Page 7 of In Search of a Husband
September 1823
Scotland.
That was the promise of the letter in her hand. The ink was almost worn light, and the paper was so fragile from folding it over and again, Kate was afraid it would crumble before she knew the answer.
She tucked it gingerly back into her beaded reticule and peered out the carriage window. How long had she been reading it?
It was a short missive.
Its intention only to seek a governess for a desperate family in northern Scotland, deep in the Highlands.
Kate blew out a rush of air, her gloved hand tight on the carriage door as passersby crowded busy Bond Street.
“Miss Bancroft, are you feeling well enough?” asked Hannah from her opposite seat in the carriage.
“Perfectly well.” It was growing harder to lie. Some aching, pressing need swelled in her chest, and she wasn’t certain if she wished to scream or dive under the bed covers and hide for the remainder of her life.
Charlotte’s maidservant was kind enough not to press for more details.
“It’s a lovely day out. Perhaps you’d like to stroll through the park before we venture to see the duchess.”
Fresh air was a magical thing, something scarce in the city.
And as much as it pained her to admit it, Kate knew a stroll would not release the uneasiness bouncing around inside of her.
A year after Kate had been discovered with the marquess, and still, it wasn’t any easier to be in London.
Once, London had held such promise. Now, it was nothing but a bleak, constant reminder of how she had failed.
The hushed whispers, the cutting stares. Navigating the shops to help run errands for her dear friend, Charlotte, otherwise known as the Duchess of Dandridge, as her companion was less than pleasant.
But she faced the fire time and again because she refused to allow the rest of society to dictate her happiness. Her poor judgment, well… to be honest, her exceptionally poor judgment toward her affair with the marquess had been a foolish matter of the heart. She had been far too naive, a dangerous quality in a London debutante. The consequence of being iced out of society because of rumors—exaggerated well beyond the truth—was unfair.
And Kate had never been one to back down from a challenge.
But Scotland?
To flee was tempting, but would it be the right answer? Could she remain in London and find a happy ending for herself?
Let’s see this over with.
The skies grew darker overhead as she made her way to the modiste. A sweet breezewooshedthrough the crowded street. She clasped her hand tight on top of her fanciful pink bonnet and turned her head down, sparing herself from the reactions of others.
It was better to pretend to be preoccupied. Though she was tempted from time to time to smile. That seemed to genuinely confuse others who were determined to practice the various ways a person could be served the cut direct.
Since her scandal, Kate had been served several, from the favoritecut modestto the absurdcut circumbendibus.
Was she expected to wear her misery like a badge to serve the egos of others?
So easily marked.
Very well.
She closed her eyes and paused before the modiste shop. First here, then the bookshop, before a trip to the bakery. And after a busy morning, she would return to Gairdner’s Seminary for Young Girls and assist Charlotte with the ledgers, then Hannah could be on her way to help the others ready for this evening’s entertainment.
Kate didn’t wish to endure a stuffy dinner with stodgy, old men droning on about business as if they were the only ones capable of understanding such figures and concepts. If she could master French and dance the quadrille without tripping, she was capable of adding sums. Besides, she didn’t wish to gossip with the ladies after dinner over sherry and tittered laughter.
No.
