A Reason to Rebel

• Dedication
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  
• Chapter Eighteen
  
• Chapter Nineteen
  
• Chapter Twenty
  
• Chapter Twenty-one
  
• About the Author
  

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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520

Macon GA 31201

A Reason to Rebel

Copyright © 2009 by Wendy Soliman

ISBN: 978-1-60504-496-5

Edited by Deborah Nemeth

Cover by Anne Cain

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
electronic publication: April 2009

www.samhainpublishing.com

A Reason to Rebel

Wendy Soliman

Dedication

For Andre, always in my heart

Chapter One

Hertfordshire, England, 1815

“The scullery maid has gone and got herself in trouble.” Mrs. Keller pulled her thin lips taut in a grimace of disapproval. “Obviously she’s been given her marching orders and now Cook’s short-handed, so don’t go expecting anything special for luncheon.”

Estelle looked up from her embroidery. “Why was I not consulted before the girl was dismissed?”

“It’s what the mistress would have done. We don’t hold no truck with licentious behaviour in these parts, no matter what those accustomed to Hampshire society might be prepared to overlook.”

Estelle refrained from rolling her eyes and reminding Mrs. Keller that
she
was the mistress of this house now. The redoubtable housekeeper ran the household in the same manner as she had during the thirty-year tenure of her predecessor. When Estelle had arrived in Hertfordshire as a nervous bride, Mrs. Keller had blithely ignored her suggestions for changes, her features settling in a curmudgeonly expression as though the word was a contagious disease.

“
Change
, madam?” Estelle recalled her saying caustically. “I hardly see the need for change.
The
Mrs. Travis saw no occasion to criticize our methods. But, of course, if we do not give satisfaction…”

Her words had trailed away yet her beady eyes had remained fastened upon Estelle’s features. Her expression of unmitigated dislike dared Estelle to find fault with the domestic arrangements in her new home—tested her. Estelle, inexperienced in the management of recalcitrant servants, knew she ought to stand her ground, that it was a defining moment in which she must exert her authority if she wished to be treated with respect. But she was no match for Mrs. Keller’s staunch implacability and eventually gave up on her efforts to reform the household routine.

The death of her husband a year into their union, closely followed by the loss of the baby she was carrying and the subsequent disappearance of her beloved sister, had seen her give way to a prolonged fit of the blue devils. She had long ceased to care what the servants thought of her, leaving the running of the house entirely in their hands.

But now, the notion of a young girl being turned away to fend for herself—when the blame might not lay with her—roused her from her lethargy.

“Who was responsible for the girl’s situation? Was it someone under this roof?”

“A footman.”

“And he has been sent packing too, presumably.”

Mrs. Keller appraised Estelle with an expression of lofty scorn. “We saw no occasion for that. He told Mr. Archer that the girl led him on, so there was no more to be said.”

“And Mrs. Travis would have concurred with that decision, I collect.”

“She understood how things ought to be done.” Mrs. Keller’s eyes lingered with evident disapproval on the colourful shawl draped around Estelle’s shoulders. “You can’t blame young men for trying these things, it’s in their natures. It was up to the girl to keep her knees together.”

“You would know all about that sort of temptation, would you, Mrs. Keller?”

“Well, really!” She sniffed, her pinched features alight with majestic indignation. “Never did I expect to be spoken to in such a manner beneath this roof.”

“I daresay Mrs. Travis, the
first
Mrs. Travis that is, would have treated you with more respect.” Estelle could feel the numbness that had cocooned her for the past three months slowly giving way to a burning anger at the injustice of it all, which in turn lent her the courage to face up to her witch of a housekeeper. “What age is the girl?”

“Fourteen, but—”

“And the footman?”

“Three-and-twenty, but that does not signify. Young girls nowadays are very aware.”

“Send someone to find the girl and bring her to me. She should not be abandoned in her hour of need.”

“It’s too late. She will likely be well away by now.”

“Do it, if you please, Mrs. Keller,” said Estelle in a voice of steely resolve.

“Very well,” she said grudgingly.

“Is there anything else?”

“Yes, the fox got into the hen house last night and we lost three of our best layers.”

“Oh dear.” Estelle did not see what she was expected to do about the situation, other than to recommend the replacement of the unfortunate birds, which seemed rather too obvious to put into words. She wondered why Mrs. Keller had bothered to inform her of the incident. “And what would the previous Mrs. Travis have done about it?” she asked, struggling to keep her lips straight.

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, madam,” came the frosty reply.

“Really!” Estelle invested a wealth of meaning into the single word. She could have filled a journal with the late Mrs. Travis’s miraculous solutions for the tiniest domestic crisis. Apparently she was being burdened with particulars of this latest one only to punish her for daring to issue a direct order. She was obliged to quell a smile at this small triumph. Now that it was almost too late, and the time was fast approaching when she must surrender the supervision of the household to the wife of her husband’s heir, she had finally worked out how to best her wretched housekeeper.

The sound of a carriage shuddering to a halt on the driveway saved Estelle from the trouble of formulating a reply to the thorny question of their depleted poultry stock. She dismissed Mrs. Keller with a curt nod. A spontaneous smile graced her lips as she anticipated being reunited with her visitor. Susanna was here at last.

Having declined all other offers of support, especially the half-hearted one received from her own mother, Estelle was now impatient for her friend’s company. She was ready to pour out her woes to the one person with whom she could be perfectly frank. She could not wait to inform her of her recent victory over Mrs. Keller. Susanna would have found a way to put the woman in her place long before now, but she would be impressed by Estelle’s newfound authority for all that.

The small parlour’s frugal fire did little to dispel the chill in the air. Shivering, Estelle pulled herself into a sitting position on the settee and slowly lowered her feet to the floor, moving cautiously to prevent the room from swimming before her eyes. Unaccustomed to ill health, she was finding it increasingly tiresome being incapacitated for so long. Her glance rested upon the shawl which had so incensed Mrs. Keller; a colourful accessory which she always kept by her. Its brightness was indeed inappropriate for a recently bereaved widow but somehow she was unable to dispense with the comfort it afforded her.

Estelle patted stray strands of auburn hair back into place and smoothed the severe lines of her black gown over her knees. Her wan complexion and lustreless eyes bruised with fatigue were attributable to a succession of sleepless nights. She had not spent one comfortable night in the characterless chamber the mistress of this house was expected to occupy; not even before misfortune befell her. But now Susanna had come to her and would make everything all right. All dizziness had left and Estelle sat expectantly, attempting to curb her impatience as she waited for her friend to be shown in.

It took her a while to realize that the voice she could hear booming in the entrance vestibule was not the delicate feminine one of her friend but rather the strident tones of her father. He made no attempt to lower his voice as he addressed Peterson, the footman whom he had sent to this house to spy upon her as soon as her husband had died. Why he thought that necessary when her maid Martha was already diligent in reporting her activities directly to him she could not imagine.

Estelle’s heart plummeted. What was he doing here, and today of all days when she was so looking forward to seeing Susanna? Did he deliberately seek to overshadow the one pleasure she had been anticipating since the onset of her misfortunes? Could he really be that vindictive? Her father would be aware that Susanna was expected, of course. Either Peterson or Martha would have been sure to inform him of the fact. He had never approved of Susanna, holding her responsible when Marianne developed an independent streak and dared to question his authority. He had doubtless called to re-establish his dominance over Estelle, aware that having made such a brilliant marriage, Susanna now wielded some influence in the very best circles and would have less reason than ever to keep her opinions to herself.