in sticky, wet patches and whenever she moved she was overwhelmed by an aroma that reminded her of a wet forest floor and overripe vegetables.
Her stomach roiled and she struggled not to heave.
‘It is a bit messy.’ Henrietta wrinkled her nose. ‘But if we hurry home, I’m sure that not many people will see you.’
A sudden gust of wind blew cold against her wet dress and Isabella shivered. She realised that she really had no choice: the damage was done and there was nothing that she could do about it. She would have to walk back to their lodgings and endure further public humiliation.
It was past five o’clock and the park was teeming with le bon ton. How on this earth would she escape being noticed? She was about to endure yet another public humiliation caused by yet another gentleman ‒ though this was not such an emotional one, it was true. She made every effort possible to avoid England’s male population, but it seemed that no matter what she did, trouble would find her out and make her the source of other people’s amusement.
‘Come along then, Henrietta. We had better make our way home or Lady Watson will be worried.’
Her blonde companion gingerly took her arm and walked alongside her, imitating her rigid posture, and they made their way out of the park, feigning indifference to the stares, pointing and mocking laughter that followed them.
* * * *
The cool, dark hallway of Lady Watson’s London house was a positive sanctuary for Isabella as the heavy door clicked solidly shut behind them. The walk from the park to Berkeley Square had taken less than ten minutes but it had been the longest walk of her life. She was accustomed to being laughed at, pointed at and whispered about, but to be covered in horse manure whilst receiving such unwelcome attention was a humiliation beyond endurance.
‘Here, Isabella, let me take your parasol and instruct the maid to run you a bath.’ Henrietta’s kindness caused tears to spring into Isabella’s eyes.
‘Yes, thank you, Henrietta, that is very kind.’
As Henrietta went off in search of the maid, Isabella suddenly became properly aware of the butler.
‘Excuse me, Miss Adams.’
‘Yes, Henry?’ Isabella winced at the overpowering animal smell that was emanating from her dress and filling the confined space of the entrance hall like a thick, choking fog. If Henry was also aware of it, he showed no sign. His pallid face was inscrutable, as always.
‘Lady Watson has been asking for you.’
‘Please tell her that I shall join her once I have freshened up. I cannot possibly see her like this. Thank you, Henry.’
The tall man bowed, then left.
‘Alone at last,’ she thought and turned to the large gold-framed mirror that adorned the hallway. She was alarmed at how the woman looking back at her slouched as if carrying a heavy burden. She straightened her back and lifted her chin but her body immediately reverted to its original position as if tied to a spring.
She placed the palms of her hands on the cold, unyielding glass and sighed. Her skin was dull and there were dark shadows beneath her eyes. Her once-white dress was wrinkled and stained, giving her the appearance of a woman of the lower classes. And in the shadow of her bonnet, her thin face appeared much older than its actual twenty-three years.
Yet despite these visible markers – evidence of the hardships of recent years ‒ there was something different there, something that she had not seen in some time. The inner circles of her hazel eyes appeared lit up, like she was illuminated from within. Her encounter with the horse-riding gentleman had clearly sparked something within her. She wanted to believe that it was her indignation at his behaviour, her fury at his carelessness which could have led to her being seriously injured or worse.
But deep down, in a secret part of herself that she hid always from the world, she suspected that it might be due to something else and that concerned her, as she had sworn never to allow another man to cast a shadow over her life again.
‘I do love Wednesday evenings at Almack’s,’ Lady Watson giggled, stepping over the threshold of the exclusive club. She appeared almost ethereal this evening with her translucent skin and her shock of white hair elaborately pinned and decorated with diamonds.
At seventy-nine, Lady Watson displayed an energy and zest for life that Isabella admired. The ageing lady was keen to squeeze every last drop of excitement into her days whilst she was able. Some might say that the yellow shade of her gown did little for Lady Watson’s complexion, but she was unperturbed by the opinions of others ‒ which was just as well, Isabella thought, or she would not be in the position of companion to the elderly lady.
‘Come here, dear.’ Lady Watson grasped for Isabella’s arm with fingers like gnarled twigs. Though old and appearing frail, she had a surprisingly strong grip and her fingers pinched a little, conveying her excitement. ‘And how are you feeling this evening?’ The lady’s breath was fragranced with the violet and liquorice of her cachou lozenges.
‘Why I am well, Lady Watson.’ Isabella met the inquisitive grey eyes. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I heard something of your afternoon’s adventure, dear.’ Lady Watson chuckled. ‘Some awful, boorish man lost control of his horse and nearly ran you over. Is that right?’
Isabella blushed and tried to look away, but Lady Watson reached up to firmly take her chin between thumb and forefinger.
‘How did you hear about it, Lady Watson?’
‘Why, from the lovely Miss Pembrey, dear. How else?’
Isabella shook her head as it filled with thoughts of exactly what she’d say to little Henrietta when she saw her next.
‘Now, now, Isabella, it wasn’t like that. Henrietta is a sweet girl and meant no harm. She was just concerned for your welfare. She has your best interests at heart and she is a sensitive little thing. Why, she was so upset by the incident that it gave her a headache, leaving her confined to her bedchamber this evening.’
Lady Watson gave Isabella’s chin a gentle squeeze, then took her hand, placing it in the crook of her arm where it rested upon the fine silk of her glove and the equally soft, loose freckled skin.
Isabella walked slowly along the hallway with the sprightly lady and mulled over Lady Watson’s comments about Henrietta. It seemed that Lady Watson had taken it upon herself to actively seek out young ladies in distress in order to offer them the security and protection of her age, experience and class. She had come to Isabella’s aid when she was at her lowest point and more recently she had swept up little Henrietta and her set of problems.
Lady Watson patted Isabella’s arm, returning her to the moment.
‘Come, dear, let us enjoy the evening ahead. You do look quite delightful this evening, you know.’
Isabella smiled at the compliment. She had to admit that she did feel good in the dusky-pink taffeta-silk gown. The low neckline with its pink rosebud trim accentuated her pert, round bosoms and the long skirt fell like a shimmering silk waterfall.
‘And, dear,’ Lady Watson continued, ‘I do love what Georgina did with your hair.’
‘She is most talented.’ Isabella smiled and tucked her fan beneath her arm, then moved her free hand to her hair, where she twirled a finger in a ringlet at the nape of her neck. Her chestnut curls were pinned loosely so that a few tendrils hung prettily down and her maid had styled tiny ringlets at the front so that they framed her face.
They approached the grand stone staircase. Although she had attended Almack’s Assembly Rooms several times since her appointment as Lady Watson’s companion, its splendour never ceased to amaze her. Perhaps this was heightened by her vulnerability, as she knew how strict the club’s patronesses