Authors: Nicky Penttila
Even Maddie’s plan to take a moment’s solace in the bedroom while she retrieved her side of the correspondence was thwarted. Three underbutlers stood on chairs by the windows, under the direction of a fourth, hanging a familiar shade of silk. The old curtains, perfectly fine to her eyes, lay across the bed.
Her trunks also had been brought up, and two maids were unpacking, unfolding, and unraveling the lot of it. For a moment, she thought to tell them not to bother. She and her baggage might well be tossed out on the morrow.
But the longer it took the maids to pack it all up again, the longer she would need to stay here—and the more time she had to argue that she should stay forever.
Of all the scenes she had pictured in her dreams, all the conversations, all the visions of their first fateful meeting, she had never, ever considered that the new Lord Shaftsbury would have no idea of her at all. How could it be possible, when nearly all her thoughts revolved around him? It didn’t seem fair, or right.
The trunk with her books and papers sat beside a dainty writing desk. She sank onto its matching chair and pushed the lid open. The bundle of letters, too big now to squeeze into her Psalter, lay under her books and before her music in a browned paper folder marked Accounts. She found it in seconds, but continued to lean down, pretending to rummage among her things. A tear fell on the missal, quickly wiped away. She would not cry. She could still make a success of this and it wouldn’t do to fall apart in front of the help.
It took only a moment to gather herself back into order, if not ladylike serenity. She sat up, careful to avoid looking into the dresser mirror or at the window’s reflection. She didn’t quite trust her quickly found balance.
She had been holding this same folder the last time she’d seen the seventh earl of Shaftsbury, in Miss Marsden’s parlor in Bath. That time it had held duplicates of the castle’s accounts, carefully copied and with annotations. In previous years, it carried Latin exercises, history recitations, and, once, a poem to his honor.
Each year, usually the end of spring, she would present herself, surprised all over again at his attention. He had an old relation in Bath, he said, but he also wanted to see how she was getting on.
Each year, in her terror of not pleasing him, she would picture him an ogre, as stern and solemn as his letters. But when he appeared among the china and lacework in the parlor, he always looked more the squire than an earl, in dark clothes and sensible shoes. He was her first crush, and she dreaded that he would ever find out. Nash Quinn shared his square jaw and darkly handsome look; Deacon Quinn seemed fairy-born in comparison.
And, like his second-born son appeared to be, the seventh Lord Shaftsbury was nothing if not decisive.
“See here, Miss Madeline. You’re old enough to be leaving school, but my little toad isn’t ready for you yet. So my question for you is can you stand to stay here another three years, or shall we find a new occupation for you?”
Maddie had had to sit at that question. She was all of sixteen, and no one had ever asked her what she wanted to do before. “What choice do I have?”
“Stay here and Miss Marsden tells me she will let you continue to teach the young-formers. I’d have you pick up a bit more mathematics and the like, if you can find a suitable tutor. You’ll receive your stipend directly, most of which will still go for room and board, but you’ll be the mistress of the rest.” He tilted his head, gazing steadily at her. What did he see? “That’s one possibility. Another is you could travel, to Europe for example. Get yourself enrolled at university. Girls can do that there, did you know? Third, hire yourself out as a lady’s companion. Trouble with that is you’ll need to quit in a couple years to come back home.”
“Back home? To Bath?”
“Shaftsbury. To marry the viscount.”
“The viscount?” She couldn’t hide the shock in her voice. Sure, she been training to run an estate, but as a housekeeper, or perhaps the steward’s wife.
“Aye. It’s a debt of honor, you know. Deacon saved your life.”
She had no memory of it. “I thought you did that.”
“On his instruction, so to speak.”
Maddie was ashamed to remember how the thought someone would want to save her went beyond her understanding.
“No need to become maudlin, girl. You have grown up quite acceptably, by your own report as well as that of Miss Marsden’s. You’ll do.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Deacon is no prize, see, but you’ll have him well in hand in no time. And there are clothes presses full of benefits to being a countess. Problem is, you’re ready now but he won’t be for at least three years. We’ll do the deal in ’19. He’ll be twenty-five that spring. You come up then. Perkins will send you the details. So what do you say?”
Maddie never was a quick study, and he’d just foretold for her an unexpected and wondrous future. Had she had leisure to decide, she might have chosen to travel. She had always wanted to search for Troy.
“I am betrothed?”
“Just so. You must act like you are, of course. No men on the side, if you know what I mean. And keep up your studies. The estate depends on you. You do wish to be part of the family?”
Through the long years since that meeting, there was nothing she wished more. Nothing she wouldn’t do, and nothing she wouldn’t learn, even including the common illnesses of sheep. She had lost her own family like a quick tear in a bag of apples, the sole survivor of a winter carriage accident. No provision had been made for her in her father’s will—who thinks to change the will when a girl is three and her father a mere twenty-eight?
She owed the Quinns her new life and the promise of truly being part of their family—forever—stole her breath away whenever she thought on it too long.
Girls at school had complained, even whined, about their families and then happily went home for the holidays. She acted the good girl always, and never was allowed back home. But the earl’s promise had changed everything.
She had dreamed of Shaftsbury castle. She’d memorized the floor plan, as well as the names of the surrounding villages and towns, even the waterways, hills, and mountains. She’d forced her mind to fathom accounting instead of the music that it loved. She’d learned about corn, and cows, and taxation.
And in the end, all she had done was for naught—because once again, a man had died and left poor instructions.
Suddenly, she realized she’d left herself open to ruin, as well. Here she was, alone and unchaperoned, in this towering wreck of a house. If she did not marry, she’d be seen as a lightskirt by anyone who mattered.
Perhaps a male might escape it, as Nash Quinn had. A grown female who left here alone was ruined, and one who stayed was ruined, as well. And a female who was rejected was ruined. Simply being a female seemed guaranteed to lead to ruin.
Who else would want a lady who knew everything about Shaftsbury, and nowhere else? Who couldn’t sew a proper sampler? Who read Latin but couldn’t make her hair bundle itself neatly? And who had few relations and precious little money to her name?
She must make this work. She must convince this flighty new earl to keep his family’s promise. Surely he would do his duty.
Maddie closed the trunk lid and pushed back the chair. She stood on jellied legs, willing her spine to firm. Grinding her jaw, she headed back into the lion’s den.
* * * *
Discovering a small bottle of rum in the bottom-most desk drawer, Nash took a swig. “This is all the earl’s doing.”
“I’m the earl, boy,” Deacon growled in a fair, if higher-pitched, mimicking of their father. “And hand that bottle over.” Draped against the back of the chair, legs outstretched, he took a longer draft, and then lurched up, sputtering.
“Is this Navy swill? It’s undrinkable.”
“Give it back then. I’ve had worse.”
Instead, Deacon tried a smaller sip, to the same effect, and reluctantly gave up the bottle. “S’wounds! I see it now. The old toad did set this up. He used to say, ‘You’ll marry at twenty-five, boy, and give me a son by twenty-eight.’ Think the lady has the same deadline?”
“Expect so.”
“But why hasn’t Wetherby said anything about it? He has plenty to say on most everything else. His own niece.”
Cecil Lowe, the Viscount Wetherby, had stepped into the breach left by their father’s death, but he was a piss-poor mentor to the new one. Nash wondered why. The old man had never cared for Wetherby. “We’ll know soon enough. The sot must be coming tonight.”
“He likes you. But he told me yesterday he had a score to settle up north somewhere. Something about the quality of the help. Sometimes, I think he brings it on himself.”
At least Deacon did not subscribe to all Wetherby’s failings. Wetherby was a beautiful creature and nice in manner, but a menace to his tenants and a danger to the well-being of his estates. That’s what comes when the second son inherits, his father would have said. Nash, also a second son, bristled, just as his father always intended. “You know they never can control their passions,” the old man would say, another twist of the blade.
Deacon fell back against the chair. Nash would never have dreamed of sitting so slack in his father’s presence. He wondered if he could do it even now. “This started out so well. I thought she was with you. You need a soft hand and tender heart to look after you.”
That was the last thing Nash needed.
Deacon draped a hand over his brows. “Let’s just hand her over to Wetherby. He’ll have to take her, family obligation and all.”
“Wetherby’s no good. What would he do with a young miss?”
“You, then. She says she knows book-keeping. You might hire her, and give me my Perkins back.”
“You made him cry.”
“I’m sure you’ve toughened him up by now. Or living in that sooted-up town has.” At the sound of the door opening, Deacon turned his head. “Just such a good citizen appears. Evening, Heywood.”
“My daughter has the vapors, your mother is at her most shrill, and Cook is raging that our seating is delayed. Sounds like I missed the party.” William Heywood, the family barrister, took up the chair that Miss Wetherby had earlier graced.
“Another ghost from the past.” Deacon raised his glass to the man. “Shall others appear? The weather is appropriate enough.”
“A promise is a promise. Especially to your father, may he rest in peace.”
“If only he would. Ellspeth is on the mend?” Deacon couldn’t have sounded less interested.
“I expect so. But she’s taken some sort of fright, and won’t be down for supper.”
“So we’re odd-numbered at table. No wonder Mama is agog.”
“Should be even enough. Wetherby rode in just ahead of me.” Heywood shook his head, spreading rainwater from his sideburns across his lap. “The man’s a menace. Filling the generals’ ears with imaginary terrors.” He looked at Nash. “And you are not much better.”
“I am fomenting riot?” Then Nash remembered. A magistrate’s meeting had been called for this afternoon. But a mislaid shipment of cotton had nearly stalled production at Malbanks mill, and he’d had to scramble to make good. He couldn’t afford to lose a single customer in this economy. He had completely forgotten the meeting.
“Your voice was sorely missed. Is that brandy?” Heywood looked at the bottle hopefully.
Nash handed him the bottle and another glass from the drawer. “Piss water. So, they agreed to solicit for special constables?”
“A new army?” Deacon’s delight did not spread to the others.
“As if a collection of rabid innkeepers and shop owners can keep the peace,” Heywood said. “On horses, no less.”
“Stupid enough,” Nash agreed, “and dangerous. But I doubt it was such an even polling that my voice would have made a difference.”
“You carry more influence than you think. Damn, this
is
pig swill.” Heywood drained the glass but didn’t pour another.
“Don’t worry. Mama serves better at table.”
“Thank you for that, my young lord. No, the bill you would have prevented, Nash my boy, is the ban on singing.”
Deacon laughed. “Too many flat sopranos at church?”
“No, the cathedrals are safe, for the moment. But anyone out in the streets who engages in ‘debauched’ singing is fair game.”
“Pray, how does one debauch a song?” Deacon said.
“Deliver it with an ironical tone. Or change the words to call for reform.”
Nash snorted. “Now I’m doubly sorry I failed to remember. They’ve gone far enough. I won’t miss any more meetings.”
“I made sure of it. I named you to our new select committee. After Oldham, we need a tight group that can act fast and see sense. You’re the new committee secretary, boy, so you’d damned well better be there.”
“Our Nash, a politico?” Deacon fanned his face. “But won’t they eat him? He’s only been in the town for two years.”
“Long enough,” Nash growled. “And by the way, how are you managing with the estates?”
“And how is that fine French silk of yours selling? Mama says we might all be wearing mauve this season, thanks to you.”
“Boys, boys,” Heywood waved a hand. “Don’t dirty your outfits before the party.”