Mrs Mitchell had shrieked. ‘Whatever can you mean, Mr Mitchell?’
‘What I have just said,’ he had roared. ‘Lord Sylvester has cried off. Failed to fire his pistol, or fired it in the air, call it what you will. Come, Susanna and Mrs Mitchell, we must return home before we become more of a laughingstock than we already are.’
Numbly Susanna had obeyed him. Noisily, Mrs Mitchell had done the same, abusing her daughter whose fault she claimed it to be.
Susanna scarcely heard her. Until an hour ago she had been secure in the knowledge that a handsome young man with a title and a moderate fortune, with whom she had just enjoyed several happy summer months, was going to be her husband. She had to confess that she did not love him madly, but then, who did love their husbands madly—other than the heroines of Minerva Press novels?
Nor did she think that he had loved her madly. Nevertheless, they had dealt well together, although their interests differed greatly. Francis Sylvester’s life had revolved around Jackson’s Boxing Salon and various racecourses in the day, and the more swell of London’s gaming hells, where he was a moderate gambler, at night. Susanna’s time, on the other hand, was spent reading, playing the piano, and painting—she was quite a considerable artist. These differences had not troubled either of them for they were commonplace in the marriages of the ton.
This being so, she could not imagine why he had behaved in such a heartless fashion. He had had ample time to cry off during the months of their betrothal when to have done so would not have ruined her as completely as his leaving her at the altar would do.
For Susanna knew full well that what her mother had said was true: to be jilted in such a fashion meant social ruin. Was it her looks? She knew that they were not remarkable—other than her deep grey-blue eyes, that was, on which Francis had frequently complimented her. Her hair was an almost chestnut, her face an almost-perfect oval. Her nose and mouth, whilst not exactly distinguished, were not undistinguished, either.
Her height was neither short nor tall, but somewhere in between. Her carriage had often been called graceful. Susanna, however, knew full well that she was not a raving beauty in the fashionable style which her two half-sisters promised to be. Both of them were blonde, blue-eyed and slightly plump: ‘my two cherubs,’ her stepfather called them.
Nor was her fortune remarkable. Like herself, it might be described as comfortable, her father having died suddenly before he had been able to make it greater. Her stepfather, having daughters of his own to care for—and still hoping for a son—had not considered it his duty to enlarge it.
She straightened herself and held her head as high as she could. There was no use in repining. What was done, was done.
‘I am going to my room,’ she said. ‘Send Mary to me, Mother. I wish to change out of these clothes. They have become hateful to me.’
Even as she spoke, she saw by the expressions on her mother’s and stepfather’s faces that she had become hateful to them: a symbol of their disappointment. Not only had they lost an aristocratic son-in-law, but they were saddled with a daughter who had become unmarriageable.
As her mother said mournfully as soon as she was out of the room, ‘No one will marry her now, Mr Mitchell. Whatever is to become of her?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Do not distress yourself further, my dear. Leave everything to me. I shall make suitable arrangements for her. We cannot have Charlotte and Caroline’s reputations muddied by her continued presence. I have great plans for them, as you know.’
His busy, cunning brain had been working out how to deal with this contretemps ever since he had read Francis Sylvester’s letter.
‘Now follow Miss Beverly’s example, my dear, and change out of your unsuitable bridal finery. Let us put this behind us. I shall speak to her in the morning.’
His tone was so firm that his wife immediately ceased her repining. Although he was usually indulgent towards her and all her three daughters, he invariably spoke to them as though they were recalcitrant clerks when he wished to make it plain that they must obey him immediately.
It was thus he addressed Susanna on the following morning when she arrived in his study in response to his request made over breakfast.
‘It is necessary, Miss Beverly, that we discuss your unfortunate situation immediately. It brooks of no delay. I shall expect to see you in my room at eleven of the clock precisely.’
He had never called her Miss Beverly before. Indeed, in the past few months his manner to her had been particularly affectionate, but there was nothing left of that when he spoke to her then, or later on, when she arrived to find him seated at his desk writing furiously.
Nor did he stand up when she entered, nor cease to write, until he flung his pen down and said, ‘This is a sad business, my dear. I was depending on this marriage to see you settled. I was prepared to find the money for your dowry, seeing that the match was such a splendid one, but, alas, now that your reputation has gone and you are unlikely to marry, such charity on my part is out of the question.’
Susanna listened to him in some bewilderment. She had always been under the impression that her father had left a large sum of money in a Trust for her which should have made it unnecessary for her stepfather to extend her any charity at all in the matter of a dowry.
And so she told him.
He smiled pityingly at her. ‘Dear child, that was a kind fib I told you and your mother. Your father left little—he made many unfortunate investments before his untimely death. The Trust was consequently worthless. I was willing to keep you and even give you the dowry your father would have left you when I hoped that you would make a good marriage—as you so nearly did.
‘But, alas, now that your reputation is blown—through no fault of yours, I freely allow—there is no point in me continuing this useful fiction. I have the unhappy task of informing you that, whilst I will assist you towards establishing yourself in a new life, I cannot afford to continue to provide you with either a large income or a dowry.’
Susanna was not to know that there was not a word of truth in what her stepfather was saying. It was he who had made the unfortunate investments, not her father. He had been stealing from the Trust to help to keep himself afloat ever since he had married Susanna’s mother and he now saw a splendid opportunity to annex the whole of it to himself.
His wife would suspect nothing, for her way of life would continue unchanged: Susanna would be the only sufferer.
‘I shall,’ he continued, ‘settle a small annual income on you, for I would not have my wife’s daughter left in penury. Indeed, no. What I have also done is write a letter to an elderly friend of mine, a Miss Stanton, who lives in Yorkshire. She has asked me to find her a companion and I shall have no hesitation in recommending you to her. She will give you a comfortable home in exchange for a few, easily performed, duties. You may even be fortunate enough to meet someone who, not knowing of your sad history, will offer for you.’
He smiled at her, saying in the kindest voice he could assume, ‘You see, my dear, I continue to have your best interests at heart.’
Susanna sat in stunned silence, her heart beating rapidly. ‘I had no notion,’ she began. ‘Had I been aware of my true position, I would have thanked you before now—as it is…’
Samuel Mitchell raised a proprietorial—and hypocritical—finger. ‘Think nothing of it, my dear. I was but doing my duty. I shall send off the letter immediately, but have no fear, I am sure that Miss Stanton will be only too happy to employ you. Until then, continue to enjoy your position in my home as one of my daughters.’
Susanna nodded her head numbly. She felt deprived of the power of speech. The day before yesterday, she had been the only child and heiress of a reasonably rich merchant of good family. Yesterday, she had been about to become Lady Sylvester. Today, she had been informed that she was a poverty-stricken orphan who was to be sent away to be an elderly lady’s companion—with all that that entailed. Running errands, walking the pug: someone who was