To Wed an Heiress

by Rosanne E. Lortz

  “Most agreeable. And from the sound of things, we have a great deal of business to be transacted. My mother tells me you are here today to discuss how we must retrench in order to settle my father’s debts.”

  Mr. Godwin clucked sympathetically. “Retrench is perhaps too mild of a word, my lord. I have taken the liberty of drawing up some figures….” He handed a ledger sheet to Haro complete with columns of numbers and annotations on the side.

  Peering over her son’s shoulder, Lady Anglesford attempted to make out the meaning of the figures. But a headache soon overpowered her, and she sank back into the cushions of the sofa.

  After a moment’s perusal, Haro looked up to meet Mr. Godwin’s eye. “This is very grim.”

  “Yes, my lord. Even with the liquidation of all the Emison assets, only the most modest of sums will remain once the debts have been fulfilled. If we can find you a reasonably-priced residence in Russell Square, the remainder can be used to support Lady Anglesford with an annuity comparable to the income of a country parson.”

  The widow blanched visibly. Her own father had been a country parson, and she was well aware of the thrift and deprivation that would be occasioned by such straitened circumstances. When one was used to the spacious halls of Woldwick with its silver chandeliers, velvet curtains, and large staff of servants, the idea of a cramped cottage or a townhouse with hardly enough bedrooms to house them all was grim indeed.

  Haro continued to dissect the grisly anatomy of the Emison bankruptcy. “When do you anticipate beginning to ‘liquidate assets,’ as you call it?”

  “Your house in London can be sold immediately, along with the horses and carriages. In the interim, the family can retire to Woldwick and pack your personal possessions. For an estate of that magnitude, it will take more time to find a buyer, and it may be several weeks into the summer before you must vacate it.”

  Lady Anglesford, who had hoped against all reason that Mr. Godwin’s assessment of affairs would have altered in the interim since she had visited his office, heard the news of Woldwick’s doom again with the same crumpling of spirit that had affected her the first time. “The townhouse and the stables I understand. I will not weep to part with them. But Woldwick? It is too great a blow to bear!”

  “But Lady Anglesford, I’m afraid there is no alternative—”

  “How if some of the money could be raised?” interrupted Haro.

  “Well, yes, if the debts could be defrayed in some other way, then perhaps the estate could be kept.” Mr. Godwin looked at the young earl with raised eyebrows, waiting for him to elaborate.

  “I have a dinner engagement tonight,” said Haro, with a little bit of embarrassment, “with a tradesman—a cotton mill owner, in fact—who might be willing to make up some of these deficits.”

  “A tradesman?” repeated his mother incredulously. She was not aware that her son fraternized with men of business in the middle class.

  Mr. Godwin leaned forward in his armchair with interest. “And what reason would this fellow have for coming to the aid of the Emison estate?” The solicitor was not immune to the feeling of skepticism. What could the young Earl of Anglesford possibly offer to the mill owner for collateral?

  Haro took a long breath and then came out with the dreadful admission. “He has a daughter just out in society. An alliance with an earl is no mean thing.”

  Lady Anglesford gasped audibly. “A mill owner’s daughter?”

  Haro had been prepared for his mother’s objections. “An heiress, Mama.”

  “But, but your cousin!” she spluttered. Then, remembering that they were not alone, she glanced anxiously at the solicitor. Mr. Godwin registered no surprise. He was deep enough in the family secrets to know that there had been an understanding between the earl and Miss Swanycke. But he was also pragmatic enough to realize that a connection with the impoverished Miss Swanycke could in no way aid his client amid these difficult circumstances.

  “So,” said the solicitor slowly, “you are proposing to salvage the family finances through a matrimonial alliance. That is very farsighted of you, Lord Anglesford—a selfless act, if I’ve ever seen one. Tell me: who is the tradesman, and what is his daughter’s name?”

  And while his mother stared and Mr. Godwin nodded encouragingly, Haro gave a thorough description of his exceptional new acquaintances.

  4

  If Haro had been expecting a large dinner party at the Hastings’ home that evening, he was sorely mistaken. When he arrived, he found that he made up the fourth in an intimate gathering. Mr. Hastings and his daughter glittered in fancy evening attire while a darkly clad duenna—introduced as Mrs. Rollo—lurked demurely in the background. It seemed that Mr. Hastings, despite all his desire for ostentation, recognized the necessity of small numbers when there was something important to discuss.

  “You haven’t told us anything about your family,” said Arabella archly as the first course was laid on the table.

  Haro blinked at the number of dishes laid out for such a small party—roast beef, roast fowl, fish with oyster sauce, game, macaroni, soup, cauliflower, and a plethora of creams and sauces that he could not even identify.

  “There’s not much to tell,” said Haro, trying not to appear to be concealing some dreadful secret. “My father passed away just recently leaving my mother in poor spirits. I’ve one brother, Torin, seven years younger than me.”

  “No sisters?”

  “No sisters by birth, although our cousin Eda has lived with the family for years, and is as close to a sister as anyone can be. And then there’s my mother’s uncle, Harold, a kind old fellow, but a bit of an eccentric. He lives out at Woldwick, our country estate—positively refuses to come to town even when the rest of the family does.”

  “They sound perfectly delightful,” said Arabella, tilting her chin to show off her pretty face to its best advantage. “I always wanted a brother or a sister as a companion, but Father never managed to provide one.”

  “I provided you with Mrs. Rollo, didn’t I?” said Hastings with a guffaw. “The most accomplished companion money could buy!”

  Haro gnawed his lip uncomfortably while the gray-haired woman stared self-deprecatingly down at her plate.

  The cotton magnate turned to his dinner guest. “But, it’s true what my daughter says, my lord. She’s my only child, my only heir.” He took a liberal swallow of the red wine in his glass. “When I die, everything comes to her, and she’ll be sitting pretty in cloth of gold.”

  Haro hardly knew how to respond to Mr. Hastings’ undisguised boasts, but thankfully, Arabella was familiar with rescuing conversation from her father’s faux pas.

  “Speaking of cloth of gold,” she said winsomely, “I hear the Prince Regent is planning to curtain his whole dining room with it at Brighton Pavilion.”

  The earl shuddered. “Is not the place gaudy enough as it is?”

  “Do you think so? We visited it last summer, and I was rather impressed by the Indian style of the building and the Chinese murals in the banqueting room. The Saracen influence on the domes—”

  “My daughter is a little too fond of architecture for her own good,” interrupted Mr. Hastings. Haro sensed a coarse note of savagery in his voice, perhaps a hint for Arabella to abandon the subject and pursue some topic more frivolous.

  Strange, Haro thought. He would have assumed that the old braggart would take delight in his daughter’s architectural knowledge, another one of her accomplishments to showcase for prospective suitors.

  The conversation continued on in a lighter vein until the final course had been removed. “I think Mrs. Rollo and I must excuse ourselves now,” said Arabella, playing the part of a proper hostess, “and let you gentlemen enjoy your port in peace.”

  “Yes, yes, run along,” said her father with a wink, “but don’t run too far, for I may have things to talk over with you later.” The ladies floated out of the room, the younger with a small smile playing over her face, the elder with the same down
trodden expression she had borne all evening. Haro wondered if this Mrs. Rollo had always been so dour or if she had acquired her grim expression from constant association with the pretentious tradesman.

  William Hastings went over to the sideboard to retrieve the decanter, pouring both himself and the earl a generous helping of the after-dinner beverage. He eased himself back into his chair with a wolfish smile. “Well, here we are, my lord, alone at last and able to talk like men. I’ve had my ear to the ground ever since seeing you at the Duke of Doyle’s. You need my help, I think. Come, admit as much, and then we can begin to talk….”

  ***

  Pride is an unappetizing dish to swallow, and later on, Haro could barely believe how much of it he swallowed that night when he confessed the extent of the Emison family debts to the vulgar Mr. Hastings. It helped that the mill owner—having researched the earl’s family most thoroughly—already knew the majority of the story. But it was still bitterly galling for Haro to be forced to air his family’s dirty linen with this inquisitive stranger.

  Fortunately, however, William Hastings did not seem to be at all put out or put off by the tale of the late earl’s egregious spending at cards. “That’s how these aristocrats are,” he said with a familiar wink, “all flash and no fold, and not a one of them with any money sense.” He rubbed his hands over the gold lace of his costume, obviously preening himself on the fact that he did have money sense, and it was that money sense that had led the new earl straight into his pocket.

  “So if I understand you correctly, you need”—and he rattled off an outrageous sum of tens of thousands of pounds—“to save your precious country estate and keep up the style of living to which your family is accustomed.” Hastings sipped his port with an excitement he did not bother to conceal. “I happen to have that sum. I won’t say it would be easy for me to come by it, and I don’t say that it’s ready to hand. But I have it, and could give it to you, should you engage to make it worth my while.”

  Haro put down his glass hesitantly. Now was the time for him to introduce Miss Arabella Hastings into the conversation, but such candor—or crassness—was far more difficult for him than it was for his host. “Obviously, I cannot offer you any collateral for such a sum, or indeed, have any hope of ever repaying you. There is one thing my father did leave me intact, however.” He set his jaw and looked at the mill owner proudly. “The title of Earl of Anglesford.”

  “Yes, that is so!” said William Hastings, pounding a fat-fingered fist upon the table. “And for all my prosperity, a title like that is something I can never hope to have.” He gave his guest a sly look. “And yet it is something that my grandchildren might aspire to.”

  By dint of sheer willpower, Haro managed to preserve an expression of equanimity. “Now that my father is gone, I have thought long and hard about abandoning the bachelor life and setting up my own establishment and household. You have a beautiful and intelligent daughter, Mr. Hastings—”

  “So gratified that my lord should have noticed!”

  “At first glance, it seems that she and I would suit each other quite well. I would like to request permission to call upon your daughter and become further acquainted with her.”

  “Ha!” shouted Hastings, reaching for the decanter to refill his glass. “Is there time to come calling when the wolf is at the door? The horse is already out of the gate, Anglesford! Either you place your bet now or not at all. Come, what is it to be?”

  The young earl had been overcome with amazement at his host’s gaucherie more than once this evening, but this last suggestion surpassed any other words that had been uttered at the table. Was Mr. Hastings actually suggesting he should propose marriage to his daughter that very night?

  “You are very welcoming, and for that I thank you. But you know next to nothing about me. I would expect that you would wish to sound out my character a little before giving me permission to address your daughter.”

  “What is there to sound out?” replied Mr. Hastings dismissively. “You’re not engaged already, I take it?”

  Haro blushed. If circumstances had not intervened, he had intended to be so by the end of the season. “No, I am not.”

  “That’s all right then,” said his host. “Prior engagements can be shuffled under the table, but they do have the ability to make a nuisance of themselves sometimes. It may not surprise you to learn that I’ve already made inquiries about you, my lord. And everything I’ve learned has proved satisfactory. I think you’re just the man for me—or for my daughter, I mean to say.”

  “I appreciate your goodwill in the matter, but I’m sure it will take me some time to get the lady’s goodwill.”

  “Stuff and nonsense! I daresay she’s waiting for your declaration in the drawing room, twiddling her thumbs on the sofa while we keep her waiting.”

  Hastings pushed back his chair and rose from the table. Haro followed suit and followed his host to the door of the dining room. In that awful moment his fate had been decided for him. He was about to propose marriage to Miss Arabella Hastings. The tradesman angling for an earl had caught one at last.

  ***

  The full gravity of the situation fell over Haro’s shoulders like a cloak of lead as his host ushered him down the hallway and through the French doors of the decorated drawing room. Once a gentleman contracted an engagement and it entered the banns, it was extremely uncouth of him to beg off. In fact, if he dared to do so, the young lady’s family could sue him for breach of promise—and probably win. But William Hastings had made it impossible for him to involve his family, impossible for him to consult his solicitor, and impossible for him to delay.

  As her father had prophesied, Miss Hastings was seated demurely on the sofa, stitching a sampler with her chin elevated becomingly. Haro wondered if needlework was one of the young lady’s favorite pastimes, or if it was all for show—another ruse to convince the earl of Arabella’s superior qualities. William Hastings waved conspiratorially to his daughter then made a great show of shutting the drawing room doors, leaving the couple alone in awkward silence.

  “I’ve just had a very remarkable conversation with your father,” began Haro, trying to keep the tone of misery out of his voice.

  “Oh yes?” said Arabella opening her eyes widely with an air of innocence. She begged the earl to sit down. Complying, he took the chair farthest from her, directly across the diameter of the spacious drawing room. It was a feeble, last attempt at independence.

  “Yes, very remarkable,” repeated Haro. He took a deep breath. “I asked him for permission to call upon you to improve our acquaintance. However, he assured me that our acquaintance is sufficiently advanced for me to presume to put a certain question to you.”

  Miss Hastings dropped her sampler on the cushion beside her and folded her hands in her lap. She was waiting for the question as expectantly as a cat sitting before a saucer of cream. Haro rose to his feet, crossed the floral rug in a few rapid strides, and lowered himself onto one knee. He already had the words down pat on his tongue—indeed, he had rehearsed them oftentimes in the weeks preceding, although with a different young lady in mind.

  “Miss Hastings, you would make me very happy if you would do me the honor of becoming my wife.”

  Her first words almost made him feel the complete fool. “This is very sudden, my lord!”

  But the next syllables she uttered revealed that she had no thought of toying with him. “But though we’ve only known each other a short while, I must confess that I have felt an irresistible attraction to you. I would be honored to accept your proposal.”

  She gave him her hand—ungloved—and he kissed it. Then, because she seemed to expect something more, he rose from the carpet, seated himself on the sofa beside her, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. She smiled at him and they joined hands circumspectly. It was not an unpleasant sensation, and Haro began to wonder if something slightly more than a kiss on the cheek might be appropriate.

  He was soon overwhelmed
with thankfulness, however, that no further display of affection had surfaced between them, for Mr. Hastings—who had made such a show of leaving them alone together—had retreated no farther than behind the drawing room doors. Throwing them open, he burst in to offer the engaged couple his felicitations. “Well done, my boy!” he said, clapping Haro heavily on the back. “And well done, Lady Anglesford!” he said, bestowing a hearty kiss upon his daughter and usurping a title that Haro had never heard used except in reference to his mother.

  “When shall I enter it in the banns? Tomorrow morning, I think!”

  “No, that is too soon,” said Haro, panic constricting his throat like the coils of a snake. “You must give me some time to convey the happy news to my family before the ton is ringing with the surprise.”

  “The day after tomorrow then,” said Mr. Hastings firmly. He was too shrewd a businessman to let a long period of reflection and remorse eat away at his customer. “And you must bring Arabella to meet your family tomorrow! I’m sure your mother will be overwhelmed with joy to welcome her new daughter.”

  “Overwhelmed indeed,” said Haro, although he did not think that joy would be his mother’s primary emotion. “’Til tomorrow then,” he said, kissing his betrothed’s hand formally.

  “Adieu, mon cher!” replied Arabella, holding onto his hand until he pulled it gently from her grasp. Her brown eyes, he noticed, were shining like stars, but whether from the pleasure of this new romance or the pleasure of becoming Lady Anglesford it was impossible to tell.

  5

  Morning light is the best time for revelations of a dubious nature, and so Haro brooded on his secret alone until he met his family members, one by one, at the leisurely atmosphere of the breakfast table.