I have had the most extraordinary day! I will try to tell you all, but I am not really allowed to have this candle, and I am afraid I will be caught. Old Mrs. Clabbard is very stingy. I was tempted to buy some candles for myself today when I went into Bath, but that would also rouse her suspicion, and I might be forced to turn them over. Horrible woman.

I went into Bath to see if any of the shops might buy my fine needlework. I have several pairs of slippers that I have embroidered over the past year or two, and with boredom I have developed quite an elaborate pattern of entwined flowers and vines that I repeat in several colors. I think I have an extraordinary eye for color, if I may say so myself. And it is not so much that my work is complicated as I believe most girls would not take the trouble. This is something I have learned, that very often it is not intelligence or skill that gets in the way of success, but patience and the willingness to work carefully.

One lucky thing about being a girl no one cares about is that I can roam freely as I please, so long as I am careful to avoid too much notice while I am in town. I see all the fine ladies with their maids and their grooms, and sometimes (as when I went into a tea shop because I was faint with hunger) I get a curious look, as if to try to place me somehow. Am I a lady? Am I a servant? These looks annoy me. I am a person, I want to scream! But of course, I do not scream, and I try to act in as dignified manner as possible. Their confusion delights me, but I know that I play with fire. One day if I am not careful, I will get burned.

I looked at my appearance in the tea shop window as I stood waiting for service. I was wearing an old dress of Louisa’s and a new hat. The hat is plain but looks very well on me, trimmed with a feather that Marianne had given me because she could not find a good hat of her own to use it on. Louisa’s dress is a dreadful puce color, but it was wet today so I wore quite a vibrant-looking cape. I know that capes are sadly out of style, but it was warm, so what do I care? Perhaps it made me look dowdy, I thought. In any case, when I went into the shops to ask about needlework, I was treated as a lady’s maid, and not as a lady. I did not mind. Much. And strangely, the shop clerks assumed that I had not done the work myself, but was there on behalf of my mistress. Again, I did not dissuade them, since in future I may not wish to be known in town.

The good news is that I can receive quite a nice sum for the more intricate needlework. One shop begged me to leave the slippers so I did. If they sell, then they will ask for more. My embroidered lawn handkerchiefs will fetch a lot less, but I have some ideas about how I can hem them with an elaborate lace edge. I purchased some supplies so that perhaps over the next week I can experiment with this. I have not seen handkerchiefs of this type anywhere, and the one I did for Marianne has her in raptures every time she looks at it, even though it was a clumsy attempt.

Even though it was wet, I decided to take the country road home, as I was (slightly) worried about footpads. I had spent my money, but I had a few parcels, and might have been a target for thieves if I had gone the short way, on the open road. As I was plodding along on a muddy track, I could see clear across the field to where a girl was standing…apparently right in the mud…and looking distraught. I tried to ignore her, but she had such a horrified look on her face, I called out to her in spite of myself. Then she began to wave frantically. She was up a gentle slope from the dirt track where I had stopped, but my mount went up the rise with no problem, even with the mud.

The girl was a little younger than I, and so beautiful. Golden hair, almost white-blonde, and bright blue eyes. She was like a sunflower shining in the middle of this shorn, muddy field. At first I thought she must be a farmhand or a maidservant, although why she would be in the middle of a field in the rain, I could not fathom. But as I got closer I could see that her clothes were not that of a servant.

“Please,” she said. “Please, I need to go home. Will you take me?”

“Where is your home?” I asked.

“Up past the next bend, but you will have to go down the lane, and you will end up at the back entrance. I will show you.” The girl made as if to approach me, but she hesitated, turning around to inspect the grass around her. She seemed distressed, so I looked down and spotted something shining in the grass.

“Is that yours?”

The girl looked up at me, her eyes very wide, saying nothing, so I alighted and went to fetch the object, which was almost under her feet. It was a locket, made of very heavy gold and trimmed with dark red gems. It was old and had lost its luster, but it was unquestionably of value. I held it up for the girl to see, and her face went white. For a moment, I thought she would faint.

“Are you all right? Are you feeling ill?”

The girl reached out to take the locket from me, her hand trembling, and clasped it to her chest.

“No,” she gasped. “But thank you! This is why I was here. I have been searching for this locket for hours. It fell off its chain when I was riding.”

“Riding? But—“ I looked around. No horse in sight. “Where is your mount?”

Now that I was up close, I could scrutinize her dress. She was not wearing a riding habit. She wore a pelisse in a dark color made even darker by the wet, over what looked to be a morning dress in dove gray.

The girl saw my look and seemed to flush with embarrassment. But she lifted her chin and said, “My name is Catherine. I did not ride today. I walked.”

Walked? I looked up the slope in amazement. As far as the eye could see, there was a wet green field.

“Will you take me home? I promise I will tell you what happened. I am afraid of not being home in time for tea.” The girl sounded anxious and insistent.

“Of course,” I replied. “Although you will have to just hang on to me as best you can. My mount is gentle, she will not bolt, but you will have to mind your seat so you do not slide off—“

As I was speaking, Catherine began to walk toward me, and to my astonishment, she had a severe limp. It was ugly, there was no question—she bobbed from side to side—but there was a dignity and pride to the lift of her head, and I realized at that moment that she was someone of great consequence. I could see it in her carriage and her posture, the way her profile seemed to dare me to comment. Had she really walked all the way down into this muddy field from her home? Even if it was around the next bend, I could not see it from where I was standing. It must be some distance away.

“I am very good with horses,” Catherine said. She had reached my mount, and was patting the horse’s head.

“I can see that.” I decided to say nothing of her limp. “Let me hoist you up, and I will take up the reins behind you, with my arms about you. Is that all right?”

Without replying, Catherine turned her back to me and placed her hands on the pommel. I reached out with both hands and lifted her up. She was very light, and I was able to heave myself up behind her with no problem.

“You will have to tell me where to go.”

Catherine nodded. “Right past the next bend, there is a track that goes downhill. You probably have never noticed it.”

“I am new to this area,” I confessed.

“It is not far. Not by horse, I mean.”

“It must have been a long walk.”

There was silence, and then she replied lightly, “I wanted to find that locket, and if I had tried to ride, someone would have made me bring a groom, for fear that I would hurt myself. You see what my limp is—it causes everyone to treat me like a child. I ride quite well, but there is no arguing with my jailers.”

I almost asked her what she meant by jailers, but an image of Lady Durand came into my mind, and for a moment I was tongue-tied. Then she laughed.

“You must think me outrageous. I beg your pardon. Take this left right here. See, you would have gone right past it and not known it was there. This leads to the back entrance of Wansdyke. This is my late mother’s family home. It is rather grand, is it not?”

Just as she said this, I caught sight of the house towering above us beyond the grassy hill, and nearly dropped my reins. Grand was an understatement. Wansdyke was a palace, a spectacular Tudor-era spread that almost eclipsed Rosemont in its level of ostentatious grandeur.

As we plodded up to the stables, half a dozen or more stablehands and groomsmen appeared, ready to take charge of my horse.

“We must tell them we were together the whole way,” Catherine murmured. “They mustn’t know that I snuck out alone, or they will watch me even more closely.” She raised her voice. “You, there. You will take my friend home in the carriage, after we’ve had our tea. And take care of her mount.”

Then suddenly, she turned. “I don’t know your name,” she whispered.

“My name is Lydia,” I whispered back. “Lydia Barrow.”

And now I must stop, dear Booke! I have so much more to say about the tea that I had with Catherine, and the grand home that she lives in, as well as her sad story…but I am very late for my supper, and about to be in trouble with Mrs. Clappard, for she has discovered my stash of embroidery supplies and wants to ask me many questions. I hate her!