by Diane Gaston
Leah adored both her job and her charges, but she was apprehensive about His Lordship’s return. Since being forced to earn her living as a governess—following her father’s death when she was nineteen—this was the first time she had felt settled, happy and at home. She couldn’t help but worry her employer’s return would herald change.
A mental image of His Lordship—appealingly masculine and ruggedly handsome—materialised in her mind’s eye. She had met him just the once, at her interview for the post of governess, and he had seemed harsh and remote but she’d made allowances at the time, knowing he had been recently widowed. By the time she took up her post, however, Lord Dolphinstone had already left for the continent and had been away ever since. For him to leave his children so soon after the death of their mother, and to stay away so long, beggared belief, and she still struggled to understand such a lack of fatherly concern. Leah had since done everything in her power to give the boys the stability they needed.
The clock suddenly chimed the hour, jolting Leah from her worries about the Earl’s return. Henshaw looked expectantly at the door. Within seconds, a knock sounded.
‘Enter.’
‘Miss Fothergill, sir.’
Henshaw, once again, rounded the desk and greeted the newcomer before taking her coat. Leah fought the urge to peer over her shoulder at Miss Fothergill—she would see the other woman when Henshaw introduced them. The newcomer sat to Leah’s right, but Henshaw remained out of sight behind them, tapping his foot on the polished floorboards and emitting the occasional sigh rather than perform any introduction.
Leah succumbed to her curiosity and glanced sideways. Miss Fothergill’s eyes were downcast as she chewed her bottom lip. Light brown curls peeped from beneath her brown bonnet and her fingers fidgeted in her lap, prompting the governess in Leah to want to reach out and cover her hand to conceal both her restlessness and her emotions, as befitted a lady.
Before long there was another knock at the door and the previous performance was repeated as someone called Miss Croome arrived. This time, Leah did not look sideways at the newcomer but directed her attention onto the solicitor as he returned to his chair.
‘Allow me to make the introductions,’ he said. ‘Miss Aurelia Croome.’
Leah inclined her head to acknowledge the woman to her left, summing her up with a sweeping glance—petite, and pretty enough, although she looked a little gaunt, as though a square meal wouldn’t go amiss. Her dove-grey gown was well made but ill-fitting and shabby, much the same as the bonnet covering her hair, which was fair, if her eyebrows and lashes were any indication.
‘Miss Leah Thame.’ Leah became the object of attention from the other two women, and she acknowledged each of them with a nod.
‘And Miss Beatrice Fothergill.’
Miss Fothergill—also petite and pretty but pleasantly plump—looked nervous, her smile hesitant. That knot of unease inside Leah tightened. Should she be anxious too? She glanced again at Miss Croome, who looked irritated, if anything, and she felt reassured.
‘Well,’ said Henshaw, leaning back in his chair. ‘This is quite unprecedented.’
He removed his spectacles and peered down his nose at each of them in turn, then removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow, the only sound in the room the ticking of the clock. Henshaw stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket.
‘Yes.’ He shook his head as his gaze once again passed from woman to woman. ‘Quite unprecedented, not to mention perplexing. You ladies must appreciate it has given me a real dilemma as to how best to proceed.’
Miss Croome stirred. ‘Perhaps if you enlightened us as to the purpose of this meeting, Mr Henshaw, we might shed some light on your...er...dilemma.’
She was well spoken; clearly a gentlewoman down on her luck.
‘Yes. Well...’
The solicitor again paused, and again he fished his handkerchief out of his pocket, polished his spectacles and placed them back on his nose.
‘Yes...the terms of the will are quite clear, of course. I just... I simply...’ He looked at each woman in turn, his eyes, magnified through the lenses, perplexed. ‘Lord Tregowan—the current Lord Tregowan—will be unhappy, you may be sure of that. I have written to him again, to clarify matters. Bad tidings for him, but I did not draw up this will, you understand. I thought I had her latest will and testament—drawn up by me and signed and witnessed three years ago in this very office.’
A will? Leah frowned. She had no family left to lose, unless one counted Papa’s Weston connections on his mother’s side, and she doubted any of them even knew of her existence. They had never shown the slightest interest in Papa, the connection far too distant. And what did it have to do with Lord Tregowan?
‘This...’ Mr Henshaw picked up a document, pinching one corner of it between his forefinger and thumb as though it might contaminate him, his nose wrinkling in unconscious distaste ‘...this arrived last week. And yet I cannot refute its authenticity. I’d recognise Her Ladyship’s signature anywhere, and it is witnessed by the partners of a legal firm in Bath, although quite why she went to them I have no notion. No. I am afraid it is authentic. There can be no doubt of it.’
The dratted man was talking in riddles.
‘Mister Henshaw. If you would be good enough to proceed...?’
‘Patience, Miss Thame. Patience.’
Patronising wretch. Leah glared at the solicitor. ‘The three of us have been sitting in this office for twelve minutes now, and in my case, considerably longer, and all we have learned is that the reason for this meeting—which you arranged, requiring the presence, I presume, of all three of us—meets with your disapproval. I have taken leave from my post to attend here today, and I should appreciate your expedition of the matter in order that I may return to my duties as soon as possible.’
Henshaw straightened, looking affronted. ‘Miss Thame—’
‘You spoke of a will, Mr Henshaw?’ Miss Croome interjected.
‘Indeed, Miss Croome,’ the solicitor said. ‘The will of Lady Tregowan, late of Falconfield Hall, near Keynsham in the County of Somersetshire.’
Miss Fothergill stirred. ‘My...my mother worked at Falconfield Hall.’ Her voice quavered, as though it had taken courage to speak. ‘She was companion to Lady Tregowan. Before I was born.’
‘Quite.’ Mr Henshaw levelled a censorious look at each of the three in turn. ‘Your mothers each had a connection with Falconfield. And with Lord Tregowan.’ His upper lip curled.
Leah elevated her chin. ‘My mother did not work there. She and her parents were neighbours of the Earl and Countess.’
She would not have this shoddy little lawyer look down his nose at her. She might be forced to earn her living as a governess, but her mother—who had died of consumption when Leah was eleven—had been born to the gentry and her father came from aristocratic bloodlines, descended from the Fifth Earl of Baverstock.
Henshaw levelled a disdainful, but pitying look at her. Leah’s teeth clenched, her pulse picking up a beat. She looked at Miss Croome, who had yet to react.
‘I know of no connection between my mother and Falconfield Hall,’ she said, ‘but Lady Tregowan did once visit my mother’s milliner’s shop in Bath.’
Mr Henshaw consulted the will again. ‘Miss Aurelia Croome, born October the fourth 1792 to Mr Augustus Croome and Mrs Amelia Croome?’
Pink tinged Miss Croome’s cheeks. ‘Yes.’
‘Then there is no mistake. I am convinced it is the three of you who are to benefit from Her Ladyship’s largesse.’
‘What is the connection between the three of us?’ The other women looked as confused as Leah felt. ‘It is clearly through our mothers, but how?’
Henshaw’s lip again curled. ‘The connection is not through your mother, but through your sire. You are half-sisters.’
Copyright © 2021 b
y Janice Preston
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ISBN-13: 9781488071706
Her Gallant Captain at Waterloo
Copyright © 2021 by Diane Perkins
All rights 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.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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