The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(57)

“I’m not coming,” Mary said.

Julia’s gaze jerked to her maid. She stood by the wooden washstand, her arms folded and her face set in lines of mulish resolve. Julia recognized that look. Her stomach sank. “Would you give us a moment, please?” she asked Jasper.

He frowned. “We leave in fifteen minutes.”

With or without your maid.

He may as well have said it aloud. The sentiment was evident, lingering in the air as he withdrew, shutting the door behind him.

Only when he was gone did Julia give her full attention to Mary. “You don’t mean it.”

Mary showed no signs of being in jest. “I do. I’ll not leave London.”

“But why? You’ve come with me this far—”

“Didn’t have much choice, did I? Not with Captain Blunt issuing orders as though he was our superior officer.” Mary stalked to one of the carpetbags. She tucked the topmost pieces of folded clothing further inside the bag’s capacious interior before fastening the clasp shut. “God forgive me for leaving you with such a man. But you’ve made your bed, miss, and now—”

“Don’t say that,” Julia objected. “It’s not like you. Not when you know what my life’s been like.”

“You might have made a better life for yourself if you’d wed Lord Gresham. But you wouldn’t listen. And now look where you are—and who you’re with. It’s not my place to say so, but someone must warn you. You’ll be miserable with that man. Just you wait. In time, you’ll see I’m right. Once he has you in his power, far away from your family and friends, you’ll come to regret your choice.”

Julia was stunned by her maid’s words. She felt like a mortal maiden being damned by some minor goddess. Each sentence Mary uttered flayed like a knife, laying bare Julia’s own private fears and insecurities.

But she’d made up her mind.

She was set on her course, and no one, not Mary or anyone else, would dissuade her from following it through.

“At least it will have been my choice,” she said. “My own decision, for better or worse. Not something another person chose for me.”

“There’s some not capable of choosing things for themselves. Or of looking after themselves, neither.” Mary stomped to the other carpetbag. She refolded a petticoat before thrusting it back inside. “How do you intend to get by without me to help you dress? To brush your hair and sponge and press your gowns?” She fastened the bag shut. “You think Captain Blunt has a lady’s maid in that haunted manor of his what knows how to use turpentine to remove grease stains from a fine silk weave?”

“No,” Julia admitted. “I don’t think Captain Blunt has any servants at all.”

Mary blanched in horror. “Lord have mercy. I’ve a mind to fetch your parents to bring you home. You’ve no notion what you’re getting yourself into.”

“If you came along—”

“I’ll not leave London,” Mary said again. “If you go with him, miss, you go alone.”

It was an ultimatum if Julia ever heard one. Her spine stiffened in response to it. She wasn’t helpless. Not any more than any other lady dependent on a maid to arrange her hair, lace up her corset, or fasten the hooks at the back of her gown. Nevertheless . . .

The prospect of leaving without Mary made Julia’s heart quail.

Was this how it had to be? A clean break with her old life? Left to embark on her new one with no friend to stand at her side?

But Mary wasn’t her friend.

Despite all her scolding, advice, and the occasional offering of a sympathetic ear, Mary was a paid servant. A skilled servant, but a servant nonetheless.

And as of this moment, she was a remnant of Julia’s past, right along with the fine house, the richly made clothes, and the gleaming coach-and-four.

Julia refused to grieve for any of it.

What awaited her in Yorkshire may not be elegant or luxurious. It may not be easy. But it would be real. And it would be hers.

“If that’s how you feel,” she said, “you may go. I’ll not stop you.”

Mary hovered by the bed. “It’s not too late for you to reconsider.”

Julia didn’t dignify the statement. Her mind was made up. “If you would pass me my reticule?”

Mary mutely obeyed, handing Julia the small embroidered purse with its drawstring of silken cord.

Julia opened it and withdrew several banknotes. “This should be enough to see you through while you’re seeking a new position.” She stretched the notes out to Mary. “If my parents refuse to give you a character, I’ll provide one. You need only write to me in Yorkshire at Goldfinch Hall.”

“Goldfinch Hall?” Mary’s brow furrowed as she took the money. “Doesn’t sound like a haunted house.”

“No, it doesn’t. And Mary?”

“Yes, miss?”

Julia’s stomach tightened with resolve. “I won’t be alone.”





Eighteen





Julia had often imagined her wedding. It was difficult not to when one was romantic-minded. The groom had been in doubt—she’d never had a specific face or figure of a man in mind—but her dream of the day itself had always been crystal clear.