Chapter Eleven
Nell’s father had disliked displays of emotion. Nell had learned at an early age to swallow her laughter and her anger, to suppress her tears. She wasn’t a crier. She told herself that as she climbed the stairs to her bedchamber—I am not a crier—but as soon as she’d closed the bedroom door, the tears came.
Bessie fussed over her, dismayed. “What is it ma’am? Shall I fetch Mr. Black? Are you ill?”
Mr. Black was why she was crying, but she couldn’t tell Bessie that. “My sister is missing,” Nell said, removing the spectacles and mopping her eyes with a sodden handkerchief. “That’s why we’re going to Exeter.”
Bessie gave her a fresh handkerchief. “Mr. Black will find her for you.”
Nell blew her nose and wiped her cheeks. “She may not even be in Exeter.”
“He’ll still find h
