Sarah looked up, her face red and blotchy. “You must marry, Julia. Promise me.”
Julia didn’t know what to say. She wanted so much to ease her friend’s distress. But with such a tiny inheritance, Julia knew her prospects were not promising. Still, she had never believed she was in much danger of being forced to earn her own way. She was part of the family. She had always imagined that, if no one ever sought her hand, Phoebe would invite her to live with her whenever she married. After all, Phoebe had often asserted that she couldn’t do without her.
“Promise me,” Sarah demanded. “If a gentleman shows interest in you, you will not discourage him. You will do what you can to ensure his attachment to you. And if he is not unworthy, you will accept him.”
“Of course, if I am able to love him. But, dear Sarah, please don’t worry about me. And please don’t cry.”
“I must finish packing.” Sarah wiped her face and clutched her handkerchief tightly as she raised and lowered her fist to emphasize her words. “Don’t forget Mr. Dinklage, Julia. You must encourage his attention tomorrow night at the ball. Promise me you will.”
She’d hardly given Mr. Dinklage a second thought. He was painfully shy and not very handsome. However, he would inherit a fine estate in Derbyshire when he came of age.
“I will try, Sarah. Now don’t think of me. All will be well.”
Sarah, with one last backward glance, left the room.
As everyone knew, Julia would receive only 230 pounds upon her marriage. With such a small dowry, Julia was well aware, if anyone married her, it would be for love alone.
At least she’d never had to be on her guard against fortune hunters.
But Mr. Dinklage . . . he was not abhorrent. He was barely taller than herself, and with his hazel eyes and receding brown hair, he wasn’t particularly handsome. But that shouldn’t matter. If a person was kind, respectable, and sensible, they tended to look the handsomer for it.
Did Mr. Dinklage have those qualities of kindness, respectability, and good sense? He was gentleman-like enough, as far as she had noticed, but was he sensible? The fact that Sarah had caught him “mooning” over Julia, a girl with very little dowry, did not bode well for him being sensible, she was sorry to say.
A heaviness came over her as she thought of poor Sarah, so distraught, leaving them to go live with strangers. Truly, being a governess was almost worse than being a scullery maid. At least a house servant could commiserate with her fellow servants, could have friends. A governess, brought up in polite society with the benefits of education, having lived a life of leisure, must live amongst a family not her own, unable to mix with either the family or the servants, as she is beneath the family’s station but above the servants’. She is alone, and there is little chance her situation would change.
She understood Sarah’s urgent pleas for her to encourage the attentions of Mr. Dinklage. But it felt wrong, low and common, to try and secure a gentleman’s affections when she felt no real affection for him. But perhaps when she got to know Mr. Dinklage better, her fondness for him would be forthcoming. And besides, she had promised Sarah she would at least try.
She would not see Mr. Dinklage tonight at the Smallwoods’ dinner party, but she felt certain he would be invited to the ball tomorrow night at the Caldwells’.
It should be an interesting ball.
Nicholas headed toward Whitehall and the War Office. He brushed his hand over his coat and the inside pocket where he had tucked away the mysterious diary. It was a fine April morning, and he decided to walk instead of riding. The air was crisp and light, and after his meeting with McDowell at the War Office, he could go see his old school chum, John Wilson, who had started a charity mission near Bishopsgate Street. There was no better man than Wilson.
A little boy darted out from a side alley. “Sir, won’t you let me show you these elegant dueling pistols my father asked me to sell for ’im? Ain’t another pair like ’em in all of London.”
The boy appeared to be about eight years old, with dirty brown hair that had been cut unevenly. His cheeks were chapped, and his eyes were red. His ragged clothes hung on his bony frame, and his bare toes were black with filth from the street. He motioned with his hand and his head for Nicholas to follow him back into the alley from which he had come.
“I’ve no interest in dueling pistols,” Nicholas told him. “But when was the last time anyone fed you?” He began calculating how much money he had on his person. His own father would disapprove of giving money to beggars, but how could Nicholas turn away from such obvious need? He dug into his pocket and brought out several coins.