The Heiress

by Molly Greeley

  Dedication

  To Jane, Ciaran, and Alasdair,

  whose names contain whole worlds.

  And to Ashley, for twenty-nine (and counting) years

  of being my favorite person with whom to laugh until we cry.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part One: Rosings Park, Kent Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Part Two: London Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Part Three: Back Again Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Part Four: The End Chapter Thirty-Six

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Molly Greeley

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Part One

  Rosings Park, Kent

  Chapter One

  I was not always small and sickly.

  When she was in a remembering mood, my nurse sometimes liked to tell me my own story. It began with the moment she beheld me for the first time, still wet from my mother’s womb.

  The infant was robust at birth, she said, as if my origin was just another fairy story. Fat and dimpled as could be, with hair sticking up from her head like soft dark feathers. Her mother, pleased her work was done, did not even mind, as so many other women must, that it had all been to bring a girl into the world, for Lady Catherine was wise enough to wed Sir Lewis de Bourgh, whose estate could pass as easily to a daughter as to a son. She praised her new daughter’s nose, the unlikely slope of which already gave her the look of Lady Catherine’s own noble relations, and declared that she should be named Anne, after her own elder sister. Baby Anne’s father and his steward drank a toast of finest brandy to her health.

  I could imagine them together, firelight making the brandy glow in Papa’s crystal glasses. I could even imagine Nurse, looking down at my infant face with her own broad face full of curiosity and good humor. Mamma was harder to picture; she so rarely lay abed that it was difficult to think of her tucked up among the cushions after the exertion of birth.

  But soon enough, Nurse went on, Anne’s health declined. She turned peevish and miserable, and nothing, neither her mother’s arms nor her nurse’s milky breasts, could calm her. The parish doctor was called for; he said the babe suffered from an excess of wind, and prescribed a bittersweet tincture of laudanum to help her sleep.

  And sleep I did. I slept so long and deeply, Nurse said, that when she woke in the early hours of the morning, it was to find her own shift wet with leaked milk. She put me, still sleeping, to her hard, swollen breasts, gratitude for the rest the medicine afforded us both warring with worry when I suckled only a little, and so lethargically that the excess milk had to be expressed by hand into the washbasin.

  When I woke at last, I turned fractious again almost at once, wailing loudly enough to be heard far beyond the nursery. The entire household went tense and afraid, the babe’s cries powerful and unstoppable as sea waves in a storm. Her poor parents were frantic, and helpless as any parents whose child is clearly in pain. But the good doctor was called back, and he brought with him more drops, which worked their magic again directly.

  Though Nurse tried to wean me from my medicine once or twice, I always wailed again so loudly—Like a pig brought to slaughter—and turned consumptive, hot and chilled by turns, my chest rattling. She learned to dose me—my magic drops, she called them, smiling—at intervals, which alleviated my discomfort and kept me sweetly sleeping much of the time. And though the soft rolls at my ankles and wrists melted away like snow in spring, Dr. Grant, with a shake of his graying head, said it seemed I would likely always be delicate, and Mamma gave thanks, loudly and often, for the wonder of modern medicine.

  Memories of my early life begin slow and dreamy as any of my nurse’s stories. They meander like dust motes in the shafts of sunlight that came in through the nursery window. I was not supposed to dance, myself, but I could pretend, in the hours I spent watching those flecks twirl and collide, that I was one of them, a member of the set.

  Some of my memories are surprisingly clear—I could describe the exact pattern of fruits and leaves in the intricate molding on our drawing room ceiling, or beat out with my fingertips the cascading rhythm of the garden fountain. Scents come back to me with overwhelming clarity—my musty nursery, of course, but also the headiness of the garden in full summer bloom, and the bright scent of Cook’s pea soup, one of the few dishes to regularly tempt my appetite. It tasted of spring even when she served it in winter from boiled dried peas, accented with the faint tang of onion and the salty musk of anchovies.

  People had their own peculiar smells; or rather, their fingers did, fingers that were forever testing the heat of my cheeks and brow. Mamma’s, laden with rings, smelled of lily of the valley, a delicate scent at odds with the robustness of her form and character. My father’s fingers, when he patted my shoulder in his usual distracted manner, smelled thickly of snuff. Over the years, as I needed her less and less, Nurse’s gown and apron began to smell of smoke and grease from the kitchen, but her fingers forever smelled of the medicine she dispensed to me twice daily, bitterness just masked by cloying treacle.

  For my own good, the boundaries of my world lay at the far-flung edges of my father’s vast estate, but Nurse widened them, just slightly, with the fantastical tales she told as I drowsed in the grips of my drops. Stories of men the length of my thumbnail; of sleeps that lasted centuries. My medicine turned me stone-heavy, a breathing statue, eyelids drawing down despite all my best efforts and thoughts drifting like milkweed fluff. In this way, I was like one of the people in the stories, for what could be more fantastical than a girl made of stone?

  When the weather was fine, and the sun not too strong, Nurse sometimes took me out to the garden, where, if it was too early for my first dose, I practiced reading from the Book of Common Prayer, my tongue stumbling over sentences no more comprehensible than the whispering of the wind through the trees, and far less interesting.

  If it was later, I remained so still and recumbent that all manner of creatures came to me: bees roaming from the garden hives, who perhaps mistook my gowns with their block-printed patterns of leaves and flowers for an extension of the garden beds; beetles who scuttled up my wrist on feet so light I could not feel them; grasshoppers, some striped brown as winter leaves, others so bright a green that they blended completely into the summer grasses. These startled me a little from my stupor when they bounded from ground, to bench-back, to my knee, and down again. They were so energetic that, loose-jawed and loose-limbed, I could only marvel at them. The voices of all the grown persons in my life buzzed inside my head like the whirring of insect wings, reminding me gently that I was not meant for such darting quickness.

  I am happy t
o say that those voices were slowly replaced by others—friends, phantoms, and, eventually, even myself—who, not-so-gently, disagreed.

  Chapter Two

  I lay on my belly under the table in the nursery, head cradled on my arms, sleepiness drawing over me from toes to chin like a heavy coverlet. At seven years old, I was just long enough that I had to draw up my knees to keep my feet from poking out from beneath the tabletop. My eyes were almost closed, but from under the quivering cover of my lashes I could just see Nurse’s square feet in their striped knit stockings. Nurse’s sturdy boots had been set aside, and her toes spread now and again, glad to be released from their pinching confines.

  Nurse was sewing. I could tell, though her hands and their work were hidden from view by the spreading top of the dark wood table. My twice-daily dose of medicine made my ears sensitive to the tiniest sounds, and I could hear now, like a whisper directly in my ear, each tug of thread through fabric.

  As she sewed, Nurse told me a story. She often told stories at this time of day, her voice was low and restful as I grew drowsy after taking my drops. Today’s, about the ugly prince whose intelligence earned him the love of a princess—whose beauty, in turn, endeared her to him despite her complete lack of wit—was one she had told many times before, and it was one that soothed me, for reasons I did not fully understand. I let my lids flutter closed, blotting out the sight of Nurse’s feet and making room for my mind’s illustrations.

  “The prince was so ugly, his mother cried out at the sight of him,” Nurse said. “But a fairy told the queen not to worry, for her son was amiable and good, and what’s more, he was gifted with great wit, which he could, in turn, gift to the person he loved most in the world.”

  I saw the little princeling inside my head, wrapped in his swaddling clothes. He had a tuft of golden hair at the very top of his misshapen head, and eyes like currants sunk deep in a poorly baked bun. He was deeply hideous; I smiled a little as he waved one lumpy fist.

  “A neighboring kingdom was the home of a princess who was very beautiful, but who was so stupid her poor mother despaired of her. But that same good fairy promised the queen that her daughter would, at least, have the power to make her beloved as handsome a man as she could wish.”

  I saw the princess as clearly as I did the prince. She had waving pale hair, and her cheeks had pink circles painted upon them, like the cheeks of my favorite doll. I saw the palace where the princess lived, larger even than our house here at Rosings Park, and surrounded by woods that were deeper but less frightening, dappled with improbable patches of sunlight. There were gardens, too, a maze of hedges that spiraled deliciously; I watched as the princess and her sister raced through it, just the hems of their skirts visible as they whipped laughing around corners, and imagined that I raced along just behind them.

  My breathing grew slow and deep, and I missed the rest of the story entirely.

  It was some time later when I was drawn out of my sleep by voices. One, I knew instantly—my mother bellowed even when whispering.

  “What is Anne doing under there?” Mamma said. “Why is she not in her bed?”

  “The young miss likes to curl up in the oddest places,” my nurse said. “I did not see the harm in it, Your Ladyship.”

  “Nonsense. You did not feel like moving her, more likely. I will not tolerate laziness, you know.”

  “No, Your Ladyship. Of course not.”

  I opened my eyes in time to see Nurse’s feet under the table stuffing themselves back into their boots with quick furtive movements.

  Then a face appeared, tipped upside down, big solemn eyes and curly brown hair. I stared at it.

  “She’s awake,” the face announced, and then it was joined by another, a woman who crouched down and smiled at the sight of me blinking up at her.

  “Anne,” the woman said. “My dear, it is so good to see you again.” She reached out a hand to draw me forward, and I took it, crawling gracelessly out from under the table on my two knees and free hand. I kept my head ducked until I was out and standing. The room moved in and out around me, as if I stood inside the bellows of a giant’s chest as he breathed. I swayed a little where I stood, and Nurse put out a hand to steady me.

  “Greet your aunt, child,” Mamma said, and I blinked and dipped an unsteady curtsy.

  “Hello, Aunt Darcy,” I said, for of course that was who the woman was. Mamma had been looking forward to the visit for days, both her brother and sister and all their children coming to see us at Rosings Park, but I, keeping quiet in the nursery, had all but forgotten about it. I looked to the side, where my cousin Fitzwilliam had straightened and was watching me with frank curiosity. He was not quite a year my senior, but was much taller than he had been the last time I saw him, and his hair was longer, curling over the tops of his ears. He saw me looking and bowed very correctly.

  “Cousin Anne,” he said.

  “Cousin Fitzwilliam.” I felt shy of him, but safe inside the giant’s chest, padded a little from his curious stare. We both knew, having been told so all our short lives, that we were going to be married when we grew up.

  “Come, Miss,” Nurse said. She took me by the hand and led me to the window seat, tucking me in among the cushions. Aunt Darcy nodded at Fitzwilliam and he trailed after us, looking reluctant.

  He perched on the edge of the seat, looking out the window at the garden below. “I thought Edward and John would already be here,” he said. “They should have been. Their journey was much shorter than ours.”

  My other cousins, sons of Mamma’s brother, the earl, could be at Rosings Park within a day of setting out. “Perhaps their horses are not as swift as yours,” I said.

  Fitzwilliam looked at me. “Perhaps not,” he said, thoughtful.

  My face cracked with the force of a sudden yawn, and my cousin frowned. “I am still tired,” I said, and let my cheek rest on the cool of the windowpane. I did not quite sleep—I was aware of the movement when Fitzwilliam stood, and heard his footsteps as he crossed the room—but I could not keep my eyes from closing.

  The earl and his family arrived before dinner. They had a very fine, large carriage, and their horses were more than equal to the task of pulling it briskly. I was still resting in the window seat when their carriage was spotted but was summoned downstairs soon enough, where my entire family, including my aunt and uncle Darcy and my cousin Fitzwilliam, had arrayed themselves on the front steps to greet the new arrivals. Our butler, Peters; Mrs. Barrister, the housekeeper; and the most senior among the footmen, stood a little behind. Wedged between my father’s comfortable stomach in its silver waistcoat and my mother’s broad skirts, I stood a little on my toes, neck lengthening in my eagerness—for it was a rare treat when other children came to Rosings Park—to watch as the carriage rolled to a stop.

  The Earl of Brightmoor emerged first, and he turned to hand out his wife. My uncle looked a great deal like my mother—they had the same nose, dipping down, as my own did, like a hunting bird’s beak; and the same way of positioning their tall, strong forms, feet so firm upon the ground that they seemed rooted wherever they happened to be—much more so than Aunt Darcy, who was shorter and rounder, more robin than hawk. My cousins, Edward and John, came next. Mamma had come to the nursery several days in a row this past week to instruct me in all the family’s proper titles, and I mouthed them to myself now as the boys emerged. Edward, the eldest at eleven, tall and pinch-faced, was properly Viscount Eden; John, just a year younger, was shorter, stocky, with a sweep of unruly hair over his brow, and was the Honorable John Fitzwilliam. It seemed unfair that my cousins were so distinguished—hadn’t Mamma told me countless times that I was special, niece and granddaughter to earls, heiress to one of the finest estates in southern England, betrothed to the heir of one of the finest estates in the Peak District? Though my father was only a knight, the de Bourghs—like the Darcys—had been well monied for centuries. I knew better than to complain to my mother, who had no patience for impertinence, b
ut I did tell Papa that I wished to be known as the Honorable Earless of Hunsford in company. My father looked at me, astonished, then laughed the great wheezing laugh I heard so infrequently.

  “That you will be,” he said, chuckling as he walked away.

  Now my uncle kissed my mother’s hand, then Aunt Darcy’s; there was a great deal of chatter, a lot of quick movements as my cousins rushed to greet one another, Fitzwilliam jostling me in his hurry. I stepped back, out of the fray, watching as Papa ushered the men and women inside and the boys raced off across the lawn, already shouting in some game that had mysteriously sprung up instantly among them. I turned in a slow circle to watch them run—their legs and arms leaped and swung; their hair flew away from their faces in a wind created by their own quickness. Not one of them glanced in my direction.

  Inside my own body, something stirred, making my arms tingle and my feet move restlessly against the gravel drive. I was not allowed to run; too much physical effort made it hard for me to breathe. And yet I had taken five or six steps forward—quick steps!—without even meaning to before I was stopped by Nurse’s hand on my arm.

  Edward and Fitzwilliam played at battledore and shuttlecock while I watched from my garden bench. They hit the feather-trimmed shuttlecock back and forth, lunging and grunting, faces going red with exertion. Both had taken off their coats to allow their arms more freedom of movement. I was the Keeper of the Coats; I held the folded garments on my lap, absently stroking the soft wool.

  The day was warm, but because the sun was mostly covered by clouds Nurse had allowed me to come outside. Still, she took precautions; my hat shaded my face and neck, and I had been firmly instructed to keep to the bench and not run. This would have been an easier command to obey had I already had my drops, but it was too early, and a child’s body craves movement. Even knowing the way I would end up gasping for air if I were to take a turn at my cousins’ game, I found myself unable to keep still; I wriggled on the bench until Nurse lay a hand upon my shoulder, a quiet reprimand. I turned a furious look upon her, but Nurse just kept sewing.