A Gentleman's Daughter: A sweet, clean historical romance (Sisters of the Revolution Book 1)

by Diana Davis

  Helen and Cassandra grinned at her, and Patience beamed back.

  “Perhaps you’ll be the one to steal Lord David’s heart,” Cassandra suggested.

  Patience scoffed. “Not unless he proves to be markedly more intelligent than the other men in this city. But . . . perhaps.”

  And perhaps serving their cousins wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  As long as they didn’t have to serve the full seven years of an indenture.

  Lord David peered through the darkness into the next tavern. This was the fourth establishment he’d tried today, and it was actually well kept. He was beginning to believe either the coach he’d hired for the day was taking him to the lowest of the low, or the entire city was a hovel behind its brick façades.

  He ventured in. The denizens were engaged in active conversation, debating livelily at several tables. While they were obviously not of the ton, the patrons were at least clean and decent looking.

  Yes, this was promising. He’d already made it further into this tavern than the last three. He approached the counter. “Have you a room?” he asked the keeper.

  The tavern keeper gave him a hard stare. “Where are you coming from?”

  “Dorset.”

  The keeper snorted. “Be on your way, then.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “We don’t serve Tories here.”

  Lord David’s mind scrambled to remember his family’s party alignment. He wasn’t even certain they were Tories; they tried to stay above politics. His strongest opinion of King George was that he dressed plainer than expected. “I — I don’t understand.”

  The tavern keeper leaned on one elbow on the counter, punctuating each word with a poke at the wood. “We don’t serve Tories.”

  He’d had no idea political parties would be so important to the colonists. “My apologies,” he managed, though he still wasn’t certain what he was apologizing for.

  Lord David turned to leave but paused at the threshold. Next to the door, a colored engraving was tacked. It depicted soldiers firing into a crowd of people in a narrow street, blood flowing.

  He turned to the nearest patron. “What’s this?” he asked.

  The man in black homespun snickered until he saw that David genuinely did not know. “The Boston Massacre,” he said. “Back in March.”

  Lord David stared at the picture a long moment. A massacre? In Boston? March — that would have been just when he was leaving England.

  The soldiers wore red. There was no mistaking their allegiance.

  “Off with you!” the keeper called.

  Lord David walked through the door.

  These colonies were another world, it seemed. One where soldiers could fire on people in the streets.

  He did not know what to make of that in the slightest, beyond feeling unsettled. British soldiers firing on their own citizens?

  Could that be why they didn’t like Tories? He still wasn’t certain what political parties had to do with it. He might not have cared about politics, but what loyal Briton could justify what looked like murder?

  He climbed in his coach, but the image and the sense of horror stayed with him.

  The next tavern was not promising at first blush. Lord David peered inside, his eyesight adjusting to the dim interior. The air held a whiff of food cooking, but after a moment, the smell sharpened into the scent of something burning, mingled with an odor somewhere between human filth and death.

  Where was the proprietor? Perhaps they had one decent room with its own entrance or something to eat that hadn’t been charred several inches past the end of its life. It had been hours since his breakfast at the coffeehouse by the docks.

  Lord David took shallow breaths and held a handkerchief to his mouth to try to mask the scent. He stepped inside, trying not to disturb any of the patrons.

  “’Ey,” a gruff voice cried from behind him when he hadn’t made it two feet. “Watch yerself.”

  He turned around to find not a man, as he was expecting, but a woman. Her face and neck seemed to be riddled with pustules. Lord David fell back a step, unable to hide his revulsion.

  Was that . . . a pox? “I beg your pardon,” he rushed to say, wheeling immediately for the door.

  Lord David eased himself back into the coach he’d hired for the day. This was quickly becoming ridiculous. Each tavern was worse than the last. He had no idea what kind of pox that woman had, but he had not come to America to come down with the smallpox.

  That place was definitely miasmatic.

  He didn’t mean to be a fop, but did everywhere in these colonies have to stink of sickness, filth and death? How on earth was he to find a purpose here if he couldn’t even find a safe place to stay?

  Lord David groaned. Why had he come here? He was tired, hungry, lonely, offended and inconvenienced. Was there no place in this city he could deign to sleep, let alone eat?

  He sighed and rested his head against the back wall of the coach. America had not even a single person he could hold a conversation with.

  Aside from that Josiah Hayes, the sisters’ uncle. Lord David wouldn’t qualify it as a conversation, but he had seemed most sincere as he invited him to dinner a second time. Lord David had not really intended to take him up on it, but Hayes was remarkably grateful for the small help he had been.

  In England, he never could have admitted to such an acquaintance. But as the morning had proven, he was not in England.

  Lord David sat up straight. Enough self-pity. He certainly hadn’t come here to wallow. Perhaps it was time to begin thinking like a Pennsylvanian. Or at least thinking where he could eat in relative comfort. He couldn’t be certain that would be the Hayes household, but until he could meet someone of a better sort, he had few options.

  It had to be nearly two, the time Hayes had said. Lord David leaned out the door to address the driver, directing him to the address Hayes had given: Pine Street in Society Hill.

  The trip to the house did not take long, and he knew he had the right place right away. The modest coach that had borne Hayes and his nieces away this morning stood in front of a tidy pink brick house. Hayes himself was climbing from the cab.

  His host spotted him quickly. “Oh, good. I was afraid you’d arrive before me,” Hayes said.

  Apparently, he was expected. Lord David hoped that was a good thing.

  Hayes showed him into the drawing room of the house and introduced his neatly dressed wife, who made an elegant enough curtsy for someone of her age. Lord David rewarded her with a bow.

  This was already a vast improvement over his morning. He was more than ready to escort her to the dining room when a rustling sounded on the stairs. Lord David looked up to find a brunette beauty in a pink gown and lace cuffs descending. Something about her smile said she knew she looked charming.

  Lord David waited for her to arrive before turning to her father, presumably, for introductions, but then another rustling sounded. He patiently waited as another daughter made her entrance, a blonde in a blue gown, then another brunette, much younger, and finally a young girl in blonde ringlets.

  Lord David checked with Hayes again, but his host was still watching the stairs. Next came a daughter who had to be somewhere in the middle of the others, quite young, but intensely striking, between her fashionable hairstyle, the lace on her cap, and the fine fabric of her sack-back gown, embellished with purple grapes and vines.

  After a pause long enough that he was fairly certain there were no more daughters — what had happened to the nieces? — Lord David consulted Hayes for introductions.

  Hayes made no move to present his daughters. Or, rather, he had no time to do so before the eldest, the first to enter, stepped forward and offered her hand. “Temperance Hayes.”

  She was introducing herself? To him? Lord David looked to Hayes again.

  “Apologies, my lord,” he said. “We don’t have many interactions in the way of nobility here. Introducing one’s self is the Pennsylvania way.” As
if he decided to accommodate his guest, however, Hayes named each of his daughters in turn: Temperance, Patience (who had lived up to her name by being the last to enter), Constance, Verity and Mercy.

  What quaint little names. He had known many Constances and Temperances, but taken together as a set, the effect was charmingly colonial. Lord David greeted each of them, then offered his arm to Mrs. Hayes. Instead, Temperance looped her arm through his.

  Either his face did not display the appropriate level of horror, or Temperance had no idea the faux pas she had made.

  Evidently it was the latter, as her sister Constance took his other elbow, which he hadn’t offered to anyone.

  “One moment,” Hayes said. “My nieces must join us.”

  Ah, so he would finally be introduced. Lord David attempted to extricate himself from the ladies but couldn’t without making one or the other of them feel foolish. So he simply had to steer them around to look to the stairs.

  While it was far from the same as seeing someone from Somerset society, after the long, arduous day, he longed to see familiar faces, even if he had not officially made their acquaintances. But he did not recognize the two women who descended the stairs arm in arm. While they’d worn muted colors onboard the Rimington, neither of them had ever dressed so plain. Each wore a simple white neckerchief and dark jacket and petticoat, as if they were staff.

  From the shoulders up, however, they still wore their hair coiffed and adorned with caps of ribbons and lace.

  Was this a joke? He suppressed the urge to laugh.

  The sisters instantly recognized him, and whatever horror had been missing from his expression a moment before had found its way to theirs.

  “You?” the younger sister said, practically an accusation.

  He didn’t know the proper response for that greeting, so he settled for “How do you do?”

  Lord David could not imagine any way that anyone in the room could be ignorant of the sheer rage radiating off the sisters, clearly aimed at him. He was, however, ignorant as to why.

  Unless it was because he’d allowed them to be marched off to be sold this morning. That might have something to do with it. But hadn’t he helped them in the end by sending their uncle to their rescue?

  He checked with Hayes, who was occupied with staring in wonderment at his own nieces. At least Lord David was not the only one perplexed by their attire.

  “Uh, Lord David, allow me to present my nieces, Helen and Cassandra Crofton. Ladies, allow me to present Lord David Beaufort.”

  He disentangled himself from the Hayes daughters to bow to the Croftons. Helen, the elder, returned the courtesy; the younger sister did not.

  “Ah, and now we have a name for Your Worshipfulness,” said Cassandra. Yes, she’d always delighted in taunting him. He actually found himself not disliking it this time.

  Cassandra dropped into a low curtsy worthy of King George’s court. Whatever she was wearing, the lady did have proper bearing.

  Temperance threaded her arm through his again. “Shall we, Your . . . Worship?”

  Oh, what had Cassandra done to these poor colonials? “‘Lord David’ will suffice.”

  She beamed at him. Before her sister could seize his other elbow, he maneuvered to his hostess and offered in no uncertain terms.

  Anne Hayes accepted with a gracious smile. Hayes escorted his nieces, and they made their way into the dining hall. The cream-colored paneled walls were quite fashionable, actually, as were the wallpaper accents with scrolling designs and paintings.

  Perhaps he could admit to knowing these people.

  As soon as he seated her mother, Constance maneuvered to the chair next to him at the table. He glanced again at the Croftons’ laughable ensembles. On second thought, perhaps he ought to reserve judgment for the moment.

  Cassandra Isabelle Artemis Crofton had never been so humiliated in all her life, her cousins’ breaches of etiquette notwithstanding.

  How could Uncle Josiah have invited this popinjay here to see their low estate? Only a few hours before, they had been a gentleman’s daughters, and then they were ladies’ maids for a provincial lawyer, and now Lord David had to be here to witness it.

  She couldn’t miss the mirth that danced in his eyes each time he looked their way throughout the first course. She stabbed her orange fool with her spoon far more viciously than the dessert warranted. He would never treat her with the respect she deserved.

  She hadn’t decided whether this Pennsylvanian custom of having the staff sit at the table with the family made things better or worse, but even Polly was seated with them.

  Did Cassandra have to be seated directly across from their guest?

  “Lord David,” Temperance began, her voice coy and treacly, “is Beaufort your title?”

  “No, Beaufort is my surname.”

  “Oh, then what is your title?”

  Cassandra tried not to watch him but couldn’t tear her gaze away as his smile grew brittle. “Ah, that would be my father with a title. The Marquess of Dorset.”

  A marquess? They’d been humbled before the son of a marquess? Cassandra jabbed her spoon into her fool so hard it clanked against the bottom of the porcelain bowl, attracting Lord David’s attention. She forced herself to smile back.

  A marquess! Why, they’d once entertained a royal duke for two weeks at Heartcomb!

  “Wouldn’t that make you an earl?” Constance asked from his other side.

  Lord David offered a polite chuckle. “That would be my eldest brother, George.” When Constance still looked at him expectantly, he added, “The Earl of Somerset.”

  Constance beamed. Cassandra’s first impulse was to rail against this new injustice — he was not even the heir to the marquess? — until she saw something else in his eyes.

  Was that . . . hurt? The popinjay felt pain?

  Well, of course he did. She’d never imagined he hadn’t. She simply hadn’t cared.

  “Your Magnificence,” she said, addressing him, “is Dorset nice this time of year?”

  “Yes, it’s lovely.” His voice was wistful, and for a moment, Cassandra thought of her own home at Heartcomb. Spring was the most beautiful time there, when all the trees came into flower.

  When her mind returned to the room, she realized Lord David was still looking at her. “Cassandra,” he finally finished.

  Of all the impertinence. He had only just bothered to learn her name, and she had never given him leave to use her given name. “Your Preeminence.” She added as much sugar to her tone as she could. “We are not on intimate terms.”

  “My apologies.” He added sarcasm to an already condescending tone. “Cassie.”

  “Well,” Aunt Anne said, “I believe it is time for us to retire.”

  Cassandra checked the plates around the table. She was the only one who hadn’t finished, and her dining experience was truly a waste of something as rare as an orange. Polly hopped up to begin clearing.

  Cassandra stood also. “I’ll help.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary, thank you.” Polly took the bowl from Cassandra. Cassandra checked with Aunt Anne, who motioned for her to come with them.

  They weren’t to clear the dishes, then? Cassandra and Helen obeyed, trailing behind their cousins dutifully.

  Aunt Anne led them all upstairs and simply gestured at the bedroom. They had left it in disarray, hair powder and pomatum tins out on the open wardrobes, three gowns strewn across the beds.

  “Sorry, Aunt Anne,” Helen said. They both hurried to begin straightening up.

  “No need to apologize,” Aunt Anne said. “The girls leave it this way every day.” She gestured at the room again, and her daughters flitted around, setting it to rights instantly.

  “That isn’t necessary,” Helen said. “We could do it.”

  “We are truly grateful for your help,” Aunt Anne said, speaking as if she were picking her words carefully. “But you certainly aren’t any more responsible than they are.”

&n
bsp; Cassandra wasn’t quite sure that was accurate; they had left the things out.

  Aunt Anne again seemed to be choosing her words carefully, or perhaps she always spoke with such intention and care. “Why did you choose these gowns, my nieces?”

  Helen and Cassandra exchanged a glance. “For work, naturally,” Helen said.

  “Did you think that dinner with Lord David would require work?”

  “Well, um.” Helen silently conferred with Cassandra.

  “We aren’t certain what our duties are to be,” Cassandra said.

  “Duties?” Aunt Anne’s eyebrows drew together.

  “In the household?” Cassandra tried.

  Aunt Anne was no less confused.

  “As staff,” Helen finished.

  Aunt Anne startled, her mobcap bobbing slightly. “Why would you be staff?”

  Cassandra’s gaze fell, and she assumed Helen was looking down as well. “Uncle Josiah had to buy our indenture this morning.”

  “What?” Aunt Anne turned to the stairs, as if Uncle Josiah would appear to affirm everything they said. But then she shook her head. “I assure you, nieces, we do not believe in bound labor.”

  Cassandra’s head flew up so fast she nearly lost her cap. “Beg pardon?”

  “Whatever Josiah might have paid, we have no intention of owning an indenture.”

  Helen and Cassandra looked at one another. They were free?

  And they’d dressed like this in front of Lord David Beaufort for nothing?

  Helen and Cassandra had no other alternative but to burst into laughter. At least they would never see His Pompousness Lord Popinjay again.

  “Oh, gracious,” Temperance said. “We were afraid you were some sort of Puritans!”

  “Or worse,” Patience added, “New Englanders.”

  “Let’s get you out of those things,” Constance agreed.

  As their cousins flocked around them, the truth set in: they were really free. They hadn’t fallen in station at all. Cassandra met Helen’s eyes, and the message passed unspoken between them. Yes, this could be their home.