by Jane Ashford
“No, Papa,” said Harriet Finch’s mother meekly.
Harriet gritted her teeth to keep back a sharp retort. She’d had years of practice swallowing slights and insults, so she wouldn’t let anything slip. But hours in a coach with her grandfather had tried her to the limit. From the less comfortable rear-facing seat she looked at her mother’s father, Horace Winstead. Winstead the nabob. Winstead the all-knowing, according to him. She’d never spent so much time with him before. They hadn’t been thrown together like this during the months of the London season. Now that she’d endured a large dose of his company, she was afraid that their new living arrangements were a mistake. How long would she be able to hold her tongue?
She hadn’t met her grandfather until this year because he had so disapproved of her parents’ marriage that he disowned his daughter. More than disowned. He’d vengefully pursued the young couple, ruining her new husband’s prospects by saying despicable things about him. Horace Winstead had consigned Harriet’s family to genteel poverty for her entire life. And then, suddenly, after the death of a cousin she’d never met, he’d turned about and declared he would leave his immense fortune to Harriet, now his only grandchild.
The reversal had been dizzying. New clothes, a lavish house in London for the season, a changed position in society. Young ladies who’d spurned Harriet at school when she paid her way with tutoring pretended to be bosom friends. Young men suddenly found her fascinating. A thin smile curved Harriet’s lips. They found her prospective income fascinating. Some hardly bothered to disguise their greed.
Harriet was expected to receive this largess with humble gratitude. She couldn’t count the number of people who’d told her how lucky she was. She was not to mind her grandfather’s ‘abrupt’ manners or ever lose her temper in his presence. He was to be catered to like a veritable monarch lest he change his mind and eject them. It was nearly insupportable. And one of the hardest parts of all was, her mother had felt redeemed.
Harriet glanced at her sole remaining parent and received an anxious look in response. Mama knew she was annoyed, and her eyes begged Harriet not to let it show. Years of worry had carved creases around Mama’s mouth and added an emotional tremor to her manners. She continually expected disaster, and she’d often been quite right to do so. Brought back into the fold of her youth, she’d been so happy. Had she really thought that Grandfather had changed? He still treated her with something close to contempt, even though she agreed with everything he said.
Harriet gave Mama a nod and a smile, silently promising that she wouldn’t add to her burdens. Harriet might sometimes wish that her mother had more fire, but Mama’s youthful rebellion had brought her years of scrimping, an early grief, and very little joy. She deserved some ease and comfort now. Harriet could not take it from her.
She sat back and watched the landscape passing the carriage window. She took deep breaths to ease her temper, a method she’d learned at an early age. At least she could revel in the knowledge that she resembled her father, Harriet thought. Her grandfather must notice it every time he looked at her. She’d inherited her red blonde hair, green eyes, and pointed chin beneath a broad forehead from her Papa. He’d been a handsome man, though bitterness had marred his looks as he aged. His fierce drive to support his family, continually thwarted, had broken his health. Harriet could not actually prove that her grandfather’s meanness had killed her father, but she thought it. And this made her present life a painful conundrum.
“The countryside here is very fine,” said the old man. He pointed out the window. “That is Ferrington Hall, the principle seat of an earl. A neighbor of mine.”
Harriet perked up at this name and leaned forward to look. She’d heard of Ferrington Hall while in London. An acquaintance, Lady Wilton, had complained that its new owner, her great grandson, was missing. Peering through a screen of trees, she could just see a sprawling stone manor. “Is the earl in residence?” she asked.
“Not at present,” replied her grandfather.
She could tell from his tone that he knew nothing about it. Harriet remembered her friend Charlotte Deeping saying, “We will unravel the mystery of the missing earl.” How she missed her friends! She’d been allowed to invite Sarah and Charlotte for a visit later in the summer. She couldn’t wait.
Ferrington Hall disappeared from view as they drove on, and in another few miles they came to her grandfather’s country house, the spoils of the fortune he’d made in trade. But Harriet was not supposed to think of that, let alone ever mention it. People in society despised business, and those who benefited from commercial success hid it like a disreputable secret. It seemed ridiculous to Harriet. Everyone knew. And how was it any better to have gained lands and estates with a medieval broadsword?
“Here it is—Winstead Hall,” said her grandfather. “I changed the name when I bought it, of course.”
Of course he had. Horace Winstead put his stamp on anything he touched. Or, if he could not, he demeaned it.
They passed through stone gateposts, traversed a tree-lined avenue, and pulled up before the central block, a red brick building studded with tall chimneys. It was not large, but a sprawling wing constructed of pale gray stone had been added at one end, and another was going up on the opposite side. The sound of hammering rang across the lush summer lawns.
Servants appeared at the front door, hurrying out to receive them. As more and more emerged Harriet realized that she was to meet the entire staff in her first moment here.
“They ought to be ready,” grumbled her grandfather. “I suppose the coachman forgot to send word ahead.”
She understood then that the servants were required to turn out every time he arrived. Her grandfather probably imagined that was how great noblemen were received at their country homes. She’d noticed that he equated pomp with rank.
Horace Winstead longed to be accepted by the aristocracy. He’d planned to purchase entry into those exalted circles by marrying his daughter to a title. That was one reason he’d been so vindictive when Mama met and married a junior member of his company. Papa’s intelligence, diligence, and business acumen hadn’t mattered a whit. He’d thwarted Horace Winstead, so he had to be punished. Now Grandfather expected Harriet to fulfill his social ambitions. She’d heard him say that his fortune ought to net him a viscount at least. Harriet’s fists clenched in her lap, and she had to wrestle with her temper once again. Her London season had been shadowed by Grandfather’s demand for a lord. If she so much as smiled at a commoner or seemed to enjoy dancing with one, he scolded her mother into tears.
They stepped down from the carriage and walked toward the door. The servants bowed and curtsied as they passed along the line. Harriet saw no sign of emotion from any of them—certainly not welcome. Slade, the superior abigail her grandfather had hired to dress her, would not appreciate this ritual. In fact, Harriet couldn’t imagine the thin, upright woman participating. She would view it with the sour expression she reserved for cheap jewelry and fussily ornamented gowns. It was fortunate that this display would be over by the time the vehicle carrying Slade, her mother’s attendant, and her grandfather’s valet arrived.
They entered the house, moving through a cramped entryway into a parlor crammed with costly furnishings, eastern silks, and indifferent paintings. It looked more like a shop offering luxury goods than a cozy sitting room. Harriet felt as if the clutter was closing in on her, strange and oppressive. Her mother wandered about in a seeming daze. She had not grown up here; her father had purchased the house after her marriage.
“You can see we will be quite comfortable here,” said her grandfather with his usual complaisance.
Harriet’s spirits sank as she thought of the days ahead. There would be long, heavy dinners, tedious evenings, and many difficult conversations. Indeed, all the conversations were likely to be hard. How would they manage, just the three of them? She knew her grandfather had not
received invitations to fashionable house parties, and she doubted that his neighbors here included him in their social round. As far as she had seen, he had no friends.
“We will settle in and plan our strategy for next season,” the old man said. “You have not made a proper a push to attract a noble husband, Harriet. You must try harder.”
Harriet started to reply, saw her mother’s worried frown, and bit her lip. She didn’t know what she was going to do. She couldn’t swallow her anger forever.
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About the Author
Jane Ashford discovered Georgette Heyer in junior high school and was captivated by the glittering world and witty language of Regency England. That delight was part of what led her to study English literature and travel widely. Her books have been published all over Europe as well as in the United States. Jane was nominated for a Career Achievement Award by RT Book Reviews. Born in Ohio, she is now somewhat nomadic. Find her on the web at janeashford.com and on Facebook at facebook.com/JaneAshfordWriter, where you can sign up for her monthly newsletter.
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