“No,” Julia admitted. “I don’t think Captain Blunt has any servants at all.”

Mary blanched in horror. “Lord have mercy. I’ve a mind to fetch your parents to bring you home. You’ve no notion what you’re getting yourself into.”

“If you came along—”

“I’ll not leave London,” Mary said again. “If you go with him, miss, you go alone.”

It was an ultimatum if Julia ever heard one. Her spine stiffened in response to it. She wasn’t helpless. Not any more than any other lady dependent on a maid to arrange her hair, lace up her corset, or fasten the hooks at the back of her gown. Nevertheless . . .

The prospect of leaving without Mary made Julia’s heart quail.

Was this how it had to be? A clean break with her old life? Left to embark on her new one with no friend to stand at her side?

But Mary wasn’t her friend.

Despite all her scolding, advice, and the occasional offering of a sympathetic ear, Mary was a paid servant. A skilled servant, but a servant nonetheless.

And as of this moment, she was a remnant of Julia’s past, right along with the fine house, the richly made clothes, and the gleaming coach-and-four.

Julia refused to grieve for any of it.

What awaited her in Yorkshire may not be elegant or luxurious. It may not be easy. But it would be real. And it would be hers.

“If that’s how you feel,” she said, “you may go. I’ll not stop you.”

Mary hovered by the bed. “It’s not too late for you to reconsider.”

Julia didn’t dignify the statement. Her mind was made up. “If you would pass me my reticule?”

Mary mutely obeyed, handing Julia the small embroidered purse with its drawstring of silken cord.

Julia opened it and withdrew several banknotes. “This should be enough to see you through while you’re seeking a new position.” She stretched the notes out to Mary. “If my parents refuse to give you a character, I’ll provide one. You need only write to me in Yorkshire at Goldfinch Hall.”

“Goldfinch Hall?” Mary’s brow furrowed as she took the money. “Doesn’t sound like a haunted house.”

“No, it doesn’t. And Mary?”

“Yes, miss?”

Julia’s stomach tightened with resolve. “I won’t be alone.”

Eighteen

Julia had often imagined her wedding. It was difficult not to when one was romantic-minded. The groom had been in doubt—she’d never had a specific face or figure of a man in mind—but her dream of the day itself had always been crystal clear.

There would be a church, naturally. Someplace pretty and bright with sun streaming in through tall stained glass windows. A kind vicar with rosy cheeks and a smile would stand at the end of the aisle beside Julia’s nameless, faceless future husband, and she’d walk up to meet them, clothed in white satin, with a veil of Honiton lace and a bouquet of orange blossoms.