Iris Hedley was not afraid of the world, although a series of unfortunate events had taken away everything that had once been comforting in it. At one and twenty years of age, she should have been settled into marriage like so many of her former friends, rather than left on the shelf and a secret visitor to the Marshalsea Prison for indebted gentlemen.
“Come and eat, Father,” she urged gently as she polished Alexander Hedley’s spoon so it gleamed as brightly as the poor dented thing could manage then placed it beside the smuggled repast she’d served up to him. Oh, how there were times when the memory of her former happy home life caused a lump to form in her throat, and made her miss what had been lost in recent years.
Unfortunately, as had become his habit, her father did not budge from his slump on the edge of his cot in the room he shared with two other men in the musty barracks. He’d once been a fine man, wealthy, possessed of great wit and intelligence, courted by those in society who valued such things highly. Now he stared off into space quite often, absorbed in his own thoughts and lost in his memories of the past.
The change had begun prior to his incarceration and she feared for him. Her father had not taken his confinement well, but she supposed few independent gentlemen did. He was not in his right mind. He hadn’t been himself in a long time.
“Father?”
He grumbled, “Goose again?”
Cold goose breast and turnip soup was a luxury in this place, but Iris didn’t dare remind him of his situation. She was grateful Lady Heathcote’s cook set aside this meal every day, but she was always aware she spent someone else’s coin to care for her father. Pointing out that fact only added to his distress. “Yes, Papa. Come and sit down now so I might share it with you.”
As hoped, her father brightened at the news she would share the meal with him and perched on the stool beside the makeshift table. She handed him the spoon so he could start on his soup. “I cannot stay long today. Lady Heathcote has given me a list of errands to run on her behalf before tonight’s entertainment.”
Her father stared at the spoon a moment then snatched up the bowl of cooled soup and drank from it directly. He shuddered, wiped his mouth with the napkin and then glanced sidelong at her plate, where a single slice of goose rested. “Lady Heathcote has servants to do errands,” he grumbled. “And you should be resting so you are prepared for the evening.”
“I don’t mind helping her. Running errands to the dressmaker gives me something to do with my days, and in a small way makes up for the burden of providing me with food and lodgings. I am indebted to her.” Esme, a popular widow of independent fortune, had taken her in before her father had fled the country and his debts. She didn’t like to imagine what would have happened to her without Esme.
At first, her father had remained on the continent to assess his true situation, leaving Iris in Esme’s temporary care with a promise to return soon. While away, the scale of his losses must have preyed on his mind and he’d returned much sooner than expected, only to surrender himself to his debtors. He’d entered the Marshalsea willingly, although few knew that small detail, and she planned to keep it that way. The tally of losses had steadily risen against him until Iris had feared he might never be free. Esme insisted they conceal his location for the sake of her reputation, but it was difficult to allow others to believe her father had abandoned her for a life abroad.
“A woman should have a home of her own, a child to bounce on her knee and a respectable situation.” Her father sighed and looked about them mournfully. “This is not the life I wanted for you.”
What he’d wanted was for Iris to marry a viscount, have a home in the heart of Mayfair, and a dozen grandchildren perched on his lap as he sipped whiskey in a library. Unfortunately, a life of that nature would be forever denied them both. Her father was ruined good and proper and Iris, despite all Esme had done to protect her, had fallen victim to greedy, unscrupulous men.
She hugged him close. “We will win through Papa, never doubt it.”
Despite her words, Iris did find it hard to remain optimistic, especially here in this dreary place. Perhaps it was better that her father often could not remember he was entirely at fault for the decisions he’d made that had brought him to this damp and undesirable place.
As her father finished his meal, she began to repack her basket and then prepare herself to face the turnkey. “The turnkey asked for the name of your governess this morning. I think he wishes his daughter had half your grace.”
“He’s only being polite, papa.” The turnkey’s real interest was blackmail. He might have a daughter, almost of an age to marry, but Iris was due to hand over funds to him to ensure her father was taken care of in her absence. More of Esme’s funds. Iris bit her lip as worry filled her. Esme did too much already and an alternative source of funds to pay for her father’s upkeep had to be found. One day soon, she must attempt to repay Esme for her many kindnesses.
Unfortunately, there were few honorable choices for a woman who needed to improve her life. Marriage, of course, was the preferred option for a young woman to elevate herself in society. Snaring well-to-do and titled gentlemen had been the ultimate goal for her friends. With her once substantial dowry, Iris had her pick of anyone and had chosen a young man with a modest title of viscount because she’d liked him best of all her suitors. Lord Grindlewood had not been a wealthy man and her dowry would have assured them a comfortable life.
However, before they could be wed, her father had lost his fortune, including her dowry. Iris had felt honor bound to release Lord Grindlewood from their engagement.
Her chances of a second match had perished with her dowry and that left her with only unpalatable choices.
