Devil Takes A Bride (21 page)

Things were going well for her. The dowager's death had left her saddened, of course, but her new job was a success; she had handed in her German translations on time, and with the publisher's payment, her savings were growing nicely. She enjoyed the proximity to London again, with all its museums and bookshops and learned lectures. She had many friends in Town from all walks of life and was within an hour's ride to Jacinda's villa on Regent's Park. She even received an occasional friendly letter from Dr. Bell, though she could no longer contemplate anything but a platonic relationship with him since that night with Devlin.

Indeed, as she sat at her desk, half listening to the tapping and squeaking of the girls chalking away on their slates, she realized that the only unresolved matter left in her life was Devil Strathmore himself—the thought of whom made her heart ache, her conscience wince, and her body burn.

When the mathematics lesson was over, the girls had only a few minutes to shuffle into the large room down the hallway for their dancing lesson with Miss Agnew, but Lizzie was done for another couple of hours until French class. She was organizing her desk when one of the hall monitors brought her a note from the headmistress, summoning her to the office.

Mrs. Hall was not a woman to be kept waiting. She hurried downstairs with the first bars from Miss Agnew's pianoforte echoing down the corridor after her.

The founder's office was situated off the school's foyer. Arriving there, Lizzie gave a light knock on the door and was promptly called in.

“Do come in, Miss Carlisle,” the headmistress ordered. Mrs. Hall was a large, imposing woman with twin gray side-curls peeking out from under her white muslin house cap, and a prim white betsy laced up to her chin. “Miss Carlisle used to be a leading student here at the academy, Mrs. Harris. She grew up as lady's companion to the Marchioness of Truro and Saint Austell, who, I might add, also attended our humble establishment. She is also a particular favorite with the Duchess of Hawkscliffe and Lady Winterley, as well, who, I'm sure you know, is wed to our national hero, Colonel Lord Winterley.” Lizzie cringed slightly as Mrs. Hall preened over her exalted connections, determined to impress the two visitors who sat across from her large mahogany desk. “She is very good with the gels. Miss Carlisle, this is Mrs. Harris of Dublin and her daughter, Sorscha.”

“How do you do?” she murmured, curtsying.

The pair regarded her without expression.

The mother was dressed in a widow's deep mourning. Her elegant silk gown and gloves were jet-black, her face veiled behind a swathe of black lace that draped over her ebony hat. Indeed, the only bit of color to be seen on her person were the ends of her long, coppery-red tresses peeking out from under the edge of her black veil.

“Mrs. Harris has just enrolled the young lady in our fine institution,” Mrs. Hall explained. “Would you be so kind, Miss Carlisle, as to show our lovely new student to her quarters and familiarize her with the schedule?”

“Yes, ma'am. Welcome, Miss Harris,” Lizzie said to the girl. “If you'll follow me?”

Sorscha Harris stood. She was a beautiful girl of about sixteen with the wide-eyed look of a china doll—a pale, round face, a riot of bouncy sable curls pushed back behind a pink ribbon, and big blue eyes filled with youthful uncertainty.

Looking extremely nervous, Sorscha gave her mother's hand a brave squeeze; many of the new students had never been separated from their mothers before, and considering Mrs. Harris's mourning costume, Lizzie realized the poor child must have recently lost her father.

“Are you sure you will be all right without me, Mama?”

“I'll be fine, darlin',” Mrs. Harris murmured softly, her voice tinged with a mild Irish brogue, but behind the lace veil it was impossible to guess her expression. “Go and enjoy your new school. I'll be back Sunday to take ye to Mass. You will behave yourself.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Don't worry, Mrs. Harris. I will see that your daughter is well cared for,” Lizzie reassured the woman, then gave Sorscha a warm smile. “I'm rather new here myself, Miss Harris, so you and I will have to look out for each other.”

A shy smile spread over Sorscha's pretty face.

“Let me help you with that,” she added as the girl attempted to pick up her traveling trunk by herself.

“Thank you, Miss Carlisle.” Sorscha blushed and smiled gratefully as Lizzie took the other handle.

Together, they carried it out of the office, laughing a bit with their exertions as they struggled to heft it up the stairs. Just as they reached the top, Mrs. Hall called up to her, “Oh, Miss Carlisle! This came for you in the post yesterday.” She held up a letter. “I do apologize—I forgot to put it in your box.”

They set down the trunk. Dusting off her hands, Lizzie hurried down to get her mail. “Thank you, ma'am,” she murmured, taking it from her. Lizzie rejoined Sorscha, glancing thoughtfully at the official-looking missive on fine gray stationery.
From the Offices of Charles Beecham, Esquire, Fleet Street,
the envelope read.
URGENT.
Why, that name looked familiar, she thought. Since her new pupil was waiting for her, Lizzie slipped the letter in the pocket of her neat white apron and dutifully took up her half of the traveling trunk.

After helping Sorscha lug it up the stairs into the girls' sunny dormitory on the top floor of the venerable old building, Lizzie assigned the newcomer a bed and dresser, then began helping her unpack her things.

“Aren't you going to open your letter?” Sorscha ventured, glancing at the folded paper peeping out of Lizzie's pocket.

She grinned. “I was trying not to be rude.”

“I don't mind,” the girl said brightly.

“In that case—” Filled with curiosity, she pulled out her letter and slid her finger underneath the wax seal, breaking it. Eagerly, she unfolded it and scanned the neat lines of script.

Sorscha watched her. “Good news, I hope?”

“Gracious,” Lizzie said with a small, pained smile. “It seems Lady Strathmore has left me something in her will.”

“Who's that?”

“A dear old dragon lady I was taking care of before I came here. Her health was poor, and, to my regret, she passed away several weeks ago. I can't believe she troubled herself to remember me in her will.”

“An inheritance! How exciting,” Sorscha exclaimed. “What did she leave you, do you think?”

“I'm not sure. I've been summoned by her lawyer's office to attend the reading of the will.” Which meant she would see Devlin again. Her gaze turned faraway. “I suppose I'll find out then…. I'll bet I know what it is!” she said on a sudden inspiration. “Some of her books!”

“Books?” Sorscha echoed.

Lizzie sent her a wistful glance. “She knew I positively envied her excellent library. I often told her I'd like to have my own bookshop someday. She used to say the notion was absurd, but deep down, I think she liked it.” She smiled sadly. “How kind of her to think of me.” With a pang in her heart, she sighed, refolded the letter, and put it away. “Now all I have to do is convince Mrs. Hall to give me the morning off,” she told Sorscha in a conspiratorial tone.

“Oh, dear. She does seems a bit—formidable.”

“She's nothing after Lady Strathmore,” Lizzie whispered back, then took the girl's hand and tucked it into the crook of her arm with a bright smile. “Now, come along, my dear. Let me introduce you to the other girls.”

“I hope they like me,” she said shyly.

“Never fear, Miss Harris.” She patted her hand. “I suspect you'll all be fast friends by suppertime.”

 

Gliding like a phantom cloaked in her long black veil of lace, the Widow Harris left Mrs. Hall's office, striding out to her carriage and climbing into it lightly as her large, loyal manservant, Patrick Doyle, held the door for her. His worried glance sought to search Mary's hidden face.

“It's all right, old friend,” she murmured. “Sorscha will be safe here.”

They no longer called the girl Sarah. Mary had changed the child's name shortly after their escape, for her own protection.

With a resolute nod, the big Irishman closed the door. As they pulled away from the stately brick academy, Mary cast one last, longing look out the carriage window.

It was difficult for her to leave Sorscha, for they had scarcely been separated for twelve years, but she assured herself the young teacher, Miss Carlisle, had seemed most solicitous of her adopted daughter's happiness and well-being. She instinctively trusted the young woman's honest gray eyes and kind smile. The older lady, Mrs. Hall, on the other hand, struck her as naught but a pompous termagant.

Mary knew her kind all too well, having spent her misguided youth defiantly pretending that she did not feel the sting of such prim ladies' condemnation. What the school's founder would have said if she knew there had never been a Mr. Harris—let alone that the respectable widow had once been the theater diva known as Ginny Highgate—Mary scarcely dared contemplate. But it mattered not, for after all these years, hidden away in Ireland, she had left her old life behind to achieve a veneer of respectability—for Sorscha's sake.

Sorscha was all that mattered.

Her precious foundling was, in truth, the only part of her life that Mary was proud of. The child's presence in her life had filled such an empty hole in her. Her love for the little one had kept Mary alive when she had wanted to die from the sheer hellish pain of her wounds. But now, however much it hurt to give her up, Sorscha Harris—Sarah—deserved the chance to claim her rightful place in life. She owed the girl that.

Doyle drove on to the city and soon halted before the genteel boarding house where Mary had taken rooms. When he came around and opened the door for her, Mary murmured her instructions to him: “Fetch me at midnight. Have the carriage ready. I don't want to waste any time. Best to get this over with.”

“Aye, ma'am.”

“I shall rest till then. I suggest you do the same,” she added with a smile behind her veil.

“No desire to have a look around at the great city, ma'am?” Doyle asked with a twinkle in his dark eyes, but Mary cast a bitter smile at the countless church spires and smoking chimneys of London.

She shook her head. “I had my fill of this place long ago.” Gathering her skirts, she strode into the boarding house.

For the next several hours, she did her best to relax; read her Bible; took her meal alone in her room; and lay on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, imagining Sorscha taking the ton by storm. First, there would have to be a glittering coming-out ball. Ah, she could just picture her, a demure debutante in white. She would be awash in suitors who would treat her with the utmost chivalry and reverence—a real lady. There would be dancing and balls. Almack's. If all went well, she might even be invited to make her curtsy to the queen.

With so much advantage for Sorscha to gain, Mary would somehow find the strength for what she must do: She had come back to England to return the long-lost child to her elder brother and rightful guardian, the present Lord Strathmore.

Mary only hoped that when the siblings were reunited, Sorscha's memory might be jarred, for as it stood, the girl had no recollection of her prior life and family, nor had she any memory of the fire. In truth, Mary was grateful for that. Herself, she recalled every detail with horrid clarity.

Soothing her distress by more hopeful imaginings of a better future for Sorscha, she managed to drift off to sleep for several hours, until Doyle's light knock at the door alerted her that the hour was at hand.

She came sharply awake in an instant. Opening the door just a crack, since she wasn't yet wearing her veil, she told Doyle she would be right down. Soon, she glided quietly down the stairs of the boarding house and hurried outside, wrapping her black cloak more securely around her to keep out the chill of the late March night. The street was quiet, Doyle waiting stoically near the carriage by the feeble glow of a street lamp. Moonlight reflected in a silver streak across the vehicle's shiny black top.

“Portman Square,” she reminded him as she stepped once more into the coach.

“Aye, ma'am.”

Her heart pounded with trepidation as they set off, moving northwest toward one of London's most fashionable neighborhoods.

What sort of man would he be? Would he look at all like Sorscha? Would the two bear a family resemblance?

Mary had never stopped following the news from London, though granted, the
Times
took a month to reach her thatched cottage tucked away in the sleepy emerald hills of Tipperary. One day, cynically skimming the gossip column for news of the blackguards she had once known, she had come across the single paragraph that had turned her life upside down:

Lord Strathmore is welcomed back to England after several years of journeying about the globe aboard his private vessel, the brig,
Katie Rose
. Most lately come from India and the jungles of Malaysia, His Lordship tells us his adventure was part holiday, part scientific expedition. We are happy to report, however, that this esteemed, handsome, and popular Viscount has no plans for further travel at this time, but seems to exhibit an interest in settling down on England's fair shores. This Season, all Society will be wondering if the noble captain of the
Katie Rose
will next begin to contemplate embarking on a new adventure—of the matrimonial variety?

Mary had known upon reading it what she must do, though she could hardly bear it. There was so much she had to tell Lord Strathmore about that awful night, what exactly had happened to his parents, but would he be ready to hear it? Would he shrink from what must be done to ensure Sorscha's safety from those who would do her, indeed, both of them harm?

Would he even believe her strange tale? she wondered as she stared up at the face in the large, misshapen moon. It was imperfect, like her own: not round, but an ill-formed gibbous, its ominous dark side pitted and smeared with clouds.