by Erica Vetsch
What on earth? Who had the temerity to barge into the home of strangers?
“May I help you?” Sophie crossed the hall.
Before they could answer, a herd of children banged the door open again, sending it rocketing back to smack the wall, and pelted into the house. Shouting, half wrestling, they tumbled to an ungainly halt of arms and legs.
“He hit me.”
“Did not.”
“Did so.”
“You hit me first.”
“You there,” the man said, flicking his finger at Sophie, speaking over the melee. “Are you the housekeeper?”
“She’s clearly the parlor maid,” the woman in the impressive bonnet said, her tone as lofty as a belfry. “See her black dress? Though she should be properly attired with a cap and apron. Things truly are more lax in the country, aren’t they? Well, we will soon raise the standards.”
The boys continued to tussle, elbows and shoulders flying.
Sophie stood still, bemused. This rather uppity couple and their wild band of offspring were clearly in the wrong house.
“Boys, if you don’t stop …” The mother put her hands on her hips. “Go outside before I give you the rough side of my tongue.”
They ignored her. One pair fell to the ground, grappling like angry stoats, while the tallest pointed to a painting of a Richardson forbear and laughed. “He looks like he just sat on a thistle. Pucker face!”
“The décor is dreadful. It will all have to go. And this flooring. Nobody has stone anymore. It looks like it belongs in a monastery.” The woman ran her hand along the top of a gate-legged table. She inspected her white glove, but there was no dust there that Sophie could see. Still the woman sniffed. “This furniture is awful. So out of fashion.”
“I’m more interested in the grist mill and the farm. And the bank accounts. Once I know the balances, we can talk about renovations.” The man narrowed his eyes, as if calculating sums. He seemed to remember Sophie at that point. “You there, young woman. Go fetch your mistress. We’ve much to discuss.”
Stunned at their brazenness, Sophie didn’t move.
The man and woman exchanged an arch look. “I say, if this is the standard of obedience for servants in the country, they will be put on notice immediately. Woman, do as you are told, or you’ll find yourself turned out without a character. When I issue an order, I expect to be obeyed forthwith.” He punctuated each word with a tap of his cane on the flagstones.
Stung, Sophie stepped forward. “Sir, I don’t know who you are, but you are seriously in error. I am not a parlor maid, but even if I were, your behavior would be shameful. Barging into a stranger’s house and ordering people around. This is the house of the late Baron Richardson and his mother, Lady Mamie Richardson. This is her home, and you are not welcome here. You may keep your opinions about the décor to yourself as you go.” Sophie didn’t know whether to be satisfied or aghast that she sounded so much like her mother at that moment. I’ve learned from the best how to give a setdown.
The man harrumphed, and the woman blinked, stepping back a pace and shaking her head, as if stunned by such an outburst.
“Well, you can hardly blame us for the mistake. You’re dressed like a parlor maid.” She sniffed again, stacking her hands on the handle of her parasol.
The brawling boys rucked up the rug and nudged a table, causing the vase atop it to totter. Sophie reached for the flower arrangement at the same moment footsteps sounded behind her.
The captain strode into the fracas, grabbing youthful collars and hauling the boys upright.
“Ow, say, what’s this?” The eldest of the children rubbed his shoulder and scowled. He managed to get in a sly kick to the next youngest boy.
“Batten your hatches.” The captain straightened the youngest two, who appeared to be twins. “This is not Gentleman Jack’s boxing establishment, nor is it a dockside pub for brawling in. Now, stand there and don’t make a sound.”
His voice held such authority, Sophie found herself straightening. He managed to sort the melee into four separate boys.
Captain Wyvern turned to the adults. “Sir, madam, I do not know the customs where you are from, but I was to understand that it is common practice in these parts to knock and wait to be invited inside before barging into a home. And it is also advisable to control one’s young when visiting another’s residence. You have neither introduced yourselves, nor have you respected the privacy of this household. Surely you could not have missed the black crepe on the door? This is a house of mourning, and it would behoove you to remember that. Lower your voices, state your business, and then be on your way.”
He kept a firm hand on the shoulder of one of the smaller boys, who scowled but stood still. Sophie was taken aback at his commanding tone, though she supposed he’d had years to perfect it. In his naval jacket with the gold braid and brass buttons, he looked impressive.
“Perhaps it is you who misunderstood.” The strange man puffed out his chest. “I’ll have you know you’re addressing the new Baron Richardson and that I own this house and property. This cottage, the farm, and the mill now belong to me. If I choose to perform a clean sweep of the contents and start fresh, that’s my business. I can burn the place to a pile of cinders if that is my choice. And my children are welcome to behave how I see fit within my own domicile.”
“Perry, is that you?” Mamie asked from halfway up the steps. She gripped the ends of her shawl around her shoulders with one hand and the banister with her other. “And Millicent?”
“That’s right, Aunt Mamie. I’m sorry about Rich and all. I thought you might invite us to the funeral. We waited what we felt was a decent amount of time, and now we’re here to inspect the property.”
Mamie descended the stairs carefully, and when she reached the bottom, she went to Sophie’s side, tucking her hand into Sophie’s elbow. “My dear, this is Perry. Peregrine Richardson, Rich’s second cousin, and his wife, Millicent.”
Rich’s second cousin. And he claimed to be the new Baron Richardson?
A decent amount of time? The man had to be joking. It had been barely any time at all since the memorial service. If he was indeed the new baron—and why hadn’t she considered that possibility?—then his haste in coming to Primrose seemed more like the behavior of carrion birds than a compassionate relative.
“And you are, sir?” Perry asked, turning from the women as if they were of no account.
The captain removed his hand from the boy and bowed slightly. “Captain Charles Wyvern, Royal Navy. Guest of Lady Richardson and Lady Sophia.”
A coachman entered the front hall, bowed under the trunk on his shoulder. “Your pardon, sir. The baggage coach is ’ere. Where ya want us to put yer things?”
Another man followed, laden with bags. Sophie’s eyes met the captain’s. This was a proper invasion. How long would they stay?
“Mamie, would you like me to sort rooms? It appears Mr. and Mrs. Richardson and their children will be our guests for a day or two,” Sophie said. Pray it won’t be any longer than that.
“That’s Lord and Lady Richardson,” Millicent snapped. “We’re not the guests. As my husband said, since he has inherited the title and the property, you are our guests.” She handed her parasol to the coachman, who grappled with it and the trunk. “I will sort out the rooms myself when I go upstairs. For now, I’m perishing for a cup of tea.” She sent Sophie a pointed stare, as if challenging her to disagree.
Bristling, Sophie inhaled, ready to hoe in, but Mamie put her hand on Sophie’s arm. “Perhaps you might inform Mrs. Chapman?”
The captain cleared his throat. “My belongings are packed. I shall remove them to make space for the …” He stopped and then waved his hand at the new arrivals. He edged past Sophie on his way to the stairs, and as he brushed by, he reached out and squeezed her elbow.
The contact surprised Sophie. Her eyes clashed with his, and he looked hard into her face, as if bracing her up before this new onslaught.
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“I want my own room. I’m not sharing with Geoffrey.” The boys went pelting upstairs, streaming around the captain, who marched up with dignity and a straight back.
Millicent Richardson followed, a sneer marring her face as she observed the paintings on the stairwell wall. She spoke over her shoulder as she went. “Conducting this conversation in the hall is hardly appropriate, Perry. Go into the drawing room. I’ll do a quick inspection of the upstairs and be with you soon.”
Sophie didn’t want to leave poor Mamie alone long with the pompous Perry, so the minute they went into the drawing room, she dashed into the kitchen.
“Mrs. Chapman, company has arrived. Actually, they don’t wish to be called company. It’s a relative of Mamie’s, and he says he’s the new baron and that he owns Primrose now. They intend to stay on, at least for a little while.” She paused for breath. “There are four children—boys who don’t seem to know the difference between a front hall and a gymnasium—and I fear the lady of the family will be difficult to please …” Sophie stopped as several expressions crossed the housekeeper’s face, mirroring her own feelings on the subject.
“Six people? A new baron? Where will they stay? Primrose doesn’t run to that many bedchambers.” Mrs. Chapman wiped her hands on her apron. “Where’s Miss Mamie?”
“She’s in the drawing room with the new baron, and I must get back there. I know it’s still early, but will you prepare a tea tray for five adults, and I suppose another for those boys. Perhaps some bread and butter for them, since we’ve nothing much prepared in the way of a sweet. As to the bedrooms, I’ll move in with Mamie for the duration of the stay. That will leave my room free.” She was rambling. Her mind skittered like a sheep on ice.
“What about the captain?” Mrs. Chapman asked as she checked the kettle and swung it over the fire.
Sophie’s hand came up to cover the spot where he’d squeezed her arm. She could still feel his slender fingers and the strength they conveyed. “He’s gone upstairs to retrieve his belongings. That will leave another room free.”
The housekeeper sighed, her keys jingling as she searched for the one that unlocked the tea chest. “Too bad. It was nice having a gentleman around the place again.”
In spite of herself, Sophie agreed. Though it hadn’t been easy to hear what Captain Wyvern had to say, and she still struggled with his role in Rich’s death, he had been kind, especially to Mamie. For that alone, she would have counted his visit welcome.
She hurried back to the drawing room, and in an instant knew something was terribly wrong. Perry Richardson stood before the curio cabinet, picking up and setting down shells, his back to the room. Sophie wanted to smack his hand. Those shells belonged to Rich. Nobody touched them.
Mamie was drawn into herself, a small figure in the corner of the settee. Her eyes had a bewildered, faraway look. Sophie went to her, putting her arm around the older woman.
“What is it?” Sophie bristled and steeled herself. If he had been rude to Mamie, she was going to forget her manners and give him the tongue lashing he deserved.
Mamie studied Sophie’s face. “He says we have to leave Primrose?” She asked it as a question, as if seeking confirmation.
Perry cleared his throat, tossing the last shell onto the shelf and turning around. “This house is the country seat of the barony. It comes with the title. I’m sure you understand. It belongs to my family now.”
Thuds and thumps came from overhead, and a crash followed on the heels of a yell from one of the boys. Millicent Richardson’s voice could be heard like a nail on glass as she scolded her sons. At the rate they were going, Primrose would be a pile of rubble within a fortnight.
Anger flickered like hot tongues of fire across Sophie’s skin. A tremor went through her, a little flash of recognition that she was about to say something she might regret. The brashness of the man, parading in like a field marshal and setting down demands.
“Sir, that is the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard uttered. You cannot possibly throw Mamie Richardson out of Primrose Cottage. It’s her home. You must have lost your reason.”
“It was her home. Now it is my home.” He shook his head. “Come, come, woman. Do not become hysterical. I’m not intending she should be destitute. I’m sure there is a small cottage in the village where she can live out the rest of her days. I’m not completely callous. She is my relative, after all.” He narrowed his eyes. “You have not explained your presence here, however. Just who are you? A paid companion, I assume? Well, you may keep your position as long as your wages are not exorbitant.”
Mamie’s hand fluttered, and she murmured, but Sophie spoke first. “I am not a paid companion. I am Lady Sophia Haverly, sister to the Duke of Haverly, who happens to be the overlord of this property. Mamie’s son, Baron Richardson, was my fiancé, and he charged me with caring for Mamie and Primrose Cottage until his return from war.”
Perry flinched when she gave her title and relationship to the duke. Then he rallied. “I am sorry for your loss, but that loss does mean the barony passes to me. Your duty to Aunt Mamie ceased when Rich died. I will see that she is taken care of, installed in a reasonable cottage in the village, and has a pension for her needs. I’m not a monster. I should think you would be grateful to have someone take her off your hands.”
“She’s not a stray dog. I have no desire to be freed of the pleasure of looking after her.” Sophie tightened her hug around Mamie’s shoulders. How could this be happening? It felt as if everything was being ripped from her.
Surely this couldn’t be God’s will. God, You wouldn’t take Primrose and Mamie from me, would You? You’ve already got Rich and the future we’d planned together. Please don’t take this house.
“Whatever your title or position, the truth remains—this house is mine, and you will need to vacate it. Sooner rather than later. My wife is most eager to begin the renovations, and she has no desire for relics of former barons to hang about. I shall go into the village to search for a suitable cottage for Aunt Mamie. If you choose to stay on there, be advised you will contribute to the household expenses. It’s one thing to pension off a relative, but I won’t be responsible for your upkeep as well. Though I suppose, as a daughter of a duke, you have some means …” He appraised her. “In any case, I expect you to be out of the house tomorrow at the latest.”
Heat charged into Sophie’s cheeks, and again that tremble that told her to bite her tongue rippled through her bones. The gall of the man.
A movement caught her eye. Captain Wyvern stood in the doorway, bicorn in hand, cloak over his shoulder. How much had he heard?
“Lady Sophia, Lady Richardson.” He bowed as he came into the room. “I must thank you for your gracious hospitality. I could not have asked for more welcoming hostesses.” His voice was as dry as pillow ticking. “You are kindness personified. Before I take my leave, I must renew my offer of assistance. Are you certain there is nothing I can do for you?”
Mamie rallied at his strong voice. “Captain Wyvern, it appears we are in need after all. Would you consider staying on to help us sort things out?”
Sophie wanted to protest. They had asserted that they were not in need of the captain’s assistance. But if Mamie wanted the captain to stay, Sophie wouldn’t contradict her.
It wasn’t as if they needed him though. Sophie had family to aid her, and not just anyone, but a duke. With one word of assent, they could accept Marcus’s offer to live at Haverly. It wasn’t as if they would be homeless.
Though that would feel like admitting defeat. Of surrendering her independence and her future. Still, if that was what was best for Mamie, she would do it. Mamie at Haverly Manor was much better than Mamie shunted off to some cramped cottage in the village.
“We will accede to your demands, Baron Richardson. We shall pack and be away quickly. There is no need for you to seek a pensioner’s lodging for Mamie. She will accompany me.” Sophia hugged Mamie once more. “Come. We’ll gather our things
.”
Mustering her dignity, she stood and drew Mamie up with her. They would not be cowed by this uncouth, acquisitive pomp of a man. They would withdraw from the field of battle with grace.
Even as she led Mamie from the room, her heart was breaking. How could she leave Primrose Cottage? All her memories of Rich were here.
Charles resisted the urge to put his fist through Perry Richardson’s supercilious face. Evicting a widow from her home? Tossing a grieving fiancée out of her residence? And so soon after their bereavement? What was the British aristocracy coming to when such a lack of chivalry was openly displayed?
How he longed to be away from these entanglements, aboard a ship, where right was right, wrong was wrong, and order maintained at all costs. It made his teeth clench to think of such a lesser man inheriting Rich’s title and properties. He felt the need to step in, but how and what was the right way?
Mrs. Chapman arrived with a heavy tea tray, and Charles approached her. “Thank you. If you will inform my coachman that he will be needed to carry some baggage outside, I would be most appreciative.” He took the tray—knowing the teapot and cups now belonged to the intruders made him want to drop it from a height onto the low table—and forced himself to place it down gently.
When he joined Lady Sophia in the hall, high color rode her cheeks, and her eyes were bright. Not with tears, but he suspected with anger. And rightly so. This was a cruel blow on top of all she had dealt with. “We would appreciate if you would take us to Haverly Manor. It is but a few miles. We will pack quickly so as not to delay your departure by more than a few hours at most.” Her voice was as bleak as the Baltic Sea in winter.
He thought he understood how she must feel. He, too, had been removed from his home and cast into a foreign place. He had been forced to surrender both command of his ship and the only life he knew.