The Scandalous Saga of the White Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Hanna Hamilton

  Anna very much wanted to enjoy the evening which, it was clear, her sister was enjoying so much. But Dorothy had a partner to dance with and the other guests were paired off. That left only the pimply fifteen-year-old Thomas to dance with or Theodore or one of the two sisters. None of that appealed to her and she managed to find a seat in a corner where she was largely ignored for the entire evening.

  Finally, by ten o’clock the dancing was still going strong when Anna could take it no more. She scooted along the wall to the entrance, disappeared upstairs and into her room, where she sighed in gratitude for the peace and quiet—except one could still hear the music from any part of the house.

  The next morning Anna, feeling she must make an appearance at breakfast, braved the early dawn to appear just before seven o’clock. She put on an awake-looking face and found the dining room empty, as all the rest of the family had already breakfasted. Only a solitary droopy, wizened, footman stood by as she sat at the table and was served tea, toast and something resembling porridge. It was nice, however, to be alone after last evening’s ruckus. The only sound was the footman occasionally coughing or blowing his nose.

  After breakfast, Anna went into the drawing room, but no one was there. The house was surprisingly quiet, so she surmised that perhaps the family was visiting neighbors or were out in the fields. Who knew?

  Eventually, finding nothing of interest to read, she went back toward her room but decided to stop in at Dorothy’s room to see if she was awake yet.

  Anna entered and found Dorothy brushing her hair at a dressing table.

  “Good morning, dearest sister. What time did you finally get to bed?” Anna asked.

  Dorothy looked at her as she swiveled on the dressing table bench. “Oh, Anna, it was well after midnight. And what happened to you? I looked everywhere for you but finally decided you had gone to your room.”

  “That is so.”

  “Did you dance with anyone?”

  “Not a soul.”

  Dorothy laughed and asked, “Did you save me a rasher of bacon from breakfast?”

  Anna smiled. “There was none, I am afraid. Cold porridge was the best that was offered.”

  “Oh, dear, I see I am going to have to take cook in hand when I become mistress of the house.”

  “But that will not be for a while—at least while Theodore and Claribel are still alive.”

  “Then I shall make Christopher establish our own kitchen and cook in our wing of the house.”

  Anna sat at the end of Dorothy’s bed. “Are you happy?” she asked.

  Her sister lowered her eyes. “Yes, I believe so. But nothing is what I expected it would be.”

  “I can believe that. Your Mr. Christopher is such a gentleman. However did he come from this family?”

  Dorothy laughed. “He must be a foundling.” Then she was silent for a moment before saying, “There is one thing…”

  Anna became worried. “And what is that?”

  “Christopher let slip while we were walking yesterday afternoon, that he was going to use part of my dowry to renovate this house. Heaven knows it needs it, but it startled me that he would so openly make plans to use my money without speaking to me first.”

  “But, my dear, it will no longer be just your money once you are married, and you will be subject to your husband.”

  Dorothy looked at her hands in her lap. “I never thought that through, I guess.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “When he asked me to marry him we—or actually it was I who suggested marriage—we never discussed dowry or inheritance or anything like that. I guess it surprised me that he should bring it up so casually while already making plans to spend it.”

  “I think you had better talk to him about that, Dorothy, if it is something that troubles you.”

  “Yes, I believe I must. But are we not to discuss marriage plans, settlements, and all those sorts of things with the family while we are here?”

  “It seems appropriate that we should. It is good to have a clear understanding of the expectations from both sides. Perhaps that is when you might mention your concerns.”

  Dorothy nodded. “I shall. And Anna, that makes me think of something I should like to ask you.”

  “Of course.”

  Dorothy seemed to be searching for the right words, and then said, “I have to say, I have concerns about Mr. Percy.”

  “Oh? What are they?”

  “Exactly what is it you feel for him? He never used to give you a look, let alone expressed any romantic feelings for you—until father died. Why do you suppose that is?”

  This was really at the heart of Anna’s own doubts, but she did not want to admit that and said, “I think he was shy before. But the expression of his feelings for me now seems to be genuine.”

  Dorothy sat at her dressing table looking down at her hands in her lap. “I know you think I am silly and superficial, Anna…”

  “Oh, my dear that is not true,” Anna objected.

  “Then lighthearted and gay. But I do see things, Anna. I do observe and ponder in my heart. And I beg you, please, dear sister, do not squander the opportunity to find the right husband.”

  “And you do not believe Percy would make a good husband?” Anna asked but dreading the answer.

  “I think he is self-serving and a fortune hunter. He has no profession. He is lazy, dishonest, and reckless. And what amazes me is that the one perfect man is directly in your sights and yet you ignore him.”

  “Harry,” Anna said softly.

  “Yes. It is so obvious. Yes! Yes! Harry absolutely adores you, Anna.”

  Anna remembered the kiss. Her face flushed as she said, “But he has never indicated that he was interested in me that way. We always regarded each other as good friends.”

  “Oh, Anna that is because he believed you loved Percy and he wanted to honor your feelings. He is not the sort of man to push himself upon you if he believed you cared for someone else.”

  Dorothy’s comments were like a door opening and flooding in light. Of course. How could she have been so stupid? Harry had given her so many signs—which she had chosen to ignore. And then there had been the kiss. That had not been so subtle. Anna looked at her sister in wonder. “Dear sister, I do believe you have grown up. No longer shall I look upon you as my little sister. Now you are the big sister. Much wiser than I in the affairs of the heart. I shall ponder your advice and will look at both men with fresh eyes when we return to Wiltshire.”

  Chapter 33

  “Whatever happened with that nice Nora Fitzwalker from the ball?” Maria was winding a ball from a skein of yarn that Harry held for her knitting. They were awaiting the call to lunch and Maria had snagged Harry as he took a shortcut through the drawing room. “You went to dinner with her but never said how it went.”

  Harry laughed, remembering how he had fled her house after her not-so-subtle advances. “She was lovely, but not so nice, I am afraid to say. To be polite I shall just say we did not seem to be sympathetic.”

  “Oh… well, that is a shame. I thought she might have potential. After all, Harry, it is time you think about marrying. The estate needs an heir and the way things are for me right now, it seems unlikely I shall be having children any time soon.”

  She finished up balling the skein and handed Harry another.

  “More?” he asked, “What are you knitting? This is the sixth batch.”

  “Your old turtle-neck sweater has attracted moths and it will not be suitable next winter. I thought to knit you a new one.”

  “How very kind. But Maria, while we are comparing potential spouses, what do you think about Roger? You have not said much since he has been here. Are the two of you getting on well? You seemed to be so eager to see him when he arrived, but you have said little since.”

  Maria pursed her lips as she thought of what she wanted to say. “I like Roger. And he seems to like me, but I am not certain…”

  “Certain about what
?”

  “He is very attentive to me, but he seems to lack a—as you put it earlier—a sympathetic nature. I have been jarred by some of the things he has said. He seems to have a crude sensibility at times that disturbs me.”

  “Can you give me an example?” Harry asked.

  “The other day on our walk he came right out and asked me what sort of dowry I had if I were to marry.”

  “He does have a straightforward quality that is true,” Harry said. “But he is a farmer and a cattleman, just like me. I would call him direct and plain speaking. Many might find that to be an admirable quality in a man.”

  “And then there was the way he treated Percy at tea. He showed no sympathy for his suffering.”

  “But Maria, I expect he sees Percy as his rival for you. You must give him some slack.”

  Maria stopped rolling the ball and looked at her brother. “Do you think that is all it is? Am I misjudging him?”

  “I think you might be a little harsh and judgmental.”

  Maria started working on the ball again. “I shall consider your advice, Harry. I will give him slack, but I have to say, I cannot help but compare him to Percy, who is so very gentlemanly to me.”

  “You mean by wooing Anna for her money?”

  Maria shot him a warning glance. “That is because he must. It is his father’s choosing not his. Now who is not giving slack?”

  Harry laughed. “Touché. But all I suggest is that you give Roger a little more time. He will only be here a few days longer.”

  “Very well. But let me ask, has he spoken to you about my dowry? When he asked me, I referred him to you to answer his question. I did not think it appropriate for me to answer.”

  Harry nodded. “I believe you were correct. However, he has not asked me about that. He has, however, said several times how much he admires you. He, therefore, appears to have an interest in you.”

  Maria suddenly became shy. “Oh, Harry, we should not be discussing these things. It embarrasses me.”

  Harry laughed. “Oh, Sister, you are far too tough and sensible to be truly embarrassed by such discussions.”

  She sighed. “Yes, Harry, I expect you are right.”

  He really missed her. Harry’s valet was giving Harry his morning shave, when he suddenly realized his heart was aching for Anna. Not that he expected anything from her romantically, but he just missed seeing her. He missed being with her. He missed catching her sly smile when they appreciated a moment of levity together. What was he to do? Then he realized.

  “Stop.” He commanded, and the valet took a step back still holding the razor poised for another stroke.

  “Your Lordship, did I nick you?” the valet asked.

  “No, Littleton. But I just had a thought…”

  “Shall I continue?”

  Harry grabbed the towel that was around his neck and wiped the lather off his face.

  “But you are only half shaven, My Lord,” Littleton complained.

  “It will do for now. You can do the other half tomorrow.” And he laughed as he bounded out of the chair.

  Harry needed to connect with Anna. Of course, she was absent. Off with her sister in Dorset, but he needed to feel near to her.

  Even though he had not had breakfast, he raced to the stable, saddled his horse, raced over to Repington and roused poor Warrick who had been sleeping in since there was no one in the house to serve.

  It took several minutes of intense knocking for the door to be opened.

  “Oh, Your Lordship… what can I do for you. Neither of the young ladies is at home.” Warrick looked disheveled in his dressing gown and flyaway hair.

  “Yes, I know Warrick. It is quite ridiculous, but might I be allowed inside? I should like to sit in Miss Anna’s room for just a few moments.”

  Warrick looked at him as though he had just performed a human sacrifice. “Sir… I do not know. Is that appropriate?”

  “Probably not, but I miss Anna so much and I thought if I could just sit where she sits of a morning. It might bring me some peace. Would you please allow it?”

  Warrick stood back from the door. “If it pleases Your Lordship…”

  Harry rushed past Warrick, ran up the stairs and along the hall to Anna’s chambers. He went inside and stood at the door looking about her room. It was so very silent. He could not even hear any singing birds. Just a light breeze rustling the tree closest to the window.

  He walked slowly through the room and finally settled into the chair he knew she used most often. He placed his arms on the arms of the chair, closed his eyes and breathed in the faint scent of her. If only… if only she knew what he felt for her. But she did not. How could she? He had never told her of the depth of feelings he had for her. No, the word feelings was too general. It was love. Strong, passionate love. If only he could tell her. But she was not here and, even if she was, could he?

  He got up from the chair and went over to the window seat where she loved to read. He sat down and gazed out at the view she had told him often that she loved. But he was suddenly overcome with a wash of emotion. He buried his face in his hands and breathed in the scent of her that lingered where he had rested his hands on the arms of the chair. They emitted the very faintest trace of her.

  No, he must do more. He bounded up from the window seat and ran out of her room, down the stairway, and out the front door toward his horse. The bewildered Warrick stood at the door and pulled his dressing gown tightly around himself.

  Harry felt he must ride hard and fast until he could find some peace in exhaustion.

  Despite having Roger as a guest, Maria needed to continue with her daily routine. There was always something to do each day running a great house the size of Creassey.

  As the growing season was winding down, it was time to start putting up fruits for winter. Some could be cut and dried in the cellar, but others needed to be put up in jars and opened on a cold winter’s afternoon to serve with tea and toast.

  The gardeners had picked bushels of plums, apples, quince, and pears, fragrantly waiting on the sideboards in the kitchen to be prepared.

  Maria stood up at the end of her breakfast ready to work with cook and the kitchen maids to begin the drying process and the jarring, as cook liked to call the jam making.

  As Maria was folding her napkin before departing, Roger asked her. “Miss Maria, I shall be leaving tomorrow. Might we have some time to visit before I leave?”

  This might be a great inconvenience, but she felt she must oblige. “Certainly. I have a busy morning ahead, but I feel I can find some time this afternoon to visit with you.”

  “And what keeps you busy this morning?” he asked.

  “Jam making, principally.”

  “Perhaps I might help? My mamma used to make jams, compotes, and canned fruit each autumn as well. I am very good at stirring a pot.”

  Maria looked at him, surprised by his willingness to help with such a womanly chore. “Very well, if you like. We can always use a strong arm to stir the jam pot.”

  Roger rolled up his sleeves as he entered the kitchen. Maria, the cook, and two kitchen maids were already chopping piles of fruit that went into pots already on the boil. The air was filled with the moist, wafting scents of the sweet jams.

  “Still need someone to stir the pot?” he asked with a grin.

  The cook was short, round and strands of grey hair escaped from under her cap. “Aye, help is always welcome.” She handed him a wooden spoon so large it was more like a shovel. “Give the pears a stir and watch the quince not boil over. Can you do that?”

  “I believe so. Have helped with many a jam making in my day.”

  “Lord, love ya. Now get to it, lad.”

  Maria was impressed at how willing Roger was to help, as she stood apart for a moment and watched him work. It was true, he might be rough around the edges, but she was willing to give the man some slack as Harry had suggested. There were four pots simmering away on the stove and she went over and beg
an attending to two of the pots.

  “I take it you have not traveled much?” Roger said. “Have you ever been abroad?”

  Strange question, Maria thought but she said, “I have not. With an invalid mother, and just Harry and me to run an estate this large, we have stayed very close to home.” She stopped stirring for a moment and considered. “I should love to see Paris, and maybe Italy and even Greece. Someday, perhaps. But it has not been possible so far.”

  “You would like Italy,” he said, lifting the spoon from the pot and letting it drip to see how near it was to setting up.