Trouble With The Earl

by Olivia Kane

  Trouble with the Earl

  Olivia Kane

  Published by Olivia Kane, 2014.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  TROUBLE WITH THE EARL

  First edition. November 11, 2014.

  Copyright © 2014 Olivia Kane.

  Written by Olivia Kane.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter One

  The Lord and Lady Radcliffe believed that a young woman of marriageable age, from a good family and fine fortune, blessed with a sunny disposition and natural beauty, not to mention good posture and accomplished in the arts, was a treasure more precious than all the polished silver and gilded paintings of Bennington Park, their perfectly proportioned Georgian home nestled in Hertfordshire, the pleasantest spot in all of England.

  Other less fortunate young women in their country neighborhood, lacking either arresting beauty or ample fortune, had no choice but to sit and wait by the fireside, furiously plying their needle, biding their time until some rogue or imbecile, spurred by infatuation or desperation, issued an offer of marriage. Optimistic patience might well be the only course for such women of limited resources and no beauty to boast of, but such was not the case for their lovely daughter Charlotte.

  Sitting in his library, amongst his collection of books and maps and under the watchful stare of his ancestors’ portraits, the Lord Radcliffe devoted his afternoon to the subject of his daughter Charlotte’s future.

  The Lord Radcliffe prided himself on being a man of efficiency—an unmarried daughter rattled his nerves—but an unmarried daughter with a sweet and sensitive nature and 24,000 pounds to be settled on her, as was Charlotte’s dowry, concerned him greatly.

  He firmly believed it was his duty as a father to guide his daughter through the marriage market and protect her from mercenaries who would use her purely for her income. Many a good-looking rake had slithered his way into England’s finer families, only to desecrate the family name or dissipate its fortunes in record time. It was the rare young woman self-possessed enough to withstand such flattery once directed her way.

  Without his help, disaster surely lay ahead.

  The Lord Radcliffe’s urge to help his daughter was further kindled by the follies of a neighboring family.

  “Five daughters and a father who hides his head in his books rather than regard their futures! If my Charlotte waved her fan at or showed her ankle to the local regiment as that Lydia Bennet does, then my reprimand would be both swift and severe.”

  He was addressing his wife and daughter from a prone position on a well-worn chaise-lounge. The Lady Radcliffe nodded her head in absent-minded censure of Mr. Bennet’s failings. “And yet the two eldest daughters manage to comport themselves admirably.”

  “While that is true, Mrs. Bennet is known to complain that she is too tired to discipline her youngest children,” he said. The Lord Radcliffe fussily adjusted the woolen blanket across his lap. In truth, he had a second, yet unspoken, motivation in securing a suitable marriage for his Charlotte. Recently, he had become conscious of a slight wheezing sound whenever he happened to take a deep breath. This was of great concern to him: Only by the grace of God and the prudent care of Dr. Stewart had he managed to survive last winter’s particularly virulent bout of pneumonia.

  Prior to his illness, he had been convinced that there was plenty of time to let the matter of his daughter’s future work its way out naturally; now he felt his mortality in every cough and aching muscle. It was already late October; no one knew what the next winter would bring. It would be a terrible dereliction of his fatherly duty to tempt fate by not acting to secure his daughter’s future sooner, rather than later.

  And while the Lady Radcliff herself appeared to be in the finest of health, she agreed that it was time to take the lead on procuring a social equal for Charlotte’s spouse. Downward mobility was not an option. “It is better to never marry than to marry down,” was her mantra.

  The Lord Radcliffe’s recent health scare had alarmed the Lady Radcliffe, convincing her that widowhood was just around the corner and causing her to insist that, whoever Charlotte’s suitors were, they must live nearby.

  “Your brother Charles broke my heart by settling two hours from home. I cannot bear traveling that distance on such horrible, dusty roads. There and back in one day is simply an intolerable imposition for me and my puppies,” she lamented.

  The prospect of being left a widow with her daughter and second son hours away left her prostrate with grief, prone to weeping in both private and public settings. “I cannot bear the strangeness of other counties! Mark my words, Charlotte; you must refuse any suitor seated more than a 45-minute carriage ride away. Anything further and you might as well settle in Brighton!”

  Charlotte hated her mother’s crying jags. At first, the family indulged the Lady Radcliffe, assuming that her tears would subside over time, but her brother’s marriage had been eighteen months ago and still the weeping continued. A new, top of the line carriage with velvet upholstery and sun-blocking shades had been ordered to make her trips more comfortable but still, she would not be consoled.

  “I can only imagine that you settling a similar distance away would do her in,” the Lord Radcliffe warned Charlotte.

  “I fear the same, Pappa.”

  “Although Charles’ case is an exception,” he chatted happily away about his middle son’s lucky union, “As no second son in his right mind would pass up marriage to a Marquess’ only child with four thousand acres and no entail. Still, we must hope that our Charlotte makes a similar match closer to home. On this point we shall insist. No, any man possessing a free will who chooses to live anywhere other than Hertfordshire is not in his right mind to begin with. Unless he has never been to Hertfordshire at all and at that I ask what is he waiting for? Now where is that pin and string contraption?”

  Charlotte presented the apparatus to her father. At nineteen years of age, she was an obedient girl by nature, sheltered but willing to please and was equally desirous of staying within forty-five minutes of home, but for quite different reasons.

  The idea of marriage vexed Charlotte greatly. It seemed quite unfair to her that she be forced to leave her beloved Bennington Park to live in the home of a strange man when her brother Hugh, the first born male and heir, got to stay in Bennington for the duration of his natural life if he wanted to. And who wouldn’t want to, she thought wistfully, for life in Bennington Park afforded every pleasure that one could wish for in a home.

  In its happy halls and spacious grounds, Charlotte had lived an enviable childhood. She had ridden her pony on shady trails through Bennington Park’s dense woods, played long afternoon games of shuttlecock on its broad lawns and spent many a rainy afternoon running down its long corridors frantically looking for the perfect place to disappear in a game of hide and seek.

  The Lady Radcliffe detested idleness and had insisted that her children develop their inner resources. Charlotte demonstrated a natural talent for sketching and watercolors and her budding interest was cultivated throughout the years. As a result, life was never dull for Charlotte. There was always a delightful interior scene or corner of the garden begging to be sketched.

 
Charlotte was not sure what had caused the Lord Radcliffe’s sudden interest in settling her future; all she knew was that she did not share his enthusiasm for entering the marriage market and had no luck convincing him to find another hobby.

  “I am happy at home painting, Pappa.”

  “No, no, we must get out ahead of the subject now, while you are young and I am in my right mind,” he insisted. Charlotte sighed, deciding if she were to marry then she was determined to settle nearby and visit home so frequently that it would seem as if she had never left.

  Her father was anxious to hone in on her prospective suitors by drawing a circle on the map of Hertfordshire to establish a radius of forty-five minutes distance. “I have never met finer people in my life than the good folks of Hertfordshire. Thank you my dear,” the Lord Radcliffe said, carefully accepting the pin with the point facing up. Rising slowly from his chaise, he ambled over to the library table where the map of the county was laid out. He inserted the head of the pin into the map (at the exact center of a charming illustration of Bennington Park), and then drew the string southward until he reached the fork in the King’s Road; a destination that they all agreed was no more and no less than forty-five minutes from the front gates of Bennington Park, in clement weather with dry roads.

  “The quill, please. Ink it up nicely so we get a good thick circle.”

  Charlotte dabbed the feather quill up and down into the inkstand and handed it to her father. He then wrapped the five inches of string around the quill and, with the pin as its center, proceeded to draw a circle on the map. The properties within this inner circle all fell safely within the borders of Hertfordshire.

  “Any man living outside this circle better look elsewhere for his wife. Let’s see what we have here,” he sniffed, removing the pin and string and laying it to the side. “Looks like Kenbrook Castle did not make the cut,” he chuckled.

  “What a relief. Lord Kenbrook’s boys have such horribly weak chins,” stated Lady Radcliffe.

  The trio studied the family seats that had, by stroke of luck, been situated inside the circle of opportunity. “Shall I make a list on paper, Mamma?” Charlotte inquired, pulling out a fresh sheet and settling her writing box on her lap.

  “My dear girl, you are always one step ahead of us. Yes, let’s be thorough.”

  Charlotte, who had been taught by the best tutors that money could buy, had beautiful penmanship. Carefully, she spelled out the words: Suitable Suitors for the Lady Charlotte Radcliffe across the top of the page.

  “First up are our neighbors to the east at Castle Carlisle. Although primely situated and dear friends, regrettably the eldest son is at least eight years younger than you, my dear. No need to rob the cradle. Also nearby to the east is the Bennet family with your good friend Lizzie, but thankfully, no sons there, for I fear any son of theirs would be as wild as their daughters.”

  “That would be a downward match,” the Lady Radcliffe pointed out.

  “Darby House is lovely,” Charlotte said, directing their attention to the task at hand as she pointed to a residence slightly northwest of Bennington Park. Darby House was well known for its rotunda and its temples to random Greek gods scattered throughout its formal gardens. “I would prefer to live in a home that is as lauded for its beauty as Bennington Park is,” Charlotte declared. “There would be plenty of pleasant scenes to sketch.”

  “The Lord Darby is a fine neighbor whose eldest son must be near your age, I imagine,” her father said. “His carp are surprisingly large, too.”

  “Do we know the son’s name?” Charlotte asked.

  Blank looks were exchanged.

  “Oh well, I will just call him Darby the Lesser for short,” she decided, writing the first name on her list. She had a vague memory of a lanky and dark haired neighbor boy, but the last time she saw him was years ago. “Does he wear spectacles?”

  “I would not be surprised at that my dear. The Lord Darby himself is blind as a bat and that type of infirmity tends to be passed down in families.”

  “But the Lord Darby is also a handsome man,” her mother said, and then quickly added, “So I’m told—again, I have no personal confirmation as I myself have completely lost any ability to recognize a man as handsome or not since my wedding day. Remind me again, approximately how far is Darby House?”

  “No more than eight minutes by the Plowman’s Road,” the Lord Radcliffe said with certainty.

  “Excellent.”

  “Mooreton Hall is also quite close,” her father said. No more than twenty-one minutes southwest via the King’s Road, he measured.

  The Lady Radcliffe shook her head no, emphatically.

  “Lord Mooreton was a horrible rake in my day and his sons already have infinitely worse reputations. They are more interested in seducing young women than marrying them, I am sad to report,” she whispered.

  “I’d rather die than wed one of those Bore-tons,” Charlotte turned up her nose. Plenty of gossip already swirled regarding Timothy and Gregor’s liberties with the parlor maids. “If such salacious behavior is common knowledge, then no. As suitors, they are completely unsuitable, despite their convenient location,” the Lord Radcliffe concluded.

  Over the next half an hour, the merits and flaws of all of the nearby eligible men were thoughtfully evaluated and by the time the loyal manservant Hastings began setting up their tea, the list had been narrowed down to six eligible suitors, all possessing reputations yet to be ruined.

  “Not bad. There are some beautiful estates and some tolerable looking young men—all conventionally educated at Eton or Harrow as far as I know—and at least one expert horseman in the bunch. Plus, there are no missing limbs or unnatural physical defects on any of them. Now that was an afternoon well-spent,” the Lord Radcliffe concluded, walking stiffly and sighing heavily as he decamped from the tranquility of his chaise lounge in the library to the tranquility of his chaise lounge in the drawing room.

  The dutiful Hastings poured three cups of steaming tea and passed a plate of small, freshly baked lemon cakes. Since his illness, the Lord Radcliffe had adopted the habit of stopping for a light snack every few hours to keep from feeling peckish.

  The Lord Radcliffe stirred the cream carefully into his black tea, enjoying the prospect of a leisurely afternoon repast. “Now Charlotte, even though she is not as fortunate as you, your little friend Elizabeth Bennet could much benefit from her father taking a more disciplined approach to her prospects. I wonder how he can be content allowing them to cull their future spouses from the rabble found at the local assembly or musicale and not be concerned for their futures.”

  Charlotte smiled. Her father was right, of course. She had a well-established friendship with Elizabeth Bennet but, despite being situated a mere fifteen-minute carriage ride from each other, Charlotte rarely visited Longbourn. No, instead Elizabeth preferred to call on Charlotte at Bennington Park, the better to escape the chaos of her own home.

  “Are their chickens and hens really given free reign inside Longbourn?” the Lady Radcliffe asked, biting into the warm lemon cake.

  “Yes Mamma, but that only happened once.”

  “And that bluestocking sister is allowed to pound away incessantly on the pianoforte from dawn to dusk without the instruction of a proper tutor?”

  “Yes! Indeed, there is nowhere to go in that house where one can be alone with one’s thoughts,” Charlotte stated, carefully taking a second lemon cake while waiting for her tea to cool. In her future household, she thought impatiently, tea would be served at a temperature more conducive to immediate consumption. She felt quite parched after the afternoon’s list making.

  “I strongly advised Mr. Bennet against allowing his daughters to fraternize with the militia. However, the poor man just stared right through me and paid no heed to my warning. He has lost control of his home, I tell you, and that is a very dangerous situation to be in,” the Lord Radcliffe condemned him. Indeed, their analysis of Mr. Bennet’s failings might hav
e continued unabated were they not at that moment interrupted by the sudden entrance of Mrs. Holmes, the trusted head housekeeper.

  “Excuse me your Grace, my Ladies, but I am afraid I have just been the recipient of some very sad news that it is my duty to share with you.” Mrs. Holmes stood hesitantly at the door, waiting to be invited in.

  “Come in, please,” the Lord Radcliffe waved her forward. Mrs. Holmes loved her post at Bennington Park, for she knew quite certainly that the Lord Radcliffe was the most thoughtful man in the whole of Hertfordshire, a man who treated his staff with equal parts fairness and kindness. She was not mistaken when she thought him the finest of men without whose favor she imagined she would be very poor indeed.

  “I am afraid that her grace, the Earl of Buckland’s wife, has succumbed to her fever and given up the ghost.”

  “Oh no, how tragic. This is quite unexpected. Only twenty-four years old; so young,” the Lady Radcliffe exclaimed, setting down her teacake in distress.

  “The poor Earl. Such a fine young couple they made. What caused her death? Was it the toothache?” asked the Lord Radcliffe.

  “Yes, my lord. I believe the abscess was the start of her demise. It was so quick. They are all heartbroken at Buckland House.”

  Charlotte assumed a sad look along with her parents. Her sheltered life had not afforded her a memory of the Earl’s face. She did, however, remember the impressive gates to Buckland House. They were impossible to miss. Buckland House was, if she was not mistaken, quite close via the Orchard Road; her father would know exactly how many minutes away. The gates, if she was remembering correctly, were quite tall, painted in a glossy black and bearing a golden crest of two lions. She always had an urge to stop the carriage and sketch them as they drove by.

  The Lord Radcliffe sipped his tea. The death of his wife was surely a blow to the Earl and a testament to the unpredictability of life. It was, perhaps, a sign from above that he was wise not to tarry where his own daughter’s future was concerned. “They were so suitably matched,” he said. “A shame, really.”