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© 2017 Ashtyn Newbold
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, whether by graphic, visual, electronic, film, microfilm, tape recording, or any other means, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.
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ISBN 13: 978-1-4621-2753-5
Published by Sweetwater Books, an imprint of Cedar Fort, Inc.
2373 W. 700 S., Springville, UT 84663
Distributed by Cedar Fort, Inc., www.cedarfort.com
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN- PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Newbold, Ashtyn, 1998– author
Title: Lies and Letters / Ashtyn Newbold
Description: Springville, Utah : Sweetwater Books, an imprint of Cedar Fort, Inc., [2017]
Identifiers: LCCN 2017006051 (print)
ISBN 9781462119844 (perfect binding : alk. paper)
Subjects: LCSH: Nineteenth century, setting; England, setting | LCGFT: Romance fiction
Classification: PS3614.E568 L54 2017 (print) | DDC 813/.6-- dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017006051
Cover design by Priscilla Chaves
Cover design © 2017 by Cedar Fort, Inc.
Edited and typeset by Hali Bird and Jessica Romrell
To the givers of kindness, the lights in darkness, the friends in hard times. How you change the world.
Other Books by Ashtyn Newbold
Mischief and Manors
Unexpected Love: A Marriage of Convenience Anthology
“Doubt thou the stars are fire; doubt the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar: but never doubt I love.”
—William Shakespeare
Chapter 1
CANTERBURY, ENGLAND, 1818
The scratching of a quill did little to settle my nerves. Neither did the pattering of rain, nor the abrupt plinking of the pianoforte from downstairs. In fact, all of these sounds produced quite the opposite effect.
Slamming my quill down on my writing desk, I jumped from my chair, striking my knee on the underside of the desk. The inkwell tipped, splattering my gown. I froze, staring at the teardrops of black. Propelled by a new bout of anger, I rushed at the door and threw it open.
I knew it was Clara at the pianoforte, rehearsing for a dinner party at which she was bound to humiliate us all. And as if the rain wasn’t enough to upset me, my sister carried on with her horrifying display while I was trying to write a letter to my dearest friend, Alice. It had been two long months since I had visited her at Kellaway Manor, and I was itching to know if her eldest brother was still unattached.
I gripped my stained skirts as I stomped down the stairs. It was such a relief to stomp. In public, I was only permitted to glide.
“Clara! Quit that horrendous music and look what you have done to me!” My voice was a shriek, shrill from lack of use.
Clara’s hands stopped for a moment, suspended above the keys. Her smile was tight as she took in my dirtied dress and ink-covered hands. Without comment, she resumed her playing with renewed vigor.
“Clara!” I rushed at her and threw the music off the stand, missing the burning fireplace by inches. The sheets fell to the ground like dead petals. “Content yourself with the fact that you will never be as talented as me.” I placed my hand on her shoulder and leaned in close. “Nor will you ever be as pretty.”
Her face darkened to a shade of cherry red and her brow creased. In anger or shame, I couldn’t tell.
“A well-bred lady will always maintain an even disposition. I trust you haven’t applied rouge to your entire face.”
“Charlotte, stop!” She threw my hand off her shoulder. A dark smudge of ink stained her ivory sleeve.
I glanced at it with mock regret. “Oh, dear sister, forgive me.”
With an animal-like grunt, she leapt from her seat and charged at me. Her palms slammed into my shoulders and I faltered, gasping. Clara was sixteen, two years younger than me, but we were similar in proportion. I regained my bearings and returned the action, throwing her back several steps. It was a fair fight, to be sure.
“I am going to sit beside Mr. Weatherby tomorrow, and you will be placed beside Mr. Connor’s belching!” I screamed.
“Mr. Weatherby favors me!”
I scoffed. “What has possibly implanted such a fantasy in your simple head? He certainly wasn’t charmed by your musical talent.”
She cast me a look of contempt. “Do not ever speak to me again!” She gave me one last shove before crossing her arms. “I wish to play music, and I will play music, and you cannot stop me!”
I caught my breath, rolling my eyes. With the clean area of my hand, I brushed back my pale curls. “Very well, but you will never master the art as I have. You will never be like me.”
She stepped closer, the light from the flames flickering over her face. I expected to see a look of hot anger, or inadequacy. But instead I saw pity. “I have never wanted to be like you, Charlotte.”
“What is the commotion about?” Mama’s feet clicked on the black and white tiles as she entered the room. The graceful air of Lady Pembury never changed. Attending a ball, a musical, or roaming the halls of our home, she walked the same. Her head remained at the same angle, and her striking green eyes always seemed to leak of disapproval. I stood tall at her arrival, knowing I was the daughter she had always favored.
“Clara,” she gasped. Her eyes froze on my splattered gown, “what have you done to Charlotte?”
“I did nothing.”
Mama’s eyebrow lifted in doubt.
“She forced me to spill the ink,” I stated. “I was writing a letter to Alice Kellaway when she ran into my room and tipped my desk.”
Clara opened her mouth to belie the fib, but Mama stopped her. “That will be quite enough from you. Remove to your bedchamber at once.”
“Charlotte is lying!”
Mama’s expression hardened. “How dare you make such an accusation? You will not be dining with us at the Weatherby’s tomorrow night. As far as they’re concerned, you have caught a cold.” Her eyes shifted to the leaves of music on the ground around the pianoforte. “And clean that up.”
I stood back, fighting a victorious smirk. Mama left the room shortly after, and Clara bent over the sheets of music, blinking back tears. Rain continued its patter against the roof, bridging the gorge of silence between us. I moved across the room until I stood beside her. I picked up a page from the floor and handed it to Clara.
She lifted her gaze to mine, and what I saw there surprised me. Anger had faded into the depths of something heavier, a look I couldn’t quite place. But it did little to dishevel me. Mama had taught me that eliminating the enemy can mean many things. It was a war of sorts, and securing a husband of rank and fortune required a famous arsenal. I figured that infliction upon family was merely part of the game.
I smiled at Clara in the dim li
ght. “Forgive me if I steal away his heart.” Then I turned away from her and smoothed back the golden curl that had fallen over my brow.
As I walked away, I yelled for Anna, my maid. It was late, and husband catching required a plentiful night’s sleep. Only two months before, a plain girl had stolen the heir to Willowbourne from me. I was not going to allow my sister to steal Mr. Weatherby. He was one of Mama’s top choices for her daughters, and I couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing her again. Flirting came naturally to Lyons women, and if I was to win the heart of Harold Weatherby, then tomorrow night I would employ that great weapon to my advantage.
z
At breakfast, I pushed the food around my plate and stared out the tall windows. The rain had finally stopped, and tiny streaks of sunlight broke through the dark sky. I took a nibble of a biscuit, shifting my eyes between Mama and Clara.
“Where is Papa?” I asked, my voice nonchalant. “Was he not scheduled to return early this morning?”
Mama released a slow breath and straightened the pendant at her neck. It was a miniature of her own mother, who looked more like me than Mama did. My grandmother and I both had the same golden curls and pale blue eyes. I had determined that my skin was fairer, because an artist rarely depicts blemishes.
When Mama’s breath was all the way out, she said, “Yes, he was due to arrive.”
Clara looked up from her plate. Her eyes appeared puffy as they avoided contact with mine. “Don’t you worry about him?”
Mama lifted her chin and dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “What you must learn is that in a marriage, settlements must be made. Your papa and I cannot bother ourselves with worry; therefore we have agreed to allow one another a sense of freedom. What your father does or does not do is none of my concern.” She sipped from her cup. “He will arrive when he sees fit.”
I made a note in my mind of her words.
Clara’s scowl deepened. “He has been in London for a fortnight now. Don’t you wonder—”
“Enough!” Mama barely concealed her glare behind the thick layers of rouge. “A woman is much better off keeping to her own affairs. The same is true for her silly daughters.” After taking a huffed breath, Mama turned her attention to me. “Is your piece prepared for the dinner party this evening?”
I nodded. “I shall play more beautifully than any other lady there, I assure you.”
Mama clucked her tongue and folded her napkin into a neat square. “You must do far more than that if you wish to win Mr. Weatherby, Charlotte. Many eyes are trained on him, but you must turn his to you.”
“I will, Mama. Your daughter will be the mistress of Candleworth Manor.” I chuckled deeply at the thought. “I will become Mrs. Charlotte Weatherby. Oh, it rolls off the tongue, does it not, Mama?”
She shrugged. “I would prefer that you obtain a title, but he is wealthy. I suppose it will do.”
My face fell.
“Clara will be my last hope of possible ties to the aristocracy.”
As soon as she said the words, I burst into giggles. Mama soon joined me, our laughter cutting the air like birdcalls. Clara shifted uncomfortably at her isolated corner of the table.
“Regardless of your success with Mr. Weatherby, I trust that you, Charlotte, will make an advantageous match. And what I ask of you, Clara, is that you … surprise me. Impress me if possible.”
My sister’s grip tightened on her fork before she scraped the final scraps of food from her plate and excused herself to the gardens.
Finishing my food, I watched Clara’s retreating form out the window. She spent an unhealthy amount of time out of doors. I made it a firm endeavor never to spend more than one hour susceptible to the elements. It was preposterous the damage sunlight could do to a complexion.
There were still several hours before I needed to get ready for the dinner party, so I wandered through the house, trying to decide on an entertaining pastime. The music room was available. And so was the library, but nothing filled me with excitement. With thoughts of Mr. Weatherby and the dinner party that evening, I found it impossible to focus on anything else. After several minutes, I decided to stay in my bedchamber for a few hours.
When I reached the top of the staircase, I entered the first room on the right. Anna, my maid, kept it in acceptable condition. She had replaced my inkwell, I noticed, and the stains were scrubbed clean off my writing desk. I sat down in the chair and placed a sheet of parchment in front of me. Picking up the quill, I rubbed the plume over my lips, thinking.
At the Weatherby’s tonight would be several guests, similar in rank to me, and close in accomplishment. Every lady would be vying for Mr. Weatherby’s attention, and if I was to win it, I needed a plan.
I dipped the quill and positioned it at the top of the paper. I would start with what I’d been taught.
I titled it, How to catch a husband: Charlotte’s list of requirements. Tapping my finger on the table, I began writing.
1. Always showcase on the pianoforte.
2. Always perform better than the previous lady.
3. Always let him choose the conversation, and always act interested.
4. Always dress in the latest fashion.
5. Always compliment him.
6. Always lean close when speaking and smile.
7. Always laugh at his humor.
8. Always steal his heart.
My mouth curled into a grin as my confidence returned. What had I been worried about? I had been taught what I needed to know, and my beauty was unrivaled in the entire county at least. My heart beat quickly, stimulated by my motivation. If Mr. Weatherby didn’t send me flowers by tomorrow, then he was not worth my attention anyway.
With these firm thoughts in mind, I readied a new piece of parchment and finally finished that letter to Alice.
Chapter 2
“Look like the innocent flower
But be the serpent under’t.”
We left the house around six of the clock. Clara was in the drawing room when we departed, hanging her head and sniffling like a self-pitying dolt. Her hands were clasped behind her back, and thin strands of wet, dark hair clung to her cheeks where the tears fell freely. I flashed her a winning smile as I passed.
I walked to the carriage, shivering in the cold from the recent rain. It was mid-September, and the temperature was dropping more by the day, turning light summer breezes into chilly, still autumn air. I hadn’t bothered to bring a miniature looking glass, for I had my appearance memorized from head to toe. I had insisted that Anna work nothing short of a miracle. Most of my hair was arranged on top of my head with pieces intertwining intricately like clockwork. Loose tendrils framed my face; my cheeks were rosy; my eyes were bright and perfectly matched to my dress—the color of which I called the sky. Any man would have to be blind not to notice me, or to want me as his wife.
When we arrived at Candleworth Manor, I stepped out of the carriage gracefully, lightly resting my hand in the footman’s. The sky was speckled with stars, making me feel even more powerful and breathtakingly beautiful. Mama walked ahead of me, nodding at a couple arriving the same moment as us.
Once seated in the drawing room, I surveyed the guests with my gaze. Married women, four. Widowed, two. Young and unattached, nine. I felt the eyes of many men in the room wander to me, unfolding another bloom of pride in me. But where was my target? He wasn’t yet in the room, so I would have to wait until dinner. The dining area was enormous, and the likelihood of receiving a seat near Mr. Weatherby was unlikely.
I watched the guests interact from my vantage point beside my mother. We were greeted occasionally by the brave men and women in the room, but most kept their distance. Mama had a tendency to intimidate.
A young woman caught my eye from the corner of the room, studying a sheet of music in her hands. I briefly recognized her from the previous London season. Her name was Miss Lydia Camden, and I knew that she was reputable on the pianoforte. Without a second thought, I stood from my chair an
d crossed the room to greet her.
“Miss Camden! Oh, it is a pleasure to see you again.” I pulled my lips into a rehearsed smile.
Her eyes raised to mine in surprise. “Miss Lyons! The pleasure is mine.”
“Why have you secluded yourself to this corner? I trust there are many fine gentlemen about to admire you.” I eyed the music in her hands. It was Haydn’s Sonata in C major, one I had previously played at a musical.
“Don’t be absurd. It is you they are bound to admire.”
I swatted the air and let a laugh ring through it. “Surely I will not turn a single head.”
She smiled up at me from her seat. “Nonsense. You have much beauty to recommend you. I rely solely upon my performance.”
“I am performing tonight as well.”
Her face seemed to fall.
“When are you standing?” I leaned in as if sharing a secret.
“Second.”
A burst of triumph spread through my body. I was to directly follow her performance. “And I am third! I look forward to your performance. Haydn is one of my favorite composers. Perhaps your talent will calm my anxious spirits. I do hate excessive attention …” I twirled a lock of my hair around my finger as I caught the eye of Sir Edward Longleat. He was certainly my second choice among eligible husbands at the party.
“I wish you the best,” Miss Camden said, recalling my attention.
“And I, you.”
After an hour of tedious conversation, the group moved to the dining room. I was escorted by Mr. Hansen, a dreadful man that smiled far too often. I acted polite for the sake of the other members of the party, and noticed Mr. Weatherby’s gaze travel my way on more than one occasion. Mama caught my eye with an eyebrow arched deviously.
When we arrived in the dining room, I was seated on the opposite length of the table as Mr. Weatherby, but nearly straight across. In no opinion would he be considered handsome, with his large nose and narrow eyes, but he was the wealthiest man in town, and his home was magnificent. I had taken note of it. The ceilings domed high, covered in paintings and decorated in crystal. The floors were made of fine marble, and the furnishings were in the latest French style.
Lies and Letters Page 1