Page 9 of Refining the Debutante
“Gone to my creditors. We will not see a farthing of it.”
“And we must flee into the night like criminals?” Miranda swallowed back her angry tears. “Where will we go? How will we live?”
Mr. Bartley’s whole posture drooped. “I will make my way to France and then to Spain. It matters not where. I will lie low until I can earn enough to send for you. But I can never return to London. Our life here is over.”
Putting her hand over her mouth, Miranda squeezed her eyes shut. She had known of her father’s strong pull to the gaming hells and the horse races; it had always seemed like harmless entertainment. Now the last of their resources were lost over an unexpected volcano and a few bad bets. Or years of bad investments—she was not privy to her father’s business. It didn’t matter. Thousands of miles away, an unforgivable explosion had ruined her entire life.
“And where shall I go?” Miranda dreaded his answer, but she had to know.
Her father dropped his head. “I have arranged for a carriage to take you and your lady’s maid to my brother’s house in Folkestone. He is a cantankerous old fool, but he will not turn you away.”
“Your estranged brother? He swore he would kill you if he ever saw your face.”
“Which is why you are going, not I.”
The shock dissipated enough for her to imagine following her father’s plan. She’d be living in an obscure seaside town with a stranger. “Can you be sure he will have me?”
“No, I cannot. Nor can I depend on his aid for my debts. As far as I know, he has no heir, and he would never sign over a farthing to me. But who else is there to protect you? His title can help you retain a presence in Society.” Her father came forward and wrapped his arms awkwardly around her. “There, there, sweet. I would do anything for you, you know that. It is just that if I stay even a minute longer, I could spend the rest of my days in debtors’ prison. That is no life for either of us.”
Miranda knew every second was crucial, but she leaned her head against his shoulder anyway, blinking back tears. “This is a perfect disaster.”
“Yes, dear, it is.”
One tear leaked free and then another. With the same rapid fall of the moisture on her cheeks, life as she knew it dripped away. “Will you at least write to me?”
Her father pulled away and dropped his arms to his sides. He stared at her long and hard. “I promise to send for you as soon as I can afford to. I will write, but it could be some time before I am settled.”
Miranda could not imagine life without her father. They had never been parted for long. Even as a child, she and her governess had traveled everywhere with him. But she found herself wiping her eyes dry and nodding. “I shall miss you.” She meant it, even though right now, she felt mostly anger and hurt.
“And I you. Now, go. The carriage I sent for you is on its way.”
* * *
Miranda pointed to her trunk. “If you hurry, you might have time to gather a few things of your own.”
“Me?” Sarah glanced up at her, her petite frame suddenly tense.
“Well, yes, you must come with me.” Miranda felt a shiver of fear pass down her spine. What if Sarah said no? Miranda couldn’t travel alone—not to see her uncle, of all people. “I haven’t the time to write you a recommendation, and we both know you would never find another job as a lady’s maid without one.”
Sarah continued packing Miranda’s truck without a word, her cheeks as pale as the white-blonde lock of hair that had escaped her mobcap.
Miranda drummed her fingers on the side of her dress. This was taking much too long with just one of them working. She hurried to her dressing table and gathered her toiletries.
“Perhaps—” Sarah’s hesitant words broke the harried silence. “Perhaps I could join you with your trunk tomorrow. There is a great deal to pack, and—”
“No,” Miranda said sharply, remembering her father’s dire words. The last thing she wanted was to face the humiliation of creditors banging on their doors. “We must leave straightaway.”
Sarah’s jaw went tight, and she began shoving the dresses into the trunk without her usual care.
“This is not convenient for either of us, Sarah.” Miranda hoped to convey the desperate situation they both faced. “I have not forgotten the small fact about there being more laborers than jobs. I am doing you a favor.” Miranda tucked her toiletries into a smaller trunk while Sarah rushed to place silver paper between the gowns in the larger trunk. “Honestly, Mr. Roderick was always whispering about the state of unemployment with his friends. They think the ladies don’t hear anything because we are too busy simpering behind our fans.”
Miranda could see Sarah turning the situation over in her mind before her features turned stoic and accepting of her fate. Her maid might not be the most competent with the latest fashions, but she did know how to be compliant. Still, Miranda could not breathe until the hired post chaise arrived and her hastily packed trunk was loaded, along with Sarah’s meager belongings. Her father gave her a tight hug at the door, but she pulled back. She didn’t want to remember his face lined with worry or the brandy on his breath. When she walked away, she felt like an orphan.
The door to their town house shut with a resounding thud, the dark street empty beside the chaise. Before she and Sarah stepped inside, Miranda paid the driver a handsome tip. “I require a quick stop.” She relayed to the driver the address of Jane’s family town house. She was not going all the way to Kent if Jane would take her in. Perhaps Lord Gibson, Jane’s titled father, could help smooth her situation. Money and reputation went a long way with thehaut ton, and the Rodericks had both.
Only a few minutes later, the carriage lurched to a stop, and Miranda eyed the lit windows of Lord Gibson’s place. After a few slams of the knocker, the door opened to her. She was led into the vestibule right as Jane stepped down the stairs. Thank heavens it was her and not her parents. Miranda needed another minute to prepare herself to speak with them—she’d not spoken with either Lord or Lady Gibson since before Ethan had left Town. Would the rumors of her father’s ruination have reached them already?
Jane frowned. “You are much too late for calling hours. Did Mother invite you to dine with us? Never mind that, I have a delicious story to tell you about our friends, the Fosters. Come sit down, and I shall tell you every scandalous detail!”
