The Silver Squire. Mary Brendan

believe it is at that, Miss Worthington,’ Mrs Keene admitted with a jovial smile. ‘Now, I’ve got some good news. An’ I expect, ‘cos it is such a piece o’ luck for you that a busy soul like meself’s managed to put herself out on account of a nice young lady, that you’ll be insistin’ on showing me a small consideration for me pains. Now, not that it’s none o’ my concern, o’ course, but I know for a fact you’ve been scourin’ that Gazette for a position as would suit. Well, now—’ chubby hands were planted on fat hips ‘—what did I hear today from a friend wot’s been speakin’ to a lady’s maid?’ She inclined forward from the waist and beady eyes rolled between fleshy folds.

      After a silent moment when Emma realised either she guessed, enquired, or never learned, she obligingly said, ‘I’ve no idea, Mrs Keene. What did you hear?’

      With a flourish, a scrap of paper materialised from a greasy pocket. ‘My dear young lady, the good news is that a gentlewoman in Bath is seekin’ a genteel and modest companion. She is a pampered lady and bored…’ Mrs Keene acted the part, shielding a yawn with a fat hand then simpering behind it. ‘Soon as I heard I put meself out to speak to me friend and sing your very praises. She in turn spoke to the maid who had words with her madame. The lady has sent you this little note with her address. Now, what do you say to that good luck and good friends like meself?’

      Emma’s small white teeth caught at her full lower lip. What did she say to that, indeed? She had been at Mrs Keene’s lodging house for a few days and had certainly been curiously flicking through the Gazette for local positions.

      But it had been a half-hearted investigation: she had little idea where to start, or if indeed she wanted to start at all. She had been gently reared and nothing in that refinement had prepared her for at some time toiling for a living. She balked at the idea of being an assistant to a mantua-maker or a haberdasher and she had seen little else advertised.

      Stung by her boarder’s lack of effusive thanks and enthusiasm, Mrs Keene huffed, ‘Well, if it don’t interest, I’ll give this appointment to the new lady as arrived yesterday. She’s fair desperate for a position and workin’ for a foreign madame in quite the best part of Bath will probably seem like heaven dropped in her lap.’

      ‘It’s very good of you to remember me, Mrs Keene. I am very grateful.’ Emma gave the woman a conciliatory smile as she held out a slender hand for the note. Interview details were written in an elaborate script. ‘I shall attend and if it seems the position will not suit I can try elsewhere…’

      ‘O’ course…but I reckon it will suit, an’ I reckon you’ll always remember wot good friend managed to winkle it out for you.’ Mrs Keene nodded good-naturedly at the subdued young woman smiling vaguely back at her. Sharp eyes dissected her waif-like appearance: a slender body that looked too delicate to tempt a man but such rich caramel hair and liquid honey eyes set in a complexion that was pure peaches and cream. Not that it was none of her concern, o’ course, but it was puzzling for a body to decide if she was a raving beauty or plain as a pike-staff. Pike-staff, she plumped for; the pretty foreign madame wouldn’t like a rival.

      ‘Do you know what you’re doing, Emma?’ Matthew demanded shortly.

      ‘No,’ Emma admitted with a nervous smile as she straightened her bonnet and pulled on her gloves.

      Matthew had called earlier that morning and on hearing she had an interview for employment looked startled and then disapproving. But he had offered to convey her in his little trap to South Parade on the opposite side of Bath to where Mrs Keene’s lodging house was situated.

      On now alighting at the top of a quiet, elegant crescent, Emma squeezed Matthew’s fingers in thanks and affection. ‘I need a little income while I decide what I must do.’ She slid a glance at his tense profile and again lightly pressed his hand. ‘And seeking employment doesn’t mean that I am rejecting your proposal. Please understand that I need more time…’

      With a slightly martyred air he offered, ‘Shall I wait?’

      Emma shook her head. ‘I shall hail a ride. I’ve no idea how long I might be—perhaps only a few minutes, if Madame hates me on sight.’ She sighed. ‘Perhaps an hour or two if Madame tests my good nature with a protracted wait while she prepares to interrogate me.’

      She had been jesting when she’d told Matthew she might be kept waiting. Emma raised her wide golden gaze to the sonorously chiming clock as it marked the half-hour she had been seated in a cool hallway on a hard-backed chair. It was now after three-thirty in the afternoon and she was becoming increasingly disillusioned and restless. She peered about for the dour-faced butler who had allowed her into the house. Madame Dubois was expecting her, he had intoned as he’d shown her to a seat, and had then disappeared with a stiff-legged gait.

      Emma abruptly stood up and flexed her shoulders. She took a few tentative steps and peeked along the hall. When all remained still and silent, she meandered, admiring the tasteful decor, to the huge gilt scrolled mirror and studied her appearance. She straightened her bonnet this way and that, then glanced down at her fingertips trailing a glossy satinwood star inlaid into a rich rosewood console table. Swishing around with an impatient sigh, she returned to her chair. She would tarry just another few minutes then depart. A person inconsiderate enough to leave her totally ignored for so long would not make a good employer in any case, she impressed upon herself. She was on the point of reseating herself when a door along the corridor opened.

      The figure that emerged was male and tall and very blond and had her gawping idiotically at his handsome profile. She had very recently seen those chiselled bronze features just visible beneath a fall of lengthy sun-bleached hair: it was the foreign count she recalled had been travelling on to Bath from the Fallow Buck posting house.

      She quickly sat and folded her hands neatly on her lap, her thoughts racing. Of course! She had never made the connection that the madame in question might be this French nobleman’s wife. The memory of the small blond boy he had lifted in his arms had her frowning at her hands. Would she be expected to nursemaid children? She had no experience of young people…but she could no doubt tutor, if need be…

      Firm footsteps echoing against polished mahogany had her attention with the man approaching although her eyes stayed with her entwined fingers. His pace slowed and she knew he’d noticed her.

      She glanced up demurely, politely, from beneath the shielding brim of her bonnet. Her face swayed back at once and she felt as though ice had frozen her solid to the chair. Her ivory lids drooped slowly in horrified, disbelieving recognition. French count! Her fingers spasmed as she sensed a hysterical laugh bubbling. No wonder he had seemed familiar! No wonder she had thought she knew him! She did!

      But he had changed. It wasn’t surprising she had not immediately been able to place him. His hair was no longer fair and stylishly short but long and white-blond, his complexion no longer city-pale but a deep golden-bronze.

      An ostler at a rustic tavern had described him as Quality with a queer name…well, it had been perfectly correct. It was her whimsical romantic imagination that had concluded he must be a French nobleman instead of an English one.

      On a misty September morning four days ago she had sensed meeting him somewhere before and fancied it to be in fiction rather than fact. Oh, how she wished that were so! For she had indeed seen him before. And on each occasion she had made it her business to insult him. Now she found herself sitting meekly in his house, hoping to be taken on. The sheer farce of it had the back of a hand pressing to her mouth to stifle a horrified choke.

      She was aware of impeccably styled black hessian boots drawing into her line of vision. Please don’t let him recognise me, she silently prayed, casually swivelling sideways on her seat, away from him.

      He changed direction, veering off to the console table she had recently admired. From beneath the brim of her bonnet she watched long buff-coloured legs turn, the toes of his boots point towards her again and knew he was studying her.

      It’s been three years! she exhorted herself while an unsteady hand shielded her face by tidying stray tendrils of light tan hair into