Mr. Weatherwax’s mouth tightened. “Yes, of course. Rail travel is appallingly dusty. Patience! Show Miss Hayes to the washroom. Be quick about it.”

The maidservant led Laura out of the office. “The necessary is just down the hall, miss.”

Laura’s heart beat heavily in her chest. She felt, rather suddenly, as if her corset had been laced several inches too tight. At the door to the washroom, she stopped and pressed a hand to her midriff.

“Are you ill, miss?” the maidservant asked softly. “You’ve gone all pale-like.”

“I just need a moment to catch my breath,” Laura said.

The maidservant’s face creased with sympathy. “He’s upset you, has he?”

Laura was too out of sorts to mind the impertinence. “He has, rather. He must be a dreadful gentleman to work for.”

“Oh, I don’t work for him. Not like he thinks.”

Laura glanced up. “Don’t you?” She didn’t know whether the girl was speaking the truth or not. She hardly cared. “I thought I was going to be rid of him today.”

“There are other solicitors, miss. Better ones. My own master is the best of the lot.”

Laura entered the washroom to stand in front of the porcelain basin. She needed to splash her face and wrists with cold water. And then she needed to go home. Nothing was making any sense anymore.

The maidservant came in after her. “Here, miss.” She reached into the bodice of her dress and pulled out a scrap of paper. Her voice sank to a whisper. “I have his card.” She offered it to Laura.

Laura took it without looking at it. “I’m obliged to you,” she said as she placed it in her reticule. “Truly.”

And she was.

But the very thought of hiring another solicitor made her feel even worse. They hadn’t any money to spare for the expense of it. And even if they had, what use would it be? It was Mr. Weatherwax her father had put in charge of things. He couldn’t simply be replaced on a whim, no matter how insufferable and overbearing he was.

“He saved me mum from being sent away,” the maidservant went on. “He’s the best solicitor in London.”

Laura managed a faint smile. She felt rather like weeping. “Well, perhaps one day I shall call upon him for help. Until then, I fear I’m quite on my own.”

Alex was just finishing breakfast when the vicar’s housekeeper, Mrs. Griffiths, ducked her head in the door of the vicarage dining room. She was a plump, older woman with a kindly face and a brutally efficient manner. The sort of female servant accustomed to ruling over a bachelor household in much the same way an unmarried sister might do.

“Miss Talbot from up at the Park is calling for young Mr. Wright, sir,” she said. “Shall I wake him? Or shall I tell her—”