“One of the reasons, you say?”
“Yes, I…I missed the earlier train at the station,” she confessed. “I’d been waiting at the wrong platform and…by the time I realized my error, my train had already gone. I was obliged to change my ticket and take the next one.”
“Have you no maid with you? No traveling companion?”
“No, sir. I traveled alone.” There hadn’t been much choice. Jenny had to remain in London, to conceal Helena’s absence as long as possible. Helena had considered hiring someone to accompany her, but there’d been no time and precious little money to spare. Besides which, she didn’t know who she could trust.
Mr. Boothroyd continued to sift through his papers. Helena wondered if he was even listening to her. “Ah. Here it is,” he said at last. “Your initial reply to the advertisement.” He withdrew a letter covered in small, even handwriting which she recognized as her own. “As well as a letter from Mr. Finchley in London with whom you met on the fifteenth.” He perused a second missive with a frown.
“Is anything the matter?” she asked.
“Indeed. It says here that you are five and twenty.” Mr. Boothroyd lowered the letter. “You do not look five and twenty, Miss Reynolds.”
“I assure you that I am, sir.” She began to work at the ribbons of her gray silk traveling bonnet. After untying the knot with unsteady fingers, she lifted it from her head, twined the ribbons round it, and placed it atop her carpetbag. When she raised her eyes, she found Mr. Boothroyd staring at her. “I always look much younger in a bonnet. But, as you can see now, I’m—”
“Young and beautiful,” he muttered with disapproval.
She blushed, glancing nervously at the gentleman by the fire. He did not seem to be listening, thank goodness. Even so, she leaned forward in her chair, dropping her voice. “Does Mr. Thornhill not want a pretty wife?”
“This isn’t London, Miss Reynolds. Mr. Thornhill’s house is isolated. Lonely. He seeks a wife who can bear the solitude. Who can manage his home and see to his comforts. A sturdy, capable sort of woman. Which is precisely why the advertisement specified a preference for a widow or spinster of more mature years.”
“Yes, but I—”
“What Mr. Thornhill doesn’t want,” he continued, “is a starry-eyed girl who dreams of balls and gowns and handsome suitors. A marriage with such a frivolous creature would be a recipe for disaster.”
Helena bristled. “That isn’t fair, sir.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m no starry-eyed girl. I never was. And with respect, Mr. Boothroyd, you haven’t the slightest notion of my dreams. If I wanted balls and gowns or…or frivolous things…I’d never have answered Mr. Thornhill’s advertisement.”
“What exactly do you seek out of this arrangement, Miss Reynolds?”
She clasped her hands tightly in her lap to stop their trembling. “Security,” she answered honestly. “And perhaps…a little kindness.”
“You couldn’t find a gentleman who met these two requirements in London?”
“I don’t wish to be in London. Indeed, I wish to be as far from London as possible.”
“You friends and family…?”
“I’m alone in the world, sir.”
“I see.”
Helena doubted that very much. “Mr. Boothroyd, if you’ve already decided someone else is better suited—”
“There is no one else, Miss Reynolds. At present, you’re the only lady Mr. Finchley has recommended.”
“But the woman who was here before—”
“Mrs. Standish?” Mr. Boothroyd removed his spectacles. “She was applying for the position of housekeeper at the Abbey.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Regrettably, we have an ongoing issue with retaining adequate staff. It’s something you should be aware of if you intend to take up residence.”
She exhaled slowly. “A housekeeper. Of course. How silly of me. Mr. Thornhill mentioned the difficulties you were having with servants in one of his letters.”
“I’m afraid it’s proven quite a challenge.” Mr. Boothroyd settled his spectacles back on his nose. “Not only is the house isolated, it has something of a local reputation. Perhaps you’ve heard…?”
“A little. But Mr. Finchley told me it was nothing more than ignorant superstition.”
“Quite so. However, in this part of the world, Miss Reynolds, you’ll find ignorance is in ready supply.”
Helena was unconcerned. “I should like to see the Abbey for myself.”
“Yes, yes. All in good time.”
“And I should like to meet Mr. Thornhill.”
“Undoubtedly.” Mr. Boothroyd shuffled through his papers again. To her surprise, a rising color crept into the elderly man’s face. “There are just one or two more points at issue, Miss Reynolds.” He cleared his throat. “You’re aware, I presume… That is, I do hope Mr. Finchley explained…this marriage is to be a real marriage in every sense of the word.”
She looked at him, brows knit in confusion. “What other kind of marriage would it be?”
“And you’re agreeable?”
“Of course.”
He made no attempt to disguise his skepticism. “There are many ladies who would find such an arrangement singularly lacking in romance.”
Helena didn’t doubt it. She’d have balked at the prospect herself once. But much had changed in the past year—and in the past months, especially. Any girlish fantasies she’d harbored about true love were dead. In their place was a rather ruthless pragmatism.
“I don’t seek romance, Mr. Boothroyd. Only kindness. And Mr. Finchley said that Mr. Thornhill was a kind man.”
Mr. Boothroyd appeared to be surprised by this. “Did he indeed,” he murmured. “What else did he tell you, pray?”
She hesitated before repeating the words that Mr. Finchley had spoken. Words that had convinced her once and for all to travel to a remote coastal town in Devon, to meet and marry a complete stranger. “He told me that Mr. Thornhill had been a soldier, and that he knew how to keep a woman safe.”
Justin Thornhill cast another brooding glance at the pale, dark-haired beauty sitting across from Boothroyd. She was slight but shapely, her modest traveling gown doing nothing to disguise the high curve of her breasts and the narrow lines of her small waist. When first he’d seen her in the taproom, he thought she was a fashionable traveler on her way to Abbot’s Holcombe, the resort town farther up the coast. He had no reason to think otherwise. The Miss Reynolds he’d been expecting—the plain, sensible spinster who’d responded to his matrimonial advertisement—had never arrived.
This Miss Reynolds was a different class of woman altogether.
She sat across from Boothroyd, her back ramrod straight, and her elegant, gloved hands folded neatly on her lap in a pretty attitude. She regarded the curmudgeonly steward with wide, doelike hazel eyes and when she spoke, she did so in the smooth, cultured tones of a gentlewoman. No, Justin amended. Not a gentlewoman. A lady.
She was nothing like the two sturdy widows Boothroyd had interviewed earlier for the position of housekeeper. Those women had, ironically, been more in line with Justin’s original specifications—the specifications he had barked at his aging steward those many months ago when Boothroyd had first broached the idea of his advertising for a wife.
“I have no interest in courtship,” he’d said, “nor in weeping young ladies who take to their bed with megrims. What I need is a woman. A woman who is bound by law and duty to see to the running of this godforsaken mausoleum. A woman I can bed on occasion. Damnation, Boothroyd, I didn’t survive six years in India so I could live like a bloody monk when I returned home.”
They were words spoken in frustration after the last in a long line of housekeepers had quit without notice. Words that owed a great deal to physical loneliness and far too many glasses of strong
spirits.
The literal-minded Boothroyd had taken them as his marching orders.
The next morning, before Justin had even arisen from his alcohol-induced slumber, his ever-efficient steward had arranged for an advertisement to be placed in the London papers. It had been brief and to the point:
MATRIMONY: Retired army officer, thirty-two, of moderate means and quiet disposition wishes to marry a spinster or widow of the same age. Suitable lady will be sensible, compassionate, and capable of managing the household of remote country property. Independent fortune unimportant. Letters to be addressed, postpaid, to Mr. T. Finchley, Esq., Fleet Street.
Justin had initially been angry. He’d even threatened to give Boothroyd the sack. However, within a few days he’d found himself warming to the idea of acquiring a wife by advertisement. It was modern and efficient. As straightforward as any other business transaction. The prospective candidates would simply write to Thomas Finchley, Justin’s London attorney, and Finchley would negotiate the rest, just as competently as he’d negotiated the purchase of Greyfriar’s Abbey or those shares Justin had recently acquired in the North Devon Railway.
Still, he had no intention of making the process easy. He’d informed both Boothroyd and Finchley that he would not bestir himself on any account. If a prospective bride wanted to meet, she would have to do so at a location within easy driving distance of the Abbey.
He’d thought such a condition would act as a deterrent.
It hadn’t occurred to him that women routinely traveled such distances to take up employment. And what was his matrimonial advertisement if not an offer for a position in his household?
In due time, Finchley had managed to find a woman for whom an isolated existence in a remote region of coastal Devon sounded agreeable. Justin had even exchanged a few brief letters with her. Miss Reynolds hadn’t written enough for him to form a definite picture of her personality, nor of her beauty—or lack thereof. Nevertheless, he’d come to imagine her as a levelheaded spinster. The sort of spinster who would endure his conjugal attentions with subdued dignity. A spinster who wouldn’t burst into tears at the sight of his burns.
The very idea that anything like this lovely young creature would grace his table and his bed was frankly laughable.
Not but that she wasn’t determined.
Though that was easily remedied. Folding his paper, Justin rose from his chair. “I’ll take it from here, Boothroyd.”
Miss Reynold’s eyes lifted to his. He could see the exact moment when she realized who he was. To her credit, she didn’t cry or faint or spring from her chair and bolt out of the room. She merely looked at him in that same odd way she had in the taproom when first she beheld his burns.
“Miss Reynolds,” Mr. Boothroyd said, “may I present Mr. Thornhill?”
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During the writing of this novella, one of my Siamese cats passed away quite suddenly. His name was Christmas Marzipan, but we called him Zippy. He was only ten years old and was the kindest, smartest, sweetest cat you could ever meet. After his loss, finishing this story was really hard. That’s why I’m extra grateful to everyone who supported and encouraged me along the way.
I owe tremendous thanks to Flora, Lauren, and Lena for reading early drafts of this story and providing such helpful feedback. Thanks also go to my wonderful editor, Deb Nemeth, who never fails to make my books better. And to my kind and very generous parents who always help me when things get overwhelming.
Finally, I want to thank all of you—my readers—for your continued support. I wish you and your families (both human and animal) a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
Mimi Matthews writes both historical non-fiction and traditional historical romances set in Victorian England. Her articles on nineteenth century history have been published on various academic and history sites, including the Victorian Web and the Journal of Victorian Culture, and are also syndicated weekly at BUST Magazine. In her other life, Mimi is an attorney. She resides in California with her family, which includes an Andalusian dressage horse, two Shelties, and two Siamese cats.
To learn more, please visit
www.MimiMatthews.com
NON-FICTION
The Pug Who Bit Napoleon
Animal Tales of the 18th and 19th Centuries
A Victorian Lady’s Guide to Fashion and Beauty
FICTION
The Lost Letter
A Victorian Romance
The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter
A Victorian Romance
The Matrimonial Advertisement
Parish Orphans of Devon, Book 1
A Modest Independence
Parish Orphans of Devon, Book 2
A Holiday by Gaslight Page 15