A Poor Relation. Joanna Maitland

woman moved smartly between Amburley and his target, turning her back on the pistol and putting her hands reassuringly on the older man’s arms. ‘Don’t worry, Jonah,’ she said gently. ‘I’ll deal with this. Nothing will happen to you, I promise.’

      She turned sharply then, shielding Jonah with her body. Fixing her gaze on the pistol, she said, in a voice that had lost all trace of gentleness, ‘By your speech and your dress, sir, you are a gentleman. So I ask you again to put up your pistol. I have not been assaulted. And I have no need of your assistance.’ She glanced up at his face for a second—without meeting his eyes—and then resolutely returned to staring at the pistol. ‘Whatever you thought you had seen, sir, you were mistaken. Thank you for attempting to rescue me—but there really was no need.’

      With that, she turned her back once more and began to reassure Jonah, who had not yet fully recovered from his fright.

      Amburley stood for a moment before letting his pistol hand drop. By gad, she sounded anything but grateful for his attempted knight-errantry. Indeed, she reminded him of his mother’s companion—sharp and shrewish, as most poor relations became, given half a chance. What a farce he had blundered into. He had been so sure the man Jonah was about to strike her—but it seemed he had been totally wrong. If his old comrades could see Major Amburley now… For a second or two, annoyance warred with amusement. Then he smiled to himself and shook his head resignedly. Heaven help him if this story ever got about. He would never live it down.

      The woman had continued to busy herself with the man Jonah. She seemed to be intent on avoiding any further discussion. ‘My apologies, madam,’ Amburley said. ‘Obviously, you do not stand in need of my assistance. I shall not trouble you further.’ Still, she did not face him.

      Amburley concluded wryly that he had attempted to rescue a mannerless harpy. Next time he saw a lady under attack, he would do well to drive past, if this was the thanks he could expect. He started back towards the trees but could not resist adding, with exquisite politeness, ‘I wish you a safe onward journey. Good day, madam.’

      ‘He’s gone, ma’am.’ Jonah’s voice was a half-strangled whisper.

      Isabella Winstanley forced herself to straighten her shoulders. There had never been any danger—so why was her stomach still turning like a frightened child’s? And why had she been insufferably rude to a man who was trying to help her? Had she even thanked him? She could not remember. She realised that she had barely looked at him. Would she recognise him if she met him again? He was tall, certainly, and she fancied his hair had been quite dark—but she could not be sure. In the shadow of the trees, the light could play tricks.

      ‘Miss Isabella.’ Isabella’s abigail, Mitchell, was pushing open the door of the carriage and sounding agitated. ‘Miss Isabella, it’s Miss Sophia…’

      Isabella took in the situation at a glance. Sophia Winstanley, her pretty but penniless young cousin, had taken one look at the man with the gun and fainted clean away. How ironic. Only two days earlier, Sophia had been rhapsodising about romantic adventures—handsome strangers lurking in shrubberies, or ghosts and hauntings to send shivers down the spine. Sophia had fancied it would be quite agreeable to meet a ghostly apparition—provided, of course, that it drove her into the arms of an eligible gentleman who just happened to be nearby. Poor Sophia. She would never forgive herself, for this gentleman had certainly been eligible.

      Heavens, how can I tell that, Isabella wondered, when I hardly know what he looks like? Was there something—?

      At that moment, Sophia stirred, groaning. Her eyelids fluttered, and then snapped wide open. Obviously she was remembering the sight of the gun that had terrified her.

      ‘He has gone, Sophia. There is nothing to be afraid of now.’ Isabella’s voice was gentle and reassuring once again. She reached into her reticule and offered her vinaigrette. ‘Try this. It will make you feel better.’

      Sophia took a cautious sniff. ‘What happened? I don’t understand…’

      ‘Neither do I,’ said Isabella. ‘I can only surmise that, when the gentleman with the pistol saw Jonah hailing the carriage for me, he somehow assumed that I was being assaulted, and so he rushed gallantly to my rescue—terrifying you, and everyone else, in the process. However, he has gone now. And we, too, must be on our way, or we shall be late arriving at the posting house.’

      ‘But, Winny—’ began Sophia.

      ‘I must just say my farewells to Jonah,’ said Isabella matter-of-factly, ignoring the nickname she had repeatedly asked Sophia not to use. The last thing she wanted at present was a dispute about names—or a host of questions about her would-be rescuer.

      ‘Thank you for your company today, Jonah. I could not have visited such a remote village without your escort—nor achieved half as much with the children without your help. I am only sorry that your kindness should have led to such a scene. It was my fault. I should not have chosen such an isolated spot to meet the carriage, however convenient it might have seemed.’ She pressed some coins into his palm and he smiled, revealing a gap in his front teeth. ‘You’ll take care of those little ones, won’t you?’

      ‘Don’t you worry, ma’am. No harm will come to ’em, I promise. And a blessing on ye for the help you’ve given to our poor orphans. Ye’re a saint, that’s what ye are, and—’

      ‘Jonah,’ began Isabella, blushing, ‘I am nothing of the sort, as you know very well.’ She put one worn black boot on the step of the carriage before the groom could climb down to assist her. ‘But thank you, all the same, and God bless you. Goodbye, Jonah.’

      Silence reigned in the carriage at last. It had taken Isabella more than half an hour to answer enough of Sophia’s questions to pacify her. In the end, Isabella had forbidden all further discussion of it. The gentleman would certainly wish to forget their absurd encounter had ever happened. He was probably mortified by it.

      And so was she.

      She settled back in her seat once more, trying to focus her attention on the Yorkshire scenery. It was no use. She could not stop worrying about what had happened. She had always taken such care not to be seen in her ‘poor relation’ guise by anyone from her own station in life—it was the only way of being sure she could keep her philanthropy a secret—and now she had been caught out. Admittedly, the gentleman in question had been a complete stranger, but that could not guarantee her anonymity. If the gentleman came to London for the Season, he was bound to meet her somewhere.

      And Isabella would have to be there. Flight was impossible. For she had agreed to chaperon pretty, portionless Sophia for this one London Season so that the child might have a chance of making a good match. Such a promise could not be broken. If they encountered the unknown in London, Isabella would just have to brazen it out, relying on the fact that her usual elegant appearance was a world away from the part she was playing today.

      Sophia interrupted Isabella’s painful reverie. ‘How long will it take us to reach London, Winny dear? I am so looking forward to being at Hill Street again, especially as, this time, I shall be out. How many balls do you think we shall attend? Shall I have many partners, do you think? What about—?’

      Isabella found herself smiling at Sophia’s infectious enthusiasm. ‘Sophia, please do stop to draw breath,’ Isabella said. ‘If you keep asking so many questions all at once, people will think that you are not at all interested in what they might say in reply.’

      ‘You mean I talk too much. That’s what Mama says,’ replied Sophia, without much evidence of remorse. ‘I am much more circumspect with people of consequence, I promise. Oh, and Winny—’

      Isabella felt she dare not let that pass again. ‘Sophia dear, must you call me “Winny”? It’s such a very odd name for a lady.’

      ‘But you said that your brother uses it quite often,’ Sophia protested. ‘You do not really mind, do you?’

      ‘I concede you are merely copying from my quite incorrigible brother—so, yes, I give you leave to continue.