Tabitha's Folly

by Jen Geigle Johnson

  She kept back a grin, but just. “Damen, this is your distant cousin, Giorgia.”

  His eyes flew open, and she nodded. “She is from Italia, the land of your fathers.”

  His grandfather. His mother. He eyed her with a touch of suspicion and a great deal of curiosity. “Why have you come?”

  “Your mother sent me. She wonders after you.”

  “She gets our letters.” Damen couldn’t help his anger. He owed this new Giorgia, and the woman who gave him birth, nothing.

  Giorgia smiled and held out her hand. “Could we go for a walk?”

  He hesitated for a moment but then reached for her hand, ungloved though it was. He found her fascinating. Even with irritating news, he couldn’t look away from her deep brown eyes that sparkled up at him, or the lovely upturn of her nose. She was exquisite. And her hand in his made it difficult for him to concentrate, all senses in his fingers sending warm sensations up his arm.

  After they had walked for a minute, he couldn’t stand the wait. “And you are here, because?”

  She turned to him. “You are much more handsome than I imagined.”

  He puffed out a breath of air. He was used to the reactions he created in women. He was hired at Somerstone because of his handsome face. The countess prided herself in the best looking footmen in these two counties.

  He stopped their walk. “I need to get back. Perhaps we could meet again this evening, late. Or on my day off?”

  “Damen, your mother sent me with the hopes that we could become betrothed.”

  He let his jaw drop. “Pardon me?”

  Her musical laughter warmed him. “I was not to mention it unless I too thought it would be acceptable. After speaking with your maman, and well, seeing you in person…”

  Her cheeks blushed prettily. “I might be in agreement.”

  Still stunned by the lovely Giorgia’s announcement, Damen entered Somerstone through the kitchen. The cook smiled and indicated his plate. She always kept one ready for him. He wrapped a hand around her waist as he walked by. “Thank you, Agatha.”

  She giggled and kept kneading her bread. Damen was too distracted to do more with the enticing Agatha.

  He couldn’t make sense of this new woman his mother sent. His blood-mother, he ground his teeth thinking of her, refusing to claim him herself, sending a distant cousin from Italy? Apparently Giorgia was the daughter of a prominent businessman there. She was pretty enough—gorgeous, he admitted. She seemed pleasant and willing. He chewed his bread slowly. But she did not have a title. He slammed his fist down onto the table. And therein lay the problem. Neither of his parents considered him worthy of a title. Why send an untitled woman when his mother could have sent one with a title?

  He thought of Lady Tabitha Easton, a current guest at the countess’ latest house party, her wide blue eyes filled with rebellion. Now there was someone who would understand him. He knew underneath her innocence raged a woman who would do anything for love. He could see it in the very manner in which she carried herself, in her yearning lean whenever that dolt Lord Henry came around. If Damen could just snatch more moments with her, distract her just enough so that she fell in love with him…

  And Giorgia was a delicious distraction herself, staying in town with his family. So available. He smirked. And willing. He thought of her large brown eyes, and something stirred inside.

  To Read the rest of Damen’s Secret, Click Here.

  Chapter One of The Unwanted Suitor is next, read on!

  About the Author

  An award winning author, including the GOLD in Foreword INDIES Book of the Year Awards, Jen Geigle Johnson discovered her passion for England while kayaking on the Thames near London as a young teenager.

  She once greeted an ancient turtle under the water by grabbing her fin. She knows all about the sound a water-ski makes on glassy water and how to fall down steep moguls with grace. During a study break date in college, she sat on top of a jeep's roll bars up in the mountains and fell in love.

  Now, she loves to share bits of history that might otherwise be forgotten. Whether in Regency England, the French Revolution, or Colonial America, her romance novels are much like life is supposed to be: full of adventure. She is a member of the RWA, the SCBWI, and LDStorymakers. She is also the chair of the Lonestar.Ink writing conference.

  Follow her Newsletter HERE.

  https://www.jengeiglejohnson.com

  Twitter--@authorjen

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  Chapter One The Unwanted Suitor

  Cornelia Greystock glanced at the ormolu clock that graced the wall over her dressing table and her whole body tensed with urgency. The exquisite timepiece was the Countess Du’Breven’s way of ensuring that her hired companion was ever aware of the time. The faint ticking of the clock movement further served to remind Cornelia that her time was no longer her own. Indeed, it was likely never to be again.

  Nearly a month in the Countess’ service, and she still awoke every morning with a hearty desire to pack her bags and flee back to her childhood home in Derbyshire. But though she would be received into her father’s house again, the circumstances that had necessitated her employment would be still be waiting there.

  Cornelia finished the last of her tea and toast and pushed away the letter she had been writing to her mother and sisters to finish later. She hadn’t made much progress on it since it was a grey, cloudy morning and her room had been too dim to see comfortably. And perhaps because she had so very little to say to them.

  After checking her fingers for smudges of ink, she hurried to the Countess’ rooms. This distance from her allotted bedchamber was enough to make the most indefatigable walker flag, for it consisted of traversing three halls and the entire length of Somerstone Mansion. When Cornelia had mentioned to the Countess that having her companion closer would be of benefit to her, she had waved an airy hand and said, “You’re young, my dear Miss Greystock. And I wouldn’t deprive you of the enjoyment of passing through the pillared hall as often as possible.”

  But Cornelia had at last grown used to the journey and was breathing almost normally by the time she arrived at the Countess’ room and knocked gently.

  “Enter.” The commanding voice of Brimsby, the Countess' devoted lady’s maid was only slightly muffled by the thick door.

  Cornelia opened it just far enough to permit her entry, then closed it softly behind her. Cornelia glanced at Brimsby, neither expecting a word of greeting nor getting one. Even though Cornelia was a member of the gentry and came from good family, Brimsby took every opportunity to establish a superior position over her. Cornelia had never in her life experienced such consciousness of rank as she did among the Countess’ servants. Being caught between two classes had brought on a sharp loneliness she could not dispel.

  The Countess sat in her canopied four-poster bed, propped up by numerous pillows, sipping her morning chocolate and reading the vast pile of letters scattered over her coverlet. Her pug, Wellington, lounged at his ease with his head over her lap. He perked up as Cornelia came closer, raising his head until Cornelia scratched behind his ears.

  The Countess looked up, stirring the ruffles of her lace cap. She smiled kindly as always, but it appeared to be with an effort this morning. Her attention fell immediately back to the letter in her hand.

  “Good morning, Lady Du’Breven. Is everything well?” Cornelia asked, pulling a small chair up to the bed.

  “Bah!” she said, making Cornelia jump.

  The elderly lady held out an imperious hand and shook the letter at Cornelia. “See if you can read this bumble broth of a letter. Why my daughter feels it necessary to cross and re-cross her lines is beyond me. She knows I would gladly pay the extra postage to not have to spend the better part of an hour deciphering her scrawl. Begin on the second page.”

  Cornelia took the letter and sat down. She studied the letter a moment and read, “Thomas has recovered much of his strength, due in large part to the restorative
I concocted for him from my own recipe and not from the application of leeches, no matter what Dr. March may say. I have high hopes that he may leave his bed for an hour or two tomorrow and—”

  “Stop.” The Countess’ voice was sharp, like a woman past endurance. “I have no desire to hear more about her husband’s eternal infirmities. And we have work to do. Guests will be arriving soon, and I must acquaint you with your duties during the house party.”

  Cornelia looked up at her in surprise. “I thought my duties would remain the same, to attend you.”

  The Countess searched among the papers on her bed until she found the one she wanted. “Well, of course you shall do so, but part your duties will be to assist me as hostess. I am not as young as I wish to be and you must be my deputy for activities that are beyond my strength. Also, you shall see to the comfort of my guests and the success of the party. I am determined that there shall be many fine matches made before the party draws to a close, and I may require your assistance in bringing them about. This may be difficult since you are not familiar with many of my guests seeing as how your family saw fit to keep you buried in the wilds of Derbyshire, but I believe you to be an intelligent young woman.”

  The Countess then preceded to go through her guest list, one name at a time, expounding on each person’s rank, wealth, and personality. She also added to this list who she believed would be a good match for whom.

  The Countess bit her lip thoughtfully. “Lord Beauchamp will be too busy minding his rascal brother to make much effort on his own behalf. We shall have to give him a nudge toward a suitable girl. And poor Tabitha Easton. She’ll need help escaping from her brothers. Perhaps I shouldn’t have invited the whole family, but it would have been rude not too. Besides, every last one of them is handsome enough to make a duchess swoon.”

  “Sounds like a great deal of bother to me,” Cornelia said softly, with no expectation that she would be heard.

  And indeed, she wasn’t, as the Countess’ attention was focused on her list. “Ah, Sir George. Well, I shall be pleased to see him again. It’s been a great deal too long. I hope to do something for his girls. Bah, my eyes. Read the rest to me, please.”

  Cornelia took the piece of foolscap and began where the Countess had left off. Names and titles swam before her eyes until her thoughts were all one tangled knot. How would she ever keep any of them straight? But then a name leapt off the list, shattering her equanimity.

  “Who is next?” the Countess asked.

  Cornelia swallowed and said, “Sir James Hawkston.” Hopefully, the Countess had not noticed the tremor in her voice.

  “Ah yes. Well, you know him, don’t you?”

  “Yes, my lady. Quite well.”

  “Well, there you go. That will make you more comfortable.” There was a decided gurgle of amusement in the Countess’ voice. “He is from Buxton as well, I believe.”

  “Yes,” Cornelia said. “He is our neighbor. When do you expect him to arrive?”

  “Let me see.” She looked up at the ceiling, deep in thought. “Not till tomorrow. How difficult men are to manage sometimes.”

  “Yes, they are. I’m happy to be free of them.”

  But the Countess smiled slyly at her. “Only because you do not know what you are missing. Now, I expect you to take care that Sir James is comfortable when he arrives. No doubt it will be at some vulgar hour early in the morning.”

  “I shall do my best,” Cornelia responded. Her voice and face were placid, but torrents of emotion swept through her. Sir James had proposed to her two months ago and she had refused him. Because they were neighbors, it had become impossible for her to remain at home where she would see him often. The Countess had offered her a post as paid companion, and Cornelia had leapt at the chance to escape. She had often wondered, though, what had prompted the invitation.

  If only she had told her whole story to the Countess. Perhaps then, her employer might have spared her the ordeal of facing a spurned suitor in such a setting. Especially if she had known the full, infuriating story.

  The Countess spoke again, cutting through Cornelia's tumbling thoughts. “Now, go and check on all of the rooms. I like to keep my servants on their toes lest they grow complacent. They know I cannot walk all over this pile, and Mrs. Finch has more on her hands than she can manage today. She is feeling poorly besides.”

  “Yes, my lady. I shall attend to it.”

  “Oh, and when Lord Ian arrives, I wish to speak to him.”

  “I will notify you.”

  Cornelia left the Countess’ chambers and hurried off to do her bidding. A sense of urgent expectation hung about the manor, and every floor and room buzzed with activity. Maids laid beds with freshly aired sheets, provided candles, and filled washbasins. The butler oversaw an enormous delivery of wine which kept him and several footmen busy for the better part of the morning. Poor Mrs. Finch, bustled about overseeing the whole of it, but every time Cornelia saw the woman she looked a different shade of grey.

  It didn’t take long before Cornelia felt vastly unnecessary. The staff was well-trained and efficient—though she did have to send Damen, one of the footmen, about his business when she caught him in the larder with a pretty upstairs maid.

  “Miss Greystock! Where are you?”

  Cornelia heard Mrs. Finch long before she saw her. The lady had a voice like a thunderclap when she chose to raise it. Since Cornelia was at that moment taking a cup of tea in the kitchen and sampling raspberry tarts under the guise of supervising the pastry cook, she resented the interruption. Still, it was her duty to be of service.

  “Here I am, Mrs. Finch. How can I help?”

  “Miss, I am at my wits’ end. I cannot go another step. And the flowers, miss. I haven’t had time to do the flowers. Will you please see to it? You have a such eye for arranging them.”

  This was an unexpected pleasure, seeing as how she had expected a far worse task. She loved hiding away in the still room with nothing but elegant, fragrant blooms and her thoughts for company.

  “Of course, Mrs. Finch. I shall have them done in a trice. Now, I think you had best go to bed.”

  “Oh, but I cannot. We’ll have guests upon us in no time.” Then the redoubtable lady clenched her thin jaw and walked away, with only a slight, swaying stagger to her steps.

  Cornelia worried for her but knew she did not have the authority to order the woman to bed. So, she retired to the still room where the gardener had brought in baskets of flowers that were just beginning to wilt for want of water.

  As she worked, her thoughts turned again and again to Sir James and his brother, Timothy. Yes, Timothy, whom she had once hoped to marry. Her once childhood playmate had professed himself in love with her until Sir James had seen to it that Timothy become betrothed to a wealthy girl from Bath.

  She had been hurt by Timothy’s fickle nature, but Sir James’ interference had cut her like a blade. Oh, she understood Sir James’ motivation. It was not surprising that he would have wanted a better match for his brother than the dowerless, spinster daughter of his neighbor. She might have recovered very easily, in fact, if Sir James—handsome, amusing, and intrepid man that he was—had not been the actual object of her young adoration. Indeed, Timothy had been acceptable to her only because Sir James was so far out of her reach.

  Hiding her hurt the best she could, she tried to salvage what was left of her life. She held mild hopes that one day her wealthy maternal grandfather might bestow a dowry on her or make it possible for her to go to London. They rarely saw him since he hated travel, but he had made some promises to the effect on his last visit.

  London! It had been something to focus on, to dream about. Perhaps she would make a brilliant match, and Sir James would regret that he had lost his chance at such a rare treasure as herself.

  But to her mortification, he had not yet finished wreaking havoc upon her heart.

  He sought her out one morning, only a week after word of his brother’s engagement made its
round of the neighborhood. Now the subject of speculation and pity, she had gone for a walk by the lake hoping to cool her seething emotions. He’d found her there and approached with a somber expression, obviously desiring words with her.

  Her heart had raced in anticipation of what he would say. She had expected some sort of apology or explanation. Instead, he’d said, “Miss Greystock, would you do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage.

  No preamble, no words of affection—just a bald proposal. Shocked she had asked, “But why do you wish to marry me when I was not good enough to marry your brother?”

  “Cornelia, you mistake the situation. It was only that Timothy has very little fortune of his own. For myself, I do not need to worry about such matters when choosing a wife and I feel that you are owed something for the loss of your expectations.”

  She’d almost shoved him in the lake. Indeed, to this day, she wished she had.

  Just thinking about it made her want to pick up the roses she was arranging and beat them against the wall until each perfect petal was torn from the stems. How would she ever endure his presence?

  Fortunately for the sake of her temper, Mrs. Finch was a prophetess. It was no more than half an hour later that the first carriage arrived, and she was called forth from her sanctuary to help greet people. Flower arrangements would just have to wait.

  For the next five hours, she greeted and introduced. She directed ladies to tea and gentlemen to the billiard room for more reviving refreshments and male company—except for Lord Ian, who she took to the library for a chat with the Countess. Much to her annoyance, she also had to keep a close eye on Wellington who scampered outside when the door opened and nearly got trampled by horses several times.