Page 21 of No Lady for the Lord

Today, the salon’s tall windows stood wide open, letting in the fresh spring air.

It was still quite chilly outside. However, last week, the rain had, at last, ceased soaking the earth, and the ground had finally dried out. The verdant tips of a few intrepid daffodils bravely peeked above the rich, dark soil visible just beyond the open windows.

The world went on as if nothing had changed.

Everything had changed.

Since she’d posted her letter to Ronan Brockman, almost another fortnight had passed without a word from him or Mr. Bralen.

Inconsiderate blackguards.

With each passing day, Mercy’s apprehension, and yes, her anger and frustration, grew.

Three more servants had left after finding new positions. Only Mrs. Stanley, the aging cook, and Norman, the gardener and sometimes stable hand, had remained. Both were too advanced in years to contemplate willingly leaving or easily finding new employment.

Honestly, Mercy wasn’t surprised at the other domestics’ departures. Her funds were depleted—gone, in truth—and the mysterious guardian remained ominously and conspicuously absent.

She pointed her gaze to the floor for a few heartbeats, willing the surge of unease billowing in her middle to abate. The truth of it was that she’d exhausted her savings—her only protection and buffer against an inhospitable future.

Could she even acquire a new position without a letter of reference?

Regardless, she didn’t—couldn’t—regret her impoverishment or the cause thereof. Nevertheless, that didn’t lessen the trepidation that had become a constant, lurking companion. As unwelcome as mildew and equally as challenging to be rid of.

Though Mercy had economized in every conceivable way, the funds had dwindled from a windmill to a nutshell in short order. A governess’s wages were never meant to sustain a household or stables the size of Masterson’s.

How could she have done otherwise though?

Her very first memories at Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women included gentle admonitions about sharing and selflessness—charity and assisting those in need. And for certain, Arabelle and Bellamy were in need, even if they were blissfully unaware of that nasty fact.

Last night, as Mercy had lain awake in her bed again—a much too common occurrence since the lieutenant’s death—she’d made a bold, perhaps not entirely wise or logical decision.

Keep on being courageous and strong.

Be courageous and He will strengthen your heart.

Shoulders squared, she gave a small, determined nod.

She would take Arabelle and Bellamy to London. To that prestigious Grosvenor Square address she’d found listed for Mr. Negligent, Self-Centered, Uncaring, Beastly Lord Ronan Brockman. She knew only the poshest, wealthiest members of le beau monde resided in Mayfair.

Arabelle and Bellamy would not go hungry under her watch, by George.

Besides, Mercy saw no other alternatives.

Unless…

She eyed the vases on the rosewood tables and then the gewgaws situated around the room on various shelves and surfaces.

Did she dare sell any of them?

Or the four horses and two ponies in the stables?

Would it constitute theft if she did—even if it was to purchase necessities for the girls?

Mercy Augusta Judith Shepard Feathers, stealing is a sin.

Yes. Yes, of course, it was. Mercy’s conscience upbraided her for even considering such a deplorable thing for an instant.

Arabelle and Bellamy owned everything now. Children were hardly capable of giving their governess permission to sell their possessions so they might have food on the table. The dears had no idea how very dire their circumstances were.