The countess ran her thumb and forefinger along the cross’s pockmarked underside. “When you were born, Lady Cassandra, this cross was given to you by your mother and father. You never had the chance to remember your mother, and more’s the pity on’t. She died giving you life. Such a beautiful woman Emma was. Your father was monstrous heartbroken by her death. The marquess lost everything at once; after his young wife was carried off, he tried to drown his sorrows in gambling and drink, and was in no fit condition to look after a babe. One day, shortly after your birth, your father removed the silver setting from your cross and pawned it to satisfy a tradesman’s bill.”
C.J. endeavored to follow the countess’s narrative. Did her ears deceive her or had Lady Dalrymple addressed her as Lady Cassandra?
“Euphoria, what meaning am I to extract from this mawkish display of sentiment over a servant?” queried a stunned Lady Wickham.
“Eloisa, I have you to thank for reuniting me with my niece.”
“What?” chorused Lady Wickham and C.J.
“Now I understand why you came to Bath—alone and incognito.” Lady Dalrymple leveled her gaze at C.J. in an effort to communicate to the young woman that she had never been mentally healthier in her life. “Albert’s unfortunate downfall is well known in our circles, and without a proper introduction some of our set would wish to cut you ere they made your acquaintance. Small wonder that you had to invent a new name for yourself. And to call yourself Welles when you are new-baptized, as it were—in a city renowned for its waters—is quite clever indeed.” Lady Dalrymple restored her fan to the capacious reticule. “Eloisa, I shall take my niece home with me immediately. Fetch your things, Lady Cassandra.”
“Please, your ladyship—call me Miss Welles.”
The countess pursed her lips. “As you wish. No doubt you have already endured enough pain since your arrival,” she added, with a rebuking glance toward Lady Wickham.
“You will leave your livery behind, Miss Welles,” Lady Wickham commanded.
“Yes, your ladyship,” replied C.J., who entertained no notion of absconding with it. Her fate had taken such a sudden turn that she had no time to untangle the jumble of thoughts that had entered her head. If Lady Dalrymple was truly raving mad, Lady Wickham would never have entertained her at Laura Place. A new adventure had landed in her lap—one that was clearly preferable to a life of servitude for Lady Wickham—and C.J. seized her opportunity to see where it would lead.
“I shall wait for you in the vestibule, Cassandra,” said Lady Dalrymple.
C.J. returned to the airless garret she shared with Mary and retrieved her yellow muslin gown from its hiding place in the metal trunk. She dressed herself, making sure that the (now rather shrunken) fringed coquelicot shawl concealed the zipper from view, then slipped the strings of her reticule over her wrist, donned her bonnet, and descended directly to the scullery.
From her friend’s expressive countenance, Mary immediately ascertained that Miss Welles was leaving her for good. “Don’t cry, Mary,” C.J. murmured, holding the sobbing girl in her arms. “It seems I have been presented with an astonishing reversal of fortune. I promise you I will do whatever is in my power to get you away from here as soon as possible.”
“I daren’t ask you not to go, for I know you must . . . and you’d be a foolish goose indeed if you did not, Miss Welles. But I shall miss you dreadfully. And as long as I live, I will never be able to thank you enough for what you’ve taught me.”
“I can express no less, Mary,” C.J. confessed.
“I never loved anyone before, Miss Welles.” Mary sniffled.
C.J. stroked the girl’s hair. Poor child; even her tresses lacked luster. She kissed Mary’s moist forehead and broke the embrace, her cheeks stained with tears, her heart unable to articulate the words within it.
Lady Dalrymple escorted C.J. to a gleaming burgundy-colored coach, which seemed somehow familiar. When the green-clad coachman swiveled from his perch to regard her, C.J. realized that it was Lady Dalrymple’s carriage that had nearly run her down on Great Pulteney Street.
“Willis!” chirped the countess. A young, periwigged footman in forest-green livery hopped down and opened the carriage door for his mistress. “Help the young lady into the carriage, Willis, and tell Blunt to drive home immediately.”
“Yes, your ladyship.” The white-gloved Willis turned the brass latch and handed C.J. inside, followed by Lady Dalrymple. She rapped upon the inside of the roof with the head of her walking stick and the coach began to lurch along the cobblestones. Suddenly, C.J. wondered if she had made a wise decision. Feeling trapped, and fearful of becoming engaged in further conversation, C.J. pretended to faint, but her new-found benefactress swiftly came to the rescue with a cone-shaped ivory vinaigrette, waving the vial under C.J.’s nostrils.
The sharp scent of the distilled smelling salts made her eyes water, and she pushed aside the older woman’s plump hand, which was adorned with several heavy rings studded with semiprecious stones. She felt her stomach churning with anxiety, remembering Georgian novels—and even erotica—where young ladies of no verifiable parentage were kidnapped by well-fed, well-accoutred matrons such as the one seated beside her, and thence condemned to lives of prostitution in high-class bordellos.
Perhaps the countess was reading her mind. “Have no fear, my pet,” Lady Dalrymple soothed. “I am a lonely widow who has recently lost her only son. You are clearly a young woman of uncommon intelligence.” She patted C.J.’s wrist with a fleshy palm. “You must be aware that many girls of your age don’t even have their alphabet.”
“But, I’m not . . . ,” C.J. began, and was hushed by her patroness.
“Are you an honest girl, Cassandra?”
“I should like to believe so, your ladyship,” C.J. replied carefully,
