The necklace intrigued her, a pendant strung on a black velvet ribbon. Lucy ran a finger over the shifting colors in the stone—green, gold, and brown. She’d never seen anything like it on the necks of women in London.
Then again, she’d never seen her aunt on the streets of London either.
Unfolding the letter, she held her breath.
Dear Lucille,
Her fingers tightened against the paper. Anyone who knew her understood she preferred to be called Lucy. But her aunt was a complete enigma to her.
It served that the reverse might be true as well.
I know you must be surprised to receive this package, given that by now I am quite dead. But I suspect someone—probably a man—will try to thwart my wishes, and so I have taken this step to ensure my intentions are honored.
The life of a peer’s daughter is difficult. Believe me, I understand, more than you know. But to be the eccentric daughter of a peer is harder still, and even as a six-year-old child it was clear you marched to your own tune. My hope is that in reading my diary, you will understand the choices I have made. It is up to you to sort out whether your own independence is worth the price I paid for mine. Probably someone will try to convince you I was mad—or worse, that you are yourself. But I lived my life the way I wanted, and vow I shall greet death in a similar fashion.
My only hope is that you find the courage to as well.
I am leaving you more than my journal, Lucille. I am also leaving you Heathmore Cottage. It isn’t much, I know, but perchance it might offer you the freedom to choose your own future. Guard its secrets well, Lucille.
And remember me fondly, as I have always remembered you.
—E
The air pushed from Lucy’s lungs in a confused rush.
Aunt E had left her Heathmore? And what was this nonsense about secrets and fond memories? It was all so odd. She barely knew her aunt, certainly not well enough to have shed more than the perfunctory tear when news of her death had reached London. The family had not even traveled to Cornwall for the funeral, save for Father, who was more or less morally obligated to see his older sister buried.
Confused, Lucy lifted the key to a skein of sunlight streaming through the greenhouse roof, studying its ridges and angles. She possessed only the dimmest memory of Heathmore Cottage, from a summer visit when she had been about six years old. She could recall a whitewashed home overlooking choppy green waters, and the steady beat of wind in her face. Though she could no longer remember the curve of her aunt’s cheek, she retained a clear memory of a set of glass figurines, lifted down from a mantel and placed in her chubby hands.
Unsettled by the sudden rush of memories, Lucy shoved the key and the necklace into her trouser pocket, then folded the letter and stowed it between the pages of the top journal. She’d been a fanciful child, and those memories of Heathmore were murky at best.
She remembered far better the things that happened after that summer.
Soon thereafter, Grandfather had died and her father assumed the title. Governesses and curmudgeonly butlers had been introduced into her life. And all contact with her aunt had contracted to that single, lonely card at Christmas.
More’s the pity.
From what little she could remember, it had been a fun visit.
Then again, Wilson hadn’t been part of her life yet to spoil her fun.
AS FAR AS handshakes went, it was a fine, firm one.
But firm or not, Thomas’s mind was not entirely eased. According to his understanding of Miss E’s last will and testament, which had been read just this morning by the solicitor up from St. Ives, he was not shaking hands with the correct person.
“You are sure your daughter will approve the sale, Lord Cardwell?” Thomas glanced uneasily at the two-story crofter’s cottage which was now—for better or worse—his responsibility. Built on the most exposed part of the cliff, Heathmore Cottage braced itself against the wind like a stooped old soul, leaning ever so slightly off center. The front door lay open, its broken latch dangling. They’d had some difficulty gaining entrance without a key, a fact remedied by Thomas’s forceful shoulder applied against the salt-weathered wood.
That had sparked his first twinge of guilt, as if he was somehow trespassing to conduct a buyer’s inspection without a proper key. The second twinge of guilt had come over the price. There had been little by way of actual negotiation. He simply named a figure—four hundred pounds, to include both the cottage and the surrounding property—and Lord Cardwell immediately accepted.
Not that the dwelling he’d just purchased inspired much by way of confidence. He might have even paid too much. The stone walls of the old farmhouse had once been plastered white but now appeared a sickly gray, and in some places the plaster had fallen completely away to show the darker stone beneath. The roof’s thatching was infested with mold and vermin and would need to be completely replaced, preferably with something a bit more modern. And thanks to the leaking roof, the floorboards in the bedrooms abovestairs were rotting. Miss E hadn’t even lived here in several years, preferring instead to take cleaner and drier rooms in town.
Of course, he wasn’t interested in the condition of the dwelling. His real interest lay in the property itself, and the hundred or so acres surrounding the cottage.
Thanks to his time at university, Thomas was the only formally educated soul in Lizard Bay, save the vicar. The townspeople seemed largely oblivious to the potential in the coastal soil, but he knew the true value of the property, thanks to his scientific curiosity and the long hours he’d spent prowling the surrounding fields and cliff tops.
But admitting he coveted Heathmore for reasons beyond making his home here wouldn’t help his cause, and so he kept those thoughts to himself.
Lord Cardwell waved a hand toward the ramshackle cottage. “Oh, I can assure you, Lord Branston, my daughter has no need for a falling-down house. She has her first Season nearly upon her, and a husband to find. Until then she has her charities to keep her busy.”
Thomas felt a slight easing of his conscience. If, as her guardian, Lord Cardwell found it prudent to handle his young daughter’s more distracting affairs, who was he to gainsay the decision? Miss Westmore sounded very young and naive, likely just eighteen if her first Season was looming large. Probably one of those flighty London beauties who lived and breathed for her debut. He’d known a girl like her, once upon a time.
Thought, even, to marry her.
It had been three years since his sister’s funeral. Three years since he’d left the cruel gossip and the whispers of those who would judge her. Josephine had been all the family he’d had in the world, and he failed her, utterly. The disquieting reminders of London and the ghosts that lingered there were good enough reason to seal this deal in the most expedient way possible. Lord Cardwell was leaving tomorrow, and Thomas didn’t want the negotiations to stretch back to the city if he could help it. He’d been able to forget, in a fashion, secreted away here in Cornwall. Or if not forget, at least accept the painful path his sister had chosen. But he suspected he would remember all too well should he be forced to return to London.
Or worse, someone else would remember, put together the pieces, destroy what little solace he had been able to cobble together.
“Besides,” Cardwell went on, “I suspect my daughter will appreciate the money. She’s always sending various charities her pin money.”
Thomas didn’t have to force the smile that rose to his lips. At least he could identify with that sentiment. A certain spinster he had known also enjoyed such things, once upon a time.
“As I am sure you know, your sister was also a staunch supporter of worthy causes,” he said. In fact, Thomas himself had once been one of Miss E’s worthy causes. She’d been the first to welcome him when he arrived at this barren outpost three years ago. Others in town had initially viewed him with suspicion. Not that he blamed them. He had been silent and sullen, the stink of London and whisky clinging to him like
a miasma.
But Miss E had befriended him, and there was no denying the townspeople respected her. Her reputation in town had been a strange, perplexing phenomenon, one Thomas was never able to properly sort out. She was clearly an outsider, eccentric and outspoken, regularly interrupting the vicar’s Sunday service with her own contrary thoughts on the sermon.
Cantankerous was the word that came to mind.
But once Thomas had been taken under her prickly wing, there was no longer any question of his acceptance in Lizard Bay. Miss E had forced him to look beyond his drunken solace to the world beyond. He missed her a good deal.
If only her brother did as well.
“Sounds like my sister,” Cardwell agreed, showing few signs of mourning beyond a ring of dark circles below his eyes. “She was forever trying to right the wrongs of the world. But I still can’t imagine what possessed Edith to think this an appropriate bequest for my daughter.” His voice trailed off, doubtful. “It’s falling to pieces.”
“Perhaps Miss E thought your daughter had fond memories of the place,” Thomas offered, though he’d not seen Lord Cardwell—nor the man’s daughter—once in the three years he lived here. How many memories could the chit have?
Cardwell shook his head. “My daughter was quite young the last time we visited. I doubt she even remembers the journey. More likely Edith has some plot afoot, God rest her soul. She always did.”
“A plot?” Thomas raised a brow, his mouth twisting with surprise. “Surely it’s just her way of showing a kindness.”
“Perhaps.” Cardwell sounded tired. “But with no money to cover the repairs, this seems more of a burden for my daughter than a boon. I can’t help but wonder what my sister was thinking.” He looked back at the house, frowning. “I hadn’t realized Edith had permitted the house to fall into such disrepair. Why didn’t she tell me she was in need of financial assistance? I sent her twenty pounds a quarter, but I would have gladly sent her more money if she’d asked.”
Thomas bit back a retort. Twenty pounds a quarter might have been enough for a frugal spinster to live on, but it couldn’t cover the upkeep of an aging cottage. And if he knew Miss E, she would have felt guilty for accepting her brother’s charity and been far too proud to ask for more. The fact that Cardwell called his sister Edith was proof enough the man scarcely knew her. Everyone in the little town of Lizard Bay—from the grocer to the vicar—had called her Miss E. If Lord Cardwell had bestirred himself to come down from London to visit his sister once in a while, he might have seen Heathmore’s decline with his own eyes and intervened before it reached this sorry state. But given the fact that the home’s dilapidated condition was the cause of this quick sale, Thomas held his tongue.
“I feel a bit guilty,” Lord Cardwell went on. “I should probably pay you to take Heathmore Cottage off my daughter’s hands. It’s out in the middle of nowhere, with not even a proper road to get here. You’ll need the devil’s luck to turn it into something usable.”
“No need to worry.” Thomas forced a smile to his lips. “I like the solitude the property offers. With a little work and polish, I think it will shape up as a nice escape from . . . er . . . town.”
Not that Lizard Bay was much of a town. And one scarcely needed to plan an escape from the few hundred souls who made their home there. But he vowed he would try to make Heathmore Cottage livable again, if only to breathe truth into the deception he felt so uncomfortable about fostering. “I admired your sister, Lord Cardwell,” he added, hoping to ease the man’s conscience. “Miss E was always kind to me. I am happy to help her family by removing this burden from your hands.”
And if Heathmore’s hidden treasures had been left in the hands of a flighty young thing from London, a fine, firm handshake with the girl’s father was surely a reasonable means to an end.
From the Diary of Edith Lucille Westmore
January 1, 1813
Dear Diary,
I had always planned to start the New Year by keeping a journal. I simply hadn’t counted on having to start a new life as well. But I cannot see a different way forward. No matter Father’s vile threats, I refuse to marry a gout-ridden peer who is twice my age.
In truth, I think I would be deranged to carry it through.
A wife belongs to her husband. By law, by nature’s edict.
But a woman alone belongs to herself.
I want Father’s approval, truly I do. It feels as though I have spent half my life trying in vain to please him, and the other half utterly failing. But if he thinks to control me with threats of an asylum, he doesn’t know me at all. I will make my own choice in this.
I must, if I am to remain sane.
Chapter 2
Lucy pushed her food around her plate and stole a sideways glance down the dining room table. Father had returned home today, looking worn-out and weary from his travels, as though he’d gone nearly to hell and back.
Well, not hell, precisely. Hell was at least a few degrees farther south.
On every map she’d ever seen, Cornwall stretched away to the west, all the way to the ocean. But knowing where Heathmore Cottage lay on a map wasn’t the same as seeing it with her own eyes. She was bursting with questions over the inheritance Father still hadn’t mentioned, though they were now well into the fourth course of dinner.
What little she had read from the first of Aunt E’s diaries had left her with more questions than answers. Was her aunt truly mad? Her diary entries hinted she’d possessed a passionate, determined nature. Lucy couldn’t imagine being committed to an asylum simply for refusing to marry. But sane or not, the person Aunt E had been was coming alive through the scribbled pages of her journals. Why did no one speak of her death?
Why did no one speak of her life?
As her mother discussed plans to visit the modiste for yet another mind-numbing fitting before the start of the Season, Lucy slid a hand into the pocket of her skirts, running a finger over the slim iron key she had taken to carrying about like a talisman. If she didn’t soon take matters into her own hands, she was either going to be forced to strangle the modiste or her mother.
Neither murder would get her any closer to Cornwall.
So she put down her fork and cleared her throat. Her mother’s head swiveled in her direction, her brow pinched in annoyance. “Lucy,” she admonished. “How many times must I tell you? A lady does not clear her throat. It sounds very common.”
“But I have something I wish to say.”
“Well, a lady should never say too much, particularly during dinner. It would never do to interrupt the conversation of the gentleman seated next to you.”
Lucy stifled a groan, recognizing the familiar pattern of this conversation—namely, how disastrous the upcoming Season was bound to be, given the sorry state of her manners. “But there isn’t a gentleman seated next to me.” She lifted a hand in her sister’s direction. “There is only Lydia. And no one would ever mistake her for a man.”
“Probably because she doesn’t wear trousers.” Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “Pity we can’t say the same about you.”
Lucy bit her lip to keep from saying something she would regret.
Damn Wilson and his interfering gossip.
Her mother sighed and placed her fork down next to her plate. “Can’t you see how important this is, dear? For heaven’s sake, the Season is only two weeks away, and you should be seizing every opportunity to practice, not prowling about the greenhouse in trousers. Do you want to be a disaster?”
“I am sorry,” Lucy mumbled automatically. “I will try harder.”
“Well, you must start tonight. If you wish to engage in conversation with a gentleman, you must first listen.” Her mother tilted her head, demonstrating. “Wait for a break in the conversation and then catch your partner’s eye.” She fluttered her eyelashes—a nonsensical bit of artifice for any able-bodied female but particularly outrageous when wielded by a forty-odd-year-old viscountess who lectured her daughters lik
e a Roman general. “When they acknowledge you, speak quietly and demurely.”
Lucy rolled her eyes. The gentleman she must meet during the coming Season sounded very dull indeed. “Then how will anyone hear me?”
“We hear Lydia when she speaks,” her mother pointed out. “You might take a page from her book. Listen more. Practice a little self-restraint.” She paused, her gaze scattering across Lucy’s hair. “Let your maid curl your hair, for a change.”
Beside her, Lucy could feel Lydia stiffen. Most young women would preen under such praise, but Lydia’s obvious discomfort was just another reason why Lucy loved her half sister to distraction. The illegitimate daughter of Father’s former mistress, Lydia had been brought to Cardwell House after her mother died. She and Lucy had grown very close in the four years since Lucy’s older sister, Clare, had married a prominent London doctor and moved into her own home. Lydia deserved a Season of her own, and there was no denying she possessed a sweet, gentle temperament far better suited for the role of hopeful debutante.
But circumstances being what they were, she was to be relegated to the shadows this Season, so as to not steal the spotlight away from Lucy’s sure-to-be-disastrous come-out.
Though she didn’t envy Lydia her former life, Lucy did sometimes envy her current position. Illegitimate daughters didn’t need to have Seasons if they didn’t want to.
And no one cared whether or not they curled their hair.
Father cleared his throat, which was apparently a fine sound for a man to make. “Well, Lucy. You’ve got the entire table’s attention now. What did you wish to tell us?”
“It is just . . . I am glad you are back,” she said, apparently too loudly, given the way her mother glared down the table. She drew a deep breath, striving for quiet and demure. “Do tell us, Father,” she said, feeling as false as her voice. “How did the trip to Cornwall go?”
The Spinster's Guide to Scandalous Behavior Page 2