The Rise of a Forsaken Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Linfield, Emma

  Edward’s eyes narrowed. “You just want me to leave.”

  Penelope’s eyes widened in mock shock, “Oh, was I too subtle?”

  “I love seeing you two interact,” the Baron laughed. “Indulge our lady, Dawson. Come with me to London tomorrow.”

  “Fine,” Edward huffed. “But Penelope, I will leave Mr. Gastrell in charge. Please do not disobey him.”

  “I will do my best,” Penelope replied with the edges of her lips curving.

  “You are just saying that to placate me,” Edward sniffed.

  Taking her refilled glass of wine, Penelope smiled over the rim, “Not too subtle at all then.”

  * * *

  The Dawson manor was an old Tudor-style house with a steeply-pitched gable roof, ornate masonry chimneys, and embellished doorways. As Heath cantered his mount down the large driveway that parted impeccably-trimmed lawns on both sides, he could see the wide groupings of ground floor windows and inserts of old sun-burnished timber between the brick walls.

  His packed bag was nestled behind him and the back of the saddle. The pleasant temperature of the month was much more pleasing than the torrential rains of August. The few light clouds drifting over the cerulean skies, the cool air of the day and even little drizzling dew did not sour his composure.

  By arrangement, he took the side road to go to the back of the manor and there met with Mr. Gastrell who showed him to the servants’ entrance, the ground floor of the left wing where the servants lived and then, to his room. A wide double-hung window gave him a clear panorama of the backyard. Bare wood was under his feet, a simple armoire was to the side and a single bed framed with functional iron rails was in the center. Laying on the drab grey sheets was a simple uniform of black shirt and trousers.

  “The uniform is temporary,” Mr. Gastrell said. “The tailor is making the right one with the family arms on it. Until then, you will be wearing this. Two other sets are in the drawers. I understand that you know that you are responsible for the upkeep of your apparel.”

  “I do. Is Lord Allerton awake yet?”

  “No,” Mr. Gastrell shook his head. “But when he is, he will not be here for long. I believe he is going to Tattersalls this day.”

  “Understood. What is my first task, Mr. Gastrell?”

  “I will introduce you to the staff this morning, and then your task is to open the shutters in the main rooms and take the coal from the cellar outback into the three sitting rooms,” the butler explained. “And then I believe our stablemaster, Mr. Cowell, needs a hand in the stables also.”

  “I will be out in a moment,” Heath replied. “Thank you.”

  “Very good,” Mr. Gastrell nodded and promptly left the room.

  Heath closed the doors behind the butler and then took out his meager belongings, hair combs and brush, and bathing rags. In the drawers, he settled his few pants, shirts, nightshirts, and underclothes. Swiftly changing out into the dark clothes given to him, he took a moment to comb his hair and brushed a hand over his chin. Luckily, he had shaved a day ago so there was no unseemly stubble on his chin.

  Nodding, he went out, and Mr. Gastrell took him to the kitchen where they met the cook, a few scullery girls, and some blushing maids. He then began his duties, opening the indoor window shutters and fastening them. Making the rounds throughout the ground-floor sitting rooms he opened all and then went left by the servants’ door to the coal cellar, only to stop.

  The problem? “Where in God’s name is the place?”

  Mr. Gastrell had given him little information on where exactly the coal cellar was as the row of uniform brick buildings about a hundred feet from him, looked exactly alike.

  “It is the one to the far right,” a soft voice said.

  Twisting the origin of the voice, Heath spotted a young dark-haired girl with a shy smile. “Pardon me?”

  “I assume you need to find the coal cellar,” she said. “It is the last one on the right.”

  “Thank you…?”

  “Martha Bell,” she replied reservedly. “I am Lady Penelope’s lady maid.”

  Relieved, Heath nodded. “And I am Heath Moore. Lord Allerton just hired me as a footman. I would like to stay and talk but I have many tasks to do. Thank you, Miss Bell.”

  Nodding his head, Heath strode to the end row and entered. There the thick earthy smell of coal filled his nose. Thank God his clothes were black as the dust from the coal would have blighted lighter clothes. He filled the buckets, went back to the house and made his trips throughout the sitting room. He had to make one more trip and then stopped just outside the coal cellar to brush his clothes off.

  A short man with grass stains on his clothes passed by and nodded, “G’ day mister. Brady here, and you?”

  “Heath Moore,” he replied. “Lord Allerton’s footman.”

  “Welcome then,” Brady said while tugging a glove off to shake his hand. “You look like the good sort.”

  “Thanks,” Heath nodded while releasing Brady’s hand. Over the man’s head, he spotted a flash of Lady Penelope’s body walking into fairly-removed stables. “Er, does Lady Penelope visit the stables this early?”

  “Yes,” Brady grinned. “The Lady is a big rider. The Lord does not agree, but she is who she is. I think she can ride better than Lady Lade, I’d wager my whole life’s saving on it.”

  Heath’s eyes lifted from the gardener to the door of the stables, “Better than Lady Lade you say…”

  “Stick around, chap,” Brady grinned. “Sooner or later you will see for yourself.”

  With those parting words, the grounds man was off, and Heath hurried back to the house. He got there in time to see Lord Allerton tugging his coat on while a man, dressed in dark trousers and a dove grey pinstripe waistcoat tug his on as well.

  “Ah, Mr. Moore,” Lord Allerton greeted. “Good to see you. How are you fitting in?”

  “Very well, My Lord,” Heath replied. “Mr. Gastrell has given me all I need.”

  They were interrupted by feet thumping down the hallway and Lady Penelope came in, flushed from running. Her hair was escaping from her braid and the tails of her dress were a bit mud stained. “Edward, could you get a—oh! My apologies!”

  “Lady Penelope, what a delightful surprise,” the stranger said smoothly. Too smoothly in Heath’s opinion, rather like a serpent. “Forgive me for saying, but disarray suits you as well as neatness does.”

  “Lord Hillbrook,” Lady Penelope did not step away, but she did shift her weight to lean away from him and Heath noticed it. Why though? “You’re here.”

  “Stating the obvious,” Edward rolled his eyes. “What do you need from me, sister?”

  “Um…could you get those honey-flavored gingerbreads I like and a new horse brush for Bessie?” Lady Penelope said directly to her brother. Once again, Heath noted that she deliberately focused on Lord Allerton and not Lord Hillbrook. Why?

  “Excuse me,” Heath said and was about to leave when Lady Penelope reached out for him. She touched his arm, but instantly dropped it.

  “Mr. Moore, before you go, could you put some coal in my grate…please,” she finished with a blush.

  “Of course, My Lady,” Heath bowed and as he came up, Lord Hillbrook’s blue eyes were ice chips and nearly as cutting like knives. Again, what was going on there? Holding his composure, Heath said his partings words to the lords and left to get the coal for the lady.

  He went back to the coal cellar and got what the lady needed, decidedly perturbed. Why does Lord Hillbrook look at me that way, like I stole something from him? I do not even know this man…

  Chapter 4

  Watching Mr. Moore leave, Penelope turned back to her brother and Lord Hillbrook who was smiling at her. Her brother, however, was not as amiable. She swallowed over her sudden irregularly-thumping heart.

  “We are going to a horse auction, sister,” Edward said. “Driving halfway across London to Stratford is not exactly in my plans.”

  “I understand,”
she replied dejectedly. “Be safe and I wish you a safe journey.”

  “Oh, come on Dawson,” Lord Hillbrook tutted as Penelope’s back disappeared from the room. “What hardship is there in taking twenty-minutes out of our time to get Lady Penelope’s treats?”

  Edward looked between her and his friend and shook his head, “You spoil her then.”

  “Gladly,” Stephen smirked.

  Though she was out of the room, her brother and Lord Hillbrook’s voices were still in earshot and she overheard them. It felt unnatural that it was her brother’s friend that had more mercy on her than her brother himself.

  Shaking her head, she went to the upper drawing room that had a balcony over the driveway. She was going to watch them leave and then take her mare, Bessie, out for a run.

  Many women shied away from riding but not she. She and Edward’s late father, Lord Herschel, bless his soul, had allowed her that one whimsy, of knowing how to ride when others chose needlepoint. She had begun lessons at the timid age of five but by age seven, riding came easy to her as breathing. It was one of the reasons she and Edward had disagreements. He thought her way of riding astride was unseemly and she thought his opinions were outdated.

  From the window, she watched at Lord Hillbrook’s dark carriage trundled on, down the road and rounded the corner. She waited on tenterhooks to see if they would turn back and when five minutes passed and they did not, she grinned in joy.

  Hurrying back, she changed into stolen breeches and a shirt and then ran to the stables, Penelope hastily greeted Mr. Cowell and had him saddle Bessie.

  “Aye My Lady,” the stablemaster grinned. He and his stable boys had long ago learned to turn a blind eye to her riding, and even a blinder on to when Bessie’s stall was empty some nights. The house staff was the same, not one maid, scullery girl or footman slipped a word to her brother. It was a harmless conspiracy.

  Mr. Cowell tightened the last girth, and then slapped the horse’s rump. “She’s ready for you, My Lady.”

  Grinning, Penelope easily swung into her saddle, glorifying in how Bessie moved under her. With a delighted laugh and expectancy building in her blood, she turned her horse, nudged her flanks, and sped off. The animal was moving at a steady clip when she got to the fields.

  The wide-open stretches of land nearby were an invitation for unrestraint. Bessie shifted and snorted under her as her hoof pawed and she paced. Leaning over, Penelope rubbed Bessie’s ears. Leaning back, she dug her heels into the horse’s flanks, and Bessie took off like a shot.

  Bessie’s hooves did not even seem to touch the ground with the speed she was going. The wind whipped around Penelope so briskly that it tore at the fasteners of her hair and, unfastened, the tresses began to billow behind her.

  This was freedom. This was exhilaration. This was life unabridged. Daring herself to, she stood in the stirrups and raced like never before. It was risky riding, but she did it anyway. Even if a few servants saw her, no one would tell on her. They all understood it was one of her few freedoms.

  If only the rest of her life could be this way, with her at the reins guiding it to where she wanted it to go. Instead, it was at the mercy of men, primarily her brother who she suspected would soon force her into marriage. If this was the only free time she had, she had decided to live it to the fullest.

  I hope that my husband, whoever he is to be, will allow me to ride this way.

  Three times she turned Bessie to run full tilt and, with the wind whipping through her hair, it was going to a tangled mess and a pain for Martha to comb out when she got back to the house. Penelope, however, wanted to prologue her fun as long as she could, but knew her time was limited. Sadly, she turned and guided Bessie back to the stables. Just outside, she nimbly hopped off.

  Scratching Bessie behind her ears, she led the panting animal into the stable only to stop short. The new footman, Mr. Moore was there mucking out a stable…shirtless.

  His back was turned to her, and she could see the flex of his back muscles and the smooth motion of his corded arms. She did not move while watching his shoulders rise and fall and the glimmer of sweat on his golden skin.

  “Ahem,” Mr. Cowell cleared his throat from behind her and Penelope turned fifty hues of red knowing she was gawking. Sadly, Mr. Cowell’s interruption also called Mr. Moore’s attention to her too.

  “Er….” Penelope hedged as she knew she looked a fright. There was no way the sight of a woman wearing breeches and a shirt with hair as mad as Medusa was a usual occurrence.

  “Good day, Mr. Moore,” she uttered to her feet as Mr. Cowell took up the item he had come for. He left with a jaunty wave over his shoulder.

  “Excuse me, My Lady,” he said and then passed by her to grab a shirt hanging on a hook.

  Shrugging it on, he came back to her and wiped his palms on his thighs. “How may I help you, My Lady?”

  Daring to look up, she reddened when his eyes ran over her clothes. Thankfully, he did not utter a word, and she garnered the courage to ask, “Please help me unsaddle Bessie?”

  “My pleasure,” he replied, and Penelope had to stop herself from shivering at his voice washing over her. She held onto the pommel as Mr. Moore unlatched the girths underneath; then she lifted the saddle off. She was about to rest it on the shelf when Mr. Moore took it from her.

  “Please,” he said. “Let me.”

  Nodding she turned with her still-pink face turned away and took up a brush to smooth out the disorderly hair on Bessie’s coat. The horse whinnied softly at the care she was being given, and Penelope smiled softly.

  “I have to get back before my brother comes,” she murmured. “He and Lord Hillbrook went out to Tattersalls to get new horses. This was my only free time to ride how I wanted to.”

  “Pardon me for being forward,” Mr. Moore asked as he attended to the saddle. “But how did you want to ride?”

  “A gallop,” she replied. “When he is here, the most I can do is canter, but I love riding hard enough for the wind to whip against me.” She lowered the brush and ran her hand over Bessie’s nose. “Good girl.”

  “Lord Allerton and Lord Hillbrook are friends then,” Mr. Moore asked as he finished wiping down the saddle.

  “Best of friends, from Eton to Oxford,” Penelope clarified. “They are business partners too. But…” she paused, knowing that it might be a mistake admitting this to a servant other than Martha but took the chance anyway, “he is confusing at times. When I first met him, he was nothing but a teaser and irked me to no end…but lately, he’s become somewhat of a suitor but the way he presents himself…I cannot decide if he is jesting or not.”

  She looked over at Mr. Moore who had not said a word. It was a smart move as lower servants were not privy to their masters’ affairs as those who were in closer contact were. She laughed nervously.

  “Forgive me for putting you in such a position,” she shook her head while her eyes were down. “It was not right of me to do so and I apologize. Thank you for your help, Mr. Moore. I’ll better be going on my way. Good evening.”

  “Good evening, My Lady,” he replied.

  Penelope felt his eyes on the back of her head but did not turn. It was best if she did not as she was not sure how she would react to the look in his eyes. Perhaps he viewed her as strange. What lady would not want to marry a well-to-do man who was in close contact with the family?

  She walked through the backdoor, climbed the stairs and entered her rooms. She and Martha had a standing agreement—when she was out riding there would be a tub of cool water waiting for her to bathe in.

  “My Lady,” Martha sighed as she came in. “Your hair is a fright.”

  “I know,” Penelope replied as she sat down and watched Martha go for the comb. “But it was all worth it.”

  Sitting, she was still as Martha painstakingly parted her dark hair and combed the snags out from the ends to the root. The tangles hurt when the comb dug into them and she winced heavily. Sometimes she even bit into
her bottom lip to keep the pained cry from coming out. Eventually, her hair was in order and plaited into a braid as she went to take her bath.

  “I spoke with Mr. Moore,” Penelope mentioned as the cool water caressed her skin. “He does not seem like much of a talker.”

  “I have the same impression too,” Martha replied as she used the sponge on her mistress’ arm. “He is different, that I am sure off.”

  Thinking back to Mr. Moore, Penelope blushed at the memory of his shirtless back. She did not dare speak of it to Martha. In fact, she did not dare speak of it with anyone at all. It was a memory she would push to the back of her mind and try to forget about it…. if she could. That memory would probably overlay itself upon Mr. Moore every time she saw him in the next few days.