The Earl of Highmott Hall: A Regency Cinderella

by Nina Clare

  ‘Lady Asher,’ he began. She had cold eyes, he thought, as she turned them to him. Miss Asher had a rather childlike expression in her light brown eyes, and the red-haired maid had a bright, quick look, bespeaking intelligence and a strong will, but Lady Asher made him think of a Roman statue with her pale irises and eyelashes.

  ‘Yes, Mr Neville?’

  ‘A few days ago I met two of your household at work in one of the meadows.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I thought it rather singular that they should be clearing the ground so late in the year, and with insufficient clothing for such labour. Not to mention it being a Sunday.’

  If Lady Asher had seemed statue-like before, her face now fully set into a stony disdain.

  ‘I only mention it,’ added Lord Marbury, ‘because I was certain you could not know of it. You certainly would not countenance such labour if you did.’

  ‘Mama cannot prevent Celia from doing anything she wishes to,’ said Miss Asher, who had noticed her mother’s change of expression.

  ‘Celia?’ repeated Lord Marbury. ‘Is that the name of the young woman?’

  Miss Asher opened her mouth to reply, but a glare from her mother silenced her and she merely nodded.

  ‘The young woman with red hair?’ Lord Marbury pressed, wanting to be sure they were speaking of the same person.

  Miss Asher glanced at her mother and merely nodded again.

  ‘She was a marvel at catching my runaway horse,’ said Neville brightly. ‘Regular horse charmer. What a girl! Is she about? I wish to ask her something on the subject of horses.’

  Lady Asher tightened her lips, as if greatly displeased, and Miss Asher made a little squeak of a nervous laugh and said, ‘Celia has gone out with soup.’

  ‘Soup?’ said Neville.

  ‘For some of the old people.’

  ‘Lavinia usually distributes aid to the poorer residents, whenever possible,’ interposed Lady Asher, ‘but this afternoon she wished not to miss your call, and begged Celia to do so on her behalf.’

  Lord Marbury noticed the quick glance that Miss Asher and her mother shared, and wondered why Miss Asher looked so uncomfortable.

  ‘And do you care for horses, Miss Asher?’ said Neville, deftly turning the conversation away from what was clearly a disagreeable subject to their hostess.

  ‘I do not ride myself,’ said Miss Asher. ‘I confess I am rather scared of horses. Cows also. I am not like Celia. She is not afraid of anything.’ Lady Asher glared again and Miss Asher dropped her eyes and said in a bright voice, ‘I like to dance, however. How I am longing for the ball. But how long five days seem when one is looking forward to something so very much!’

  Lord Marbury could tell that her youthful enthusiasm pleased Neville, prompting him to say, ‘And don’t forget you must open the ball with me, Miss Asher. Being my nearest neighbour, and all.’

  ‘Oh, Lord Marbury, I would be so honoured.’ She shone a beam of pleasure in the direction of her mother. Lady Asher’s granite face relaxed into a tight smile of approval, and she shifted in her chair so that her shoulder, rather than her face, was facing Lord Marbury. He took the hint, and spoke no more to her except to make his farewells.

  Celia swung her empty basket, feeling something like happiness for the first time in a long time. The baskets of food that came from Highmott made an enormous difference. She could not object to them, as clearly, they were gifts from Lord Marbury to indicate his interest in Lavinia. And it was a pleasure to see Robin’s great appetite satisfied for once, and to be able to share out their unexpected bounty. Agnes had made an enormous cauldron of broth from that morning’s basket, and it had given Celia great satisfaction in taking as much as she could carry to some of their neediest neighbours.

  One of the driving forces of Celia’s determination to working tirelessly was the knowledge that there were many in the village who were far worse off than the family at Roseleat.

  Did the generosity that the new earl was showing to their family indicate that he would be a good landlord and patron to the village? Poor Lady Marbury had retreated in her mind from the outside world in the latter years of her life, and her physician had forbidden everyone from talking to her ladyship of anything disagreeable.

  Celia determined that next time she met Lord Marbury she would thank him for the baskets. It would be the ideal time to bring up the subject of the cottage tenants and others who had some claim on his patronage. Perhaps Mr Neville was right in saying that the incident with Robin’s hand and the plough had been an accident that the earl was unaware of. She could forgive him wholeheartedly if he proved to be a good landlord and a charitable lord of the manor.

  Her thoughts ran back to Mr Neville, recalling him rolling up his spotless linen shirtsleeves to grub in the dirt for rocks. That had been unexpected. Now, he would make an excellent lord of the manor. There was a look of kindness about him. He had not the loud, brash voice of his friend, but had a quiet strength about him. He seemed a little serious for so young a man, she could not imagine him roistering about as so many rich young men did, drinking and gambling and hunting and filling their days with pleasure. She could imagine the earl living in that fashion. He and Lavinia would make a good match in their love for entertainment and frivolity, but Mr Neville was more her idea of a good and honest gentleman, even if he did use a ridiculous amount of pomade at times.

  A memory of his well-manicured hands casting rocks into the barrow came into her mind. She recalled those same fingers laced tightly with her own, their palms pressed together, and she found herself feeling an odd churning in her stomach, and took off her clogs, tossing them into her empty basket, that she might run lightly home, to clear her mind of such disturbing thoughts.

  14

  There was little time for anything outside of the preparations for the ball. On Thursday Lord Marbury had been directed to visit the local shops and workshops in the village. Everyone was glad to make his acquaintance. The farrier talked of the old days when trade was brisk, the stables of Highmott Hall supplying regular work to him. The brewer reminisced about the days when the plentiful harvests of Highmott lands supplied superior, affordable grain for his ale; the locally made beer by the name of The Earl’s Bounty had been famous in all the shire. It had been a great many years since a vat of Earl’s Bounty had been brewed, he lamented.

  The miller’s grandfather was ancient enough to recall the time when all the grain came solely from Highmott’s fields. There had been no buying in at inflated prices from the markets then. The head weaver recalled the fields of Highmott sheep supplying the best wool in four counties, and the dairy master declared the milk of Highmott cows made the best cheese in six counties, and it was a sad loss that the herds had long since dwindled down.

  Lord Marbury met the baker, the taverner, the chandler, the blacksmith – all of them struggling to make more than a meagre living for their families. He heard of the glory days of Highmott village, the whole land overflowing with milk and honey, thanks to the rich pastures and good management of Highmott land.

  ‘Your head must be as fat as a corn-fed hog,’ remarked Neville, as they rode home. ‘The whole village singing the praises of the new earl, come to save them all and restore the land to its former glory.’

  ‘It was you they were gazing at in adoration,’ Lord Marbury reminded him. He felt vexed at this continued duplicity. When Neville had proposed this mad scheme of swapped identities, he had only thought as far as meeting Miss Asher under the pretence. It had not occurred to him that a whole village would be caught up in the farce.

  ‘They won’t care which of us is the earl, when it all comes out,’ said Neville. ‘As long as you raise their fortunes.’

  ‘If it all comes out,’ said Lord Marbury quietly.

  ‘If?’ cried Neville. ‘You can’t let them all down now. What’s to stop you? Miss Asher is a pleasant enough chit for a wife. More than pleasant, I’ll warrant.’

  ‘I don’t think I can
ever love her,’ said Lord Marbury, in a tone more sorry than resentful.

  Neville was about to say again what he thought about Lord Marbury’s romantic notions of love, but the Beast had decided that it was time for a canter now that a stretch of greensward lay before them, and Neville took off whether he wished to or not.

  ‘So where are we off to today?’ Neville said the following morning, when his breakfast plate had been piled high with chops and kidneys.

  ‘Foundling hospital and workhouse in Chetham,’ said Lord Marbury. ‘I am guessing the Marbury’s are established patrons. Or were.’

  Neville pulled a face. ‘Sounds bleak. When do we start getting into the seasonal spirit? A landed earl ought to be out on hunts and rides at this time of year, not traipsing through hovels and hospitals.’

  ‘Stay here, if you wish,’ said Lord Marbury. He was feeling weighed down, and was not in the mood for Neville’s high spirits. ‘Chetham is five or six miles away. No one local will see me. I can go as myself. In fact, I would like to go as myself. I’m fed up of all this masquerading.’

  ‘Only three more days,’ said Neville, doubly cheered at the thought of the coming ball and of getting out of a disagreeable outing.

  It was about two o’clock in the afternoon when Lord Marbury’s carriage reached the outskirts of Highmott village on his way home. He rapped on the roof to the coachman, deciding he would walk the last couple of miles across the field. The smells and sights of the workhouse still lingered in his memory, and he wanted to drive them out with crisp cold air. The coachman respectfully pointed out the bank of black cloud coming from the south-east behind them, but Lord Marbury assured him he would walk fast and get ahead of any storm.

  He was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he did not see the figure in the footpath ahead until he was almost upon her. It was a young lady, an empty basket in one hand and a pair of clogs in the other, moving slowly. He caught a glimpse of a strand of red hair escaped from her old-fashioned bonnet, and felt an unaccountable rush of pleasure at seeing her again, until he noticed she was limping.

  ‘Hie there!’ he called, quickening his pace to overtake her. ‘Are you well?’ he said anxiously, noting her drawn face and the way she lifted her left foot up. ‘You are hurt!’

  ‘It is nothing,’ she said. ‘I stepped on a piece of broken slate, is all.’

  ‘Your foot is bleeding!’ He saw the bloodied marks on the grass, seeping out of her dark woollen stocking. ‘How came you to be walking barefoot on so cold a day?’

  She shook her head as though she was weary of his questions. ‘My shoes were pinching, I just thought to walk for a few minutes without them, then I stepped on the slate.’

  He wanted to ask more questions to ascertain the extent of her injury, but a great gust of wind rose up from behind him and blew his hat from his head. He darted after it, but it was caught up and carried over a low hedge and was gone.

  He turned back to the young woman. She was shivering, and the gust of wind had blown her bonnet back and loosened her hair from its pins. A curtain of rain came rolling over the fields at a rapid rate; it would soon be upon them.

  ‘A storm is coming, we must hurry.’ he said. But it was clear that she could not hurry with her injured foot. So he did the only thing he could think to do to aid her, and swept her up off her feet, one hand beneath her knees and the other under her shoulders, and hurried on.

  She cried out in surprise, dropping the basket and the clogs. ‘I can walk!’ she gasped.

  ‘No you cannot,’ he said, glad that the fierce wind was behind him as he laboured on, hurrying to race ahead of the storm. But the wind whirled round, lifting the row of capes on his greatcoat. The rain swung over them, stinging his face and ears like needles. Hail came next, quick and furious, hammering down, and so thick that the world was turned white and strange in a matter of minutes.

  She was trying to tell him something, and he had to put his ear right to her mouth to hear above the howl of the wind.

  ‘There is a barn,’ she said, ‘that way – at the edge of the field!’

  Already her lips were tinged with blue, her hands like ice as they clung to his neck. He veered to the left, following her direction and had never felt so glad to see shelter as when the old shepherd’s barn appeared out of the swirl of hail.

  He set her down carefully on a mound of dried leaves inside, tugging off his coat to cover her, then shouldering the door closed against the wind, and drawing the crude bolt to secure it. A tiny window with no glass was the only source of light. He pulled out the silver flask of brandy he carried in one pocket of his coat, blessing Morris’s finicky attention to details, for it was Morris who insisted that a gentleman always carried a flask when in the country. It was the thing.

  ‘Drink a little,’ he urged, putting the flask to her lips. ‘It will warm you.’ She grimaced after swallowing it, but it brought some animation back to her face.

  ‘Let me bind up that cut on your foot.’ He tugged his cravat loose, blessing Morris again for insisting that his master wear a voluminous stock, it being the thing.

  ‘We’ll wait out the storm,’ he said, ‘then I’ll go for help. We will get safely home soon enough.’ She nodded, murmuring something. ‘I shall have to close the shutter,’ he said, feeling the wind slicing keenly through his short coat, now that he had no greatcoat over it. Once the shutter were closed, the hut was plunged into gloom; only a trickle of light seeped through the cracks around the door and window and eaves. He picked his way back to her side, sitting down about a foot from her, leaning his back against the damp wall.

  ‘You must share the coat,’ she insisted. ‘It is so cold.’

  He hesitated, but now was not a time for the usual rules of gentlemanly etiquette or maidenly modesty. This storm could rage for hours, and they had no means of warmth except by huddling together. He insisted she take another mouthful of brandy, and took one himself.

  She fit very snugly against his chest, her head resting against his shoulder. He had never held a woman in his arms before; he could feel the steady pulse of her heartbeat against his side. How light she felt. Strange that such a strong spirit should reside in so fragile a frame. He forced himself to talk, wanting to distract himself from the alarming sensations roused by holding her so close, sensations that threatened to be as wild and raw as the storm outside.

  ‘How could your mistress let you walk so far on such a day?’ he demanded, speaking more gruffly than he meant to, in his effort to subdue his rogue feelings.

  ‘Mistress?’ she said, her voice sounding a little dazed, as though the brandy were taking effect.

  ‘Lady Asher. I would not have thought her capable of such negligence to her servants. It borders on cruelty.’

  ‘It was my choice to go.’

  ‘What was so important that you should be out in this weather?’

  ‘I wanted to take a basket to one of the cottages. Nancy Fowler’s little boy is poorly.’

  ‘Have you no shawl? No gloves?’ Had she not received the parcels he had sent?

  ‘I did. But I gave them away.’

  ‘Gave them away!’

  ‘Granny Fowler needed them far more than me.’

  He made an expression of vexation. ‘Are you warm yet?’ His voice was still a little harsh. ‘Take another sip of brandy.’

  ‘I can nearly feel my hands and feet. I think I will be drunk if I have any more brandy.’

  He clasped both her hands in his, chafing them until he felt the chill begin to dissipate.

  ‘We seem to always find ourselves hand in hand, Mr Neville,’ she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

  ‘So we do.’

  They were silent for some minutes, listening to the wind howling around the hut.

  ‘I have often wondered about that day,’ he said. ‘Such a strange thing to have happened. I would have sworn I had dreamt it if you had not been there with me. Did I dream it?’

  ‘If you did, I d
reamt it too.’

  ‘What do you think it was?’

  She didn’t answer immediately. He could feel the soft fall of her breath close to his throat. ‘Did you ever hear of the Marbury curse?’ she said.

  ‘My father used to say the Marbury line was cursed. I thought it just a story. I don’t believe in curses. I’m a rational man.’

  ‘I think I am cursed,’ she said quietly. ‘Or at least my estate is.’

  ‘Your estate?’

  She paused. ‘I have lived at Roseleat all my life. I feel I am a part of it.’

  ‘Is that why you work the ground, even on a Sunday in winter?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she murmured.

  ‘Who are you?’ he said abruptly. Feeling as though something didn’t make sense.

  ‘I…I am Celia.’

  ‘Yes, I know your name. Miss Asher told me. But who are you? You don’t have the accent of a servant. You don’t talk like one.’ He stopped himself from saying that she didn’t look like one, with her finely sculptured features and her air of command.

  She was silent.

  He sighed. Who was he to demand anything from her? He who was answering to the name of Mr Neville at that moment in time. Perhaps she was the natural daughter of the late Sir Asher. She would not be the first illegitimate child to find herself in such a situation, straddled between the world of servant and family, not quite belonging to either. This thought made him feel more protective, and he tightened his arm about her.

  She gave a little sigh, and pulled one hand free of his to reach up and touch his cheek. The touch startled him. He could only see the gleam of the whites of her eyes in the darkness as she tilted her face towards him. ‘Thank you,’ she said softly.

  ‘Anyone would have done the same,’ he said, his voice sounding strange and rasping to his own ears.

  ‘Not just for helping me to shelter, but for not asking any more questions. I…could wish myself free to tell you everything, but…I cannot.’