Page 65 of Harpy of the Ton
Bella held up the paper, her hand trembling. “I have a list—he wrote it—but I’ll never get it done before he returns. I don’t even know how to start. I…”
She caught her breath as a tide of despair battered at her soul.
The girl took the list and read it.
“I’ve tried,” Bella said. “I really have—but I ache everywhere, and my hands…” She held them out, palms upward. “Are they supposed to look like that?”
“Heavens!” the girl cried. “How did that happen?”
“I was trying to wash an apron. I found a cake of soap, but the more I scrubbed, the more it hurt. Then, when I soaked my hands, it hurt even more.”
“You used the lye soap on your hands?” The girl shook her head. “That’ll burn your skin.”
“Soap doesn’t burn,” Bella said.
“Expensive soaps don’t—they’ve some at the Oak for guests who’re willing to pay for it. I could ask Uncle Ned to get you some if that’s what you’re used to.”
“I don’t know what I’m used to,” Bella said. “All I know is thathewants the house cleaned and his dinner on the table.”
“Let me help,” the girl said.
“I can’t.”
“Why not? Do you have so many friends that you’re not in need of one more?”
Friends. Do I haveanyfriends?
Bella focused her mind on the past, searching for a memory. But, other than a flash of bright silk and a blurred shape, together with a sharp voice issuing thinly veiled insults, no memories came to the fore.
“I have no friends.”
“Then,” the girl said, taking Bella’s hand gently, taking care not to touch her burning palm, “let us start as friends. I always think, once in a while, it’s good to start anew.”
“Thank you…” Bella cursed herself. What was the girl’s name?
“Sophie, Mrs. Baxter. My name’s Sophie.” The girl smiled—not a smile of mischief, or wickedness, but a genuine smile from one who offered friendship with no expectation of anything in return.
It was the kind of smile Bella had no recollection of ever receiving—or giving.
“I hope we’ll become friends, Mrs. Baxter.”
The girl—Sophie—was right. Sometimes it was best to start anew.
Bella smiled and squeezed her hand.
“So do I,” she said, “and call me Bella.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
As Lawrence trudgedalong the path, he caught sight of two flickering lights—large, rectangular, luminous eyes watching him from ahead.
The windows of Ivy Cottage, illuminated from within, as if they guided him home. The light stretched across the garden, picking out the leaves in the shrubs, and the edge of the fence he’d erected with Ned’s help.
“Papa—look!” Jonathan tugged at his sleeve. “Doesn’t it look pretty, Papa?”
“Don’t be so foolish!” Roberta said. “It’s like all houses. Somewhere we have to sleep while we’re waiting to go outside again.”
Lawrence couldn’t help smiling. Roberta was her father’s daughter, all right. Already stronger and braver than her twin, and with a keen interest in plants, she’d helped him clear the garden around Ivy Cottage. And the most intelligent of his children—if a parent was permitted to admit the superiority of one child over another. She had a bright future ahead.
