This is a work of fiction and any names, characters, events, or organisations are either a product of my imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or people is purely coincidental.
© Alice Coldbreath, 2020
This book is dedicated to my good friend Diane in NYC, who is an angel.
1
Hill Boarding School for Young Ladies, Bath England, 1843
Mina glanced down at the untouched bowl of soup laying on the tray. “How about some beef tea, Papa? Would that go down any easier?” she murmured, looking at his dry, cracked lips. He had not taken any sustenance in days now.
His dull eyes, once so bright with intelligence, flickered. “Mina,” he wheezed, his hand on the counterpane twitched.
She reached out and covered it with her own. “Papa, you must eat, dearest,” she urged gently.
He gave a wan smile. “You must listen…” His words trailed off painfully. “I want you to go with him. He will take care of you.”
Mina frowned. “Please Father, you must not fret yourself. We need to concentrate on rebuilding your strength now the fever has left you.”
His eyes fixed on her urgently. “Promise me!” he burst forth at last. The effort of his entreaty left him weak and trembling.
Mina paused, looking at him intently. What was all this about now? While feverish, her father had railed and babbled a good deal, but she had thought that stage had now passed. “With whom, Papa?” she asked carefully, patting his hand.
“Lord Faris,” he said, confounding her completely.
“Lord Faris?” she echoed blankly. She did not know the name. It was not one of the patrons of their school. She had never heard of him.
“You must go with him, Mina,” he said, carefully framing his words as though it took great effort. “For he’ll take care of you when I am gone.”
At this, Mina’s resolve to stay calm fled her. “Go with a stranger, Papa? Who is he to me?”
“Family,” her father managed to gasp out. She noticed how his gaze kept drifting to the door as if he were waiting for someone. She glanced that way herself in confusion.
“Family?” If anything, she felt even more bewildered for she knew herself to have no other kin in the world apart from her father.
“Your... your brother Jeremy.”
Jeremy? Mina felt a sudden shock as the world as she knew it, lurched violently off its axis. The only brother Jeremy she knew about was the brother her mother had told her had died in infancy. Mama had been buried with his lace cap and booties in her coffin. It had been her explicit wish. “But surely Papa—?”
He cut her off with a quick movement of his hands. “Forgive me, child,” he said, closing red-rimmed eyes. “Forgive.”
“Forgive you? Dear Papa, you’ve done nothing wrong and have always been the very best of men,” she assured him. He gave a small sigh and Mina bit her lip, wondering if she should send again for Dr. Carruthers but, how could she? Knowing both the meagre contents of her purse and the fact the good doctor had assured her there was precious little else he could do for him now. Yet, Dr. Carruthers had assured her the ravings had passed, yet here was Father talking so strangely that she scarcely knew what to think.
A tap on the door let her know Hannah, their maid of all work stood on the thresh-hold. “Yes, Hannah?”
“I wanted to tell the master I done it,” Hannah said with a nod, folding her hands over the front of her apron.
“Done what?”
“Posted his letter off.”
“What letter?”
“The one to that address in Cornwall. To that Lord whatsit.”
Mina pressed a hand to her brow. Was she dreaming this entire exchange she wondered, her head swimming? She had scarcely slept a wink this past three days and the whole thing was starting to take on the strange properties of a dream.
“Miss?” said Hannah, starting forward from the doorway. “Oh Miss!”
Seeing the fixed direction of Hannah’s gaze, Mina turned back to her father. “He’s just sleeping, Hannah,” she said, leaning forward to catch the labored breathing, but found she could hear nothing. “Papa!” She stood so fast she caught the edge of the bowl of soup on the side-table and overturned it. “Papa!” Heedless of the soup stains all down her navy crepe skirts, Mina pressed forward. “Please, Papa!”
It was Hannah who had to pry her fingers from her dead father’s shoulders some minutes later. “He’s not dead, Hannah!” she said wildly. “He’s not dead, he’s just sleeping!” When Hannah’s capable hands clamped over hers and turned her from the bed toward her solid form, Mina clung to her stout waist like it was the only thing that kept her afloat in an uncertain sea. She wept wildly and unrestrainedly as she never had allowed herself when Mama had passed five years before.
“There now,” Hannah murmured. “There child.” Child. No one had called her child in years. Now here was Papa and Hannah both addressing her as such, in the same day. She had been Miss Walters to all their pupils as soon as she had turned seventeen. “You let those tears flow freely now, miss,” Hannah encouraged. “He was a good gentleman and an honest master. None can say fairer than that.”
Mina sobbed until her throat was raw and her face sore from tears. She scarcely heard the words which flowed from Hannah’s lips in a steady stream. She caught the odd sentiment. “We’ll soon have him laid out and then buried like a good Christian,” and “A real gent to the end he was—even his manner of passing was mild as a lamb.” But the words held no meaning to her at the time. It was Hannah’s steady, solid manner she derived comfort from.
Over the next three days, she found herself grateful all over again for the dependable Hannah. The servant had stood stalwart beside her in her best black bombazine during the funeral service, then again when it came to facing their landlords Messrs Roberts and Simpkin Esquire who called at the school the very next day to collect the outstanding balance.
“She’s just put her father in the ground, God rest his soul,” Hannah had said fiercely when Mr. Simpkin seemed to take issue with the amount of outstanding rent Mina made over to him.
Mr. Roberts hastily intervened. “Quite, quite,” he said, stroking his large handlebar mustache. “I am sure we most heartily lament the loss of your dear father. Of course, my colleague is quite correct, usually we would require three months’ notice before one of our properties is vacated…” He caught Hannah’s eye and coughed. “However, under such regrettable circumstances, we will of course, make an exception.”
“You are very kind,” Mina said flatly. After paying over the sum owed for the burial and interment, she had a matter of mere pennies left in her purse. As it was, she knew not how she was to pay the rest of Hannah’s wages.
“So, you will be leaving Bath imminently, my dear Miss Walters,” Mr. Roberts continued as Mr. Simpkin continued to brood heavily beside him.
“Yes,” Mina said briefly. “I await my new direction any day now, by return of post.” Her lips felt numb as the private living quarters they occupied were very cold that morning, for they had not yet dared light a fire. She could not feel her fingertips; despite the black lace mittens which Hannah had dyed along with the rest of her raiment. They had closed the schoolrooms and the dormitories weeks ago, but they still could not keep the few rooms they used warm. Not on the small amount of coal they had been rationing. The scuttle was practically empty.
The last paying pupil had left well over a month ago, long before Papa’s illness had really taken grip. In truth, their admissions had been sadly dwindling over the past couple of years. Their little school had never been fash
ionable, but it had been solidly respectable. It was almost frightening, Mina reflected how quickly a steady paying business could go down the drain and one could be out on the street. Their patrons had distanced themselves and none had replied to the last few letters she had written.
“To relatives?” Mr. Roberts pressed. Mina stared at the broken blood-vessels on his bulbous nose and wondered if he was a secret drinker.
“I am hoping to secure a position as a governess,” Mina corrected him.
“Now, if you gentlemen would excuse us,” Hannah said loudly, pursing her lips. “My young lady has several matters she needs to wind up before she can pack her bags.”
This was another lie, Mina thought but was grateful for Hannah’s intercession. She had neatly packed up her things the day before. All packed up and nowhere to go. Nosy Mr. Roberts and sour Mr. Simpkin were ushered out of the front door and Mina sat at her father’s walnut writing desk and laboriously wrote out a set of glowing references for Hannah.
As she laid down her pen, she felt the beginnings of a dizzy terror at what was to become of her. Her future yawned before her like a frightening chasm which would swallow her up into nothingness. She had no-one. Even Hannah had prospective employment lined up with a young widow in town, though she professed herself quite willing to stay on until Mina was ready to leave.
To leave for where though? She had given up hoping for employment from the several schools in the area. She had applied to them for any teaching positions when their own pupils had trickled away, before Father had even grown sick. Since Father’s illness, she had sent dozens of letters asking after private governess posts but had yet to receive a single reply. The trouble was, she was still relatively inexperienced at four-and-twenty and the only school she had ever worked in was her own father’s.
Governess positions usually took a while to secure and realistically you needed a sponsor to work on your behalf who had the necessary connections. She had hoped that Lady Ralph who had been a sponsor of the school might help her, but that lady had been sadly uncommunicative of late. Mina’s family had kept very much to themselves. Although regular attendees at church, they had not mixed much with the congregation, for her parents had really only cared for one another’s company. They neither moved in society nor kept up any acquaintance in Bath. They also lacked family connection for, as Mina understood it, both her parents had been orphaned at a young age.
A rap at the front door startled her out of her bleak reverie. She hoped goodness it was no tradesman expecting payment for the coffers were now well and truly empty. She craned her ears and to her surprise heard a tread on the stair. Surely Hannah was not bringing any caller upstairs to her? She half-turned in her seat and widened her eyes when she heard a short knock on the door. Quickly touching hands to her head, she felt her nut-brown hair was still smooth and glossy in its arrangement of side-braids which looped below her ears and then swept up into a neat bun at the back.
“Presenting Lord Faris, miss,” Hannah said, bobbing a curtsey and withdrawing promptly.
Mina stared at the beautiful young man who sauntered into the room. He wore a most elegant outfit of evening wear complete with black opera cape, top hat, and a walking cane topped with a silver pommel. His hair was a bright, burnished gold and stood around his face like a halo and it was only after staring at him a moment, that Mina realized he had a rather cynical mouth and his eyes looked slightly glazed.
“Good evening, Lord Faris,” she said, rising from her chair and giving a graceful curtsey. It was easy to fall back on deeply ingrained manners when all else failed.
He was looking at her rather hard. “Dear me, you are not at all what I expected,” he drawled. “Are you indeed, she?” He extracted a letter from his pocket. “Miss Mina Walters?” He read the words as though they were slightly distasteful to him and Mina felt herself bristling. “You do not look,” he added thoughtfully. “Like I imagine a Mina.” He twirled a hand about indicating her appearance. “You look more like…” He pouted a moment in thought. “A Prudence.” He pronounced with displeasure.
“My parents always called me Mina,” she answered repressively. “Though my true name is Minerva, after the goddess of wisdom and strategy.”
“Minerva?” he repeated with a faint wince. “Ah yes.”
At that moment, Mina caught sight of the handwriting on the page he held between his elegant fingers. Surely that was her father’s writing? She felt her heart leap. It must be the infamous letter Hannah had posted. “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me. Are we acquainted?” she asked with a calm she did not feel.
He threw himself down onto a chair and then winced. “This chair,” he pronounced carefully. “Is damnably uncomfortable.”
“Perhaps you ought not to have hurled yourself down into it, in such a fashion,” Mina could not help suggesting. “It is hardly designed for such ill-treatment.”
He ignored her, his eye roaming over the room with a fascinated and leisurely sort of contempt. “Dear me, so this is what a young ladies boarding school looks like. How very disagreeable. I can scarcely credit she would have left my father for this.”
Mina looked back at him steadily. “I’m afraid you will have to be a good deal less cryptic,” she said frankly. “If you expect me to respond at all meaningfully.”
He frowned. “Do sit down. I can’t concentrate when you’re hovering above me like some kind of carrion.” He eyed her full mourning with disfavor. “That gown makes you look like a crow.”
“Yes, so I gather. A crow called Prudence,” she agreed tartly. “I am in mourning,” she said, taking a seat opposite him and drawing her black fringed shawl tighter about her.
“Oh? Did he actually die then?” His gaze flickered back to the letter. “He said he was dying, but I did not know if that was merely artistic license.”
“My father died three days ago,” she corrected him quietly.
“A man of his word,” he replied with a humorous quirk of his lips.
“Always,” Mina agreed and saw by his quick frown that he would like to always have the last word. Immediately, she determined she would never let him have it. She folded her hands in her lap and waited as he crossed his legs encased in cream silk breeches and stared at her in moody abstraction.
“Shall I go and order tea?” she asked when the silence started to stretch.
“Filthy stuff,” he answered swiftly. “I never touch it. I will take a glass of brandy.”
“I’m afraid my father kept no liquor in the house.”
“Good God. Was he some kind of puritan?”
Mina did not trouble to answer this for she saw he was not really interested in her father at all. “Am I to take it there is some kind of familial connection between us, my lord?” she asked coolly, though she still could not credit what her father had told her in his last few moments.
“Oh yes,” he said, nodding slowly. “We are brother and sister, my dear, though only half-blood. Through our sainted mother.” Mina felt her color rise and seeing her expression, he laughed softly. “She divorced my father and married yours,” he said. “Did she never speak of it even once?”
Mina clutched the arms of her chair. “Not of divorce, no.”
“Of me?” he asked, looking intrigued. “She spoke of her own darling boy?” His lips twisted.
“Of you, yes,” she admitted, feeling as though the words were dragged out of her. “She spoke of her first-born child, but I never dreamed…” She had never said he was by a different father. Mina took a deep breath. “It was her expressed wish that she was buried with your baby bonnet.”
That caught his attention for his eyes widened. “And was she?”
“Of course.”
“And with nothing of yours?” he asked with a trace of malice.
“With nothing of mine, no,” she confirmed, feeling like she was soothing a jealous child. He smiled and she realized with a sinking heart that he did indeed look very like their mother. Only her
image was distorted in him, for he did not have Mama’s gentleness to temper her beauty.
“Then pack up your things, sister dear,” he cried extravagantly. “For I am come to provide for you. As your late lamented sire wrote and entreated me.” He flung a negligent arm across the chair back. “Far be it from me, to refuse an obligation or matter of honor.” He spoke the words mockingly and she wondered if he was directly quoting her father’s words. Taking her by surprise, he leapt suddenly from the chair. “There are debts, I presume, for me to take care of?”
Mina rose stiffly from her own chair. “Our debts are paid,” she said, her color rising. “I discharged the last of them not an hour ago.”
“All of them?” he sounded incredulous. “From your father’s letter, I imagined you quite sunk in penury.”
Was he suggesting her father penned a begging letter? Mina took a moment to get her temper under control before she replied very carefully. “Due to the doctor’s fees and funeral costs I was not able to set aside a sufficient sum to pay our servant Hannah for this past month’s wages in full…”
“Say no more,” Lord Faris said, drawing a pocketbook from his waistcoat. “The good Hannah shall be handsomely tipped. How long do you suppose, before you could be ready to leave this place?”
Mina stared back at him. “My bags are practically packed,” she admitted. “I was hoping to hear word of some position—”
He cut her off peremptorily. “Good. I believe I have sampled all the delights Bath has to offer and am now ready to wend my weary footsteps homeward.”
“But how long would it take to travel to your home?”
“A week,” he answered with a shrug. “Depending on weather and travelling conditions.”
A week? “Are we to take the stagecoach?”
“I have my own conveyance,” he answered with a yawn. “And we will change horses at Exeter.”
The next hour was a blur. Hannah, very excited, helped to round up the last of Mina’s meagre possessions into a battered trunk and a large, rather ugly carpetbag. Methodically, Mina walked through every single room in the small school and ensured she had not overlooked any treasured possession including the matching Staffordshire china dogs or her mother’s engraved silver teapot. As a last act, she slipped into her father’s empty room and taking up his watch and chain, she secured it in the hidden pocket at her waist and pinned the chain to her bodice. Then she and Hannah threw dust sheets over the piano, the tables, the mirrors, and the desks.
A Bride for the Prizefighter: A Victorian Romance Page 1