The Constant Companion Read Free Page A

waist.
    “I shall keep my hair like this, just for tonight and all of tomorrow morning. Then when I travel to London, I must make myself look as old and staid as possible.”
    Constance nearly dropped the hairbrush as she realized that somehow she
was
going to London.
    Her mind began to race. There was the house to close up. She would need to leave the keys with the vicar, ready for the arrival of Aunt Maria’s heir who, it was believed, lived somewhere in Hertfordshire.
    Constance suddenly wondered if she were being too precipitate. Might it not be better to remain where she was and rely on the charity of the heir?
    But the lure of London was strong. She had an overwhelming desire to escape from this dark house with its grim memories of harsh religious training. She wished to flee from an overpowering feeling of guilt caused by the fact she could not mourn for the dead Miss Lamberton.
    As she brushed and brushed her long black hair, the great shining toy of the London Season beckoned.
    She put down the brush and knelt at her prayer stool through force of habit. But this time she found herself praying for security, for love and for a home of her own.
    Constance finally arose and climbed into bed with the feeling she had left her childhood with all its miseries behind.
    “Traveling post,” she thought dreamily as she watched the patterns thrown by the rushlight on the ceiling, “is too expensive—eighteen pence a mile. But there is enough left from the year’s sale of eggs to pay for a seat on the mail coach. I wonder if the egg money really belongs to the heir? If it does, I shall just have to pay him back when I am a rich and married lady.”
    And lulled by rosy dreams of security, Constance fell sound asleep.

Chapter Three
    Lady Amelia’s butler did not look like a butler at all. Friends of her ladyship were wont to murmur behind her back that her butler, Bergen, looked more like a jailbird. Butlers were meant to be quiet, discreet individuals, but there was something about Bergen that was
too
quiet. Where other butlers moved with a slow and stately tread, Bergen scuttled softly from room to room with an odd, bent, crablike walk. His long, lugubrious face was also tilted to one side, giving him an air of constant enquiry. His bony wrists protruded from the sleeves of his uniform, and his hair was never sufficiently powdered and black patches always seemed to be showing through.
    Mrs. Mary Besant eyed this individual with disfavor as she entered the hall of Lady Amelia’s mansion late one afternoon, a full two weeks after her previous visit. Her sharp eyes fell on the morning’s post, still lying unopened on the marble top of a pretty mahogany side table.
    “I see her ladyship has not yet perused her mail,” she said to Bergen. “I shall take it up to her.”
    “My lady said she had no time to read her mail at present,” said Bergen, with his head tilted to one side like a raven at the Tower.
    “Nonetheless, I shall take it up to her,” said Mrs. Besant, gathering up the little pile of letters and cards. She stood and stared coldly at the butler. “That will be all, Bergen.”
    “I shall announce you, madam,” said the infuriating Bergen, staring at the correspondence in Mrs. Besant’s pink-gloved hands.
    Mrs. Besant had no intention of letting Bergen announce her. In the first place, she delighted in surprising her friends at their toilette. Had she not, just the other day, discovered that Lady Jessington wore a wig by just such a ruse? In the second, she planned to extract one or two of the invitations and hide them in her reticule so that dear Amelia would smart with humiliation, thinking she had been slighted.
    “I shall announce myself,” she said waspishly. “Bustle about, man. I am sure you have other duties.”
    Bergen gave her a low bow and retreated.
    Mrs. Besant walked up the wide shallow stairs and gleefully flicked through the letters. Ah, she recognized that seal. Lord Philip Cautry’s