very highly doubt His Majesty cares enough to approve or disapprove the choice of Speaker.”
“But surely he would disapprove if a Whig were chosen,” Clarissa said.
“Yes, he would,” Lord Stowe agreed. “But the odds of that happening seem slim now. We all thought there was a chance after the Reform Act passed, but...oh, well. The gears of government will continue to turn, I’m sure. Ford?”
“Yes, My Lord?”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you—did you—that is, do you know Martin’s daughter?”
Clarissa felt as though the bottom of the carriage had dropped out from under her. “Yes,” she managed to squeak. “Yes I do.”
“Does she still live in London, do you know?”
“She does, My Lord.” Clarissa could hear her heart hammering. “In...in Knightsbridge,” she added, instantly cursing herself.
“I was thinking I’d like to visit her. To pay my respects. I had a great deal of admiration for her father. Do you think you could arrange it?”
“I...I suppose so,” Clarissa stammered. “I know she sometimes receives callers on...on Sundays, in the afternoon.”
“Excellent. Does she live with her mother?”
“Oh, no, My Lord. Mrs. Martin died when Miss Martin was quite young, I believe. I don’t think she has any family to speak of.”
“Well, she must be old enough to receive gentlemen alone.”
“I believe she is about my age, My Lord.”
“Well, then...you’ll arrange it?”
“Yes, of course,” Clarissa said. Lord Stowe nodded and turned his gaze out the window. She took a few deep breaths, thankful at least that she had chosen Sunday. At least then she would not have to juggle her two selves at once. But why could she not have lied and said that Jonah Martin had had no children? No, it would not have been wise. Lord Stowe had not asked if Martin had a daughter, but if Clarence Ford knew her. He had already heard that Jonah Martin had left behind a child. He just wanted to pay his respects. Well, she would receive him and that would be that. Now she just had to scrape together the funds for tea and cakes.
***
Sunday morning dawned bright and clear, but there was a hint of snow on the wind. Clarissa buttoned her pelisse tightly before leaving for church. It was only as she was locking her door that she remembered Richard Whibley. He would be waiting for her there. For a moment she considered turning right around and hiding in her flat until the afternoon. But she had promised, and though her father might not have approved of her being courted by a young man—he had always said he would rather she not marry at all—he certainly would not have liked her breaking a promise.
Mr. Whibley was, indeed, waiting for her outside Holy Trinity, hat in hand. He smiled when he saw her coming. “Good morning, Miss Martin.”
“Good morning, Mr. Whibley,” she said, returning his smile and taking his arm. He really was a perfectly lovely gentleman, she thought again as he led her into the church and towards a pew. They chatted amiably about the church, which was new-built and had only been consecrated a few years earlier, and about the Parliamentary session.
“I understand the king will make his speech on Tuesday,” Whibley said. “Will you be attending?”
“No,” she said. “I have...another appointment.”
“But your brother will be there.”
“My...yes. Yes he will,” she said, only remembering at that moment that she had said Clarence Ford was her brother. She tried now to remember if she had said her brother’s name was Martin or Ford—or if she had said his name at all. She was beginning to understand why her father had said telling the truth was much easier than lying—there were far fewer details to keep organized.
“I’m surprised he isn’t here today,” Whibley commented, looking around as if Clarissa had concealed him amidst the pews.
“He lives in another part of London, Mr. Whibley, and is much occupied with his duties to the
“But surely he would disapprove if a Whig were chosen,” Clarissa said.
“Yes, he would,” Lord Stowe agreed. “But the odds of that happening seem slim now. We all thought there was a chance after the Reform Act passed, but...oh, well. The gears of government will continue to turn, I’m sure. Ford?”
“Yes, My Lord?”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you—did you—that is, do you know Martin’s daughter?”
Clarissa felt as though the bottom of the carriage had dropped out from under her. “Yes,” she managed to squeak. “Yes I do.”
“Does she still live in London, do you know?”
“She does, My Lord.” Clarissa could hear her heart hammering. “In...in Knightsbridge,” she added, instantly cursing herself.
“I was thinking I’d like to visit her. To pay my respects. I had a great deal of admiration for her father. Do you think you could arrange it?”
“I...I suppose so,” Clarissa stammered. “I know she sometimes receives callers on...on Sundays, in the afternoon.”
“Excellent. Does she live with her mother?”
“Oh, no, My Lord. Mrs. Martin died when Miss Martin was quite young, I believe. I don’t think she has any family to speak of.”
“Well, she must be old enough to receive gentlemen alone.”
“I believe she is about my age, My Lord.”
“Well, then...you’ll arrange it?”
“Yes, of course,” Clarissa said. Lord Stowe nodded and turned his gaze out the window. She took a few deep breaths, thankful at least that she had chosen Sunday. At least then she would not have to juggle her two selves at once. But why could she not have lied and said that Jonah Martin had had no children? No, it would not have been wise. Lord Stowe had not asked if Martin had a daughter, but if Clarence Ford knew her. He had already heard that Jonah Martin had left behind a child. He just wanted to pay his respects. Well, she would receive him and that would be that. Now she just had to scrape together the funds for tea and cakes.
***
Sunday morning dawned bright and clear, but there was a hint of snow on the wind. Clarissa buttoned her pelisse tightly before leaving for church. It was only as she was locking her door that she remembered Richard Whibley. He would be waiting for her there. For a moment she considered turning right around and hiding in her flat until the afternoon. But she had promised, and though her father might not have approved of her being courted by a young man—he had always said he would rather she not marry at all—he certainly would not have liked her breaking a promise.
Mr. Whibley was, indeed, waiting for her outside Holy Trinity, hat in hand. He smiled when he saw her coming. “Good morning, Miss Martin.”
“Good morning, Mr. Whibley,” she said, returning his smile and taking his arm. He really was a perfectly lovely gentleman, she thought again as he led her into the church and towards a pew. They chatted amiably about the church, which was new-built and had only been consecrated a few years earlier, and about the Parliamentary session.
“I understand the king will make his speech on Tuesday,” Whibley said. “Will you be attending?”
“No,” she said. “I have...another appointment.”
“But your brother will be there.”
“My...yes. Yes he will,” she said, only remembering at that moment that she had said Clarence Ford was her brother. She tried now to remember if she had said her brother’s name was Martin or Ford—or if she had said his name at all. She was beginning to understand why her father had said telling the truth was much easier than lying—there were far fewer details to keep organized.
“I’m surprised he isn’t here today,” Whibley commented, looking around as if Clarissa had concealed him amidst the pews.
“He lives in another part of London, Mr. Whibley, and is much occupied with his duties to the
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