A Poor Relation. Joanna MaitlandЧитать онлайн книгу.
for a simple but modish travelling gown of deep green, which she planned to hide beneath a plain dark pelisse when she emerged. There was also a matching hat, but Isabella would not dare to put it on until she was safely in the carriage and miles from this unfortunate inn. For the present, she would continue to hide her hair completely under the battered brown poke bonnet.
Her main concern now was to avoid any further meeting with Lord Amburley. Until she was sure he had left, she dared not even venture into the parlour, lest he call to see how they did.
She had suffered mortification enough, she told herself. She was resolved to leave without meeting him again, even if she had to resort to ill-manners to achieve it.
Isabella returned to the window to check again on the departure of the gentlemen. To her relief, she saw that the curricle Sophia had described was standing ready in the yard. In spite of her preoccupation, she could not help noticing that the horses were quite as fine as Sophia had supposed. Mr Lewiston had a good eye, then, and might be wealthy after all. What a pity Isabella’s actions had ruined everything for Sophia.
The sound of voices in the parlour next door distracted her from this depressing train of thought. Sophia’s voice, conversing with a man. Thank goodness Mitchell was present as chaperon, so that Isabella need not join them.
She drew near the connecting door and, without quite putting her ear against it, found a position from which she could overhear all that was said. She told herself sternly that it was her duty to listen. Was she not, after all, the guardian of Sophia’s virtue?
The voice proved to be Mr Lewiston’s. Isabella breathed again.
Mr Lewiston was advising the ladies to delay their journey until the rain eased. He feared Miss Sophia might catch cold if she travelled in such weather.
‘But what of you, sir?’ responded Sophia. ‘Are you not about to set out for your prize-fight, or whatever it is you are all here to see? I thought I saw your horses standing in the yard?’
‘They are Amburley’s horses, I am sorry to say,’ admitted Mr Lewiston ruefully. ‘I should give much to own them.’
‘But they are not for sale,’ put in a deeper voice.
Behind the door, Isabella smothered a gasp. A shiver ran down her body and she swayed on her feet. Amburley was there, just a few feet beyond the door. And it was all his—horses, wealth, everything. Surely a titled man of means would be bound to appear in London at some stage, whatever reasons had kept him away in the past?
Light suddenly dawned. What a fool she had been! Of course, he must have been with Wellington’s army. How could she have missed something so obvious? His bearing, his air of authority, everything about him betrayed the soldier. He would be recently returned from the wars. There must be estates somewhere, she supposed. Oh, she prayed they were a long way from London and in need of his constant supervision. She could not bear the thought of meeting him again. A rake—and a hero too, no doubt. There could not be a more dangerous combination.
Chapter Three
Sophia looked around with glowing eyes. ‘Oh, Isabella,’ she breathed, ‘I have never seen such beautiful fabrics. It’s…it’s like Aladdin’s cave.’
‘Just wait until you have seen Madame’s designs.’ Isabella smiled.
Sophia’s dark eyes opened even wider, as Madame Florette’s elegant black-clad figure re-entered the room, followed by a bevy of attendants carrying yet more bolts of splendid silks. Madame waved them into the background, before inviting the ladies to seat themselves on her delicate spindle-legged chairs.
‘Bien, mademoiselle.’ Madame was beaming at Isabella, no doubt in anticipation of a very large order. ‘I am at your service.’
‘Come, Sophia, let us make a start by choosing some simple morning dresses.’ Isabella smiled encouragingly. ‘Madame Florette has impeccable taste. You may trust her judgement.’
‘Mademoiselle Winstanley is most generous,’ responded the modiste with a self-satisfied smirk. ‘Mademoiselle Sophia will be a pleasure to dress. Such colouring, such a figure.’
Over the course of the morning, a bewildering collection of gowns was selected for Sophia. Isabella was glad she had taken pains to ensure that there was no mention whatever of price, for it was vital that Sophia’s feckless parents should not find out how much was being spent on their eldest daughter. What little they had was devoted to educating their five sons—and paying their debts. They did not seem to care that Sophia and her sisters were destined to become penniless old maids. As a spinster herself, Isabella had determined that Sophia, at least, should have the best possible chance of making a good match. And she was quite prepared to conceal the expense of the Season from Sophia’s stiff-necked parents, knowing that they would welcome a wealthy suitor with open arms.
‘And for you, Miss Winstanley,’ urged Madame, ‘I have just received the most beautiful jade-green silk shot with gold. With your colouring, it would make an exquisite ball-gown.’ With an imperious wave of the hand, she dispatched a hovering attendant to fetch the bolt of cloth.
The jade and gold silk was irresistible. ‘With a lighter green underdress, mademoiselle, in this aquamarine satin, to bring out the colour of the silk…and then a gold gauze scarf for your arms.’ Madame was sketching rapidly. ‘We will fashion a special ornament for your hair too, I think, to pick up the greens of the gown and of your eyes. It will look ravishing, I assure you.’
‘Isabella, it is too beautiful for words. You must have it, truly.’
Isabella yielded. She knew just how well the gown would become her. Partly as a result of Madame’s beautiful creations, Isabella Winstanley could hold her own among the best-dressed women in London. She was now wearing a carriage dress of emerald green, with a jaunty little hat of the same colour perched on top of her honey-gold curls. Even though Sophia’s dark colouring was the prevailing fashion, it was Isabella’s striking looks that had drawn every eye since their arrival in London.
Isabella was laughing gently with Sophia as they emerged to return to their carriage. Sophia, concentrating on their conversation, failed to notice a gentleman in her path and almost collided with him.
‘Oh, I do beg your pardon, sir,’ she began. ‘Why, it is Mr Lewiston! Oh!’ Her face was suffused with the deepest blush, and she began to stammer uncertainly, ‘I…I had not thought…to see you in London. I…’ Her voice trailed off; she was unable to utter another word.
Mr Lewiston saved her, at least for the moment. ‘Miss Winstanley, how delightful to meet you again. I cannot think how I was so remiss as to fail to ask you for your direction in London. I hope you will permit me to call?’
Sophia had no choice but to acquiesce. ‘I am staying in Hill Street with my godmother, Lady Wycham,’ she said. ‘I am sure she would be delighted to meet you.’
‘And would you do me the honour of making me known to your companion?’ asked Mr Lewiston, casting an appreciative glance at Isabella.
‘Com…companion?’ stuttered Sophia, suddenly ashen.
‘I do not think I have been introduced to this lady,’ said Mr Lewiston patiently, ignoring Sophia’s apparent want of wits.
Isabella intervened to save the situation. She extended her hand, noting with satisfaction how steady it was. ‘I am Isabella Winstanley, Mr Lewiston, a distant cousin of Sophia’s. Lady Wycham would welcome a chance to meet you, I am sure. We have heard about your chivalrous rescue of Sophia in the north.’
It was Mr Lewiston’s turn to stammer as they shook hands. ‘Indeed, ma’am, I…I did nothing more than any gentleman would have done for a lady in distress, I assure you.’ Recovering his composure, he continued gamely, addressing Sophia once more, ‘I shall call tomorrow, if I may?’
Sophia answered with a smile and a slight nod. She was still incapable of speech. With an elegant bow, Mr Lewiston handed them into the carriage and stood