Authors: Stephanie Stevens
"J
acob, kindly awaken Lady Tiffany. The hour grows late and she should break the fast soon."
"Yes, my lord," Jacob replied as he refilled the earl's cup with tea. "Will you require anything else, sir?"
The earl gazed up from his paper to regard his servant above the rim of his spectacles, shaking his head, dismissing the servant.
William Malcolm Courtland, nineteenth earl of Courtland Estates, sat enjoying his second cup of tea after having finished a substantial breakfast of eggs, cold pork pudding, and sweet muffins. He withdrew a pocket watch from his vest, snapping open the gold lid, noting the time, before returning it to his pocket. He continued to read the financial column, intermittently sipping his tea.
At fifty-five years of age, the earl still cut a fine figure of a man. His raven hair, although dusted with gray, was thick and plentiful. While he required spectacles for reading, his brown eyes were alert and ever shrewd. His broad shoulders, while not as firm as they had been, did not stoop with age. He took pride in his appearance and attributed his well-preserved looks to generations of careful breeding. His lineage was impeccable, tracing back to William the Conqueror. His face bespoke character and expounded aristrocratic beginnings, evidenced in its bone structure and aquiline nose.
William continued reading, but again withdrew his watch, noting ten minutes had passed. He wondered where his daughter was. He had risen early, as was his custom, believing one did not manage estates indolently lolling abed. He had instilled this in his daughter as well. He folded his paper neatly and looked across the table, seeing her place setting. He had expected to see her up and about. "Must be some female disorder this morning," he spoke aloud, and picked up his tea, sipping it.
His thoughts traveled to the work he had scheduled to complete. He had amassed a fortune in his lifetime and had increased the wealth of Courtland Estates when, on the untimely death of his older brother, Robert, he took over the title and handling of Courtland Manor.
Robert.
It was not often William allowed himself to think of the past--he found no percentage in it and felt it was a waste of a man's energy. However, today he allowed himself the luxury. Robert had had everything--looks, charm, and title. He had won and married Winifred Channing, a beautiful, gracious woman. William had always held a tender for her, even though she was four years his senior. He had loved his brother, admired him and envied him. He had been crushed by his death, and after the shock wore off, he'd damned him for being so imprudent as to accept the bet to ride the stallion that had trampled him to death. Robert had been tainted by their grandmother's Irish blood, just as his daughter, Tiffany, was. Her wildness was more pronounced than Robert's, for she flaunted all social conventions, while Robert had lived on the edge of them. Thoughts of his daughter caused him to withdraw his watch again. He frowned, wondering where the hell she was.
After leaving the breakfast room, Jacob ran to locate Godfrey, the butler. Wringing his hands nervously, he said, "His lordship has inquired of Lady Tiffany. Has she been seen?"
Godfrey shook his balding head. "I will inquire of Clarissa if she knows of her whereabouts."
A much-relieved Jacob returned to the kitchens.
Godfrey walked up the staircase, down the long hall, seeking Clarissa. He was the epitome of an English butler, liking things to run smoothly--with no snags. He somehow doubted today would run smoothly. "Madam!" he called to Clarissa, who paused, waiting for the butler to reach her. "His lordship requests the presence or knowledge of the whereabouts of Lady Tiffany."
"I know not where she be, Godfrey."
Godfrey pursed his thin lips. "She is your charge, is she not?"
Clarissa nodded her capped head. "That she is," she replied somewhat tartly.
"Then I suggest, madam, that you locate her posthaste, or else there will be hell to pay." He turned stiffly from Clarissa and walked away. Clarissa engaged the help of Jimmie, the cook's son, to run to the stables to inquire after Tiffany. He returned to inform Clarissa, who stood near Godfrey and Jacob, that Lady Tiffany was nowhere to be found.
Jimmie retreated, and the three servants stood regarding each other, digesting the information at hand. Godfrey cleared his throat and quite pompously stated, "Since his lordship specifically made his request to you, Jacob, then you will inform him that Lady Tiffany cannot be found."
"Damn that chit, I know where she is! Out riding like a banshee. And punished to boot. Well, I tell you!" He slammed his hand on the table, rattling the china. "This time she'll pay. I will take measures to ensure that she does, dearly!"
With that, he stormed out of the room, calling for Godfrey and Clarissa. After a brief conversation, he turned from them, charging into his study, slamming the door behind him. The household staff quickly spread the word throughout, and all held their breaths, knowing their mistress had certainly done it this time. The staff moved silently within, all walking on eggs, knowing the earl's tendency to misdirect his anger, and thanking God that they were not standing in Lady Tiffany's shoes.
Tiffany dismissed the incident on the bluff quickly from her mind when she saw how high the sun had risen on the horizon. "Oh my God!" she cried as she squeezed her knees against Touche's flanks, moving her into a wild gal-
idegP-
Maybe, just maybe, she hadn't yet been missed. But all hope fled when she pulled a lathered and winded Touche to a halt before Nathan, the stable hand. The look etched across his sun-wrinkled face was not hopeful. Her worst fears were reconfirmed when she watched Clarissa, walking as fast as her large bulk could carry her. The worry evident on her beloved nurse's face, and the nervous wringing of her gnarled hands, diminished any last remaining hope Tiffany held.
"Lamb, yer father wants you in his study immediately."
Tiffany ran up the stone U-shaped driveway, taking the steps two at a time. The door was opened by a dour-faced Godfrey. She entered the marble foyer, heading to the staircase, when she was stopped by Godfrey's words.
"Lady Tiffany, his lordship awaits you in the study. You are not to bother to change."
She stepped off the stair, nodding her head to Godfrey and making her way barefoot to the study door. She stood before the oak door, patted her disheveled hair, rubbed one dusty foot against the side of her leg, and then the other. Taking a deep breath, trying to still the rapid beat of her heart, she raised her hand and then paused, reluctant to knock, a sense of impending doom surrounding her. She felt that when she entered this room, somehow her fate would be sealed. A long moment passed . . . her hand knocked on the door, the sound echoing, reverberating throughout the house.
Once he'd vented his anger, the earl had turned his energies to a calculated plan of action. He had written three letters; one to Winifred De Namourie, the dowager duchess of Breatoney, another to the Madame Dechamp Academy, and the last, a notice of sale.
He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, rubbing them with his thumb and forefinger. He reflected on his plan, a plan that was meant once and for all to straighten out his willful daughter. He grimaced with the painful recall of Tiffany's outrageous behavior and antics he had endured since she was able to walk. The day she jumped from the apple tree onto Duke Alsbury, the fox she hid from the hunt, the day she put the pepper in the salt cellar, and on and on.
He opened his eyes, gazing out the study window, thinking of the scores of governesses who had departed Courtland Manor. Slamming his fist in renewed anger, he said aloud, "Damn. I should have sent her away. But no, I thought she'd fill the void Amelia's death left." He stood at the window, cursing himself for his foolishness, for all Tiffany had brought him was disappointment. She fell short of all his expectations. No matter how often he drilled her on the importance of propriety and comportment, or the responsibilities her title and position demanded, the more unruly and impetuous she became.
He saw her run up the drive. Shaking his head at her attire, he commented to himself, "About the only thing she has is her beauty. And no doubt if she could alter that, she would!" He turned away from the window, thinking her beauty would ensure a good titled husband, for no one who had ever seen her had not remarked on her beauty. "Yes," he said aloud, "her beauty is her salable commodity."
He called out in response to the knock on his door.
Tiffany pushed open the heavy door, standing at its threshold, watching her father. William's gaze traveled the length of her, coming to rest on her bare feet. He curtly waved his hand, motioning her to the leather wing-back chair in front of his desk. Tiffany closed the door and padded across the room, seating herself in the chair. Sitting primly, lost in the oversize chair, she consciously placed one bare foot over the other, tucking them under the chair. Tiffany saw her father's stern expression and read the disapproval in his eyes. She nearly jumped when his voice boomed out, "Well, what do you have to say for yourself this time?"
Tiffany squirmed uncomfortably in her seat and lowered her eyes demurely, unable to meet the unrelenting stare. A long moment of silence reigned, causing her to peak up from lowered lashes. She jumped, finding her father bending over the desk and inches away from her nose. He shouted, causing her to squeeze her eyes closed momentarily.
"Don't give me that sweet, innocent face. I am not a fool, girl, prey to your insincere acts of contrition." He straightened and slammed his fist on his desktop. "You deserve nothing more than to be beaten. It is my right and duty, you know. One I, unfortunately, never used and don't intend to start now."
Tiffany's eyes widened at his words. He had done many things to her, but never had he struck her. She watched him move behind the desk and lower himself into his chair. He smiled an awful smile and continued calmly, "No, I won't have your actions reduce me to such behavior.'' He leaned back in his chair, a smile of smug satisfaction on his face. "Oh no, my dear, don't look relieved yet, for compared to what I have planned for you, a beating will seem a deliverance."
She had never seen her father this angry before. He was not reacting as he normally did--she was not hearing the usual lectures of breeding, position, and duties. She was frightened.
William cleared his throat and began, ' 'I admit, Titfany, I had thought by your recent acts of compliance that you had mended your ways. Fool I was, but no longer, my dear. I have made plans for you. Plans that will turn you about, so to speak, break that spirit of yours, and allow your breeding to take over." He lifted three sealed letters in his hand, waving them in front of her. "Here, my dear, are letters to be posted today! One is to Madame Dechamp, who runs a school where the finer arts are taught and which you will attend. I am told that I shall be pleased with the results. They have handled many such as you. The second is to Dowager Breatoney, your Aunt Winifred, advising her that you will reside at her chateau while you attend the academy. Winifred is a titled personage of the realm and will see to your social obligations and education. You will be prepped, prepared, and presented to the creme de la creme of French society." He paused, as an almost evil smile crossed his face. "And this . . ." He waved the last letter in her face. "This is my coup de grace, as it were. A notice advising the sale of that beast that you are so fond of."
Tiffany's head snapped up, eyes widening in disbelief. The color drained from her face, leaving her ivory skin pale. She cried the first word since entering the study. "NO!"
A look of smug arrogance crossed the earl's face. With a triumphant look, he remarked dryly, "Oh yes, the beast goes." He sat down and began to give attention to the work he had scheduled to complete. He put his spectacles on to review a contract. He paused, looking over the rim of his spectacles, dismissing her with a wave of his hand.
Rising on shaky legs, Tiffany paused, wanting to speak, to plead, to beg, but was unable to push down the lump in her throat. She looked at her father, tears blurring her vision. She turned, walking toward the door, her heart breaking, her spirit battered. Before she put her hand on the doorknob, she summoned all of her courage and said, "Father, please don't sell--"
Without looking up from his work, he cut her off. "I said the beast goes."
S
unlight filtered through the tall, leafy trees. The drone and buzzing of insects could barely be heard over the gurgling and bubbling of a brook that wound its way through the wood. The air was heavy with the humidity common to late summer, producing an unbearable atmosphere.
Tiffany sat on the grassy embankment of the rain-swollen bank of the winding brook, resting her head on top of her raised knees, arms wrapped about her legs. Her toes peeked out from beneath the sodden hem of her riding skirt. She had cast her stockings and boots aside under an old sycamore before wading into the cool waters of the brook. Touche grazed on the sweet clumps of grass, switching her tail and stomping her feet to ward off the bothersome insects.
Tiffany watched and pondered the fate of a leaf that clung bravely to the mossy side of a protruding stone resisting the churning waters. She likened the leaf's struggle to her own, fighting forces stronger than she, sighing in despair when the leaf lost its battle and was whisked away from the sanctuary it had clung to so dearly. She saw it surface, spin, and then swirl helter-skelter until the current caught it on a predestined course down the stream, out of sight. How like the leaf she was; wanting only to float free but instead being swept up and put on a course of another's choosing. Tears welled, threatening to spill as she contemplated her fate.