Isabel: A Regency Romance (Families of Dorset Book 2)

by Martha Keyes

  “Ma’am,” Paxton said, “Do you wish for me to see that these people—” he indicated them with a haughty flick of his head “—cease from disturbing you?”

  Mrs. Cosgrove shook her head, staring at Mrs. Robson with a stony expression. “Thank you, Paxton. I am well able to handle the situation. You may go.”

  Paxton bowed and left.

  "Mrs. Cosgrove," said the man standing next to Mrs. Robson. “You have no legal right to keep Miss Robson here when her mother wishes for her return."

  Mrs. Robson's chin came up, and she nodded soundly.

  Hetty let out a large sob.

  "Wishes her return indeed," Mrs. Cosgrove scoffed, looking down on Mrs. Robson with distaste. "More likely she wishes to profit off of her."

  "Be that as it may," the man said in a loud voice, "it is her right to demand Miss Robson's removal from this house."

  Hetty sobbed anew. "Oh, please, Mama, don't take me away from them! I can't marry him. I can't!"

  Isabel rushed over, wrapping a comforting arm around Hetty. "There, there, Hetty. We will all come about."

  "Come," Mrs. Robson said, reaching for Hetty's wrist. "You heard him."

  The man opened the front door, seeing Mrs. Robson and Hetty out before nodding and tipping his hat to Mrs. Cosgrove and Isabel.

  Isabel peered outside. There was a coach awaiting. Its door hung open, and a coachman stood at its side. A passenger was already seated inside, and he lowered his head to watch the approach of Mrs. Robson and Hetty.

  It was Mr. Farrow.

  "No!" Isabel cried out, running toward the door until realizing she was only in her dressing gown. "Hetty!"

  Hetty looked back at her as she stepped into the coach. A more beautiful but pathetic image Isabel could not have imagined. Hetty's face was tear-streaked, her expression helpless. On meeting eyes with Isabel, her chin trembled before Mrs. Robson nudged her in through the coach door.

  Isabel’s mother pulled her back from the doorway. "There is nothing we can do, Isabel. You are not even dressed, for heaven’s sake."

  They watched as the coach pulled away. Isabel dashed at a tear on her cheek. "We cannot leave her to that woman and Mr. Farrow—you saw how terrified she was. It will break her, Mama."

  The muscles in her mother's neck were taut, and she sighed through a clenched jaw as she closed the door. "I don't see what we can possibly do. You heard the solicitor."

  "Hired by Mr. Farrow to intimidate us, no doubt." Isabel's breath came out shaky. What would he do with Hetty? Was she overreacting? Was he perhaps well-meaning this time?

  Isabel’s mother laid a hand on her arm—an uncharacteristically affectionate gesture. "We did as much as we could, my dear." She patted her arm twice and then walked away.

  Isabel stood rooted to the spot. There had to be something more they could do. But what?

  She chewed her lip then rushed toward the morning room, setting a paper on the desk and dipping the quill in ink. Her hands were unsteady as she scribbled a short note then folded the paper and sealed it, rushing back out of the room. She handed the note to the footman, directing him to take it immediately to the address listed. He nodded and was on his way.

  Isabel hastened up the stairs and to her room, ringing the bell for Anaïs. She didn't wait for the maid, though, to shed her dressing gown and begin putting on clothing suitable for walking.

  Anaïs knocked lightly and opened the door. "Oui, mademoiselle?"

  "I need you to accompany me to the church." Isabel didn't look up as she put her arms through her sleeves.

  "Eh bien,” said Anaïs as she helped Isabel’s dress over her head, “Cecilia has need of me."

  "Cecilia will have to wait. We won't be gone long."

  Within minutes, Isabel was ready to go.

  The walk to the chapel was accomplished in only a few minutes. They turned into the courtyard, and Isabel looked around. The churchyard seemed deserted. She hadn't expected Charles to be there yet, and she paced back and forth as they waited, her shoes smacking the pavement rhythmically.

  Sending a note to Charles had perhaps been unwise. What could he do, after all? His hands were tied by the law just as the Cosgrove's were.

  But who else could she turn to? She couldn't allow Hetty to face whatever future her mother and Mr. Farrow had in mind without making an effort to do whatever stood in her power.

  She glanced at Anaïs, who stood watching her with a tilted head and narrowed eyes.

  "You await someone?" she said. Her eyes widened, lighting up with interest. "Un gentilhomme, peut-être? It is a—” she paused as she searched for the word "—rendez-vous clandestin?"

  Isabel stopped, looking at the maid with severity. "Absolutely not. You forget your place, Anaïs. Your presence here ensures that it is not a clandestine meeting but a perfectly respectable one."

  Anaïs lowered her head in a show of atonement for her outburst. Cecilia had been allowing her far too much license, excusing all manner of lapses due to her French upbringing.

  The sound of quick footsteps grew louder, and Isabel whipped around to see Charles entering the courtyard of the church. His eyes met hers, and he took off his hat as a few wide steps brought him in front of her.

  "What is it?" his eyes searched hers with urgency. "What has happened?"

  "They've taken Hetty," she said, feeling her voice catch as her fingers fidgeted.

  His brows drew together. “Who?” He shook his head as if to apologize and said, "Come. Sit down." He led her toward the bench Hetty had sat on when they had first discovered her, helping her onto the seat and then sitting beside her. "Tell me."

  Isabel fiddled with the strings of her shawl as she looked at him. "Hetty's mother and a solicitor came to the house, insisting that we surrender Hetty to her mother."

  Charles blew a puff of air through his lips and shook his head. "I thought it might only be a matter of time. She stands to gain too much from Hetty to let her slip through her fingers. I admit, though, that I'm surprised that she was able to persuade a solicitor to assist her, given her coarse manners."

  "That is the worst of it, Charles," Isabel said, taking her top lip between her teeth as she thought on Hetty's predicament. "I don't believe that it was Mrs. Robson's solicitor at all. Just before the coach left, I saw a man inside. He had been waiting while Mrs. Robson spoke to us."

  Charles stared at her with an arrested expression. "Farrow." It was a statement rather than a question.

  Isabel nodded, clasping her hands tightly in her lap. "Oh, Charles. If you could have seen Hetty." She swallowed as she pictured Hetty's helpless face, and she wiped a tear. "She looked at me as if I were her last hope."

  Charles gripped his lips together and put a reassuring hand over Isabel's.

  Isabel could see Anaïs in her peripheral vision. Surely Charles’s kind gesture would confirm the maid in her suspicions that this was a clandestine meeting.

  But Isabel hadn't the energy to care. What did such things matter with Hetty in such trouble?

  "Clearly Mrs. Robson and Mr. Farrow have come to some sort of agreement," Isabel said, feeling impatient and restless, "but I can't think what it would be." She looked up at him. “Do you think he plans to marry Hetty after all?”

  Charles stared at her grimly. "I have little hope of that. I have heard enough about Robert Farrow to know that he means to marry as well as he is able."

  Isabel stood up in agitation, and Charles's hand dropped onto his lap. "She's only a child, for heaven’s sake!” Isabel said. “And soon to have a child of her own." She wrung her hands, the anger inside her bringing fresh tears to her eyes. "I have such an awful presentiment." She put a hand on her stomach and then glanced at Charles.

  He was watching her pace, his jaw moving from side to side.

  "I'm sorry," she said with a helpless hand gesture. "I didn't know who else to go to."

  He stood, going over to her and taking her hands together in his.

  She lowered her h
ead, turning it to the side to hide the way her heart jumped.

  "Don't apologize." He lowered his head and leaned it forward as he tried to catch her eye. "Look at me, Isabel."

  She brought her head up, looking at him through blurry vision.

  "You need never apologize for calling on me. I wouldn't wish for you to go to anyone else." His eyes were soft and tender as he looked at her. His hand came up, and he wiped away an escaping tear with his thumb. His eyes moved down toward her lips, which parted slightly as his eyes fell upon them.

  Her heart thumped loudly. What was this? Was it part of the charade? It seemed so very unnecessary, with Miss Darling and her father nowhere in sight.

  She turned her face away and bit the inside of her lip.

  She couldn't dwell on such thoughts. She needed to focus on Hetty. Hetty needed her. She broke her hands free of his and glanced over at Anaïs, seated on a nearby bench. She looked too intent on staring at the sky to be believable. Of course she had been watching the whole interaction.

  Isabel sighed. "What can be done?"

  "I don't know,” Charles said. “I must think. Surely there is something." He stood still for a moment then put his hat back on. "I will send you word if I discover anything. May I accompany you home?"

  Isabel shook her head. The last thing she wanted was for him to spend more time with her playing the chivalry card. The sooner they parted ways, the sooner he could discover Hetty’s whereabouts. "Thank you, but there is no need. Anaïs will be with me. I think I shall speak with Mr. Safford—to let him know what has happened."

  Charles shook his head. “Until we have Hetty safe, I would rather not involve anyone else. ”

  Isabel swallowed and nodded, wishing she could tell him of her conversation with the rector. She still harbored a hope that Mr. Farrow was changing his ways—perhaps in response to Mr. Safford’s letter. Charles knew nothing of that, so it was natural that he would assume the worst.

  Isabel could only hope that Mr. Farrow had inherited even a shred of his father’s late-blooming piety.

  Charles moved as if to come toward her but stopped, and his hand dropped to his side.

  He nodded to her. "I will be in touch."

  Turning on his heel, he made his way out of the churchyard, leaving Isabel staring hollowly after him.

  17

  Charles's temper was in no happy state after a morning of attempting to find the Robson's residence. When he had finally met with success, a young and unkempt child at the door informed him that Hetty had not been home in days and days, but that she would call for her Mama to come down.

  He had sworn under his breath upon hearing about Hetty--a fact which didn’t seem to faze the child.

  He was left standing at the door until an older child appeared at the doorway and showed him into a small, overdecorated drawing room. It was as if someone had described several London drawing rooms to Mrs. Robson, and she had attempted to incorporate every piece reported to her, going for quantity over quality. An overly sweet eau de parfum masked the smell of mildew.

  Soon enough, Mrs. Robson stood before him, bringing with her more of the perfumed scent which made Charles feel lightheaded and slightly sick.

  The short and stout woman who stood before him was nothing like the picture he'd had in his mind. It was apparent, as well, that Hetty had not had her beauty from her mother. The clothing she wore was vulgarly-colorful, and it bunched awkwardly between her large bosom and round stomach.

  Mrs. Robson looked at him with narrowed eyes and heavily-pursed lips, taking in his clothing from his hat down to his polished Hessians. She seemed to like what she saw, though, and her expression morphed into one he could only describe as toadying.

  "Good morning, sir," she said. "Quite honored we are to welcome you to our humble abode.” It was obvious that she was quite proud of her drawing room. “How may I serve you today?"

  He let one of his thick eyebrows climb up and took out his quizzing glass. He took his time studying her through it, appreciating the way her eyes began to shift in discomfort, before dropping it and saying, "I am here to inquire after one of your children."

  A glimmer of hope appeared in her eyes. "I have many children, sir—three beauties for daughters." She gave him an enigmatic look as though she knew what he was looking for. Her expression shifted suddenly, though, as if she had remembered something, and she added, "Unfortunately, one is away, but the other two are just as pleasing."

  His lip turned up into a sneer. What had she done with Hetty, then? "I have the pleasure of being acquainted already with one—now two—of your daughters. May I suggest that you consider bathing your children before trumpeting the superiority of their physical appearances, ma'am? That is your affair, though. I am here for Hetty."

  She wrung her hands. "I hesitate to inform you that my Hetty is away."

  "Where?"

  Mrs. Robson seemed to sense that Charles posed a threat to her. Her hands went still, and she straightened her shoulders and neck, trying to look at him down her nose despite being a full foot shorter. "I'm sure that's no business of yours, sir."

  His half-smile appeared. "And yet I have made it my business. You will tell me where Hetty is, or I shall have to employ the Bow Street Runners to discover her whereabouts for me."

  The whites of her eyes grew, her fists clenched and unclenched, and her breath came shallow and quick.

  Charles raised his brows, shrugged his shoulders, and said, "Have it your way. You may expect a call by the end of the week." He turned on his heel and made for the door.

  "Stop!"

  He smiled at the door then recomposed his face into one of stony disinterest as he turned around again. "What is it?"

  "Marshalsea." The word was mumbled.

  "What?" Charles's voice was dangerously soft, his jaw hard.

  "Hetty. She's at Marshalsea.” Mrs. Robson didn't meet his eyes. She looked fixedly at her own twiddling fingers. “In Southwark."

  "I know where Marshalsea is.” His voice was dangerously quiet. “Why is your daughter in debtor's prison?"

  Mrs. Robson quaked but said nothing.

  Charles swung around and jogged out of the room and through the front door. He had walked to the Robsons, but he couldn't walk to Southwark. He hailed the first hack available and directed the driver to take him to Marshalsea.

  His jaw tightened. It had taken every ounce of self-control not to shake the woman in her own house. He realized that his acute anger covered something deeper: fear. Marshalsea was no place for a young woman like Hetty. His only consolation was that she could not have been there even a full twenty-four hours yet.

  The hackney let him down in front of the prison, and Charles's nose wrinkled at an overpowering smell of sewage. After explaining to the turnkey at the door that he was there to see a prisoner, he entered into the courtyard and was directed that he would find the women housed above the tap room.

  His brow was black and murderous by the time he reached the rooms where he might find Hetty. The sound of raucous laughter in the tavern below only added to his rage. To think of an innocent like her exposed to the sights, smells, and sounds of Marshalsea...it was unthinkable. He shuddered to think what Isabel would feel if she were witnessing it.

  He knocked on two doors before a woman was able to direct him to the room Hetty was boarding in. He stood before the door she indicated and let out a deep breath, trying to relax his facial muscles. Hetty would likely be terrified already from her experience—she didn't need to see Charles in anger.

  A tall woman with disheveled, mousy brown hair, filthy clothes, and hollow eyes opened the door to his knock.

  "I'm looking for Hetty Robson, please," he said softly.

  The woman said nothing, only opening the door wider and pointing to the corner of the small room.

  Hetty sat on top of a small bed, huddled in the corner with her arms wrapped around her legs and her head resting on her knees. Two more women sat on the only other bed
in the room, watching Charles with disinterest.

  The dirt on the timbered floor muffled his steps as he walked over to Hetty.

  “Hetty.” He said her name gently.

  Slowly her head came up. Her face was dirty and tear-trailed, though the tear tracks had dried. It took a moment before she seemed to register who was addressing her.

  "Mr. Galbraith?" Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat.

  Charles thought he would never forget the pitiful image before him. It was no wonder Isabel had been so affected at Hetty's sudden departure from the Cosgrove house if she witnessed the same hopeless look staring at him from the girl's eyes.

  "What are you doing here?" she said.

  "I've come to take you away from this place." He extended his hand to her, but she didn't move. "Hetty? Did you hear me? I'm taking you away from here." He beckoned again.

  "You can't take me," she said, not even looking at him. A single tear dropped down her cheek, darkening the dirt as it trailed down. "I can't pay my debt."

  Charles dropped his hand. "What debt?"

  "The one they imprisoned me for."

  Charles sat down on the edge of the bed. "What happened? How did you come to be here?"

  More tears began to flow, but Hetty's voice remained level, and she stared at the wall. "Mama and Mr. Farrow brought me. He promised he would use his influence in society on Mama’s behalf if she would claim I had stolen from them. And then he gave her thirty pounds with a promise of more for later if she kept quiet."

  Charles's hands clenched. "And what of a trial?"

  Hetty's head shook slowly from side to side. "Mr. Farrow paid the man to ignore the lack of a trial. He said my name needn't even be recorded."

  Charles inhaled deeply, but his heart pounded, and he could feel the veins in his neck standing out as the blood pulsed through. "Come." He stood, taking her by the hand and pulling her toward the edge of the bed gently but firmly. "We are leaving."

  Hetty didn't resist, but nor did she seem to believe him, based on her lack of energy. Her eyes still had the same defeated look.