by Amy Corwin
Blackwold… A small voice within her cried.
He had a home—and it was not hers.
“Miss Cowles?” The dowager prompted her when Hannah remained in front of the window, silently staring out over the lawn to the cliffs and the vast expanse of sky beyond.
“I…” Hannah straightened. She refused to allow herself to sink into a maudlin sensibility that would only lead to weeping and tearing of hair. “I will consider your request.”
“Promise me. Please.” The dowager leaned toward her, one hand outstretched.
“I promise to consider it.” Hannah turned with a smile, though it felt pasted onto her stiff lips. “You cannot ask for more.”
“Matters must be settled before I die.”
Her smile turned into a laugh. “You will not die so soon, I assure you.” She picked up The Castle of Otranto and waved it in the air. “Are you sure you don’t wish to know Theodore’s fate?”
The dowager shook her head in resignation, though some of the tension tightening her features melted away. She grinned and rolled her eyes heavenward. “I suppose it is the best you can do, so read on. Let us see what befalls Theodore and hope whatever fate overtakes him, it will put him out of his misery.”
“I can’t guarantee it—he seems to go from one terrible circumstance to a worse one.”
“Then let us hope he dies soon so we can order another book.” The dowager laughed. “You see, Miss Cowles? I am feeling better already since your promise, lukewarm though it may have been.”
“I’m glad of it.” Hannah seated herself and opened the book at the small bit of paper she’d used to mark their place.
Lady Blackwold leaned back against her pile of pillows and folded her hands over the covers. “Henry will be pleased,” she murmured as Hannah began to read.
A headache pierced her temple at the words, but Hannah ignored the pain and began to read. Further argument seemed pointless.
Perhaps by tomorrow, the dowager would have forgotten all about her ridiculous notion to marry her grandson off to Hannah.
Chapter Fifteen
By three that afternoon, Lady Blackwold was nodding off, so Hannah left her in peace and wandered down to the small sitting room next to the library on the ground floor. To her surprise, both Gina and Blackwold were there, along with Mr. Carter Hodges and a young man Hannah had never seen before.
Shifting from one foot to the other, the stranger stood near the rose velvet-draped windows, his shoulders stooped as if he were embarrassed by his extraordinary height. It might have only been because he was also very thin, but he seemed to tower above everyone, including Blackwold, by several inches. His black hair was cut neatly and brushed back from his high forehead, and a pair of round glasses made it difficult to see the color of his eyes. The glasses flashed in the sunlight from the window as he kept glancing at Gina, who stood nearby, flushed and occasionally looking up at him.
When her gaze caught his, Gina’s blush deepened. A smile danced over her mouth, creating appealing dimples in her rounded cheeks.
Grinning, Hannah entered the room. “I didn’t realize we had guests. I hope I am not intruding.”
“Come in, Miss Cowles.” Blackwold turned to her. His face relaxed as if her arrival brought him a great deal of relief. He gestured toward his uncle. “Uncle Carter heard that Lady Blackwold is ill and came to offer her support. Brought his new curate, Mr. Furlong, as well. Miss Cowles, Mr. Furlong.” He made the introductions hurriedly before pulling out his pocket watch and flipping it open.
The tall, thin gentleman hurriedly sketched a bow, his eyes blinking rapidly behind his glasses. “Miss Cowles,” he murmured. Then, as if he couldn’t help himself, he looked again at Gina.
Her smile widened, her dimples deepening, and she flushed again before clasping her hands demurely at her waist and fixing her gaze on his feet.
Oh, dear. Curates were not renowned for their great wealth. Hannah could just imagine what Lady Blackwold would say. She couldn’t control a small twinge.
She glanced at Blackwold to see if he’d noticed the burgeoning attraction between Gina and the curate. He seemed to sense her stare and looked at her. A small V of concern burrowed between his brows. His brown eyes, instead of being cold with anger, seemed to be filled with deep sadness, which struck her as worse.
If Gina did her duty as expected, unhappiness seemed inevitable unless they traveled to London for her Season too quickly for her to fall in love with Mr. Furlong as she threatened to do.
Instead of watching his young curate, Mr. Hodges had fixed his attention upon Hannah. “How is my mother’s health?” he asked with his abrupt cadence.
“She is doing very well, I believe.” Her gaze drifted from the vicar to Blackwold. His attention had wandered, and he was staring out of the window with an abstracted air. “Though of course, I am no physician.”
“My nephew reported that you have been reading to her in the afternoons. That is very considerate of you,” the vicar said.
“It is a pleasure,” Hannah murmured.
“Do you appreciate gardens, Mr. Furlong?” Gina asked. She peeped up at him out of the corner of her eye, smiled, and made a brief gesture at the door.
“Yes, indeed, Miss Hodges. I am a great student of nature,” he replied with such enthusiasm that his long limbs twitched and seemed to move of their own accord toward the door.
“Some of our bulbs are already blooming—I noticed it the other day. Would you like to see them? Their perfume is wonderful. When I walked by one bed this morning, their delicious fragrance absolutely filled the air.” Gina took two quick steps past Blackwold. Her lovely eyes were bright with excitement, and her cheeks glowed a rosy pink.
“If we have your permission, Lord Blackwold?” The curate bowed to him and then turned to Mr. Hodges. “And if it is acceptable, Mr. Hodges?”
Annoyance tightened the skin around the vicar’s eyes and mouth, and Blackwold’s emotionless face hinted that he wasn’t best pleased, either, but he nodded.
“Fifteen minutes,” Blackwold said. Then, as if aware that he sounded curt, he added, “Clouds are sweeping in from the ocean. Rain, I expect.”
Gina’s smile widened, and her brows rose as she gazed at her uncle Carter expectantly.
“Very well,” the vicar said. “Fifteen minutes. I shall spend the time with my mother.” He sounded like he was about to slam a gavel down and pronounce doom on all heretics.
Hannah bit the inside of her cheeks and stared at the rose-and-blue Oriental carpet while Gina and Mr. Furlong left the room in a flurry of swishing skirts and clatter of leather shoes.
“Before I attend to my mother, I have received a letter for you, Miss Cowles. My brother forwarded it. I gather it is from the bank manager.” He pulled a thick envelope from his breast pocket and held it out, his gaze fixed on her. The wrinkles in the corners of his gray eyes revealed his curiosity, and his smug half-smile made her think that he believed whatever was in the missive was not good news.
“Thank you.” She took the letter and held it reluctantly, unsure if she wanted to read it with an audience watching her reaction so closely.
Carter glanced at Blackwold and then the door. “I shall leave you, then.” He gave a shallow bow and left, his back rigidly straight as he marched through the door.
When she looked at Blackwold, he was studying her with a slight frown.
Then an amused glint lit his brown eyes. “Miles Furlong,” he said, watching her.
She raised a brow, thinking about Gina’s comment that Blackwold was one of the mentally unstable Hodges. She shoved the thick missive into her pocket through the slit in the side of her skirt.
“Despite it, I doubt he will get very far,” he said with a perfectly straight face, despite the impish light in his eyes.
Hiding a laugh behind one hand, she couldn’t help a small snort of amusement. The curate’s parents had been unusually cruel when naming their child. Or oblivious. Or perhaps they had
hoped that he would, indeed, go far. Miles, in fact.
The laughter in his gaze faded as he watched her. In a mercurial change of mood, he asked, “And you remember nothing but a griffin ring? You saw neither the color of the jewels in its eyes nor the face of the man on the beach?”
She glanced over her shoulder and listened for the vicar’s footsteps. A floorboard creaked and then she heard measured steps ascending the main staircase.
“No.” She sighed and shrugged. “You’ve asked me that more times than I can remember, and my answer is always the same: no. I saw the ring and his hat. And greatcoat. A bit of the side of his face, perhaps, but not enough to recognize his features again. Indeed, for all I saw, it could have been you.”
“It could have.” He strode closer to the window and stared outside. “Ah. More visitors.” He turned to her and smiled, though his eyes were sad. “You will be relieved to know that I doubt I shall ask you that particular question again.”
“I don’t know why you’ve persisted in asking it so many times as it is.”
He chuckled, though he didn’t sound amused. “No. I don’t suppose you do.”
Hannah studied him, trying to understand his strange mood. Unfortunately, before she could formulate a question, the butler threw open the drawing room door.
“Lady Northrop and Lady Alice Boynton, my lord,” Hopwood announced, standing with his arm propping open the door to allow the passage of the ladies.
Lady Northrop swept into the room first, and Hannah’s initial impression was one of exquisite taste and fashion. Her figure was as slim as a young woman’s, and even her pale brown hair seemed untouched by gray, although she had to have been in her late thirties to have a daughter old enough to make her bow to Society.
Glancing around the room, Lady Northrop’s blue eyes drifted over Hannah with all the recognition she showed to one of the Greek vases on pedestals framing the door. She smiled and moved forward, holding out her hand to Blackwold.
“It is so good to see you again, Lord Blackwold. We are grateful to you for your gracious invitation to break our journey here. Particularly as I understand your poor Grandmother’s health is failing, and it is not the best time to receive visitors.” Her gaze flickered briefly to Hannah.
“I’m sure she will be delighted to learn of your arrival.” Blackwold’s neutral voice and bow could hardly be called warmly welcoming.
Hannah forced herself to keep her gaze politely fixed on the women instead of studying Blackwold as she wanted to do. She had the distinct impression that Lady Northrop missed very little and would be unlikely to approve of any glances exchanged between Hannah and Blackwold.
A young woman, Lady Alice, moved to stand beside her mother, a vision in a pale pearl gray velvet traveling dress cut in severe lines that only made her seem more feminine. She was as slender and fine-boned as her mother, but where her mother’s hair was light brown, hers was pale blonde. Two curls bobbed on either side of her heart-shaped face, beneath the graceful curve of her bonnet’s brim, and traveling had tinged her cheeks a delicate pink.
“Lady Northrop and Lady Alice, may I present Miss Cowles, lately from Boston?” Blackwold said, performing the introductions in a careless way that made Hannah want to pinch his arm. His glance kept roving from the window to the door, for all the world as if planning his escape.
Well, she had no intention of allowing him to leave her here with these two women. Just as she’d taken an immediate liking to Gina, she had nothing but the coldest of feelings for both ladies standing in front of her, beautiful though they both may be. She’d met many such ladies in Boston, with their gracious, cutting manners and belief that the most valuable qualities to obtain consisted solely of social position, wealth, and of course, fashionableness.
Let’s not forget good taste. One must have standards, after all.
She flashed a quick glance at Blackwold, taking in his unbuttoned waistcoat, rumpled jacket, and loose cravat. A warm smile curved her mouth as another rush of tenderness filled her. He looked so dear, and as she watched, his forelock fell over his brow, obscuring his left eye.
“It is lovely to make your acquaintance, Lady Northrop. Lady Alice.” Hannah sketched a curtsey. “However, I should see if Lady Blackwold requires anything.”
“She can ring.” Blackwold frowned.
Hannah smiled. “Yes, but you know she is so kind that she hates to do so for fear of disturbing us. I look forward to seeing you tonight at supper.” She looked at Lady Northrop. “If you will excuse me?”
“Certainly,” Lady Northrop replied. Her lips curved upward, but the gracious expression failed to reach her cold eyes. “And we look forward to visiting the Dowager Lady Blackwold later, when she feels strong enough.”
“I will let her know.” Hannah picked up her skirts and escaped into the hallway.
Remembering that Carter Hodges was most likely still with his mother, Hannah decided to intrude upon Gina’s idyll, instead.
Gina wouldn’t thank her, but Hannah preferred her company to that of the vicar’s. And she had to admit that she was curious about Miles Furlong.
Miles Furlong. She giggled, remembering the merry gleam in Blackwold’s brown eyes when he divulged the curate’s full name. Really, how could his parents be so reprehensible as to name their child Miles when they had a surname of Furlong?
And why is it that Blackwold can always make me laugh?
Chapter Sixteen
Moving quickly, Hannah went out into the garden. Gina had been correct to praise the flower beds. A few bulbs had begun blooming in February, and early daffodils and crocuses were almost at the end of their cycle. However, there were a few varieties still blooming, as well as hyacinths, tulips, and a few other flowers, giving the garden the appeal of a sheltered green bower interwoven with rich yellow, blue, red, and white strands of color. As soon as she stepped into the brisk air, she took a deep breath. The scent was so powerful that she seemed to be entirely bathed in flowers. A smile of pleasure settled over her face.
The scent of spring. She stooped to touch a late daffodil. The bright yellow trumpet released its heady scent at her touch, but she resisted the urge to pick it. Daffodils had always been her favorite flower. Yellow was such a sunny, cheerful color, and their fragrance raised her mood further. She thought she’d never been so completely happy before.
When she moved, the thick letter in her pocket rustled. Her stomach tightened.
Might as well read it and get it over with, whatever it is. She let out a long breath. Most likely, it was a simple confirmation of the transfer of her funds to the Bank of England, she thought, trying to recapture her previous euphoria.
She reached in and pulled the documents out, breaking the red wax seal of the covering note. One piece of paper had been folded around another letter with a different seal. She smoothed open the first sheet and skimmed down to the signature: Captain Brian Hodges. The note was brief, written in bold, masculine handwriting.
Dear Miss Cowles,
The bank manager of the Bank of England, Mr. Herbert Greene, has entrusted the enclosed correspondence to me. We felt it best to send it to you as expeditiously as possible. Mr. Greene expressed profound concern for your account and the state of your fortunes, and he will be pleased to discuss the matter with you at your earliest convenience.
The enclosed correspondence was sent to you, in care of Mr. Greene, by a Mr. Winthrop of Boston in the United States of America. He is, I believe, the lawyer entrusted with the management of your father’s estate.
We hope the missive serves to bring clarity to what appears to be a difficult situation.
My brother, Mr. Carter Hodges, has expressed himself willing to forward any correspondence you may care to send to either Mr. Greene or your willing servant.
With sincerest regards,
Brian Hodges
The sick feeling in the pit of her stomach hardened. The palms of her hands grew damp and her icy fingers shook as she broke the s
eal on the second letter. The precise, copperplate signature at the bottom was indeed her lawyer’s: James Winthrop.
His beautifully regular writing almost filled the page, and her gaze drifted past the greeting and what seemed like an entire first paragraph of apologies. I dislike writing you about such a matter… find myself in an extremely difficult position… messenger disappeared… authorities have been unable to locate either him or your funds… misappropriated…
Theft…
Line after line of Winthrop’s cursive writing, detailing how Hannah’s inheritance had vanished somewhere between Boston and London; stolen by the courier sent with it to ensure its safe arrival at the Bank of England.
The blue sky swirled dizzily around her. She sat down with a thud on the low stone wall, edging the terrace. Gone. Her inheritance was gone—or as good as. Certainly, if she’d had her way, it would all have been gone. She had to be at least a little grateful to Mr. Winthrop for convincing her to keep back some of her funds—not send it all to England.
However, what he’d kept in reserve was a tiny amount. The income from it would provide her less than three hundred dollars a year—what was that in pounds? She had no idea. Not enough, certainly, to hire servants or live like a lady.
Was it enough to stay in England at all?
Her cold fingers pressed against her mouth.
Even if she went to London with Gina, what could she truly hope for? She had nothing—she was not an heiress after all. In near panic, her thoughts whirled to Henry Hodges. He might be her last chance—what of his proposal? It was likely to be the only one she’d ever get, now. Would he withdraw it if he knew?
There was still the possibility of her father’s title. There might even be some income from whatever estates were attached to it. Assuming the dowager’s notion of having Hannah’s husband apply for the title even worked.
Strange how she suddenly found Henry not so dreadful, after all. The iron bands squeezing her heart tightened further. She wasn’t attracted to him, but he might be her last chance for marriage and a home of her own.