He grimaced. “It was not particularly pleasant. I am glad it is done, at any rate.” His attention drifted back to his plate.
Lucy squirmed in her seat, though she knew it would probably earn her an admonishment from her mother to sit like a lady. Surely there was more to the trip than that. “Oh, to hell with it,” she muttered under her breath, causing Lydia to cower. She leaned forward and braced her hands on either side of her plate. “Is Heathmore Cottage the same as I remember?” she blurted out.
Father looked up. “Heathmore?”
“Yes.” Lucy nodded. “Aunt E’s house.”
He blinked at her from behind his spectacles. “I don’t even see how you remember it. You can’t have seen it since you were, what, four years old?”
“I was six,” she told him, not liking the downward slope to her father’s brow. “It’s a white stone cottage, perched on a cliff.”
My white stone cottage, her mind insisted on adding. My cliff.
“Er . . . yes.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, no. Heathmore is not at all the same. You wouldn’t recognize it, I fear. Fortunately, I left things there well settled.”
Lucy stared at her father with a growing sense of unease. Settled?
Things were anything but settled.
In fact, she was feeling decidedly unsettled. Behind her father’s spectacles, his eyes weren’t meeting hers. A wisp of unease uncurled in her stomach.
“I ask because I received a package from Aunt E this week,” she told him.
“A package?” Surprise sharpened Mother’s voice. “How is that even possible? The woman died two weeks ago.”
“She must have had someone mail it in the event of her death,” Lucy reasoned. She slid a hand into her pocket, her fingers dancing over the key. How much to reveal? The journals seemed a terribly private gift to mention. If Aunt E had wanted others to see them, she wouldn’t have taken such pains to see the pages delivered in so surreptitious a manner. The necklace, too, was something she didn’t want to share. God knew it wasn’t the sort of jewelry one wore to church. Heathmore Cottage, on the other hand, was a gift that could not be hidden.
She pulled out the key and held it up. “Apparently, she’s left me her house.”
There was a moment of shocked silence, where Lucy was quite sure she could hear the air settle in her lungs. But then her mother made a strangled sound that was anything but demure. “Oh, for heaven’s sake! The woman was mad.”
Lydia clapped her hands together. “Oh, Lucy, your own house!” she exclaimed, not a trace of envy in her blue eyes. “What a generous bequest.”
“It isn’t generous, it’s ludicrous,” Mother snapped. “I declare, that woman was always tottering on the edge of insanity. For her to reach out now, when it might sully Lucy’s reputation just as her first Season is about to start . . .” Her voice hitched. “It’s . . . it’s unconscionable.”
Father offered a weary sigh. “So that’s what happened to the key to Heathmore Cottage,” he murmured. “I had wondered what my sister was up to.” He held out a palm, beckoning for Lucy to pass the key forward up the table. “I’ll just send the key on to Lord Branston. I’d hate for him to have to buy a new lock when we’ve a perfectly good key in hand.”
Lucy closed her fingers over the key. “Who is Lord Branston?”
And more to the point, why did he have need of her key?
Her father frowned. “Now Lucy, be reasonable. Branston’s offer to buy the place is a bit of a relief. The house is falling down. And it is miles from the nearest town, without even a proper road to speak of. I can’t understand why he wants to buy it, but he says he likes the solitude.”
Lucy’s face grew warm. Oh, bugger it all, Aunt E had been right. Someone was trying to thwart her wishes. And bless her aunt’s no-longer-beating heart, it was a man.
Two men, in fact.
“You’ve sold my property?” she demanded. “To a hermit?”
“Not a hermit.” Her father’s frown deepened. “A marquess. I admit, it was a bit of a surprise to find someone so cultured in a town like Lizard Bay.”
Lucy swallowed the growl that wanted to escape her throat. “Cultured or no, how can he buy Heathmore when I’ve never even spoken to the bloody man? Aunt E left the property to me.” She shoved the key back in her pocket. “I am of age, and I am in possession of the key. It should be my decision whether or not to sell it.”
Beside her, Lydia made a small squeak of protest.
Lucy ignored her. She didn’t want to upset her sister, who always grew pale and nervous during domestic squabbles, as if the family she’d been fortunate enough to find was in danger of disintegrating before her eyes. But this wasn’t a battle she could back down from.
Not if she wished to claim her inheritance.
Father stared at her as though she had grown two heads. “Frankly, I am surprised to hear of your interest in the place. I’ve never seen you show the slightest interest in anything beyond your petty distractions in London.”
Lucy felt a familiar spark of anger to hear her work so described, as though her philanthropic pursuits were some form of childish amusement. She wanted nothing more than her father’s approval, lived and breathed for the occasional word of praise. Why couldn’t he for once acknowledge her accomplishments? Had he any notion of how hard she worked? How many sleepless nights she’d spent, penning letter after letter, hoping to change the course of the world? “They are not petty,” she retorted. “And one has nothing to do with the other.”
“Lucy,” he said, chidingly now, “truly, I have done you a favor to dispose of Heathmore Cottage so expeditiously.” He reached into his jacket pocket and drew out a bank note, waving it as though it was a flag of truce. “And you’ve four hundred pounds for your trouble.” He handed it to a footman, who brought it down to Lucy. “Perhaps you might like to send it on to one of your nice charities, hmm?”
Lucy glared down at the bank note. Nice charities? Oh, for heaven’s sake.
Didn’t he understand she corresponded with felons?
“How could it only be four hundred pounds?” she demanded. She might not remember much about Heathmore, but she did recall how the fields above her aunt’s house had seemed to stretch to the moon. She glared at her father. “Why, there must be dozens of acres.”
“Around a hundred, I think. But it isn’t arable land. A more useless bit of heath and bog I’ve never seen. Trust me, I’ve done you a favor.”
Lucy’s nails dug deep into the skin of her palms. “Whether or not I sell it—and who I sell it to—is a decision I will make for myself.” She lifted her chin. “I insist on inspecting the property myself. We can leave tomorrow.”
Her mother’s hand flew to her throat, fluttering in agitation. “Lucy, you can’t be serious. Your father just returned from that godforsaken place, and your Season is about to start!” Her voice rose a hysterical notch. “We’ve waited for this year for too long already. Any longer and you’ll be too far on the shelf to have any chance of a good match!”
“And what a pity that would be,” Lucy grumbled mutinously.
Her father leaned back in his chair. “Don’t be obstinate about this, Lucy. It’s an impossible idea. The cottage is falling down. And it is infested with rats and vermin. Quite uninhabitable.”
Lucy glared at him. Had her parents any notion that, to her, the thought of the coming Season—an archaic process that more or less sold young women of good breeding to the highest bidder—was enough to give the idea of living in a rat-infested cottage a good deal of appeal?
“If it is so terrible,” she pointed out, “then why does Lord Branston want it?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I would like to see Heathmore for myself. Only then will I know whether selling the property is the right choice. And I must remind you, I am twenty-one years old. I am of an age to make my own choices on this matter.”
At that, her father’s face turned an unfortunate shade of red. “And how do you think you will you get
there?” he asked, his voice a tangle of irritation. “You’d need train fare to Salisbury. An overnight stay at the inn, and then a coach to take you on from there. All of that costs money, and that is the one thing my sister didn’t leave you.”
“I will use my pin money,” she declared hotly.
“If you have any saved, I suppose you are welcome to try.” At Mother’s squeak of protest, her father raised his hand, as though asking for a moment to explain. “But I refuse to give you a penny more.”
Lucy gaped at him. “You would take away my pin money?”
“As you have so enthusiastically pointed out, you are of age.” He raised a brow in challenge. “But I know you, Lucy. You haven’t any money saved. Perhaps, if you put it away like Lydia does, instead of sending it to every lost cause in London, you might have a nice sum to set by, but you’ve never been able to hold onto a farthing.”
This time Lucy was too angry—and too hurt—to ignore the slight.
“Lost causes?” she choked out, wishing that for once Father could be supportive of her interests, rather than merely tolerant. “And here I thought they were merely ‘petty distractions.’ ”
He frowned, but that didn’t mean she had won the point.
Because . . . he was right.
She didn’t have the money to fund a trip to Cornwall. She ought to, given that she received three pounds a month in spending money and had no interest whatsoever in ribbons and clocked stockings and the like. But as he had pointed out, her pin money had a habit of falling through her fingers, straight into the coffers of her charities.
She had always thought she was saving the outside world with her generosity.
But now she wondered if she might not have been ruining her own future instead.
Her father tapped a firm finger against the table. “Lucy, you can’t afford this house. You haven’t the money to travel, much less the funds to make it livable.” He picked up his fork, the redness in his face easing now. “These sorts of antics were tolerable when you were seventeen, but you are a grown woman now, with responsibilities to your position. You’ve the coming Season and your entire life ahead of you. Your mother has gone to great expense to prepare you for your come-out, and you might be a bit more grateful for the opportunity. Heathmore is sold, and you’ll just have to accept it, hmm?”
The usual sounds of dinner slowly resumed. Forks against china, the low hum of conversation. No doubt it was a relief to the rest of them to have the matter so handily dismissed. But Lucy felt as though the walls of the dining room were closing in on her.
Smothering her.
She knew she was being impulsive—indeed, she’d been accused of such proclivities her entire life. And she wasn’t entirely foolish. She knew that in her present financial state, she very likely couldn’t afford the property. But that didn’t mean she didn’t want to try.
Something about this fight stirred a recklessness in her that felt far more real than the looming Season. The fate of Heathmore Cottage—indeed, the fate of her own future—was hanging in the balance. No other cause had ever felt quite so necessary to her very survival.
She pushed away her plate. “May I please be excused?” she asked.
Quietly and demurely.
Just the way she had been ordered.
When her mother nodded, Lucy waited for a footman to hold her chair, then stood up, smoothing a hand down the front of her silk skirts. It was wasteful, she knew, leaving her plate half full on the table. Many in London lacked food tonight, much less gilt-edged china to eat it from. She ought to know, given that feeding the unfortunate poor in East London was another one of her “petty distractions.” But tonight the thought of staying at the table one second longer than necessary made her stomach churn in anger, not hunger.
She made her way meekly out of the dining room, head down and hands clasped in front of her. But despite the outward façade, her inner thoughts tumbled about, gaining speed and shape. No, she didn’t have money of her own.
But livable or no, Heathmore Cottage was hers. A gift from Aunt E, to restore or sell as she saw fit. This Lord Branston fellow needed to prepare himself for disappointment.
Because by Father’s own damning words, lost causes were her specialty.
Chapter 3
Lord Branston
c/o Postmaster, Lizard Bay, Cornwall
April 12, 1853
Dear Lord Branston,
Despite whatever agreement you believe you have reached with my father, he lacks the legal authority to act on my behalf. I am of an age to make my own decisions, and if I decide to sell Heathmore Cottage, you can be sure it will not be for so paltry a price. I am returning your bank note, with my regrets. Please return the home and the property to the condition in which my aunt left them. Any further association with the property will be considered trespass.
I will not hesitate to involve the authorities if necessary.
Yours Sincerely,
Miss Lucy Westmore
Thomas stared down at the letter, the bank note crumpling in his hand.
Well, this was . . . unfortunate.
Scarcely twenty feet away, the cottage’s newly replastered walls gleamed white in the sunlight. The dusty parlor furniture had been pulled out and scrubbed down. Mrs. Wilkins, the proprietress of the boardinghouse down in Lizard Bay, had spent yesterday morning washing the cottage’s dusty windows with vinegar-soaked rags. And above his head the new roof was slowly taking shape, though he’d only been able to find one roofer willing to take the job, and the slate had to be carried up the narrow, twisting path on the back of an obstinate donkey. But now the letter from Miss Westmore threatened to undo it all.
Return the home and property to the condition in which my aunt left them.
How was he supposed to do that? Rip off the new slate roof?
Through his irritation, a reluctant bit of respect tried to intrude. Whoever else she was, Miss E’s niece was not quite the frippery-minded miss he’d imagined. The girl must have a core of steel to cross her father in this way. In fact, there were elements to her letter that reminded him suspiciously—painfully—of a certain deceased spinster. Miss Westmore sounded like a very determined young woman, and if she was anything like her aunt, he’d made a misstep in negotiating with her father instead of her.
As he shoved the letter and bank note into his coat pocket, Thomas eyed the boy who’d brought the letter up from town. The lad was the smallest of the Tanner orphans, with a shock of red hair and a face full of freckles. It was good to see he was wearing shoes today. In January, Thomas had seen Danny tripping about town with naught but socks on his feet—and not because he’d lacked the shoes, either, because Thomas had personally seen the entire lot of Tanners shod around Christmas time. It seemed, upon further interrogation, the boy had thought shoes were too fine a luxury to wear to anything but church. But today, shoes were clearly not the worst of the boy’s problems. The lad’s left eye was red and swelling.
“Have you been beaten then, Danny?” Thomas could scarcely imagine the postmaster lifting a hand to the lad, or old Jamieson, the town grocer who sometimes had odd jobs for the Tanner boys. “You can tell me if someone’s been hurting you.”
The boy shook his head, his eyes focused somewhere in the vicinity of his scuffed shoes. “Just some roughing around from one of my brothers.”
“Would you care to tell me which one?” Thomas waited for a further explanation. Seemed like more than the usual sort of fisticuffs, but it had been a while since he was a boy of that age. Twenty-odd years, in fact. And even then he had been nothing like Danny.
Oh, there were enough similarities to give him pause. He, too, had been an orphan, but instead of three feisty brothers, he’d had a sister. And instead of growing up surrounded by townspeople who knew and loved him, he and Josephine had been granted only a cold, uncaring guardian, followed by a relentless string of boarding schools.
When Danny remained mutinously silent, Thomas sighed. He
could respect wanting to protect one’s siblings, if nothing else. “Well, if you’re determined to protect your brothers, I suppose I can respect that. But try to be more careful.” He dug a coin from his pocket and tossed it to the boy. “And give the postmaster my thanks for having you bring the letter on so quickly.”
Danny caught the coin in the air. “It weren’t so quick,” he admitted, looking down at the ground. “None of us wanted to come and deliver it, and we got into a bit of a row about it.” He touched a finger to his swollen eye. “I’m the smallest, you see, so I lost.”
“You fought to see who wouldn’t have to bring the letter?” Thomas asked, perplexed. That hardly made sense. He always tipped them well. “Why?”
“Well . . . that is, you see . . .” Danny glanced nervously toward the cottage. “It’s the haints.”
“You think Heathmore is haunted?”
Danny took a step toward the rocky path that meandered the two miles or so back to Lizard Bay. “I heard Mrs. Wilkins tell Mr. Jamieson she could hear Miss E moaning up here, pining for her lost love.”
Thomas had to work to control the bark of laughter that wanted to work its way out of his throat. Miss E, pining for a man. It was about the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. Why, Miss E had eaten men for breakfast. She’d had Mr. Jamieson, the local grocer, cowering at her feet in fear of messing up her monthly order of snuff, and her long-running feud with the town vicar had been the stuff of legends.
“You don’t need to worry.” Thomas smiled. He supposed he’d had his own fears at Danny’s age, when ghosts had seemed a far more terrifying prospect than the threat of inner demons. He’d only been eleven when his parents died in a carriage accident, and he’d imagined them as ghosts more than once. “Miss E is in heaven now, not a ghost come back to haunt you.” The devil seized him then. “If anything, I think she’d come back to haunt Reverend Wellsbury, don’t you?”
Danny’s eyes flew wide, and Thomas mentally kicked himself. Clearly, one didn’t joke around about ghosts with eight-year-olds.
“But Mrs. Wilkins said—”
The Spinster's Guide to Scandalous Behavior Page 3