Miss Goodhue Lives for a Night (2 page)

“Yes, me.” Cecilia could hardly believe she had said it, but now that she had, it made all the sense in the world. “School is out for the spring planting season. I can go to London without interrupting anyone's studies.”

“Yes, but . . . how?”

“I have some money,” she replied. As she had never married, Cecilia inherited what would have been her dowry when she came of age, five years ago. In fact, it was enough for her to live on if she wished to live independently. But she had never touched it. It felt tainted, like blood money—a prize when all she deserved was penance. However, if any cause justified its use, it was finding Eleanor. “Although I will have to draw on the bank to use it, and I'd have to go to London to do that anyway . . .”

“Then that is the excuse we will give Spilsby!” Imogene cried. “You have to go to London to speak with the bank about your funds. Perhaps you are thinking of setting up your own establishment now that our little family is finally increasing.” Imogene's hand went automatically to her slightly swollen stomach, which had appeared in recent weeks. “No one will question or object to that. Oh! And Mrs. Emory's old rooms on the square are for sale . . .”

“Yes, yes, that will do for an excuse,” Cecilia said before Imogene's tangent took on a life of its own.

“But oh—you will need a chaperon.”

“Please.” She snorted. “I am six and twenty. I have already learned the hardest lesson that a young lady can learn. I do not require a chaperon.”

“You don't know a soul in London. Spilsby may very well insist on accompanying you.”

“I'll leave that to you.” Cecilia rose to her feet and moved to grab her shawl off the hook by the kitchen door. She felt her boldness growing. “And as to not knowing a soul in London . . . well, I may not know a soul, but we know someone who does.”

“Where are you going?” Imogene said.

“To meet with a countess,” Cecilia replied, and swept out the door.

2

T
he Countess of Churzy—now plain Mrs. Turner, or Leticia, as she was quick to remind everyone—was more than happy to be helpful.

“Of course we will assist you!” she said, putting down the letter from Uncle Robert. As the countess was a woman who had survived scandal in her own life, Cecilia had no qualms about telling her the truth of her quest. The Countess—no, Mrs. Turner, she must remember to call her such—also was quick to augment Cecilia's plan.

“My dear John knows many people in London. He will write to his friend Lord Ashby and let him know of your situation.”

“L-Lord Ashby?” Cecilia said. Lord Ashby was an earl. And was still one—unlike the countess, he didn't lose his title upon marriage. Cecilia might have grown up next door to Sir Lockwood, but even the thought of him, a mere country baronet, still struck fear and awe in her breast. She barely managed to refrain from dissolving into giggles whenever she was near Sir Barty, even though she had recently become quite friendly with his daughter, Margaret.

“Yes, and do not worry, he can be trusted with your predicament,” Mrs. Turner replied.

“He won't go telling everyone about my cousin?”

“No, he very well might; he's horribly indiscreet,” came Mr. Turner's voice at the door. “But he doesn't know anyone from Manchester, so it won't matter at all.”

“Oh,” she said. Oddly, that did make her feel better. After all, the only people in the world who had cared about it when Cecilia herself had run off had been the people she had known. The people who
had
to be told to find them—the carriage driver, the innkeeper—could not care less.

“Don't worry, Lord Ashby's wife will keep him in line,” Mr. Turner said, having received a sharp look from his own wife. “I'll start writing Ned, shall I?” And he excused himself from the room.

“Now, we need to work on your reasons for going,” Mrs. Turner mused, tapping one finger on her pointed chin.

“Oh, but my sister and I already have that worked out!” she replied. “I am settling my funds with the bank so I can establish my own living.”

Mrs. Turner bit the inside of her cheek. “That will work for the vicar, no doubt, but hardly for the rest of the town's ladies.”

“But . . . why ever not?”

“For one, they will expect you to set up your own establishment upon return. No . . . you are going to London to speak with the bank, but you will also be doing an errand for me.”

“What errand?” Cecilia asked warily.

“Oh, I'll think of something,” Mrs. Turner said, waving her hand in the air. “Or better yet, I won't think of anything, but I will let everyone know it is of the utmost importance and that I could only trust a friend. That should keep the gossips guessing and away from wondering about your true intentions.”

As Mrs. Turner plotted and planned, Cecilia was left to sip her now cool tea and wonder dazedly if her friend's plan would work. But by the time she and her sister walked into Mrs. Robertson's dress shop the next day, she found herself surrounded.

“Oh, Miss Goodhue!” Mrs. Robertson said, coming around the table that held innumerable buttons and pins. “We've just heard about what you are doing to help Mrs. Turner with her London predicament. It is too good of you!”

“Yes,” Mrs. Seaborne, the butcher's wife, said. “And we've come up with a plan to help.”

“To help?” Cecilia asked, glancing at her sister, who shrugged. “Thank you, but I—”

“Of course, you don't want anyone knowing why you are
really
going,” Mrs. Robertson said.

“But Cecilia is going to make a withdrawal from the bank, of course,” Imogene butted in.

“Yes, Mrs. Turner said you would say that,” Mrs. Seaborne said. “And of course that will work for your husband, but no one will believe for a moment that Miss Goodhue would ever contemplate leaving your side!”

“Especially now,” Mrs. Robertson agreed.

Another glance between sisters. Cecilia, for some reason, turned away first, feeling the burning pangs of shame.

“Now, we are happy to pretend that we don't know about your true mission for Mrs. Turner,” Mrs. Robertson said, allowing Cecilia no room to contemplate her odd sensations. “But for everyone else, we'll say you're going to London for me!”

“For . . . for you?”

“Yes. And it's so very perfect. Because I have several bolts of fabric waiting on the docks in London and they will not release them to my man without payment. But of course I have paid, so I need to present them with the completed bill of sale. Which I have here. And I don't trust messengers . . .”

“Work for a penny can be bought for a pound,” Mrs. Seaborne said, shaking her head.

“So you are going on my behalf to present the bill of sale and pick up the fabric!”

“I . . . you want me to pick up your fabric from London?”

“Yes!” Mrs. Robertson smiled brightly. “I'll be doing you a favor here, and you'll be doing me one there. It works out beautifully.”

Cecilia could only nod. Then, after she completed the business she actually came in to do—purchasing a traveling cloak and sturdy boots for city walking—she took the bill of sale from Mrs. Robertson and headed dumbly for the door.

Once outside, Mrs. Seaborne caught up with them.

“Miss Goodhue,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. “If you're going to be down at the docks anyway, could I beg a small favor of you? My friend's shop is naught but a few streets away, and she has the best tea brought in from India. My Mr. Seaborne is a simple man, but he goes absolutely wild for it. If I gave you enough coin, could you purchase a few dozen pounds of it?”

Cecilia practically goggled at her. “You want me to purchase and transport a few
dozen
pounds of tea?”

“Yes—it's cheaper if I buy such a large quantity, you know. And it will help add color to that sad story Mrs. Robertson tried to concoct on your behalf. Why be going to London for one friend when you could be going for two?”

“Good point,” Imogene said when Cecilia found she couldn't say much at all. “My sister will be happy to bring back your tea. And thank you for your circumspection.”

It was less than an hour later that they were accosted again.

“Oh, Miss Goodhue!” Miss Fordham called out, waving her lace handkerchief as she flagged them down leaving the home of one of Miss Goodhue's students. Even though school had closed, Kara Warner was a bright-eyed girl who sought out new things, and Cecilia wanted to encourage her curiosity with a few books borrowed from the vicar's library. He wouldn't miss them.

“Miss Goodhue, thank goodness I caught you,” Miss Fordham said between heavy breaths. The woman was well past her youth, and yet her gray curls came over her temples in an oddly girlish fashion. Her face was nearly purple with the exercise.

“I have the answer to all your problems!” she said, her face fading from its violet hue. “Since you cannot have it spreading about why you are really going to London—Mrs. Turner simply could not live with another scandal—I would have you go for me!”

“For you?” Cecilia asked. She tried to hide the disbelief in her voice. “Why, Miss Fordham, however could I thank you.”

“No need to thank me, dearie, all you have to do is exchange a fish.”

An eyebrow went up. “Exchange a fish?”

“I purchased a wooden fish from a carver in London for my father, to be placed over the chair where he always sat, God rest his soul. But the man sent a cuttlefish! Can you imagine! I requested a trout!”

“And you want me to return it for you,” Cecilia said.

“I have already written the man a letter, and he sent me a replacement—but it was a dolphin! An ocean fish. Tell me, did my father ever fish upon the ocean?”

“No . . . ?” Imogene replied.

“No, of course not!” Miss Fordham said. “But isn't it perfect? I'll tell absolutely everyone exchanging my fish is your real reason for going to London!”

“Miss Fordham,” Cecilia sighed, but was silenced by one hard look from her sister. “I would be more than happy to return your dolphin.”

“And the cuttlefish,” she replied. “I haven't posted it yet, and it's so very expensive . . .”

“Two fish, then.”

“Excellent!” Miss Fordham jumped up on her toes and clapped. “I'll have the crates carted over to the vicarage immediately.”

“Crates? Carted?” Cecilia cried after Miss Fordham's quickly retreating form. “Just how large are these fish?”

Everywhere they went, people asked her for favors big and small from London. A letter delivered. A box of chocolates procured. A circulating library membership purchased. And every single time they said it was to create a more plausible reason for her travels. And Cecilia had to credit Mrs. Turner with ingenuity. Because no one looked past her vague story for the real reason Cecilia would be traveling.

It got to the point that Cecilia was beginning to wonder if she would have enough room in her luggage. Even when she walked to Bluestone Manor to take her leave of Miss Babcock, she was not surprised to find herself walking back with a strange potted plant in hand.

“It's a rhododendron,” Miss Babcock said. “Or at least it will be, when it grows to full size. If you could, please deliver it to Lord Ashby. Leticia assures me that he will send it to Dr. Gray—he's been asking me about plants from the Far East and this is the best I have in my greenhouse.”

“Of course,” she had said, taking the plant. “And you will of course tell everyone that this was the true purpose of my travels?”

But Margaret's brow furrowed. “No. Your reasons for going are your business. I simply could not bear to think of sending my plant via post, and since Leticia says you are to meet with Lord Ashby anyway . . .”

“Never mind,” Cecilia said, a smile breaking out over her face. “I am happy to take your roads-of-dandelion.”

“Rhododendron.”

“Yes, that. Thank you.” Then she gave a small giggle. “Do you know, you're the first person in this town who didn't care why I was going to London. You're a true friend.”

But Margaret's brow furrowed even more. “I should think a true friend would care.”

“Not in Helmsley.”

Margaret gave her very detailed instructions for the care and feeding of the rhododendron—thankfully written out—before Cecelia hugged her good-bye.

And so it was that Cecilia Goodhue traveled to London. Sir Barty Babcock lent his carriage to carry her as far as Spalding, from where she caught the mail coach—having to pay extra to accommodate her trunks. Besides a change of clothes, pin money borrowed from Imogene, and various other necessities, her luggage included a bill of sale for bolts of cloth, coin enough for thirty or so pounds of tea, several letters and smaller parcels to be delivered, two very large wooden fish, and a rhododendron.

All she needed was a partridge in a pear tree and she would be immortalized in song.

The rhododendron she kept on her lap for the entire day and night of the trip, as per Margaret's instructions, but also because it would be the first thing she delivered, along with herself, onto the doorstep of Lord Edward Granville, the Earl of Ashby.

She'd taken a hack from the coaching yard where the mail stopped in London—what she hadn't done was save enough pin money to pay the hack to stay at her disposal while she spoke with the earl. So her trunks were deposited on the doorstep with her.

In the middle of a pouring spring rain.

“Well,” she said, forcing herself to smile, trying to locate some of her usual cheer. “This is a wonderful way to start this adventure. After all, it can only get better from here.”

She lifted the heavy knocker. Water splattered her face beneath her bonnet as it fell against the solid wood.

It only took a moment for the door to swing open.

“Hello!” she said, trying to sound chipper, which was difficult considering she had water in her eyes and couldn't see beyond the large dark blob in front of her. “Good morning! My name is Miss Goodhue, I need to speak with Lord Ashby. His friend Mr. Turner wrote on my be—”

“Miss Goodhue?” A deep voice clipped out. A deep, strangely familiar voice. “Miss
Cecilia
Goodhue?”

“Yes,” she replied, blinking up at the blob. “Oh, thank goodness, Mr. Turner's letter must have reached you.”

“Yes, Cee,” the voice said. “His letter reached the earl.”

A cold shiver ran down her spine. And it had nothing to do with the water drenching her from head to toe.

Cee
.

There was only one man who had ever called her Cee. One man, who had looked at her with eyes as blue as the sky as if he were dying of thirst and she was the well of life. A man who'd whispered words of love in her ear, right before he left her in the middle of an inn on the road to Scotland, never to be seen again.