Bachelor Duke. Mary Nichols

      ‘Oh, please do not do that. It would mortify me. I have never begged and I will not do so now. I shall carry on doing the work I have been doing. Now the war is over, English people will be travelling again.’

      ‘No doubt they will, but you can be sure the beau monde will not ask you to show them the sights. It might have served while your papa was alive, but a young lady living alone would be frowned upon as outside the bounds of decent society. No, Sophie, that is not to be countenanced.’

      Sophie had not thought of that, but her ladyship’s words had the ring of truth, so what was she to do? Teaching English alone brought in no more than a pittance. ‘I’ll take up writing,’ she said after a moment’s thought. ‘I will write a book about my travels. Mama and I spent hours and hours exploring everywhere we went and she encouraged me to make notes, not only about the places and buildings we visited, but the customs and the people. I could write about those.’

      ‘I have no doubt of it, but how will you live while your book is in the writing?’ She paused, but, when Sophie did not vouchsafe an answer, went on. ‘Come back to England with us. Surely there is someone you can approach. What about your mother’s relatives?’

      ‘Mama was a Dersingham, niece of the third Duke of Belfont, but he was quite old when we left England and I am sure Mama said he had died. He had no son, and, as Mama’s father, the next in line had predeceased him, their younger brother, Henry, became the heir. That would be my great-uncle, would it not?’

      ‘Yes, but surely he would give you a home?’

      ‘I never met him and the connection is so distant…’

      ‘Sophie,’ her ladyship said firmly. ‘You have no choice but to appeal to him. I cannot believe you will be turned away…’

      ‘The Dersinghams did not approve of the marriage either. I suppose they knew what Papa was like. But he could be very charming when he chose and Mama loved him…’

      ‘None of which has anything to do with you.’ Her ladyship paused. ‘I’ll tell you what we will do. You shall come and stay with me and Lord Myers until we can arrange to go home, then you shall come with us and we will take you to his Grace. And if that gentleman is so insensitive as to turn you away, then I will undertake to launch you into Society myself and find you a husband.’

      ‘I never thought of marriage, my lady…’ How could she have done so? She had been too busy nursing her mother, then taking care of her father. In any case, who would marry the penniless daughter of a compulsive gambler who could not rustle up a penny piece for a dowry?

      ‘Well, it is about time you did. I shall not take no for an answer. Whatever would people think of me if I were to go home to England and leave the daughter of my dear friend to fend for herself?’

      ‘Oh, Lady Myers, you are so good to me, I cannot think how I shall repay you.’ She laughed suddenly, the first time she had laughed with genuine amusement in the month since her father’s death. ‘I will become rich and famous from my book and then I will see you are rewarded.’

      ‘If that comes to pass, then I shall accept payment in the spirit it is given, but we will not think of that now. I shall go home and send my carriage back for you, so begin packing at once. The sooner you are safely under my wing, the better.’

      She rushed off, leaving Sophie smiling. Her ladyship was indeed like a plump mother hen, but Sophie was not at all sure she would like being under her wing. She was, after all, an independent woman used to going out and about on her own, not a naïve schoolgirl, but on the other hand, with Lady Myers she would not feel so bereft and lonely, even if the price of that was to suffer her ladyship’s clucking.

      Packing did not take long; she had so few possessions. Her mother’s gowns had been sold long ago, and after Papa’s funeral she had disposed of his belongings in order to pay the rent; there was just enough left to cover what was still owing. The only thing of value she had refused to part with was a pearl necklace, given to her mother by her own father on her come-out and in its turn given to Sophie. She would starve before she sold that.

      She had half a dozen serviceable gowns in lightweight materials, which was all she needed in the heat of Naples; a few petticoats, chemises and hose; two pairs of shoes and a pair of boots. She had two bonnets, one velvet and one straw; a light pelisse and a warm cloak with a hood. Heaped on her bed, waiting to be packed into her trunk, the collection looked pitifully inadequate. If her memory served her correctly, England was a cold place, even in summer. And the gown she was presently wearing was the only one she had in black. She had bought it to go into mourning for her mother nearly two years before and had brought it out again on her father’s demise. But if she were honest with herself, she could not mourn him as she ought and it seemed hypocritical to invest what little money she had in black clothes.

      Taking a deep breath, she folded everything and put it into the trunk, added the jewel case containing the pearls, some toiletries, a brush and comb, a tiny miniature of her mother and her travel notes, and slammed down the lid. The whole process had taken less than half an hour. When she thought of the mountains of luggage they had brought with them when they first came out to the continent, luggage that needed a second coach to transport, it made her shrivel up with shame. She sat on the trunk and looked about the bare room. She was sitting on the sum total of her life. The only baggage she had was her memories. And the future? What did that hold?

      Suddenly she straightened her back and lifted her chin. She had nothing to be ashamed of and would not go about looking cowed. She had had an excellent education, one that many a young man might envy, thanks to her mother, who had been something of a blue stocking, and she would put it to good use. If her great-uncle was good enough to offer her a roof over her head, that was all she would ask of him. She would use her brain to earn a living. And if he did not? Then there was nothing else for it, she must accept the help offered by Lady Myers and hope to be able to repay her. As for finding a husband, that idea was laughable. She did not want a husband, if husbands were all like her father.

      Lord Langford had been an inveterate gambler and a dissolute soak, as well as a charmer. He would tell the most outrageous lies about how his fortune had been delayed in reaching him; or he had had his money bags stolen; or the lawyers were holding up his inheritance over a technicality, which would soon be resolved; or he had been cheated by a scoundrel, none of which was true, but it was said with a charming smile, an air of apology, even a false tear or two, and somehow he would find someone to believe him and lend him money. Sophie had made up her mind she would never put her trust in a man, though she had once loved her father. He had been fun when she was a small child, giving her little treats when he was in funds, taking her out riding on her little pony, talking to her of things way above the heads of most children of her age, which she soaked up like a sponge. Surely an education such as she had enjoyed must stand her in good stead?

      Before she left she meant to say goodbye to her parents and so she put on her straw bonnet, tied with black ribbons in deference to her state of mourning, and set off for the nearby church where so many British people were buried: soldiers, sailors, diplomats who had died while on a tour of duty, tourists who had succumbed to the climate or to sickness, exiles like her parents. She knelt a little while by their graves, murmuring tearful goodbyes, then stood up and consciously straightened her shoulders, ready to meet her future with courage.

      They should not miss the opportunity to go to Paris, Lord Myers maintained over supper the evening Sophie arrived, when they were discussing the best way to reach England. ‘The Comte de Provence has been declared King Louis XVIII and has arrived in Paris to take up his throne; according to my informant, the whole world is flocking there in his wake, all eagerly awaiting the arrival of the Duke of Wellington.’ The British commander had won the last great battle of the campaign by taking Toulouse and had been honoured with a dukedom for it. He was expected to stop in Paris to pay his respects to the new king and greet his ally Marshal Blücher before returning home. ‘We could be there, when he is there. What do you say, Alicia, my dear?’

      He was only slightly taller than his wife, a little more rotund than she was, with a round red face and pale whiskers.