Married For His Convenience. Eleanor Webster

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      ‘A minor mishap, but let us visit in the warmth.’ Sarah pushed open the front door. It creaked as they walked into the hall, dreary after the sunshine outside.

      Warm was never an accurate description of the Crawford house, and had never been, not even prior to Mr Crawford’s death and Mrs Crawford’s fanatical economy.

      To Sarah, its interior had a frigid stillness as though time had stopped and all within had ceased to live. Like Sleeping Beauty, but with no happy ending. Oh, how she and Charlotte had loved fairy tales.

      She smiled sadly and then refocused her attention on the drab hall. ‘Let’s go into the drawing room where we can sit,’ she said gently.

      Mrs Crawford allowed herself to be drawn forward. ‘But no fires.’ Her face puckered, her hands fluttering like fragile, useless birds.

      ‘No fires. Now sit here and I’ll fetch a blanket.’ Sarah helped her guardian to sit, reaching for a crocheted blanket, fuzzy with wear.

      Mrs Crawford huddled in the chair but, after a second, her expression cleared and her gaze sharpened. ‘You’re not Molly.’

      ‘I’m Sarah.’

      ‘I knew that. Have you said your morning prayers? You have much for which you must repent.’ Mrs Crawford always sounded cross after moments of confusion. Unfortunately such moments were all too frequent.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘You must save yourself from the eternal damnation of your parenthood—a child conceived out of wedlock. And I must help you. It is my duty.’ Mrs Crawford’s voice rose again, her tone fractious.

      ‘You have done your duty admirably. How about a cup of tea?’ Sarah looked at the clock. She must not forget the rabbit or Hudson would have him skinned and in the pot.

      Plus she still needed to change her dress and collect eggs. Hopefully, Portia and Cleopatra had been milked by the lad up the lane.

      ‘The dinner party at Eavensham. It was not sinful?’ Mrs Crawford asked after a moment.

      Sarah grinned. ‘I do not think Lady Eavensham runs to sinful parties.’

      ‘And you did not enjoy it overly much?’

      ‘I made certain I was only moderately content.’

      ‘And no gentlemen made any improper advances?’

      ‘At six and twenty, such an event is highly unlikely. Now let me put the kettle on and make you a little luncheon.’ Sarah stood, moving briskly.

      ‘Do not waste food.’

      ‘I will use the bare minimum to keep body and soul together.’

      After settling Mrs Crawford, Sarah entered the kitchen’s warmth, which still smelled pleasantly of the fresh bread Mrs Tuttle, their only domestic, had made earlier.

      With the ease of familiarity, Sarah filled the kettle, hanging it on the arm iron to boil before slicing the bread and spreading it with Cleopatra’s creamy butter.

      Her knife scraped the pot. She’d have to make more soon. Always so much to do... Plus she’d accomplished nothing yesterday. Not that yesterday had been wasted. Sarah smiled—just hearing about London thrilled her as though being in earshot of the words ‘Westminster’ and ‘Regent’s Square’ made finding her sister more possible.

      One day, she promised herself. One day she would get to London and look for Charlotte, the half-sister who had been more of a mother to her than the woman who had given birth to them both.

      And once in London, she would scour every street, knock on every door and pray that she was not too late.

      * * *

      Next morning, Sarah rose early, rushed through breakfast and hurried to feed the chickens in the hopes of escaping to Eavensham to collect the rabbit and her valise.

      Yesterday had proved too busy despite her best efforts and she just had to hope that Eavensham’s kitchen staff would have looked after the creature. Likely they would. They had an affection for her from the days when she and Kit had requested treats and other edibles.

      ‘Miss! Miss!’ Mrs Tuttle’s shrieks interrupted her only seconds after she had started to scatter seed.

      ‘What? Is Mrs Crawford ill?’ Sarah threw the rest of the grain at the birds and hurried towards the house where Mrs Tuttle stood at the kitchen entrance, her pink face puce as she flapped her arms with agitation.

      ‘What is it?’

      ‘Miss Sarah, Miss Sarah, you have a visitor.’

      Sarah stopped abruptly. ‘A visitor? Is that all? I thought something dreadful had happened. Is it Mr Kit?’

      ‘It ain’t Mr Kit.’

      Sarah had reached the door now. ‘The vicar?’

      ‘It ain’t the vicar neither.’

      ‘Gracious, who is it? Or must I play a guessing game?’

      ‘’Tis Lord Langford.’

      ‘His lordship? Why?’ Her voice squeaked and she frowned.

      ‘I’m sure I don’t know, miss,’ Mrs Tuttle said, her eyes round.

      ‘You are certain he did not ask for Mrs Crawford?’

      ‘Yourself, miss. Most specific, he was.’

      ‘Where is Mrs Crawford anyway?’ Sarah asked, walking into the kitchen.

      ‘Resting. She felt tired and was confused after breakfast. Should I wake her?’

      Sarah paused as she cleaned her hands under the chill water of the kitchen pump. Mrs Crawford would not approve of her meeting a gentleman without a chaperon. At the same time, Sarah had no wish for Mrs Crawford to know about yesterday’s events. Doubtless she would see an acquaintance with his lordship as either the influence of evil or an inherited flaw from her mother.

      ‘Don’t wake her. I will see him,’ Sarah said with decision.

      ‘Very good, miss. But what do you think he wants?’

      ‘I haven’t the faintest idea and can think of only one way to find out,’ Sarah said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and walking purposefully towards the drawing-room door.

      * * *

      Lord Langford had not had a pleasant day following the incident at the stream. His host was in a bad mood, likely brought about by the unsatisfactory hunt. Lady Eavensham’s foot hurt and she had taken to her bed while the young ladies kept giggling and engaging him in conversation.

      This would not have been such an irritation if he had not needed solitude to think. The idea, when it had first struck him, had seemed ludicrous, the far-fetched СКАЧАТЬ