A Gentleman Fallen on Hard Times by Grace Burrowes

Author:Grace Burrowes [Burrowes, Grace]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781956975666
Publisher: Grace Burrowes

As I made my way to my room, I passed an open parlor door. Miss Maria Cleary sat alone, her chair angled so she was in profile to me and facing a window onto the park. The morning light was such that I saw in her face the reflected beauty that she’d once claimed. Delicate features, thick hair gone as white as my own, regal bearing.

And yet, her head trembled slightly on a slender neck, her mouth was slack, and her shawl hung limply around her elbows. She was a ruin, while Ophelia, her contemporary, was a fine and lustrous antique.

Miss Cleary caught sight of me and beckoned. “Do come in, sir. Are you one of Mendel’s friends?”

I might dodge a senior officer’s orders, but I would never be rude to a lady. I entered the room and bowed. “Miss Cleary. Lord Julian Caldicott, at your service. I am acquainted with both Lieutenant Daniel Cleary and Mr. Mendel Cleary.” I was acquainted with Miss Cleary, too, though she had aged considerably since before the war.

Five years ago, she’d given Ophelia a run for her money in the darling-senior-flirt steeplechase.

“The Caldicotts are tall,” she said in a soft quaver. “Ophelia is tall. She is not a Caldicott.”

According to family rumor, she halfway was, on the wrong side of the blanket a couple generations back. “Ophelia is my godmother. I’m her escort for purposes of this gathering.”

“Do sit. I abhor a fellow who looms. Mendel looms and hovers. Like his father, that one.”

I wanted to be anywhere but with this sad old lady, but then, so did apparently every other guest on the premises. They were assembled in merry pin down in the breakfast parlor, and I did not particularly want to be with them either.

“Mendel is devoted to you,” I said, wanting to give credit where due. “How was your journey from Town?”

She sent a worried glance in the direction of her knees. “I’m not allowed in Town. Mendel says I need the country air. Nobody stays in Town these days anyway. Once grouse season starts, London is deserted.”

Grouse season was still two months off. The king’s birthday had passed, true, but the worst of summer’s heat had yet to entirely decimate London’s fashionable ranks. Did Miss Cleary know what month it was?

My sympathy for her expanded, such that I was no longer in a hurry to leave. “London is noisy and smelly in summer. Country air can be quite reviving.”

She stole a glance at me. “Can it, really? Nobody calls in the country except the vicar. Vicar smells of camphor.”

“Does he preach at you for all your wayward tendencies?”

My attempt at teasing earned me another worried glance. Prisoners had eyes like that; as did the elderly, apparently, when peering into the abyss of inchoate mental decline. Big, dark pupils full of bewilderment and a small, hopeless flame of rage.

“Vicar mostly wants money,” Miss Cleary said. “I have pots of money. You mustn’t tell anybody. Mendy looks after my funds for me.

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