hair, which was a flame red and curled into tight ringlets about her head. No matter how she scraped it back or pinned it up, it always escaped and came tumbling down, and she hated it. She wished that she might have had Marianne’s honey gold hair—or Lucy’s, which was a pale shining silver, almost like moonbeams. Lucy was going to be a beauty to rival Marianne one day, but Jo knew that she was the plain member of the family. Her features were regular and she looked well enough wearing her bonnet, but her hair made her look like a gypsy. Papa had always said so, though he said it with affection, which had taken the sting from the truth of his words. ‘I do try my best, Aunt, but it is difficult to control.’
‘Well, I dare say it does not matter,’ Lady Wainwright said. ‘You are not likely to take Bath by storm and must settle for a respectable gentleman of small fortune if you wish to marry.’
‘As I do not wish to marry,’ Jo replied with as much dignity as she could muster, ‘I agree that it hardly matters what I look like. I shall stay at home, do good works and be a comfort to my mother and Great-aunt Bertha.’
Lady Wainwright gave her an awful look. Jo knew that she had aroused her aunt’s ire once again, but it seemed that she did so all the time, even when she tried to be uncontroversial. She turned to glance out of the window. This visit to Bath was going to seem very long!
‘We shall stay here for the night,’ Lady Wainwright announced as she looked round the comfortable inn parlour. ‘It was my intention to go straight to Bath, as you know, but that unfortunate business with the horse going lame has made us late. I am too weary to go further this evening. Tomorrow will do well enough.’
‘Yes, Aunt, of course,’ Jo said for she too was a little tired from the journey. ‘Does the landlord have rooms for us?’
‘Millicent will have to sleep in your room,’ Lady Wainwright told her. ‘But that is a small thing. Besides, in a public place like this it is better if a young girl does not sleep alone.’
Jo sighed inwardly, but knew that she could not refuse to have her aunt’s personal
