The Lord of Stariel

by A J Lancaster

  “Oh. Yes, please call me Miss Smith.”

  “I take it my brother is known to you, although I find his manners at present somewhat lacking. I am Miss Henrietta Valstar.” It struck her that she should probably be introducing herself as Lord Valstar, but she soldiered on anyway. “Tell me, why are you a-horse with Gregory here this morning?”

  Gregory shifted as if to shield Miss Smith bodily from her questions, putting Hetta in mind of nothing so much as a dog crouching over a bone. “I found her on the road from Stariel.”

  “On the road from Stariel?” Hetta let astonishment colour her tone. “Need I remind you, Gregory, that kidnapping is a criminal offence?”

  “Gregory has not kidnapped me!” the girl broke in, and then flushed again.

  With some effort, Hetta prised the story out of the pair. This task was made difficult by the fact that the story was nine-tenths concocted on the spot via the exchange of many meaningful anxious glances.

  If Gregory were to be believed, he’d been moved to make an early morning ride and had come upon Miss Smith as he returned. On seeing a young lady walking on the roadside, quite alone and toting a suitcase, he had understandably drawn up and asked if he might be of assistance. Miss Smith had initially maintained that there was nothing amiss, but upon some coaxing had confessed that she was running away. Her guardian was a cruel, cold man, apparently, and now that she was nearly of age, her guardian meant to force her to marry him to secure her fortune for himself. In desperation, she had fled, but as she walked she’d grown bleaker, realising that she had nowhere to go. She knew no one and had no money of her own. Gregory had offered her sanctuary at Stariel.

  “For she is of age, next month, Hetta, and might then do as she pleases!” He didn’t seem to foresee any problem with a young, unnamed runaway heiress taking up residence at Stariel.

  Hetta stared hard at him. It was a very convenient story and reminded her a little too much of the romantic novels she’d read as a teenager.

  “And you met Miss Smith only this morning, I am sure?”

  Gregory stammered an affirmative. Hetta turned to the subject of their discussion. “Will you tell me your name, for I am quite sure that it isn’t Smith?”

  The girl wrung her hands awkwardly. “Indeed, I can see that you might think so. But—at least—” She seemed torn between guilt and fear that revealing her name would result in her instant return to her guardian.

  Hetta rubbed her forehead with the heel of one hand. “Well, in any case, we cannot keep standing here. Gregory, take your horse back to the stables. I will take Miss Smith up to the house.”

  When both would have burst into exuberant thanks, she held out a hand to forestall them. “Later,” she said tiredly. “I cannot be thanked before breakfast.”

  Miss Smith obediently followed her back into the house, and Hetta went in search of Wyn. He was uncharacteristically elusive, but fortunately, the senior housemaid appeared while Hetta was contemplating the empty housekeeper’s office. The maid paused, clearly in the middle of some mission, with a list clutched in one fist.

  “Ms Whitlow! Just the person I was looking for,” Hetta said, attempting to inject warmth into her voice. Ms Whitlow had always had a soft spot for both Marius and Jack, but Hetta had never been among her favourites.

  “Lord Valstar,” the maid acknowledged, her eyes tracking curiously over Miss Smith. It was the first time someone had used her new title in a mundane capacity, and Hetta tried not to twitch. It felt decidedly odd to be called by her father’s name.

  “This is Miss Smith, who is to stay with us for a few days.” Hetta hoped that she would manage to shake the truth free of Gregory well before then. She gave an apologetic smile. “I know that we’re rather packed to the rafters at present, but I thought perhaps we might squeeze her in with Alexandra, if you could have someone make up a trestle bed there. Fortunately, many of the family are leaving in the next few days, after which there should be more space in which to put us all.”

  The housemaid turned her cool gaze onto Miss Smith, who raised pansy-wide eyes and said tremulously: “Oh, I do not wish to cause you so much trouble!”

  Her appearance softened the housemaid, for she said: “Don’t worry your head about it. It will be no trouble.”

  “Thank you, Ms Whitlow,” Hetta said, relieved that she hadn’t been required to explain Miss Smith’s presence. She felt quite exhausted of imagination at that moment. “I shall not take up any more of your valuable time. If you’ll follow me, Miss Smith? I’ll take you up to my sister.”

  As they climbed the stairs, Miss Smith said suddenly, “Oh, won’t you please call me Gwen? It is so formal to be called ‘Miss Smith’.”

  “I can see that it might be,” Hetta agreed, hiding her smile. “Gwen, then. You may call me Hetta.”

  She expected her half-sister would still be asleep at this hour of the morning—Hetta would’ve been, at her age—but when Hetta knocked, there was a short pause, the sound of movement, and then a cry to come in. Alexandra was seated at her writing desk, although what she’d been writing wasn’t in evidence. Hetta wondered if it was a diary that she’d just then hidden from view and inwardly smiled at the teen’s self-consciousness.

  “Good morning, Alexandra. I’ve maligned you—I confess I expected I’d need to wake you. How fortunate that I was wrong.”

  Alexandra blinked uncertainly, and it occurred to Hetta that this was the first time they’d spoken since the Choosing. It had slipped her mind under the consideration of what to do with Miss Smith.

  “May I introduce Miss Gwen Smith to you?” Hetta gestured that damsel into the room. “She has come to stay, but I’m told we are rather pressed for bedrooms at present. Can I prevail upon you to take pity on her and share your room for the night? I’m sure we can arrange a reshuffle tomorrow when people start to leave.” And she wouldn’t be among those vacating the house. The thought was disconcerting rather than painful.

  The two girls eyed each other. Miss Smith was Alexandra’s elder, but not by so many years as to make friendship between them impossible. Otherwise they presented an attractive contrast: one dark, one fair.

  “Of course,” Alexandra said politely. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Smith.” She shot a puzzled look at Hetta. “Are you Hetta’s friend?”

  “I—no—I mean,” Miss Smith stumbled, looking beseechingly to Hetta to rescue her.

  But Hetta hardened her heart and said serenely: “I’m sure Miss Smith will explain it all to you while she refreshes herself a little. I’ll see you both at breakfast.” With that, she swept out of the room before either one of them could object. “Blast Gregory!” she muttered under her breath as she went in search of her errant brother.

  She wondered if she ought to have concocted some socially acceptable story for her sister. Undoubtedly Miss Smith was at this moment pouring the tale of her woes into Alexandra’s willing ears. It seemed unlikely that even Phoebe, doting mother that she was, would approve. But Hetta was neither a hypocrite nor especially burdened with a belief in the delicacy of young female minds. She was also reluctant to spin falsehoods on Gregory’s behalf. Untruths, in Hetta’s experience, generally made life more rather than less complicated. Gregory could dashed well come up with some explanations himself. After all, it had been his idea to bring Miss Smith to the house, and though Hetta wasn’t unsympathetic to whatever misfortunes she might have suffered, Hetta had a hard time believing he’d known nothing of her until this morning.

  As she made her way through the house, she overheard voices ahead and froze, unsure whether to announce her presence or not.

  “And I cannot bear the thought of that—that hussy being in Jack’s rightful place.”

  It was Aunt Sybil. Hetta couldn’t think of anyone she would like to encounter less just at this moment, and she looked about for an escape. None presented itself. The only doors along this hallway led to bedrooms, all of them likely occupied at this hour. The sensible cours
e of action would be to walk briskly away, but so strong was her desire not to be seen that Hetta found herself pressing her back into the nearest doorway and concentrating.

  An illusionist’s abilities were limited by the caster’s ability to hold mental images. Hetta had always had an excellent visual memory and the ability to focus on an image in her mind’s eye. She did so now, concentrating on the doorway behind her and projecting it over herself.

  There was the sound of footsteps, and Aunt Sybil and Uncle Percival came into sight. Hetta held her breath and drew intently on the image of the door. The illusion held. The two passed right by her, the air moving a scant two inches from her in the swish of Aunt Sybil’s skirts.

  Uncle Percival was frowning. “I know it’s been a bit of a shock, but you and Jack will just have to make your peace with it. It’s not as if you can argue with Stariel.”

  “But I can’t see why Jack shouldn’t have been given his chance—” Aunt Sybil replied. Her face was red, her expression mulish.

  “You mean after Stariel had already chosen? What would be the point?”

  “She’s an illusionist. How do we know what we saw was real?” Aunt Sybil spat.

  “You can’t go putting that about!”

  “I’m just putting two and two together. There’s no other explanation for it. Others will say the same. Everyone knows Jack should have been next in line.”

  “No one ever really knows who will be next in line.” Uncle Percival’s tone became cold. “And if you think that Henrietta would do such a thing, you’ve not the sense the gods gave little green apples. It was plain she’d no expectation of it. Never seen anyone look so taken aback.”

  “That’s just what she wanted us to think!”

  Their voices faded as they passed down the other end of the corridor. Hetta leaned against the door, letting the illusion dissolve, a bitter taste in her mouth.

  11

  Tall Tales

  Aunt Sybil’s anger was unsurprising; her accusation was another thing entirely. It hadn’t occurred to Hetta that her profession could lay her open to accusations of foul play. Winning Stariel’s lordship was so far from her desire that it seemed incredible that anyone would believe she’d wanted this to happen. She was slightly reassured by Uncle Percival’s rebuttal—he, at least, had thought her shock genuine.

  Hetta curled her hands into fists, a fierce determination rising up in her. If she had to be the lord, then she was jolly well going to be a good one. She’d just show them!

  Pulling herself together, she made her way to her youngest brother’s chamber. Gregory emerged before she could knock. He had changed from his riding habit, but his locks were still in disarray.

  Hetta surveyed him critically. “You’d better brush your hair before your mother sees you if you’re trying to put her in a good mood.”

  Gregory reached up a hand to touch his fair curls. “Oh. I was in a hurry. Is Gwe—Miss Smith with you?” He looked around wildly, as if she might suddenly sprout from the worn hallway runner or fading damask wallpaper.

  “No. I left her with Alexandra. You’ll see her at breakfast, I imagine. But first I want some answers from you, Gregory. If you think I’m about to swallow that tall tale you told me earlier, you must think me a fool indeed!”

  “It wasn’t a tall tale! Gwe—Miss Smith’s guardian is a monster, and she had no choice but to flee!”

  “Who is she, Gregory?” Hetta said. “And don’t tell me her name is ‘Smith’. Really, I’m ashamed you have so little imagination!”

  Gregory’s mouth assumed a mulish aspect. “I don’t know why you say so.”

  “Yes, you do.” She tapped his shoulder lightly. “And you had much better make a clean breast of the affair if you hope for my help. Otherwise you can explain it all to your mother and Aunt Sybil by yourself.”

  Gregory blanched at this. “You wouldn’t!” He turned beseeching grey eyes upon her. But Hetta was accustomed to soulful looks from far more accomplished actors than Gregory and remained unmoved. Gregory’s shoulders slumped. “Fine, then. Her name isn’t Miss Smith—it was the first thing that came into my head when you asked! But I don’t rightly know who she is, except that she has suffered awfully, and I couldn’t think what else to do but offer her sanctuary. And you can tell—you met her—that she’s not a—” He coloured as he tried to think of a word that meant ‘an unvirtuous woman’ that he could use in front of his sister. Since his sister was, by some measures, not especially virtuous, she chose not to help him out with any suggestions, and he eventually gave up and made a vague gesture. “She’s a good girl,” he finished lamely.

  “And how long have you known this ‘good girl’ of mysterious identity?”

  Gregory flushed again, but a spark of amusement seemed to seize him now that he was confessing.

  “Guessed that as well, did you? Though I don’t know how you should have.”

  “I’m not an idiot,” Hetta told him, though she didn’t specify more than that. It was clear to her that Gregory was completely infatuated with Miss Gwen ‘Smith’, and though Hetta currently had a poor opinion of his good sense, even he could surely not have formed so severe a passion after only a few hours!

  “Well, I met her just after Father died,” Gregory admitted. “I went riding, pretty far out, beyond the estate boundaries, and I found her there, crying. She told me to go away, but I couldn’t, could I?” he said disingenuously. “And so I asked if she was lost and she said no, she had ridden from her family house into the forest so that she might be alone for a while, and so I asked her what was wrong and she told me, in bits and pieces, about her guardian. And I couldn’t think how to help her, but I promised I would try to think of something, and we arranged to meet again—she wouldn’t tell me her full name. I think she was too afraid to. And so I’ve been meeting with her, and yesterday I told her I thought perhaps Jack would let her visit us, once he was—” He broke off here, in confusion, but Hetta encouraged him on.

  “Yes, I know that is what we were all expecting, but do continue, please.” Hetta didn’t bother inquiring why he thought Jack would be particularly amenable to this scheme. It seemed unlikely, but Gregory viewed Jack with a kind of hero-worship, and his infatuation with Miss Gwen excused a measure of foolishness on his part.

  “And I rode out this morning to tell her that things had changed, but she told me that her guardian had obtained a special license and meant to marry her out of hand tomorrow, so I had to act, you see!”

  “And you do not know from whom she was fleeing, or, in fact, her name?”

  “Well, no. She said to call her Gwen, so I have!” he said defiantly.

  Hetta was sure that this tale, too, had some holes in it, but it felt at least half a step closer to the truth. She pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling a headache coming on.

  “Well, inventing an acceptable story is quite beyond me, so I suppose the one you came up with must suffice. However, we had better say that it was me who found Miss Smith while out riding, not you, or your mother will never agree to her staying here for the time being.” Lady Phoebe might be a doting mother, but Hetta doubted she’d look with favour on Gregory courting a nameless runaway, ‘good girl’ or not, particularly since he was underage. Oh gods, she thought, fighting an urge to laugh, that means if he takes it into his foolish head that he wants to marry her, it’s me he’ll need permission from as head of the family.

  Gregory pulled himself upright, glowing with hope. “Oh, will you, Hetta? You are—”

  She held out a hand to interrupt him. “Don’t thank me just yet. I don’t think we can in good conscience steal this girl away from her guardian without a by-your-leave. Her guardian will be quite worried when she is missed. You must find out who he is—”

  “But you can’t mean to send her back—”

  Again, Hetta held up a hand. “If her story is true then of course I will try to help her how I may, but you must see that this cannot be a permanent solution.”
r />   “No, but I…” Gregory shuffled his feet awkwardly, and Hetta couldn’t resist teasing him.

  “And you know, Gregory,” she continued as if he hadn’t interrupted, “it’s bad form to embark on a serious relationship with a girl without even knowing her last name!”

  Gregory flushed beet red and stammered a confused negative, but Hetta had already started walking away. “Go brush your hair now, goose!”

  Hetta didn’t particularly want to approach her stepmother before breakfast. Lady Phoebe was invariably a late riser and rarely appeared at the breakfast table, preferring to take a tray in her room at a later hour. Perhaps she could simply wait until Miss Gwen and Phoebe encountered each other later in the day, as they were sure to do eventually. The sight of Miss Gwen’s tearful countenance might persuade Phoebe better than Hetta’s more logical explanation. Yet so many of her relatives were awake abnormally early this morning that Hetta couldn’t be confident that Phoebe wouldn’t also be shaken out of her usual habits. It also seemed unbearably rude to begin her tenure as lord by not only inviting houseguests but also giving no warning of them whatsoever.

  Hetta sighed and steeled herself to the task. Lady Phoebe’s soft voice bade her come in when Hetta knocked, but she was still in her nightgown, sitting up in bed and reading a novel that looked of the sort Gregory had borrowed liberally from this morning. She didn’t look old enough to be anyone’s stepmother, let alone one with three children. She blinked confusedly at Hetta and set the book down on her lap.

  “Good morning, dear.” Phoebe bit her lip. “How—how are you?”

  Hetta wasn’t sure if this was a tactful way of referring to yesterday’s Choosing or an attempt to ask why Hetta had invaded her bedroom at this hour without pointing out Hetta’s rudeness. At least there was nothing of Aunt Sybil’s bristling suspicion in her expression.

  “Good morning,” Hetta said briskly, ignoring both implied questions. She told Lady Phoebe about their new houseguest with cheerful matter-of-factness, as if there were no reason in the world for awkwardness, and it went rather better than she’d hoped. Phoebe only protested weakly: “But wherever shall we put her?” Since this was by far the easiest to answer of the many objections her stepmother might have raised, Hetta assured her that all was well in hand and swept out again before Phoebe had time to think.