by Erica Vetsch
Mrs. Millicent Richardson swept down the stairs, calling out to her husband even before she entered the drawing room. “Perry, that back garden is a positive thicket. We’re going to have to burn it before it can be properly planted. It’s been allowed to go completely to seed. As for the house, every room will need to be taken down to the plaster. It’s as if nothing’s been changed for half a century. I cannot imagine living in such antiquated surroundings. It’s positively provincial.”
A small cry came from Lady Sophia’s lips, and her hand went to her throat, but she didn’t protest. Instead, she leveled a stricken look at Mamie.
“Well?” Millicent snapped. “Surely Perr—Lord Richardson explained things to you. This is our house, and we have the right to do as we wish with it.”
“Millicent, please, there’s no need to carry on so.” Mamie’s hand fluttered.
“Don’t tell me what I need to do or not do.”
Lady Sophia moved to place herself between Mamie and the rude woman accosting her. “Lady Richardson, you have no need to concern yourself about me or Mamie from this moment on. We’ll be gone from this house before noon. If you can please refrain from gutting the place until we’ve departed, we would be most appreciative. Though perhaps you should confer with my brother, the Duke of Haverly, before you make too many changes to the house. As overlord, it does ultimately belong to him, after all.”
The baroness gaped like a flounder, and it was all Charles could do not to raise his fist and shout, “Huzzah!” Good for Lady Sophia, putting that woman in her place.
Mrs. Chapman, who hovered in the hallway near the kitchen door, raised her apron hem to her chin. “Leaving, milady? Where will you go? Whatever shall I do?”
Lady Sophia took a breath, as if to fortify herself. “For now we’ll go to Haverly Manor. Beyond that, I don’t know. You are welcome to come with us, Mrs. Chapman, or you may stay and work for the new family. You are free to choose.”
“Of course she will stay here. What would we do without a cook and housekeeper?” Millicent put her hands on her hips. “You cannot steal my staff.”
“Steal?” Charles asked, keeping his tone dry. “I do not believe you own Mrs. Chapman, nor anyone else who may live and work here. The housekeeper is free to come and go as she pleases.”
Another crash and thump came from upstairs, accompanied by a yell.
The apron came down, and determination firmed Mrs. Chapman’s crumbling visage. “I’ll not stay in the house with this lot. It won’t take me but a moment to pack.” She glared at Millicent, her chin high, eyes gleaming.
Charles hid a smile. Mrs. Chapman reminded him of a warrant officer. Warrant officers ran the navy, whatever the commissioned officers might think.
With a nod, Lady Sophia guided Lady Richardson toward the stairs. “When you’re finished, Mrs. Chapman, if you’ll help Mamie pack her things, I would be grateful.”
The morning flew by, with Charles carrying boxes and trunks and bags out to the front steps. Lady Sophia maintained her composure throughout. Mamie Richardson put items into crates thoughtfully, as if silently communing with each one.
Mrs. Chapman, on the other hand, stormed about, packed with vigor, and muttered under her breath. Charles had visions of a dragon, fire and smoke exuding, and he did the woman’s bidding with alacrity.
Midmorning, he realized there would be more belongings than his carriage could hold. Time to make an executive decision. He headed for the small stable out back.
“Where is the driver of the baggage wagon that arrived here this morning?” he asked his hired coachman, who was preparing the carriage.
“Headed to the village pub, looking for a load to Dorset, where he come from. Didn’t want to waste the trip back if he could find something that needed toting.” Charles’s coachman led one of the horses out of the small stable to hitch him up.
“Trot round there and tell him I have work for him. If he’s already gone, find a wagon to hire.”
“Very good, sir.”
“’Scuse me, sir. Is it true?” An elderly man with a seamed face and pale eyes tugged his forelock, coming out of the shadows of the stable. “Pardon for interrupting. I’m Donnie, what does the gardening here. Is it true that new folks have come and they’re forcing the ladies out?”
“I’m afraid so.” Charles felt as grim as he sounded.
“And Mrs. Chapman is going with them to Haverly?” He twisted his cloth cap in his gnarled hands.
“That’s correct.”
“And them new folks isn’t nice at all?”
“Not in my brief experience.” Why wouldn’t the man get on with it? Charles had things to do.
With a sharp nod, Donnie slapped his hat against his leg. “That tears it. I’m coming too. If there’s no work at Haverly for the likes of me, I’ll find something. But I won’t work for them new folks if they’re that hard of heart to be so cruel to the ladies.”
Charles clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man. You can help with the baggage.”
“I’ll do that very thing, sir.”
When Charles reentered the house, he discovered Lady Sophia in the drawing room, removing shells from a cabinet. The new owners were nowhere to be found, thankfully. She placed the seashells carefully in a small rosewood box and fastened the clasp. Her head was down, and the sunlight from the window caressed her glossy brown hair. Her shoulders had a defeated tilt, and her long lashes flicked suspiciously fast.
“Lady Sophia?”
She straightened and sniffed. “I’m almost finished.”
“I’ve sent my coachman into the village to procure transport for your things. Also, the gardener has announced his plans to accompany you and Lady Richardson to your brother’s home. I hope this is acceptable?”
“Oh, Donnie—I forgot all about him.” Her hand went to her throat. “Of course he must come if he wishes. He should be retired long since, but he’s so stubborn. There will be something he can do at Haverly. I’ll talk to my brother about him.”
“Are you nearly finished with your packing?”
With a nod, she surveyed the room. It was mostly unchanged, but Lady Richardson’s knitting basket was gone from beside a chair, and the cricket ball from the mantel. Everything they were taking from this room fit in one box, with space left over. He picked it up.
“Do you need more time? It’s ridiculous to expect you to be out in only a few hours. I would be happy to speak with the new baron.”
“No. I don’t wish to linger. ‘If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly.’”
Charles paused, the box halfway to his shoulder. “Is that a quote?”
“Shakespeare. Macbeth.” She shrugged. “Mamie enjoys Shakespeare. We read his sonnets, but she especially likes his dramas. We talked of going to see one of his plays performed once Rich returned.”
The wistful thread in her tone smote Charles in the chest.
If only Charles had made certain that Rich had cleared the ship of combatants. If only he had been more alert. If only Rich hadn’t tried to save his life.
By noon the baggage coach was loaded and Mrs. Chapman sat beside the driver, her bonnet firmly in place and her Bible in her lap. She stared straight ahead, as if ready to embrace whatever lay before her with courage.
Charles handed first Mamie and then Lady Sophia up into his carriage. He couldn’t help but admire her resilience. She hadn’t wilted under the blows coming her way. Beautiful and strong, just as she had shown in her letters.
The new baron and his wife stood on the top step of Primrose Cottage, their offspring tumbling about them like a pack of foxhounds waiting for the horn to sound.
He touched the brim of his bicorn to them but remained silent. He would not beg their leave, not after the way they had come in like a tide and swept Lady Sophia and Mamie Richardson out.
He instructed the driver as to their destination and climbed inside, sitting across from the ladies.
Mamie pressed her fingers to the glass, craning her neck to keep the house in sight for as long as possible, but Lady Sophia had her eyes closed. Her lips moved. Was she praying? If so, for what? Courage? Strength? Lightning to strike the cottage and deprive the new occupants of the pleasure of living there?
Small talk under the circumstances was impossible. He held his council as the carriage jostled along the road.
As Lady Sophia had said, it was not a protracted journey. Before long they turned up at a massive pair of gates and stopped. The keeper strolled out of the gatehouse, spoke briefly to the driver, and opened the carriage door.
“Oh, milady, I didn’t know it was you.” The man bowed, lifting his hat.
“Would you open the gates, Canby?” Lady Sophia’s voice was kind in spite of their circumstances. She might be retreating from battle with her sails furled and her rudder broken, but she was sailing under her own colors.
The drive curved through open meadows and copses of old trees. How had these magnificent oaks been spared the axe when nearly every tree in Britain had been felled to build the fleet? Haverly must have some pull with the government.
They passed a large stone house. “Did we bypass the manor?” he asked.
Lady Sophia shook her head. “That’s the dower house, where my mother and sister-in-law live.”
If that was the dower house, what must the manor be like? Charles hadn’t long to wait. They turned a corner, and there she was, floating on a sea of gardens like a flagship in full sail. Warm red brick, white trim, and more windows than he could count. The place must run to sixty rooms.
Lady Sophia had grown up here, a daughter of this house. This mansion was as familiar to her as the Dogged was to him.
And he had offered her financial help? When her brother owned all this? What a fool he had been. Major Richardson had rarely mentioned Lady Sophia’s family, and certainly not that they lived in such splendor. Had she been laughing up her sleeve when he inquired after her financial well-being?
As they pulled to a stop, he composed his wits. He would deliver the women into the keeping of the duke, renew his offer of help in any way he could, even though he could see she needed nothing from the likes of him, and be on his way.
He had fulfilled his duty to Rich as much as he was able, and he would have to be satisfied with that.
Though he didn’t feel satisfied. The debt he owed Lady Sophia was large, and simply carrying a few boxes and handing her off to her brother didn’t seem enough.
He helped her from the coach and turned back for Lady Richardson. As Lady Sophia mounted the steps, one of the huge doors opened and a somberly dressed man appeared.
“Hello, Rodbury. Is His Grace at home?”
“Lady Sophia. What a pleasure. I regret His Grace is not in residence at the moment, though he is expected to return before dinner. The duchess is within, however.” The very proper servant bowed. “May I take it that you’ll be staying?” He indicated the baggage wagon.
“We’ve come home. Tell Tetford we will need a room prepared for Lady Richardson, and we’ve brought Mrs. Chapman with us. Oh, and would you find a place for Donnie? In the grooms’ dormitory or one of the gardeners’ cottages?”
The butler raised an eyebrow at Charles, who stood at the base of the steps with Lady Richardson on his arm, feeling as exposed as a cannonball on a cricket pitch.
“Rodbury, this is Captain Charles Wyvern. Please have Tetford prepare a room for him as well.” Lady Sophia nodded to Charles. “It’s much too late in the day for you to be setting off. I know my brother will want to meet you.”
When they entered the house, Charles felt even more out of place. This must rival Carlton House or Brighton Pavilion for splendor. An atrium four stories high ended in a dome intersected with skylights that bathed the open space with sunshine. A chessboard of black-and-white marble covered the floors, and the walls were an understated pale green with gilded white trim.
Their footsteps echoed in the massive space.
“Come into the drawing room, Captain. Rodbury and the footmen will bring in the baggage.” Lady Sophia untied her bonnet, handing it to the butler.
The drawing room was no less grand than the foyer, with pale-blue walls and rich, golden upholstery and drapes.
“Sophie.” A striking blonde woman rose from a sofa, a heavy book in her hands. “I didn’t know you were coming to visit. I’m delighted.” She crossed the room quickly. Remembering Lady Sophia’s letter, Charles deduced this must be her sister-in-law, the Duchess of Haverly.
“Charlotte. I’m afraid it’s a bit more than a visit.” The two women embraced, and Charles heard a hint of tears in Lady Sophia’s voice.
As Charles seated Mamie, Lady Sophia gave the duchess a brief summary of the morning’s events.
“They marched right in, gave us an ultimatum, and began speaking of all the things they hated about Primrose and how they were going to renovate everything. We were allowed to bring our personal belongings, but the rest they declared their possessions. And they have a wild brood of boys who were completely unchecked. I estimate they will have broken everything of value within a fortnight.”
“That’s outrageous.” The duchess squeezed Lady Sophia’s hands, but she cast more than one quizzical glance Charles’s way. He remained standing, his hands on the back of Mamie’s chair.
Lady Sophia intercepted the look and put her hand to her forehead. “I am such a dolt. Please, let me introduce you. This is Captain Charles Wyvern, who was the commander of the HMS Dogged, Rich’s ship. He came to express his condolences. He happened to be at Primrose when the new baron and his family arrived, and he escorted us here. I hope you don’t mind. I’ve invited him to stay at least the night.”
Understanding smoothed the lines of the duchess’s face, and she smiled warmly, transforming her entire countenance. She had remarkable green eyes. “Of course you must bide with us. We are in your debt for helping Sophie and Mamie. I’m glad you can stay over. I know my husband will want to express his thanks as well.”
Charles nodded. “You’re most kind, Your Grace.”
He chafed a bit under the delay, though beyond returning to London to haunt the halls of the Admiralty, he had no clear objective.
Staying one more day wouldn’t change much.
Sophie couldn’t believe she was back at Haverly Manor. Her room looked the same as when she’d left it three years before to move in with Mamie—just as spacious, just as grand. Polished, mahogany furniture, thick rugs, tasteful artwork. Everything exactly as her mother had designed it before Sophie was born.
Haverly hadn’t changed. It was Sophie who was different. She’d grown from a girl to a woman at Primrose, and now it felt as if, in returning to her childhood home, she was trying to slip into a pair of shoes too small for her.
Sophie nodded her approval to the maid who had dressed her hair for dinner. It had been months since Sophie had gone to the trouble of changing into formal garb for the evening meal, but things were different at Haverly Manor, and her mother would be attending tonight. Standards must be maintained.
Unpolished jet beads decorated the neckline of her black dress, absorbing the light. The decoration, even though black, could be considered her first emergence from deep mourning. In a week or two she would begin wearing grays and lavenders.
Though her heart would still be grieving, Sophie had no intention of going about in full mourning garb for months as her mother had done when Sophie’s father and brother had been killed in a carriage accident the year before. Rich would not want that, and it would distress Mamie. Sophie’s mother still wore unrelieved black, wanting the world to know of the loss of her husband and her elder son.
A tap sounded, and the door opened a crack. “May I come in?” Sophie’s sister-in-law, Cilla, eased into the dressing room, her daughter on her hip. The baby gnawed on a string of large wooden beads, drool making her fingers and the beads shine. “Honora Mary wanted to say good night. Her nurse is
taking her back to the dower house to put her to bed.”
Sophie reached for her niece. “Child, you are growing like a well-watered weed.” She turned Honora Mary around to sit on her lap, and the baby girl leaned back.
Cilla took a seat. “Charlotte told me what happened at Primrose. I’m so very sorry.”
Sophie nodded. “It’s all been a shock. It hardly seems real. I keep thinking I’ll wake up soon. It’s the same way I feel about Rich being gone. He’s been away so long, it’s hard to remember sometimes that he won’t be coming home. Though being evicted from Primrose is driving the point home fairly well.”
“Life can change in a moment, and it can be hard to catch up.” A shadow passed over Cilla’s face. She had pure alabaster skin, delicate, patrician features, and golden hair that captured any light and threw it back with interest. She had suffered great loss and come through as sweet and gentle as ever. Though she never let her distress show, Sophie wondered if her fragile-looking sister-in-law ever cried when she was alone.
“What are you going to do? I know Charlotte will be thrilled to have you and Mamie living at Haverly.” Cilla leaned forward and tugged on Honora Mary’s foot, making the baby gurgle and kick.
“I don’t know.” Somehow the thought of living at Haverly, though they would be welcome, and she loved her family, made Sophie feel as if she were suffocating. Her childhood here had been lonely and isolated once Marcus went off to school, and boarding school had been a relief. But where else could she go? She had Mamie to consider as well. “Everything has happened so quickly, we haven’t discussed it.”
“I met Captain Wyvern downstairs. He’s quite dashing, isn’t he?” Cilla asked.
Sophie blinked. Dashing? She hadn’t considered it. He was quite a bit older than she and so stiff and reserved.
Though, if Cilla thought him dashing …
“You think so, do you?” She sent a knowing, teasing look to her sister-in-law. “If you even breathe that notion in the direction of Mother, she won’t be able to resist matchmaking. She’s been eager to marry you off for quite some time. Though I don’t know if she would deem a ship captain a suitable husband.” In fact, before Marcus had wed Charlotte this past spring, Mother had insisted he should marry his brother’s widow. A daft notion, and they would have had to go outside the country to have the ceremony performed. Marcus and Charlotte were perfect together, and Cilla, though sweet and kind, would never have suited Marcus.
