Bemused, Miss Prudhome followed her employer and sat in the chair opposite Hester’s, her hands clasped anxiously in her lap, the flickering firelight sparking off the jet brooch she wore.
‘When my father died I came back to England,’ Hester began painfully. She had never had to tell this story to anyone and it felt as though it were being wrenched from her now. ‘He was not able to leave me well endowed, and I had no surviving relatives, but he had left me instructions to go to
an old army friend of his, Colonel Sir John Norton, in London. I went, hoping he would be able to recommend me to a suitable employer so I could become a companion.’
She told the story, seeing her own emotions reflected in Maria’s face: pity and shock at the realisation of the colonel’s condition; amazement, then rejection of his proposal and finally approval of the compromise they had reached together.
‘John only had a few relatives, and they had neglected him for many years, obviously feeling that a dying man, however gallant, was no concern of theirs. With no other heirs, they had no reason to fear he would leave his money elsewhere.
‘But after my arrival, it took only days for those distant relatives to scent my presence and descend upon Mount Street. The ensuing row was an epic and Sir John’s cousin, her husband, her two sons and their wives swept out of the house, having convinced themselves that he had fallen prey to a fortune-hunting hussy and that I had settled into the house as his mistress with an eye to his money.’
She sighed, wondering yet again if there was anything that could have been done at the time to stop the damage. But she had been too proud, and John too furious, to beg their understanding.
‘If they had taken themselves back to the country it might not have mattered so very much, but instead they settled in their town house and proceeded to spread the news of the colonel’s shocking liaison.’
‘I found myself pointed out in the lending library and the few callers Sir John had been used to fell away abruptly. At the fashionable milliner’s where I had begun to take my custom I found they had too much work on to oblige me and the ladies of households where I called to take up letters of introduction from my father’s commanding officer were never at home to me.’
Maria gasped in outrage. ‘How bigoted, how unjustified!’
Hester shrugged. ‘Can I blame them? I do not know. Reputation is such a fragile thing. My world closed in to the Mount Street house and my companionship with Sir John. I tried not to think about what I would do when he died, for my portion was small and the scandal had put paid to any hopes of becoming companion to anyone else.’
‘But I should have known better. He left me a legacy in his will. Not a fortune, for most of his wealth was entailed on his cousin’s son, but a very respectable competence, which, with what my father had left me, means I am able to support the appearance of a gentlewoman.’ She broke off and smiled. ‘Where, that is, no one knows of my reputation.’
‘And because of that reputation, even if it is quite undeserved, you cannot accept an offer from a gentleman,’ Maria stated sadly.
‘Not an honourable offer, that is for sure,’ Hester added wryly. ‘But I should have told you at the beginning, Maria; it was wrong of me not to. You might well have decided you did not wish to be associated with me-you may still feel that way.’
‘Never!’ Miss Prudhome leapt to her feet and hastened to hug her startled employer. ‘You are a gentlewoman, but even if these unkind rumours were true, I hope I can recognise true kindness and quality when I meet it.’ She sat down with a decided thump and blew her nose briskly.
Hester found she could not speak and contented herself with leaning over and squeezing Maria’s hand gratefully. The little spinster was so kind. If only she thought Guy would be as understanding if she told him frankly of her past. But, of course, that was asking too much. He was a leading member of society, a man with a reputation and a standing. He might take someone with a besmirched reputation as a mistress, but never as a wi- as a friend, Hester corrected herself hastily.
What am I thinking of? She turned and gazed into the flames, her eyes unfocused. Because I love him, because he has been a good friend to me and has shown he is attracted to me physically, that does not mean he would have any thoughts of marriage. When this puzzle was wound up she felt certain in her heart that he would cease to try and buy the Moon House for whatever mysterious reason motivated him. And then he would go, back to London, back to society, out of her life.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
H ester had enough self-perception to know when she was thoroughly blue devilled and likely to spend the rest of the day moping by the fire. And she knew that only some brisk activity or something else to concentrate upon would snap her out of the megrims. A walk was out of the question; a chill mist had descended, bringing with it a promise of frost later according to Jethro, summoning up the knowledge from the rural upbringing Hester suspected he had experienced.
After luncheon she cleaned the pane of glass rescued from the shed, mixed herself up a bowl of flour paste, cut the canvas free of its frame and with camel hair brushes set to reconstruct it. She dusted the tattered fragments of the picture and carefully laid each strip on to the glass, securing them with the paste.
Gradually the picture took shape as the portrait of a lady shown from the waist up. Her hair tumbled in unpowdered blonde curls around her bare shoulders, her gown was of leaf green satin in the elaborate style of perhaps fifty years before and around her neck was a long rope of exquisitely graded pearls matching the drops in her ears.
As the first of the pearls appeared under the gentle brush strokes Hester stopped wondering why the lady was not en poudre as the fashion of the time dictated and stared instead at the necklace. Could it be the same one that now lay unstrung on her dressing table? The lustre of the pearls gleamed with a glow that matched the satin, catching the green reflection of the fabric. The quality was certainly as good.
She realised her hands were trembling and took a hold on herself. This portrait was as much a focus of the blind hatred that had invaded this lovely house as the dressing room had been; of course the pearls were the same ones.
The picture built up slowly, for it was difficult to coax the fragile, brittle pieces to lie flat and to ease slashed edges devoid of paint under their neighbouring strips.
The light was fading fast as she smoothed a soft cloth over the last piece; as she did it, Susan entered, lamp in hand, ready to set a taper to the candles.
‘Why, who would have thought you could have done anything with that dirty old thing, Miss Hester?’ she remarked comfortably, bustling round the room. The candles lit, she came to peer over Hester’s shoulder.
‘Oh, my Gawd!’
‘Indeed,’ Hester agreed shakily, too startled by the effect of the candlelight on the completed image to reprove Susan’s language.
‘It’s his sister, surely?’ Hester could see the resemblance too plainly to enquire whose sister her maid meant. The hair colour, the modelling of the face, an indefinable something in the smile that played about the lady’s lips-all spoke of a relationship to Guy. A close relationship.
‘It cannot be his sister, Lady Broome. See how dated the gown is. I doubt it could be his mother either.’ Hester tried to do calculations in her head. ‘If Guy is about thirty, it means he was born in ‘84. This was painted when? About 1750, perhaps-and the lady is in her early twenties, which means she was born in about 1726 or ‘27 which would make her-’ She broke off, her brow furrowed. ‘In her late fifties when he was born.’