The Cinderella Countess. Sophia James

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      This was stated in such a way that left little room for debate and Mrs Greene caught his eye as he frowned, an awkward worry across her face.

      Portman Square was now coming into view, the façade of his town house standing on one corner. He hoped that Annabelle Smith would not be flustered by the wealth of it, for in comparison to her living quarters in Whitechapel it suddenly looked enormous.

      As they alighted an expression unlike any he had ever seen briefly crossed her face. Shock, he thought, and pure horror, her pallor white and the pulse at her throat fast. His hand reached out to take her arm as he imagined she might simply faint.

      ‘Are you well, Miss Smith?’

      He saw the comprehension of what she had shown him reach her eyes, her shoulders stiffening, but she did not let him go, her fingers grabbing at the material of his jacket.

      Then the door opened and his mother stood there, black fury on her face.

      ‘You cannot bring your doxies into this house, Thornton. I shall simply not allow it. Your valet has told me you were in the company of one of your mistresses, Mrs Castleton, last night and now you dare to bring in these two this morning. Your father, bless his soul, would be rolling in his grave and as for your sister...’

      She stopped and twisted a large kerchief, dabbing at her nose as she left them, a discomfited silence all around.

      ‘I am sorry. My mother is not herself.’

      It was all he could think to say, the fury roiling inside him pressed down. He needed Annabelle Smith to see his sister, that was his overriding thought, and he would deal with his mother’s unexpected accusations when he could.

      * * *

      The Earl of Thornton kept mistresses and his mother thought she and Rosemary were fallen woman? The haze of seeing the Thornton town house dispersed under such a ludicrous assassination of her character and if there had not been a patient inside awaiting she would have simply insisted upon being taken home.

      This behaviour was so common with the very wealthy, this complete and utter disregard for others, and if the Earl had somehow inveigled her into thinking differently then the more fool she.

      It was why Belle had always made it a policy to never do business with the aristocracy, her few very early forays into providing remedies for the wealthy ending in disaster. They either did not pay or they looked down their noses at her. However, she’d had none of the overt hatred shown by the Earl’s mother.

      Well, here at least she had already been paid, the three-pound fee tucked firmly into her purse.

      The Earl looked furious, the muscles in his jaw working up and down and as they entered into the entrance proper he asked them if they might wait for just a moment.

      ‘Yes of course, your lordship.’ As Rosemary answered she drew Annabelle over to a set of comfortable-looking armchairs arranged around a table, a vase of pastel-shaded flowers upon it that were made of dyed silk.

      Belle sat in a haze, the smell of polish and cleaning product in the air. Everything was as familiar as it was strange and she could not understand this at all. She had seen a house just like this one in her dreams: the winding staircase, the black and white tiles, the numerous doors that led off the entrance hall to elaborately dressed and furnished salons, portraits of the past arranged solemnly on the walls up and down the staircase.

      ‘What on earth is wrong with you, Belle? You look like you have seen a ghost.’

      ‘I think I have.’

      ‘I cannot believe the Earl’s mother would have thought we were doxies.’ Rose looked horrified as she rearranged the red and green scarf draped about her neck into a more concealing style.

      ‘She has probably never seen one before and I suppose we dress differently from the people who live around here.’

      Belle hoped the woman would not return to find them again just as she prayed she could have asked for her coat and hat and left.

      But she’d been paid well for a consultation and the carriage outside had rumbled on already down the street. Their only avenue of escape was the Earl. He suddenly came down the passageway to one side, another servant accompanying him.

      ‘My sister’s suite is this way. There is a sitting room just outside if Mrs Greene would feel comfortable waiting there.’

      Rose nodded and so did Belle, this visit becoming more and more exhausting. She did not truly feel up to the task of reassuring a young, sick and aristocratic patient, but had no true way to relay that to the Earl of Thornton without appearing ridiculous. Still, if his awful mother was there with more of her accusations she would turn and go.

      As they mounted the staircase the smell of camphor rose from her basket and Annabelle presumed the container in it had fallen over. Removing the fabric, she righted it and jammed it in more tightly against the wad of bandages at its side.

      The light was dimmer now and the noises from the street and the house more distant. The scent of sickness was present, too, her nostrils flaring to pick up any undertones of disease. Surprisingly there were none, a fact that had her frowning.

      ‘If you could wait here, Mrs Greene, it would be appreciated. My sister in her present state is not good at receiving strangers and one new face is probably enough for now.’

      Seeing Rose settled Belle followed the Earl through a further anteroom, which opened into a large and beautiful bedchamber, full of the accoutrements of ill health and all the shades half-drawn. There were medicine bottles as well as basins and cloths on a long table. Vases full of flowers decorated every other flat surface.

      At the side of the bed a maid sat, but she instantly stood and went from the room, though there had been no gesture from the Earl to ask her to leave.

      ‘Lucy?’ The Earl’s voice was softer, a tenderness there that had been missing in every other conversation Belle had had with him. ‘Miss Smith is come to see you. The herbalist I told you of.’

      ‘I do not want another medical person here, Thorn. I’ve said that. I just want to be left alone.’

      The tone of the voice was strong. A further oddness. If Lady Lucy had been in bed for this many weeks and deathly ill she would have sounded more fragile.

      She had burrowed in under the blankets, only the top of her golden head seen. Her fingernails were bitten to the quick, every single one of them, but there was no discolouration of the nail beds.

      ‘Miss Smith is well thought of in her parish of Whitechapel. She seldom visits outside her home area, so in this we are more than fortunate.’

      ‘Where is Mother?’

      ‘I asked her to stay in her room.’

      ‘She is being impossible this morning. I wish she might return to Balmain and leave me here with you. How old is Miss Smith?’

      ‘See for yourself. She is right here.’

      The blanket stilled and then a face popped out from the rumpled wool. A gaunt face of wrecked beauty, the hair cut into slivers of ill-fashioned СКАЧАТЬ