Again, he was close to waking but seemed to be enjoying that dreamy period between consciousness and unconscious. Deciding to allow him a few additional moments of rest, Daphne retrieved the dirty water from beside him and made her way back through the hall and downstairs. She washed and refilled the basin and set about making a small breakfast for her father: toast, a sliced apple and a pot of tea.
She would try and get something more substantial for them later–perhaps she would have her brothers fetch fresh eggs from the coop. She was feeling optimistic despite the state of her affairs. It was a new day, which brought new opportunity. Today could well be the day her father came back to her and re-joined the rest of the world.
Armed with her tray of fresh water and light breakfast, she paused on the landing at the strange sounds coming from the eastern wing of the house. Muttering, some bumping about, a barked command. It seemed Mrs. Blanton had risen without nearly as much trouble as her husband. Maybe she finally planned on bidding him good morning, or maybe that was just the optimism speaking again.
En route to her father’s chamber, she balanced the tray a moment to knock on the boys’ chamber door. Whether it would be enough to rouse them remained to be seen. She would very much appreciate their assistance, since it had been so lacking of late.
Making her way back into her father’s room, she once again navigated through the messy maze before setting the tray of breakfast atop the chest at the foot of the bed. She placed the bowl of water down beside her father and wet a rag to graze across his forehead, all the while cooing to him gently. Finally, Walter Blanton woke. After a moment of confusion, he smiled into his daughter’s hand.
“Good morning, Daffodil.”
She set the cloth away having soothed his brow – or rather, wiped it free of dust. “How are you feeling this morning?”
“No better, my love. Oh, what a fitful night’s rest I had. I would have been up until sunrise were it not for the exhaustion. I fear I am tired right down to my soul.” He sighed heavily and asked her to mop his brow again. She complied, studying the pallor of his skin. He was pale from the lack of sunlight, no doubt, and for no other reason. It had been near a fortnight since he had deemed himself worthy of being bed-bound.
She pressed him. “I thought you might fancy a stroll through the grounds with me this morning? Surely the fresh air would lift your spirits – it always does mine. The garden is in bloom at the moment.”
“If only! But my legs are too weak to lift beyond this bed,” was the woeful reply. “Oh Daffodil, I think this sickness will be my end.”
“Hardly likely, dear father.” She leaned back at last, setting the bowl away. Like a child, he pouted, but she ignored him. “Here, please eat the breakfast I made. It will give you strength.” She retrieved the tray from the end of the bed and placed it over his knees. “You’ll have to sit up or you’ll be sleeping amongst crumbs.”
Mr. Blanton released an awful moan and leaned further into his pillows. “I cannot eat! My stomach is wasted. I have no appetite for such things any longer.”
Daphne pushed the tray further up, but Mr. Blanton continued to deny her. Finally, Daphne gave in. She would leave the breakfast to grow cold and stale.
“Father, please. You must help yourself if you will not accept my aid.”
He moaned again. “I mean not to insult you, my daughter. Believe me! But my heart, it breaks, infects the rest of me.”
“Your heart?”
“Yes, the wretched thing. Abandonment plagues me. My heart has made a poison of my body.”’
Daphne was quite clueless as to what exactly the old man was going on about. She sat beside him once more, taking his unwilling hands into hers.
“Father, the new season is upon us, and I have chosen to remain by your side. Please, don’t let this be for nothing. I couldn’t stand it if you were not well enough to see what the future holds for me.” She weaved her words carefully, hoping that they would ensnare him, that they would allow him a glimpse into life beyond this chamber. To see his daughter happy and wed? What man would not be motivated by such a thought? Surely he was not so selfish as to have her live out this entire season tending to his bedside?
But Mr. Blanton snatched his hands away and howled again, taking his palms to his cheek in a shattering moan. “I take ill so easily! Your words bring me no comfort, Daffodil, for I do worry about you. But it is no use to me and I can hardly bear to think on it. Please, fetch my wife. I want to see Roberta.”
He then launched himself into a coughing fit, working himself into such a state that Daphne found herself having to hit him on the back a fair number of times. Once he had calmed down and his breathing had returned to a normal rate, he asked for Roberta again.
“Please, my daughter. Tell her to come to me. I must see her.”
Daphne wanted to ask, what comfort it would bring? Knowing what she did of her stepmother’s temperament, at the very least Roberta would find crossing the hallway a chore. That was if Daphne could convince Mrs. Blanton to leave her room at all. How Daphne despised that her father would ask this of her.
Here she was, ever the attentive daughter, and sacrificing her visit to London no less, all to ensure that he was maintained! Yet there the man sat, unable and unwilling to rise from his bed, asking after his absent second wife. The nerve of him rattled her so much so that she wanted to, for the first time ever, outright refuse him.
As she looked down upon him, he simple wailed, “I am so unloved!” He sent himself into another dizzying spiral, following by a second exaggerated coughing fit.
So she did not refuse him; Daphne kept her thoughts private, pulled her lips tight, and rose from her father’s bedside to retrieve the woman across the hall. Leaving her father’s chamber, she noticed that the door to her brothers’ room was ajar. At least they had risen to greet the daylight. She kept going.
The earlier sounds from behind the door had quietened and for a moment she was convinced that the room was empty. Pressing her ear to the door, she strained to hear what was happening beyond it. A thump had her reeling back, momentarily frightened. Composing herself, she knocked at the door, firm and steady. The silence fell again, and then there was an obvious bickering. The door to Mrs. Blanton’s chambers was pulled open by the maid.
“Good morning, Prudence,” Daphne chirped, pleasant as possible. She tried to peer over the girl’s shoulder and through the half-opened door. “May I enter?”
Prudence was a nervous thing, as easy to order as she was to upset. She looked as if she had endured a ragged morning: her fair hair was dishevelled and she was pink in the face. She had relied on Mrs. Orville for the most comfort and support. Daphne couldn’t help but wonder, looking into the girl’s eyes now, how much longer the maid would last without the housekeeper here. She did not know how the house would continue to stand if all their help was to depart them.
Still, Prudence hadn’t spoken. She seemed out of breath and was clutching the door in her thin, pale fingers.
Daphne tried again to peer around her. “I need a word with my stepmother. If you could please open the door…” She was beginning to suspect that the girl was in shock for all the response her words garnered. Daphne looked the maid in the face and asked her to move once more.
Finally, Prudence seemed to accept defeat and skirted to the side to open the door.
Roberta Blanton’s chambers were simultaneously the same and the opposite of her husband’s; the room was a catastrophe of trunks and clothing with all manner things sprawled all about, but where hers differed was in the nature of the room.
She was packing things away.
Daphne took a moment to consider the scene, feet stuck at the threshold. Roberta was fussing about by the vanity and running a brush through her hair. She was entirely aware of her stepdaughter’s intrusion and cared not for whatever words the younger woman was about to speak. She just kept right on sitting, asking Prudence to pull things from the wardrobe and lay them to f
old. The maid retreated from the door to Roberta’s side to set about arranging the clothing into the suitcases.
Daphne finally managed to clear her throat. “What is the meaning of all this?”
Both the maid and Mrs. Blanton failed to provide an answer. Daphne could only assume that her stepmother was ignoring her and Prudence appeared to be too distraught to speak at all.
Daphne made her way into the room to count in the number of suitcases and consider the chaos of the space around her. How long had this been going on? This must be nearly complete.
“I asked you a question, stepmother. I would appreciate if it were answered.”
Her father’s wife finally turned to look at her. “It is not obvious, dear Daphne? I am taking my leave.”
“Your leave?”
“That is what I said, is it not?”
Daphne was caught between confusion and panic. Did her father know about this? Was she planning to travel alone? Why had she come to this decision?
Prudence bustled past her, suitcase in tow, leaving the first of the flock in the hallway. This could only mean that a carriage was shortly due to arrive. So many questions left unanswered!
“Where are you going?”
Roberta sniffed and turned back to the vanity. She examined the curls that were pinned to her head. “To London, of course.”
“On what business?”
"That is of no concern to you.”
Daphne bristled. “Would it be of concern to your husband?”
Roberta turned to her, eyes narrowed. “I would hardly think so.”
The words cut across Daphne harsher than a slap. It sounded like a warning. Her father truly had no idea that his wife is departing for London?
“Well, when will you be returning? I am sure he would appreciate knowing.”
“That is, as yet, undetermined,” Roberta said, voice laced with spite. Entirely uncaring, she motioned to the next suitcase that Prudence was to move into the hallway. The maid obliged, fervently avoiding Daphne’s gaze. “When I reach my destination, I will send word.” She pushed past Daphne and into the hallway, snapping at Prudence to hurry and bring her things down the stairs. All Daphne could do was follow along after her, still questioning.
“What am I to tell my father, since I do not suppose you will be bidding him goodbye?”
Outside, Roberta turned on her stepdaughter. “It is of little consequence to me. You seem the creative sort – I am sure you will come up with something.”
Just as the words left her lips, a carriage pulled up at the front of the house. The driver jumped to the ground, nodding at the two ladies and taking the suitcases from the clearly exhausted Prudence. At Roberta’s direction, he stowed them away and set himself atop the carriage again. The entire ordeal was over in just a few minutes.
Roberta took Daphne’s hands in hers, dry and cold. While holding the younger woman’s gaze, she said, “I am so sorry that you won’t be coming to London for the season this year. It truly is a shame.”
With that remark their parting words, Roberta boarded the carriage and sent the driver away. Daphne was left in the dust.
Chapter 2
Hedingham Manor in Essex
Hedingham Manor was one of the largest properties in Essex and had been the home of the Gildon family for generations. Containing over 50 rooms and lavishly decorated in all the finest interior fashions, the gargantuan stone building was finely made and elegantly situated, sweeping into the surrounding land as if it were ordained by the Heavens that it would sit in this very place.
The grand facade stood atop a tall foundation with dual curving staircases on either side, completing the symmetrical aesthetic. These staircases gave way to the cobbled driveway beneath, which was wide enough for four carriages to stand abreast. The drive was circular and headed by a large, bubbling fountain with a rearing horse cresting the spout.
The ground of the estate covered some 90 acres and was comprised of a whole manner of gardens, open fields, forest and paddock. Wooded hills provided a natural boundary for the estate behind the Manor whereas the front was exposed to some miles of flat and lush ground.
At the centre of the estate grounds was a large, natural lake, in which the residents would take to fishing in as a past time, just as they would like to hunt through the woodlands at the property’s rear. The surrounding forest was teeming with a whole manner of fantastic hunting game from pheasants to deer.
The Manor itself sat at the hill’s crest, a position which commanded unrivalled views of the countryside below, and likewise provided some level of natural fortification. It was a place with a grand history, strategically positioned in the Essex hills to command the area and town beneath.
Hedingham was a popular place for visitors of the area as well, charming them with its expansive grounds and beautiful, ornate exterior. Some rooms were open to the public when accompanied by one of the estate staff. It was the opinion of the late Lord Gildon that the family endeavour to connect with the townsfolk in an effort to keep relationships strong.
Hedingham Manor was, in the opinion of the Essex townsfolk, the most beautiful home in the county, an opinion shared by its proprietor: one Lord Benedict Gildon.
The young Lord stood by a window in the dining hall. His favourite vantage point, it overlooked the entire front of the estate from the Manor’s driveway, down the rolling hill and to the lake at its base. From here, he could guarantee that no visitors would be unannounced as he could see them coming for two miles up the road.
As Lord of Hedingham, it was within his charge to ensure that the proceedings within these walls went smoothly. As such, Benedict enjoyed the organisation and, to an extent, the unique pressures that came with such responsibility. It occupied almost all hours of his day and ensured that his sleep during the night was restful; it must be, for he had to repeat the same system of operations each day.
Benedict had only been Lord of Hedingham for a short time. Lord Arthur Gildon had passed suddenly just two years earlier after a hunting incident had him thrown from his horse. He had succumbed to his extensive injuries within a week. It was the darkest period of his life that Benedict could recall. He was torn between mourning his father and the responsibilities that were immediately bestowed upon him as heir to Hedingham. He became Lord the same day as his beloved father’s passing.
During that time, he had taken on the responsibilities with fervour, throwing himself into them as if to make his father proud. It was his only true focus in life at the time. He was not fully schooled in the running of a Manor and all the exact intricacies that were involved in such a task, but it was seen to that he received the best instructors on the matter. It seemed that, by and large, Benedict was doing a marvellous job as Lord of Hedingham.
Across the room, the table was being set for the day’s lunch. Benedict would be dining with his mother, the Lady Vivian. She sat at the chair adjacent to the head of the table and was watching her son as the platters were laid out before her.
Benedict would normally enjoy this time of the day, using it as a period of rest and recuperation before his daily ride about the estate grounds. However, with the recent season beginning in London, it seemed that his Lady mother would have them discuss nothing else but the prospects that a new season would bring to the Gildon home.
“I just think you ought to go,” Lady Vivian was insisting. “It is about time you start taking this more seriously.”
Thoughtful quiet pervaded the room whilst the maids finishing laying the setting. This room was one of the most ornate in the Manor, designed especially to welcome and impress the many guests who would find themselves walking through Hedingham’s great doors. The long table was crafted from oak and stained to a black-brown.
Once Upon a Dreamy Match: A Historical Regency Romance Book Page 2
