A Penniless Prospect. Joanna Maitland

Jamie to believe for a few minutes that this was indeed the man who had been chosen for her. Perhaps he was not as stern as he looked. Perhaps he might eventually come to value her, especially if she made every effort to be a good wife. Perhaps…

      Doubts were sown by Lady Calderwood’s sudden departure. It was obvious from the set of her shoulders that she was in a boiling rage. And Jamie’s father did not appear at all. Jamie knew then. Whoever the visitor was, he was not for her. What a simpleton she was, to imagine for a moment that her betrothed would be young, or handsome. It was time to go back to her attic.

      Just as Jamie made to rise, her stepmother’s abigail appeared in the hall and went into the crimson saloon. No doubt she must be delivering some message from Lady Calderwood. But as the minutes passed and Smithers did not reappear, Jamie began to wonder what on earth the visitor and a mere servant could be talking about for so long. It was very strange. Jamie resolved to stay where she was.

      The sound of Lady Calderwood’s door opening made Jamie shrink down behind the polished balusters. But her precautions were unnecessary. Her ladyship strode downstairs without a sideways glance, reaching the hall just as her abigail came out of the saloon.

      From her vantage point above, Jamie could hear every venomous word. ‘And just what, pray, have you been discussing with his lordship all this time?’

      The abigail blushed. ‘Why, nothing, my lady. His lordship was merely asking how I did and…and telling me about the Countess.’

      Lady Calderwood’s eyebrows rose. ‘Was he, indeed? How very…how very kind of him, to be sure.’ She turned away and put her hand on the doorknob. ‘Wait for me in my dressing-room.’

      Jamie recognised that voice. Lady Calderwood always used it when she planned to inflict some kind of punishment on her underlings. And, judging by the way the abigail hurried off, she knew it too. Poor woman.

      Barely five minutes later, her stepmother reemerged and marched up the stairs towards her dressing-room. She looked even angrier than before. And the deep frown and tight lips suggested that she might have been bested in her discussion with her visitor. Heaven help them all if that were so.

      Jamie was freezing now—and so stiff that she could hardly move. She needed to return to her room before someone noticed her. But in spite of the risk, she found she could not resist waiting for one last look at what might have been—even if only in her imaginings. It would give her something to dream about, something to cling on to, when she was faced with the reality of the man her parents had chosen.

      The butler had returned as soon as Lady Calderwood was out of sight, but it was nearly fifteen minutes before the visitor was back in the hall, preparing to don his travelling coat. His lordship stood frowning into the middle distance, apparently oblivious of the service being rendered by the butler. But then he turned to smile his thanks, and Jamie saw that his face was transformed. The butler was flattered by the attention. Jamie was thunderstruck.

      Then the door closed on the visitor with an ominous thud, bringing Jamie back to earth and to the reality of her situation. The dream was over. Her true betrothed might arrive at any moment. Faced with the prospect of her parents’ choice, she now found she wanted to postpone any sight of him for as long as possible. She rose, shivering, to return to her room.

      ‘Why, Miss Jessamyne, you have dirt on the hem of your gown.’

      ‘What? Oh, Smithers, I did not see you. What did you…? Oh, dear. Mama will be furious.’ Although such fury would be nothing new, Jamie felt a moment of hopelessness. Who would help her now?

      ‘Let me help you, miss,’ said Smithers briskly, taking Jamie’s arm and guiding her up the stairs and into her room. Smithers surveyed the extent of the damage, then whisked the dress over Jamie’s head. ‘You had best put something round you, miss, while I sponge this, or you’ll be half-frozen before I’ve done.’

      Huddled in her shawl, Jamie sat silently on the edge of her bed, watching Smithers’ expert hands at work on the soiled dress. In next to no time, the marks had disappeared.

      As she helped Jamie into the gown once more, Smithers commented, ‘Have you a coloured sash, or shawl, or perhaps some flowers to wear with this, miss? Unrelieved white is very difficult to bring off, especially for someone so fair-skinned.’

      Jamie grimaced. ‘I have nothing of that kind, I’m afraid. Mama might be able to lend me something, since she has so many. But I don’t think she would be likely to agree if I were to ask her myself. I don’t suppose… Could you perhaps ask her?’

      Smithers’ face became suddenly hard, her expression set. ‘I am sorry, I am unable to help you there, miss,’ she began tightly. ‘Lady Calderwood has turned me off.’ Jamie gasped. ‘I leave in the morning.’

      ‘Oh, Smithers, how dreadful for you. Why has she done it? Will she give you a character?’ Jamie’s concern was real. She knew her own position was desperate, but, whatever happened, she would not starve. A lady’s maid dismissed without a reference might never find employment again.

      Smiling weakly, Smithers explained that the situation, though difficult, was not quite as catastrophic as that. Lady Calderwood would give her a character, of sorts, since she had no direct evidence of wrong-doing. Her ladyship had, however, made it clear that, should any potential employer apply to her for additional information, she would feel obliged to hint at something unsavoury in the abigail’s past.

      ‘And is there?’ burst out Jamie, without stopping to think.

      Smithers looked at her severely, and Jamie could feel the beginnings of a flush of embarrassment. Why could she never think before she spoke?

      Smithers forestalled Jamie’s apology by saying, ‘You know you should not have asked such a thing, miss. But it’s understandable, perhaps, with her ladyship’s fine manners as an example to follow.’ By now, Jamie was almost scarlet. ‘Don’t worry, I haven’t taken offence. And, no, there is no murky past. Nor have I betrayed the confidences of this house to my previous employer. Her ladyship has been misinformed.’

      ‘By that gentleman who just left?’

      ‘Possibly.’

      ‘How wicked of him! Why should he do such a thing? It is monstrous!’ Jamie was quite ready to do battle on the abigail’s behalf. For the moment, her own troubles were forgotten in her concern to right this manifest injustice.

      Smithers shrugged. ‘It is water under the bridge now, miss. You must get ready to meet your betrothed. And I must go and pack my things. Her ladyship has ordered the gig at first light to take me to the inn for the stage to Bath.’ If she felt bitter, she was managing to conceal it well.

      ‘What will you do there?’

      ‘Bath has a number of reputable agencies for the placing of domestic servants, like abigails and governesses. If I am not successful there, I shall try again in London. Now, if you will excuse me, miss, I’ll say goodbye. And good luck.’

      Jamie did not hear those final generous words. She was too much struck by what had just been said about agencies for governesses and the possible escape route which they might provide. No such post, she firmly believed, could be worse than her present situation with Lady Calderwood and the prospect of a forced marriage. If she could become a governess, or a companion (under an assumed name, naturally) she could at least choose her own tormentors. But first she would have to get away from Calderwood Hall.

      Jamie sat down on the bed, gazing abstractedly into the middle distance. The shawl fell unnoticed from her shoulders. She was no longer conscious of the cold as she concentrated on planning her escape, exploring and then dismissing various options—the prospect of freedom had given her back all her normal courage and resolve.

      Then she was summoned to her father’s study.

      ‘Ah, come in, child, come in.’ His voice was tired, prematurely aged like the rest of him. Though he was not beyond middle age, his hair was thin and white, and his hands shook slightly. In spite of his neglect of her, Jamie found