“Well, Miss Abernathy.” His lips curved in a half-smile. “It’s a true delight to have you here.”
Chapter Ten
Midday, 14th December
Ursula rolledup her clothes and shoved them back into her luggage. Her mind was made up. She wouldn’t stay another moment.
She’d had to sit there, listening to Lady Dunrannoch detail her duties, while Rye—or Lord Balmore as she was now supposed to address him—gave her that brash smile, his eyes crinkling up, no doubt having a good laugh at her expense.
The story he’d told her in the bothy hadn’t exactly been untrue of course, but he’d omitted all the salient details—and he’d let her ramble on, digging herself into an embarrassing hole.
The situation was insufferable.
She needed only to return to the platform and wave down the next train to pass through, reverting to her original plan of visiting Daphne. There must be several through the day, surely?
With a sigh, she sat on the edge of the bed. Impulsiveness had gotten her into this mess; perhaps it would be wise to wait until the next morning—at least she knew the time the early train crossed the moor, and the light seemed to be fading already, despite it being only midday.
Ursula passed her hand over her forehead. She hadn’t intended for everything to become so complicated. Most certainly, it would have been better if she’d never met Miss Abernathy.
One thing was for sure; she had no intention of carrying her bag again. She’d give it to Mrs. Douglas and leave her to distribute the contents.
It was the sensible thing to do but the thought of it made Ursula feel callous. Miss Abernathy had been kind, truly. Pulling the bag onto the bed, Ursula unsnapped the clasp. Perhaps she’d keep something as a token. Her hand fell on the flask that had contained the brandy and she took a sniff.
Had it only been last night? She’d enjoyed hearing his stories, then sitting in companionable silence, watching the flickering of the fire. Later, the comfort of him curled to her back, his arm across her chest.
She threw the empty flask back into the bag.
It didn’t change anything.
He was still insufferable.
And then, there it was again—the book:The Lady’s Guide to All Things Useful. The flyleaf bore an inscription:To my darling Urania, from your ever-loving sister, Violet — December 25th, 1855.
The sister on the Dorset coast.
Would they have managed to contact her yet? To let her know that Urania had passed away? Probably not. They’d have been able to identify Miss Abernathy from the booking name on her overnight compartment but there mightn’t be anything else among her possessions to even indicate she had a sister.
As it was, there was no address book in Urania’s handbag. No doubt, she knew any address of importance by heart. She, Ursula, would have to take the initiative. She wasn’t sure how, as yet, but she’d find a way. There couldn’t be too many women by the name of Violet Abernathy living along that piece of coastline.
She’d write, letting Violet know that Urania had been thinking of her.
Ursula flipped through the pages: recipes, cures for ailments, rules of etiquette, and the usual pithy nuggets of advice.
The chapter on “Honesty” fell open, as if it had been often called upon.
To thine own self be true, as the great philosophers say. However, a lady knows when she must speak the truth and when diplomacy is the better course of action. Gifts should be professed to be exactly what one would wish, and a friend should be complimented on any achievement with which she is clearly pleased herself. Our own opinion need not unfailingly be expressed, to spare the feelings of others.
In most matters, nonetheless, honesty should be observed in more than spirit. To tell falsehoods may seem expedient but they are likely to trip one up, and to cause more difficulty in the long run.
Well, Ursula could hardly argue with that.
While Rye had been frugal with the truth, she’d hardly been liberal with it herself. And the tales she’d spun Lady Dunrannoch; if she stayed, it would be all she could do to keep those straight.
She’d keep the book. Perhaps, she might send it on to Violet—if she managed to locate her place of residence.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a rap on the door and, before she had the chance to rise, the heavy oak pushed open.
“You!” Ursula leapt to her feet.
