And she stewed.
And she stewed.
What had her so bloody angry at the world was that she had done everything she was supposed to do to gain a good offer of marriage. She’d been demure and accomplished. She’d been helpful and never argumentative. She’d held her tongue on those rare occasions that Rupert said something so inconceivably stupid as to make her eyes water. She’d helped him in his shop! That he’d so easily discarded her left her feeling like an old dog and very, very distrusting of men in general.
But Hattie was certain of one thing: she would never again conform herself to some social ideal of how she was to conduct herself. Or some social ideal of how she was to think. Or what she was to say. Or who she was to be. If Rupert Masterson could so easily cry off, her prospects for marriage were rather bleak, and she didn’t see the point in being anything other than herself.
She had happened to be standing across the street from Rupert’s shop envisioning how she would swing her arm and hit him right in the kisser when the Earl of Iddesleigh saved her from making a terrible mistake. Hattie had one foot in the street, having summoned the courage to confront the coward, when she heard her name called. She turned. She saw Lord Iddesleigh and his eldest daughter, Lady Mathilda, walking toward her. And in that moment, the earl breezily changed the course of her life.
For a second time.
If one believed in guardian angels, then the Earl of Iddesleigh was hers. The first time he’d saved her, she’d been fourteen years old. She’d been so angry at her father’s unreasonable grip on his purse that she’d gone out looking for work. She had in mind an occupation as a bookkeeper, or a secretary. Something respectable but that did not involve children. She’d knocked on the door of the Duke of Marley’s London residence because she’d heard he was rich, and certainly the house in Mayfair backed that up. She’d figured it was better to beg a rich man for work than a poor man.
How naive she’d been! There was no work for a fourteen-year-old girl that didn’t involve chamber pots or scrubbing floors or children. But Lady Marley and her friend Lord Iddesleigh happened to be with the duke that day and both took a keen interest in Hattie. Lord Iddesleigh knew her father, and somehow, he’d convinced the notorious Hugh Woodchurch to send his daughter to the Iddesleigh School for Exceptional Girls in Devonshire.
On a scholarship, she would later learn. Funded by Lady Marley.
That school had changed Hattie’s life. She’d learned about the world beyond her overstuffed house. She’d learned about math and science and art. And useful skills, the sort of skills she could use for employment. She’d learned confidence and how to stand up for herself—in a school stuffed to the rafters with girls, it often felt like survival of the fittest. Hattie was determined not to lose her spot at the school and return to her home until it was absolutely necessary.
It became necessary when she’d graduated and had nowhere else to go.
It had been a few years since Hattie had seen his lordship, but he seemed truly delighted to see her and inquired about her life, and asked after her family. And then he’d looked at her curiously and asked, “Is your penmanship still as pristine as it was when you were at school?”
Hattie had laughed. “How odd that you would remember,” she said. “But yes, I think it is.”
“I know someone who is in need of excellent penmanship.”
“Someone needs penmanship?” Lady Mathilda asked. “How can one need penmanship?”
“When one’s own penmanship is sorely lacking, which, my love, I would think you could appreciate.”
Lady Mathilda groaned and looked away.
Hattie had never heard of such a thing, either, but a few days later, the earl sent round a note inviting her to tea. He said that he had an opportunity that might interest her. The note had been addressed to her only, but in her delight, Hattie had made the mistake of telling her parents. Would she never learn?
Her father—a short, wiry man with eyes like a hawk—had sat up so abruptly that he’d startled a pair of sleeping cats, who then leaped off the back of the chair and knocked a pile of darning onto the floor.
“Tea with an earl!” her mother had cried. “I will know at once what mischief you’ve been about to garner such an invitation!”
“Mischief?” Hattie had repeated. “It’s tea, Mama.”
Her mother was plump and often lethargic, particularly in the afternoons after she’d had her sherry. She was stretched on a chaise, three cats nestled in beside her. But the news enlivened her, and she’d carelessly brushed the cats aside. “You’ll not go to tea without someone to accompany you, Harriet. I won’t have it.”
“I’ll go,” her father said instantly. “I’d like to see Iddesleigh’s house. They say he’s a rich man, but I’d like to see if that’s true.”
“They always say the earls are rich,” her mother said with another wave of her hand. “I’ve heard that most of them are poor as church mice, really.”
“This isn’t... That’s not...” Hattie gave up. She knew from experience there was no argument she could make to dissuade her father. And now that the walking stick had been found, off they marched on foot to Upper Brook Street, despite her father owning most of the public transportation in London. “Why spend a shilling when it’s not necessary?” he would ask every time she or Daniel asked to take a conveyance across town. But the cab seemed necessary to Hattie, as a light rain was falling. They arrived a quarter of an hour late and bedraggled.
The butler kindly showed them into a small parlor where the earl was waiting, all smiles...until he saw Hattie’s father. “Ah, Mr. Woodchurch—I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Quite obvious, my good man,” her father snapped. “I’ve come all the same to keep my daughter safe.”
“Safe...from what?” his lordship asked, and genuinely seemed confused. But then he shook his head and waved them in. “No matter. You are most welcome, sir,” he said graciously. “Miss Woodchurch, it is always a pleasure.”
“Thank you.” Hattie curtsied. She felt anxious, aware that her father was looking around the room, his gaze narrowed, as if he was assessing each individual furnishing.
“May I offer you some tea?”
Hattie’s father said in response, “What is it you want with my daughter?”
“Oh, Papa—” Hattie tried, mortified at her father’s manners.
“I do appreciate anyone who can come straight to the point. I live with six women in this house and finding the point of any given conversation is beyond my mental capacity at times. I have invited you, Miss Woodchurch, because as I have said, I think I have an opportunity that is perfectly suited for you. Please, have a seat.”