But Whitby had already sprung to his feet and hurried to her, to slip an arm around her shoulders and gently help her sit on one of the chairs. By then, she was sobbing uncontrollably. All the anger and betrayal from that morning’s introduction to that horrible man came surging out of her in an unbridled wave of wretchedness.
“Mariah?” Whitby’s face paled at her tears, making his sky-blue eyes and shock of ginger hair stand out even more than usual as he knelt in front of her and fished a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket. “What’s happened?”
Blowing her nose on the handkerchief, she poured out a description of that morning’s events, carefully leaving out the part when that rake had touched her.
When she finished her story, her shoulders were straighter, and her chest was lighter. She felt better, as she always did after unburdening herself to her friends. Yet she wasn’t na?ve enough to dismiss so easily the oncoming storm set to rush over her during the months to come.
“Robert Carlisle?” Whitby repeated incredulously, moving back to his stool as Mrs. Smith set a cup of tea on the table in front of her.
She sniffed. “You know him?”
“My brothers knew him at Eton. They told all kinds of stories about the Carlisles and how they were always being reprimanded by the prefect.” He grinned, a goofy smile that was all big teeth and dimples and somehow just as gangly as the rest of him. “Don’t know how they never got expelled.”
Her fingers tightened around the handkerchief. This was the man her father wanted to run Winslow Shipping?
“Of course, I don’t believe all those stories.” Whitby shook his head as he logically deduced, “I mean, how could a cow fit inside a carriage?”
Her tear-blurred eyes widened.
“And as for those Chinese acrobats, why, I don’t think there are that many in all of England. Certainly not enough to fill an entire vicarage!”
Mariah’s heart lurched.
“Now, Mr. Whitby,” Mrs. Smith scolded lightly, setting a plate of warm biscuits on the table, “Mariah doesn’t want to hear stories like that.”
Certainly not!
“She wants to hear about the man’s character,” the housekeeper explained, “and be assured of his good intentions.”
“Robert Carlisle?” Whitby blurted out. “I’m not certain he has any—”
“Whitby!” Mariah pleaded. He was a dear friend, but if he didn’t stop talking, she might very well have to shove a biscuit into his mouth to silence him. She groaned and hung her head in her hands. “What am I going to do?”
“There, there now.” Mrs. Smith put her arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “’Twill work out all right in the end. You’ll see.”
Mariah shook her head and reached for the cup of tea, to hold it between her trembling hands and take comfort in its warmth. “How can it? I’m being compelled into a season against my will at the hands of a horrible man.” One who apparently forced innocent cows into carriages and hordes of acrobats onto parish vicars. God only knew what that portended for her. “I’m caught. Either way I lose the partnership.”
Whitby’s face softened sympathetically. He knew how much that dream meant to her of being the next generation of Winslows to guide the business into the future, to have once more that feeling of closeness with her father that she’d experienced so long ago. But she also suspected, despite Whitby’s ever-present optimism, that he’d never truly expected it to come true.
“You don’t have to go through with this, Mariah,” he told her.
“If I don’t, I lose my allowance,” she reminded him quietly. “And if I lose my allowance…” She waved her hand at the old house around them. “Then Gatewell loses, too. And we cannot afford to lose a single farthing.”
“I’ll ask my father to—”
“No.” She affectionately squeezed his hand. “Your father has already been extremely generous.” The baron owned the building and let the school use it for free as long as they kept up the property. Without Whitby’s father, the school would have to relocate. But without her allowance, it would have to close completely. “This is my problem, and I’ll find a solution.”
Whitby’s boyish face turned uncharacteristically solemn as he popped one of the biscuits into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, his mind racing to solve her problem. That was what she loved most about Whitby. He was loyal beyond measure.
Mrs. Smith sat in the chair across the table from Whitby and reached for the bowl of dough, keeping her flour-whitened hands busy rolling out balls. And that was what Mariah loved most about Mrs. Smith—her unfailing belief that tea and biscuits could solve any dilemma. “You know, it might not be as bad as you think.”
“Because it might be even worse?” she sighed out miserably.
Mrs. Smith’s lips twisted into an expression of motherly disapproval. “You’ve never had a real season.”
“I’ve had six,” Mariah reminded her with chagrin.
“No, my dear.” She placed a ball on the sheet and pushed the bowl toward Whitby to once more get his help, although Mariah suspected it was done more to keep him from eating up all the biscuits that were already cooling. “You’ve never had a proper season. Not the kind you deserve.”
She countered defensively, “My seasons were just fine.”
“You had no invitations, no gowns, absolutely no suitors—”
“Thank you,” Mariah grumbled sardonically.
“And you deserve to have it all. To be Cinderella in the fairy tale.” Mrs. Smith gave a dreamy sigh. “Now you have the opportunity for a proper introduction, and under the guidance of a duchess, no less! A chance to meet all the most eligible gentlemen, attend all the best events, perhaps waltz with a duke—”
Mariah laughed at that.
“And what’s so amusing? A duke should consider himself lucky to dance with a beautiful lady like you.” When Mariah rolled her eyes, Mrs. Smith gently kicked Whitby under the table. “Tell her, Mr. Whitby, how beautiful she is.”
“What?” Whitby glanced up and blinked, startled from his own thoughts.
“Don’t you think that Mariah’s beautiful?” Mrs. Smith prompted.
He glanced at Mariah and blinked again. “Oh yeah, sure.” Then he reached for another biscuit.
Mariah smiled. Whitby, always true to form.
She took the biscuit from his fingers just as he was about to pop it into his mouth and broke it in two, then handed him half. He grinned at her and gobbled it down, while she nibbled slowly at her own half.
“And what’s the worst that can happen, truly?” Mrs. Smith placed the last ball on the sheet, then pressed a spoon gently down on each to flatten them. “At the very worst, you have a boring time. And at best…” She shrugged and pushed herself away from the table to carry the baking sheet to the oven. “You might find a husband.”
Mariah choked.
“Not if you don’t want to, of course, but one whom you love,” Mrs. Smith corrected quickly as Whitby slapped Mariah on the back as she coughed. “No one can force you into marriage against your will, not even your father.”
True. Although it certainly felt like it.
“But to meet a man whom you might actually want to marry…,” Mrs. Smith pondered gently, refilling her teacup. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
Whitby grinned. “Mariah get married? Now that’s a society event I’d pay to attend!”
Scowling, Mariah threw her biscuit at him. He caught it and popped it into his mouth.
Mrs. Smith sighed heavily. “Stranger things have been known to happen.” She fetched a baked sheet of biscuits from the oven and spooned each one carefully onto the rack, smacking Whitby’s fingers when he reached for one. “Besides, this might work to your advantage.”
“How so?” She couldn’t imagine any scenario in which being paraded about for men to gawk at, like some creature from the Tower Menagerie, could possibly be an advantage.