“Marriage?” she whispered as a weight settled in the middle of her chest.
“Indeed.” The solicitor cleared his throat again. “I warned the earl his terms were rather…unusual, but he was insistent. It seems, Miss Haversham, that you have two failed Seasons–”
“Four,” Beatrice smirked. “She has four failed Seasons.”
Which means you have three, you mean, spoiled, selfish brat, Calliope thought, but of course she didn’t say the words aloud. She never did. It wasn’t worth the trouble, nor would she ever give Beatrice the satisfaction of knowing that her little barbs and insults hurt Calliope far more than she ever let on.
“It’s true,” she said in a loud, clear voice. “I haven’t yet found a husband, but I fail to see why that would affect the will.” Truth be told, whenever Calliope had envisioned herself sitting in her cozy little cottage high on a hill with a dog at her feet and a book on her lap, the chair beside hers had been filled with a cat, or more books, or a plate full of crumpets still warm from the oven.
In all of her imaginings, the only thing not in the chair?
A husband.
“As I said, the terms are unusual. Come to think of it, in all my thirty years of service I do not believe I’ve ever written such a clause into a will before. But your uncle was clear, Miss Haversham. Quite clear.”
Calliope held her breath.
“If you are not legally married by your twenty-first day of birth, your inheritance shall hence forth be given, in its entirety, to your cousin, Lady Beatrice.”
Calliope’s breath expelled in a loud whoosh of air while Lady Shillington cackled with glee.
“But this is wonderful news!” her aunt cried, clapping her hands together.
“You – you’re pleased?” said Mr. Highwater-Cleary, visibly taken aback by the countess’ reaction.
“But of course.” She looked at Calliope and her smile was as sharp as the edge of a knife. “Best not get too comfortable with your new set of circumstances, Niece. I wouldn’t want the disappointment to be too much when my daughter gets what is rightfully hers.”
The solicitor frowned. “I am afraid I do not understand. Miss Haversham will receive her inheritance as described.”
“But she won’t keep it for long,” Beatrice said in a sing-song voice. She glanced at her mother, and they shared a giggle while Calliope’s dreams of supporting herself and living a quiet, idyllic life in the countryside sank like a stone.
“My birthday is in eighteen days,” she explained to Mr. Highwater-Cleary, who still looked confused. “My twenty-first birthday, as it so happens.”
His eyes widened. “I do apologize, Miss Haversham. I hadn’t realized what an unreasonable deadline this would place upon you. When the will was contrived you were only sixteen. I assume your uncle believed you would be married, or at the very least engaged, by now.”
Beatrice guffawed. “Calliope, engaged? I should think not. The poor thing has never even had a single suitor come calling.”
That wasn’t completely true, but Calliope didn’t bother to correct her cousin. She was too busy thinking of how she was going to find someone to marry her in eighteen days when she hadn’t entertained a serious offer for her hand in eighteen months. And even then she had a feeling Lord Ascot had just been playing with her emotions. Another cruel prank, courtesy of the lovely Beatrice. Her jaw tightened.
“It’s quite all right, Mr. Highwater-Cleary,” she said softly. “You couldn’t have known.”
“Indeed.” Yet the solicitor still looked uncomfortable. “The earl and I had an appointment scheduled for next week. We were set to review his will, and I am almost certain he would have changed the date upon which he set your…conditions. Perhaps if I make an appeal to the court on your behalf–”
“I believe we already agreed they wouldn’t change anything,” Lady Shillington interrupted. “My husband was of sound mind when he made the will. You said so yourself, Mr. Highwater-Cleary.”
“Yes, however I do not believe it was your husband’s intention–”
“Regardless of his intention, what’s done is done.” Fixing her hand to her hip, Calliope’s aunt sniffed and looked pointedly at the clock resting on the mantle. “The morning hour grows late, and we are entertaining mourners at noon. If there is nothing else, Mr. Highwater-Cleary, I must kindly ask you to depart.”
“Of course.” But he didn’t move. “I…ah…that is to say, Lady Shillington…”
“Out with it,” she snapped. “I haven’t all day.”
“Very well.” He squared his shoulders. “This is no longer your legal residence. It now belongs in its entirety, with the exception of you and your daughter’s personal effects and belongings, of course, to Miss Haversham.”
The countess’ mouth curled. “What are you implying?”
“I am not implying anything. I am telling you this house is no longer yours, and it is my duty to ensure the earl’s last will and testament is enforced, which means I must ask you to vacate the property with all good haste.”
“We have to leave?” Beatrice said incredulously.
The solicitor nodded. “Indeed. I believe you will find your mother’s settlement more than adequate, and I can recommend several rentals in the Mayfair District that would be available for immediate occupancy–”
“You would have us live in the Mayfair District?” Lady Shillington said, aghast. “It is a veritable den of lower middle class! Not to mention a ten minute ride by carriage to Hyde Park. No. We couldn’t go there. That you would even dare suggest such a thing is a grave insult, sir! No one who is anyone lives in the Mayfair District.”
Mr. Highwater-Cleary stiffened. “I live in the Mayfair District.”
“Oh.” Lady Shillington paused. “Well, you’re a solicitor.”
“You can remain here,” Calliope said quietly. While the idea of moving her aunt and cousin out of the house held immense appeal, she couldn’t in good conscience toss them out on the street. Even though she knew that was precisely what they had been planning to do to her.
“You dear, dear sweet girl.” Dropping her daughter’s hand as if it had suddenly caught fire, Lady Shillington crossed the parlor and wrapped her arms around Calliope in an awkward embrace of flowery perfume and false affection. “I knew you would never cast us out. We’re family, after all.”
“Yes.” Wiggling free, Calliope sprang to her feet and ducked behind a chair before her aunt could grab her again. Clutching the top of the arched wooden backrest, she managed a smile. “We are family.”
And they were. Like it or not, Lady Shillington and Beatrice were the only relatives she had left. Her parents were gone. Her grandparents as well. Now her uncle. The last blood relation she possessed in this vast world of uncertainty was standing four steps away looking at her with thinly veiled dislike.
“This is so very kind of you, Calliope,” Lady Shillington continued to gush. “Isn’t it kind, Beatrice?”
“So very kind,” Beatrice repeated, but she’d not yet learned to mask her true emotions as well as her mother and her voice was tinged with a sarcastic tone that had Mr. Highwater-Cleary’s neatly trimmed eyebrows swooping up towards his thinning hairline. He turned to Calliope.
“Are you certain this is what you want?” he said in a low voice that was for her ears only. “Forgive me for speaking with such frankness, Miss Haversham, but I do not believe your aunt has your best intentions in mind.”
“I know,” Calliope sighed. “But she is my family, and I cannot ask her to abandon her home.”
However much I would like to, she added silently.
After everything her aunt had forced her to endure over the years, from sleeping in a bedroom the size of a broom closet to wearing Beatrice’s old gown to her first ball (and being mocked unbearably for it) to treating her as if she were a servant instead of a niece, it was tempting to point her finger at the door and demand her aunt and cousin leave at once.
She knew no one
would blame her. In fact, she was willing to bet a few shillings of her newly inherited fortune that most people – like Mr. Highwater-Cleary – would be baffled as to why she wouldn’t throw them both out at the first opportunity. But Calliope had made a promise to herself long ago that she wouldn’t allow Lady Shillington’s ill treatment to turn her bitter, and it was a promise she intended to keep.
No matter how easy it would be to break it.
“If you’re sure…” said the solicitor doubtfully.
“I am,” Calliope nodded.
He tipped his hat. “You’re a better person than I, Miss Haversham. I wish you all the luck over the next few weeks, and if there is anything you need – anything at all – please do not hesitate to reach out.” Then, in a louder tone, he said, “I will show myself to the door. Should you have any questions or concerns regarding the will, my office is always open to you.”
“Farewell, Mr. Highwater-Cleary. Thank you for your service.” Waiting until the front door had closed and the solicitor’s carriage had pulled away, Lady Shillington met Calliope’s gaze. Her lips curved in a smile that fell far short of her eyes. “Shall we begin the countdown, my dear?”
Calliope’s brow creased. “What countdown?”
“Why to your birthday of course, you silly little thing.” She fluttered a hand in the air. “Of all the ones you’ve had, I do believe this is going to be my favorite.”
Beatrice snickered.
“How many days, again?” Lady Shillington continued. “Oh, that’s right.” She snapped her fingers and the sharp sound sent a chill racing down Calliope’s spine. “Eighteen. I know they’re just going to fly by. Don’t you, darling?”
“I suppose we’ll see,” Calliope said stiffly.
“Yes we will, won’t we?” Lady Shillington held her gaze a second longer than necessary, then glanced at her daughter. “Come along, Beatrice. We need to change before luncheon.”
Calliope watched them quit the room without speaking. As soon as they’d left the oxygen seemed to return, and she drew a deep breath as she went to the window and stared out at the tree-lined street beyond.
A light autumn drizzle had begun to fall, causing those who walked by to unfold their umbrellas and quicken their step. Over the past few weeks a damp chill had taken hold of the nights, leaving the grasses tipped with silver in the morning and turning the leaves from green to gold. In three days the Season would begin, accompanied by the sitting of Parliament. Usually the impending balls and luncheons and plays filled Calliope with dread, but this time she had something greater to fear than forced socialization with her peers.
“Eighteen days,” she whispered, warm breath fogging the glass as her belly tightened and then rolled unpleasantly, a feeling usually brought on when her carriage traveled too quickly down a steep hill. Apropos, perhaps, as she felt as if she were suddenly dashing madly down a mountainside with nothing to catch her at the bottom.
Drumming her fingers along the windowsill, Calliope stepped back. It could be worse, she supposed. Eighteen days was better than seventeen. Or sixteen. Or six. And history proved that far more insurmountable tasks had been accomplished with much less time. When it came down to it all she needed to do was find a man she didn’t loathe and convince him to propose within a fortnight. Then they’d have to run away to Gretna Green – there was no time for marriage contracts or a license to be drawn up or bans to be read in England – and marry before midnight on her twenty-first birthday.
Really, how difficult could it possibly be?
Chapter Two
As it turned out, finding a husband in such a short amount of time (or any amount of time, for that matter) was rather difficult. Something Calliope came to learn when she woke up the next morning and realized she had absolutely no idea where to start.
When someone wanted to purchase a horse they went to Tattershall’s.
When they wanted a new gown they went to the dressmaker’s.
When they wanted a slab of bacon they went to the butcher’s.
But where did one go when they were in need of a husband?
Calliope really didn’t know, which was why she turned to her dearest friend and confidant, Lady Helena Darby.
“I told Emmie to ready the tea as soon as I heard the news,” Helena announced by way of salutation as she ushered Calliope into her modest townhouse on the outskirts of Berkley Square. A widow with an ear for gossip, Helena always seemed to know things almost before they happened, which was why Calliope wasn’t surprised to learn she already knew of her unique situation. It certainly saved her having to explain it all over again, and she accepted her cup of tea with a grateful smile.
“Is that a new hat?” she asked, noting the silk turban wrapped around Helena’s fiery red hair. Unlike Calliope, who possessed a very modest taste in fashion, Helena was always pushing the boundaries with daring necklines and new silhouettes and one-of-a-kind accessories.
“It was a gift from Lord Breinigsville.” Helena pursed her lips. “Or was it from Lord Barto? I’ve forgotten. Not that it matters, as I would never take either of their suits seriously.” Holding the turban in place, she performed a quick spin. “What do you think of it?”
Calliope studied the large cluster of peacock feathers sprouting from the top, then the enormous star-shaped jewel stitched to the center. “It’s very…memorable,” she decided.
Grinning, Helena sat down and helped herself to a ginger biscuit from the platter of sweets Emmie had brought in along with the tea. “I thought so too. Pity I cannot wear it out of the house.”
Calliope sipped her tea. “Why not?”
“Well I wouldn’t want to encourage their affections, now would I?”
“You did accept the gift,” Calliope pointed out. “Isn’t that encouragement in and of itself?”
“Absolutely not,” Helena scoffed. “It would have been rude not to accept it.” Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Perhaps I should give it to you. Maybe if Lord Barto – I’m almost certain it was him – sees you wearing it he will be overcome with emotion and ask you for your hand then and there. Problem solved. What do you think?”
Calliope eyed the hat. “I think any man who wants his future wife to wear a scarlet turban with teal feathers really isn’t my sort.”
“You’re probably right. I’ll give it to my sister,” Helena decided. “Her two little girls will love to use it for dress up. They’re twins, you know. Three years old. Absolutely adorable. And do you know the cutest part about them?”
“They look alike?” Calliope ventured.
“I can fill them up with sugar and send them home when they begin to bounce off my silk damask walls.”
The corners of Calliope’s mouth twitched. “You sound like a very good aunt.”
“The absolute best, or so those little miscreants tell me. Now.” Discarding her half eaten biscuit and wiping the crumbs from her hands with a napkin, Helena straightened in her chair and adopted a businesslike air. “Let’s discuss the matter of your inheritance. You simply cannot allow Beatrice to receive a penny of it. After all those awful things she’s done to you, I’ll see to it that house is burned to the ground before she gets her greedy little paws on it.”
“That’s a bit extreme,” Calliope said cautiously.
Helena shrugged. “I’m an extreme sort of person.”
Yes, she was.
There was still the occasional rumor that swirled concerning the suspicious death of Helena’s husband. Not that any conjecture could be believed, of course. The Earl of Cambridge had been in poor health long before he married Helena, and four times her age besides.
It was a match wholly contrived by her parents. Helena had been against it from the start, but she’d had little to say in the matter. Especially when it was made clear that if she did not accept Cambridge’s offer her sister Dahlia would be forced to stand in her place. So she’d married the earl, and was a bride for less than twelve hours before she became a widow.
&nb
sp; ‘The fat old bastard climbed on top of me like a rutting boar, grunted, clutched his chest, and fell to the floor dead as a doornail,’ Helena had told Calliope flatly, her jade green eyes flashing with disgust.
It would have been wonderful news, if not for the fact that Cambridge hadn’t yet changed his will and Helena was left with nothing, not even the clothes on her back. Everything went to the earl’s son, a mysterious figure traveling abroad whom had directed, via letter, that his dead father’s wife was to vacate the family property at once.
It was during that brief period of homelessness that Helena and Calliope first met. Their paths crossed quite by happenstance at a local tea shop. There’d been only one table left, and they’d both gone to sit down at the exact same time. After an awkward exchange they decided to share the table, and although it was clear from the first that the two women couldn’t have been more different, they quickly discovered they did have one thing in common: a desperate yearning for a real family.
Helena’s mother and father may have been alive, but after what they’d done they were as dead to her as Calliope’s parents were. She still had her sister, Dahlia, but one of her conditions before she agreed to marry the earl was that Dahlia be sent away to boarding school. Which meant she was completely on her own and in even more dire straits than Calliope, as she hadn’t a shilling to her name.
After some plotting and planning they decided Helena would come to live with Calliope as a long lost relative, but before they could enact their scheme (which had been most likely doomed for failure from the start) Helena found herself the recipient of an anonymous – and very generous – benefactor.
Almost two years later and Helena still hadn’t the faintest idea who her patron was. All she knew was that he’d provided her the house she was currently living, a small staff, a monthly allowance, and – the strangest of all – a bouquet of yellow roses that arrived on the first Monday of every month no matter the season.
All attempts to discover the identity of the benefactor had failed, and eventually she’d given up trying. Still the question lingered, and at least once a year it became a topic of discussion. Unless, of course, something more pressing arose – like finding a husband in a matter of eighteen days.
The Secret Wallflower Society: (Books 1-3) Page 2
