By the end of April, the lanes around Broken Oaks had turned to mud, the hawthorns bloomed hesitantly, and rumours from London began to seep into Hertfordshire like damp.
They came by post, by coach, by the lips of visitors who had cousins in town and could not resist the thrill of passing on morsels.
“Lady Corbyn is to attend the opera again.”
“She keeps a small, scandalous salon of poets and painters, they say.”
“She is talked of, certainly. Whether as object of admiration or warning depends on who speaks.”
Richard did not seek such reports out. He did not read the gossip columns, did not subscribe to the *Morning Post* any longer. Yet the words found him anyway, carried by neighbours over coffee, by the rector with a grimace, by Pritchard with careful omission in her voice.
Martha heard them too. In the village, as she walked with the girls to the milliner’s to buy new ribbon for Agnes, she caught snatches of conversation.
“—ran off, you know. With that Ashcombe. Left the girls—”
“—hear she has a portrait half-finished by that Italian fellow. Scandalous, they say.”
“—said she might come back this Season. Or send for them.”
*Send for them.*
The phrase lodged like a burr under Martha’s skin.
“Miss Harrow?” Agnes tugged at her hand. “May we have blue? For the ribbon? Or green?”
“Blue,” Mabel declared. “Green is for hedgerows.”
“Blue,” Martha said absently.
She caught herself, forced her attention down to the eager faces.
“Blue would flatter you,” she said to Agnes. “But green would show less ink.”
Agnes giggled.
Behind them, Miriam walked in silence, hands in her cloak pockets, eyes hard.
“Do not listen,” Martha murmured later, when the milliner had retreated to fetch hatboxes and the girls were distracted by feathers.
“To gossip?” Miriam asked.
“To foolish speculation,” Martha said. “They do not know the whole story. They only enjoy the sound of their own tongues.”
Miriam’s jaw clenched.
“They say she might… send for us,” she said. “Would you let them?”
Martha blinked.
“I?” she said. “It is not my decision.”
“It ought to be,” Miriam muttered. “You have more sense than either of them.”
“Than your parents,” Martha said lightly. “High praise.”
“True praise,” Miriam said.
Martha sobered.
“Your father,” she said, “would never send you anywhere he thought you would be… unsafe.”
“You do not say ‘unhappy,’” Miriam observed.
“No,” Martha said. “Because unhappiness can be… instructive. In small doses.”
“You speak like Aristotle,” Miriam grumbled.
“I would prefer to sound like his better-natured cousin,” Martha replied. “Be that as it may, your father is… learning. To place your well-being above his pride. I do not think he will reverse course now.”
“But if she *demands*,” Miriam pressed. “If she uses some law. Or fashion. Or… scandal. Can he refuse?”
Martha’s stomach tightened.
“Demand is not always attended by right,” she said carefully. “The law, as it stands, gives fathers… more claim. Married mothers have very few…”
She trailed off. Agnes was listening too now, expression anxious.
“We are not parcels,” Agnes whispered. “To be sent for and sent back.”
“No,” Martha said fiercely. “You are not.”
She thought of letters unread, of Ashcombe’s lazy mention of Elizabeth’s inquiry. Of the solicitor’s careful, neutral phrases.
She would have to speak to Richard.
Again.
***
That evening, after lessons and supper and the usual small battle over whether Mabel would wash her face properly (“The dirt protects me”), Martha found him in the study off the library.
He sat at his desk, papers spread before him. The lamplight highlighted the lines from nose to mouth, the faint hollow beneath his cheekbones. He looked, she thought, as if Ashcombe’s visit had sanded another thin layer off him.
“Miss Harrow,” he said, as she closed the door. “I was just about to come and find you.”
“Oh?” she asked. “Has Mabel set another curtain alight?”
“Not yet,” he said. “I expect that joy tomorrow.” He gestured to a letter on the desk. “This arrived. From my solicitor.”
Her pulse leapt.
“Elizabeth,” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
He held the letter out.
She hesitated.
“You wish me to—”
“Yes,” he said. “Read. And then tell me whether I am mad.”
She took the letter.
The paper was thick, the hand precise—the solicitor’s, not Elizabeth’s.
> My lord, > > I write further to our previous correspondence regarding the Marchioness of Corbyn. Her ladyship has made informal inquiries as to the welfare of your daughters, and—more pertinently—has expressed a desire that the eldest, Lady Miriam, might be presented in London when she comes of age. > > There has been, as yet, no formal petition to the ecclesiastical courts or to Parliament. However, I judge it prudent to apprise you of this development. > > Lady Corbyn’s position is tenuous in society. There is talk, as you no doubt have heard, of her salons and associations. Nonetheless, she remains, in law, your wife and the mother of your children. Should she choose to assert her maternal interest more publicly, it could prove troublesome, both socially and legally. > > I urge you to consider your intentions regarding your own re-entry into public life. Continued absence from London will, over time, weaken your standing and strengthen hers, at least in the eyes of those disposed to romanticize her choices. > > I remain, etc. > > F. Willoughby
Martha read it twice.
“She wants… Miriam,” she said quietly.
“In theory,” Richard said. “At some hazy future date. When Miriam is ‘of age.’”
“And your solicitor,” she said, “suggests that if you continue to hide in Hertfordshire, you will hand her the narrative.”
“Yes,” he said. “Hand. Gift-wrap. Provide a bow.”
Martha set the letter down carefully.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“I think,” he said, “that I have spent five years avoiding London for the sake of my daughters, and now I am being told that that very absence may give their mother more claim to them.” He laughed, without humour. “I think the universe has an odd sense of symmetry.”
“That is… one way to see it,” Martha said.
He looked up, eyes flaring.
“You see another,” he said.
“Yes,” she admitted.
“Well?” he demanded. “Do not spare me.”
She took a breath.
“I see,” she said slowly, “a man who has allowed one woman’s betrayal to dictate his every movement. Who has given her more power in absence than she had in presence.”
He flinched.
“You think I have… surrendered,” he said.
“I think,” she replied, “you have mistaken avoidance for protection. You did not go to London because it hurt. You told yourself it was for them. And perhaps, at first, it was. But now—” She nodded at the letter. “Now, your absence is becoming a story others tell. Of the tragic marquess pining in the country, of the wild marchioness flouting convention. You have given her the stage.”
“And your solution,” he said, bitter, “is to go to town, take a box at the opera opposite hers, and glare at her through my quizzing glass?”
“My solution,” she said, “is for you to reclaim your life. Not for her sake. For yours. For theirs. For… mine, perhaps, a little.”
He blinked. “Yours?”
“I will not,” she said bluntly, “see these girls’ futures determined by a woman who abandoned them and a man who hides. If that means enduring London for a Season, so be it.”
He stared.
“You would come,” he said slowly.
“Yes,” she said, as if it were obvious.
“As governess,” he said. “In London. In the whirl of it. Among… Ashcombe and his ilk.”
“Yes,” she repeated. “With them. With you. I would not send them into that den with no one to hiss at wolves.”
His lips twitched, involuntary.
“You hissed today,” he said. “At rumours in the village.”
“I hiss at gossip wherever it lifts its head,” she said. “It is a hobby.”
He laughed, more freely now.
“So,” he said. “Your advice, Miss Harrow, is that I… gird my loins, put on a tolerable coat, and go up to town. Parade my daughters. Endure snubs. Bear stares. Pretend I do not wish to throttle anyone who mentions Elizabeth’s name.”
“Yes,” she said. “With some modifications.”
“Modifications?” he echoed.
“You will not ‘parade’ your daughters,” she said. “You will present them. There is a difference. You will not endure snubs; you will ignore them. You will not pretend anything you do not wish to. You will, however, stand where they can see you. So that when tongues wag, they have your face as well as her name.”
He exhaled.
“You make it sound… manageable,” he said.
“I make no claims about manageability,” she replied. “I merely point out that staying here will not prevent talk. It will only… silence your side of it.”
He lifted the letter again, stared at it as if hoping it might evaporate.
“London,” he said. “Season. Balls. Cards. Ashcombe. Elizabeth.”
“And theatres,” she added deliberately. “Bookshops. Debates. Museums. Parks. People who have never set foot in Hertfordshire.”
“You tempt me,” he said, surprised.
“It tempts you,” she corrected. “You have been burying that temptation under duty and resentment. It wriggles.”
He gave a short, startled bark of laughter.
“You sound,” he said, “like my mother. She always said my sulks were only inverted wishes.”
“You have your mother’s brow,” she said. “And, I suspect, her capacity to be better than you think.”
He sobered.
“What of you?” he asked quietly. “London is… not kind to women in your position. Or any position. Governesses are invisible until they are scandalous.”
“I am accustomed to invisibility,” she said. “And to scandal. I grew up in a vicarage. Nothing shocks me now.”
“That,” he said, “is a lie.”
She smiled faintly. “Perhaps. A small one.”
He leaned back in his chair.
“If I agree,” he said slowly. “If I decide to… go. It will not be this Season. It is too late. Miriam is too young. Agnes still recovering. Your mother ill. Next year, perhaps.”
“Yes,” she said. “We have time. For nerve. For gowns. For… negotiation.”
He frowned. “Negotiation?”
“With the girls,” she said. “About London. About their expectations. And with yourself. About what you will and will not do there.”
“Such as?” he asked.
“You will not,” she said promptly, “stay in your club and leave me to shepherd them alone through drawing rooms filled with your enemies.”
“I thought that was included in your fee,” he said.
“Not even for double,” she replied.
He smiled.
“Very well,” he said. “We will… consider it. Together. Over the next months.”
“Yes,” she said. “Together.”
The word hung a moment too long.
He cleared his throat.
“In the meantime,” he said gruffly, “we must survive one more Hertfordshire summer without Mabel setting fire to anything important.”
“I shall add it to the curriculum,” she said solemnly. “‘Conflagration: Avoidance and Etiquette.’”
He laughed again, low.
“Go,” he said, after a moment. “Before I thank you too effusively and you scold me for sentiment.”
“You may thank me,” she said. “If you accompany it with an increase in my wages.”
“I thought you were above such mercenary concerns,” he teased.
“I am not above anything,” she said. “I am only taller than the children.”
He shook his head, amused.
When she left, the letter lay on the desk, no less troubling than before. But next to it, in his mind, now sat an image: London not as an enemy, but as a field. Not empty. Bristling. But one on which he might, with help, do more than merely survive.
***
Two days later, Mrs. Harrow took a turn for the worse.
It began with a chill. Nothing unusual; the house, for all its repairs, still had drafts with minds of their own. Then the chill sank, lodged behind her breastbone, emerged as a cough deeper and wetter than before.
“I am tired,” she admitted, one afternoon, when Martha insisted she lie down instead of joining them for tea. “Bone-tired. As if Aesop’s entire menagerie were sitting on my chest.”
“That is an alarming image,” Martha said, masking her fear with tartness. “I will fetch the doctor.”
“No,” her mother said sharply. Then, more softly, “Not yet. He will only bleed me or pour some foul concoction down my throat and call it salvation.”
“He is not as barbaric as that,” Martha protested. “He merely… leeches occasionally.”
Her mother snorted.
“Leeches,” she said. “Creatures who suck others dry under pretence of remedy. I have had my fill of them. No. We will wait. Broth. Fire. Your company. That is all I require.”
“You require… air,” Martha said. “And lungs. And years.”
“And you require,” her mother replied, “to stop pretending you can order time about like a maid.”
Martha pressed her lips together.
She compromised by sending for the doctor that evening anyway.
He came, puffing, hat in hand, spectacles askew.
“She must rest,” he pronounced. “No exertion. No excitement. Keep her warm. I will send a draught.”
“Of what?” Martha asked.
He coughed. “Vitriol. Laudanum. A little syrup. It will ease the cough.”
“It will drug her,” Martha said bluntly.
“It will ease the cough,” he repeated, offended.
She accepted, because she had no alternative, then gave her mother half the prescribed dose.
If Mrs. Harrow noticed, she did not say.
One night, as Martha sat by the bed, her mother stirred.
“You must… think,” she said, voice papery.
“About what?” Martha asked.
“After,” her mother said.
Cold shot through Martha.
“Do not,” she whispered. “Do not speak as if—”
“We do not have the luxury,” her mother said, more sharply than she had in weeks. “I will not leave you without at least some plan. I know you. You will care for them”—she flicked her fingers weakly toward the ceiling, where the nursery lay—“and forget to care for yourself until you are forty and stiff.”
“I am already stiff,” Martha said desperately. “It is the stairs.”
“Martha,” her mother said.
She swallowed.
“What plan?” she asked, low.
“You must,” her mother said, “consider… marrying again.”
Martha blinked.
“Again?” she repeated faintly. “I have not married once.”
“In your heart,” her mother said. “You have. To—” She broke off, coughed. “—to duty. To these children. To your stubbornness. I would have you… freer.”
“I do not see,” Martha said slowly, “how marriage to some random curate would increase my freedom.”
“I did not say curate,” her mother replied.
Martha’s heart thumped.
“No,” she said. “You did not.”
Her mother’s gaze was very clear.
“He cares for you,” she said simply.
“Mama,” Martha whispered. “We are not… we cannot…”
“I know,” her mother said. “Now. Perhaps always. Perhaps never. But if—if—things change. If there comes a moment when he is free, and you are—” She swallowed. “—not bound here, and he asks, and you wish… do not refuse out of some misguided sense of self-sacrifice.”
Martha stared at her.
“I would refuse,” she said thickly, “because of *them*. Because I would not be the woman who steps into their mother’s place.”
“You could never be,” her mother said. “You are not frivolous enough. You are… too real. They know the difference.”
“That does not—” Martha began.
“No,” her mother cut in. “Listen to me. I will not be here to say it later. You deserve… kindness. Partnership. Love that does not flee when the roof leaks. If you find it, in whatever form, you have my blessing. Even if it comes draped in a title.”
Tears blurred Martha’s vision.
“I cannot,” she choked. “I do not… know how.”
“You learn,” her mother murmured. “As you learned to teach. To argue. To scold. You are not… finished, Martha. Do not let my ending trick you into thinking yours is sealed.”
She coughed again, a harsh, wrenching sound.
Martha reached for the cup, for the cloth, for anything to anchor herself.
“You will not end,” she said fiercely. “Not yet. Not for years.”
Her mother smiled faintly.
“You always were… an optimist,” she whispered. “Stubbornly.”
“I am a realist,” Martha retorted, tears spilling now. “I refuse reality.”
“That,” her mother said dryly, “is precisely what I meant.”
She drifted into a doze, leaving Martha sitting in the half-dark, her mother’s words echoing.
*If there comes a moment when he is free… do not refuse out of some misguided sense of self-sacrifice.*
She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes.
“I am not… noble,” she muttered. “I am terrified.”
In the corridor outside, Richard paused, hearing the muffled sounds of grief behind the blue door. His hand lifted, then fell.
He went to the library instead and pulled down Plato, as if reason could substitute for comfort.
It could not.
But it filled the hours until morning.
***