To Wed an Heiress

by Rosanne E. Lortz

  “Are you feeling all right?” Haro’s solicitude stemmed both from a genuine concern and from an eagerness to mollify Mr. Hastings.

  “I confess I am feeling a little weak. It may be from the fall I took earlier, or perhaps because no one remembered to send tea up to my room.” She gave a wan smile to her betrothed.

  Lady Anglesford started, her duties as a hostess having been called into question. “I am so sorry, my dear. I should have thought to have tea brought up.”

  “Oh, it is of no consequence,” said Arabella, in a forlorn manner that belied the meaning of her words. “I am sure you have many things on your mind, Lady Anglesford, and I am glad that I will soon be able to spare you the running of the household after a certain happy event has been celebrated.”

  It was Lady Anglesford’s turn to smile wanly. Up until a few days ago, she had not anticipated that her duties as Countess of Anglesford—duties which she usually enjoyed—would be terminated so abruptly.

  “This is ridiculous!” said Mr. Hastings, as the clock hand winged its way to ten past the hour. He checked the accuracy of the house clock against the timepiece which he kept in his own waistcoat. “My daughter is famished, and this young dawdler will keep us waiting all night. Let us go in to dinner without him—it will serve him right.”

  ***

  As might have been expected, Torin’s slim figure appeared as soon as the gentlemen had seated the ladies at table.

  “I say! You could have waited a moment.” His voice sounded hurt.

  “You could have looked at your pocket watch,” said Mr. Hastings, his mouth full of ham, in a tone that was both jovial and unfeeling. Now that he had fork and knife in either hand, his mood had begun to improve.

  “You’ll have to learn to keep better track of the time,” remarked Arabella primly, “if you’re going to be punctual to all your classes up at Oxford.”

  “Who says I’m going up to Oxford?” Torin was instantly suspicious.

  “Oh, your mother mentioned at breakfast that there was some thought of it.” Arabella dabbed her lips delicately with a napkin. “I think it an excellent notion, and so does Haro.”

  Haro could not recall ever having spoken to his fiancée on this particular subject. He swallowed uncomfortably and forced a smile and a nod. He knew his brother’s contrary nature, however—the fact that Arabella considered Oxford an “excellent notion” would immediately tarnish the idea in Torin’s mind.

  As Haro expected, Torin balked at the idea. “Hmm, well, I’ve done just fine on my own so far with my books and with a tutor—”

  “Oh, if it’s some question of the fee, I’m sure my father could sort that out for you. Right away, I imagine.”

  Mr. Hastings grunted affably, his mouth still absorbed with chewing.

  Torin glanced from Eda, to Lady Anglesford, to Haro. Was this chit trying to get rid of him?

  Eda set her fork down. “I’m sure Torin is quite old enough to make up his own mind about it. He may not wish to attend Oxford at present.”

  “But he must do something! It’s not as if he has a title like Haro, and younger sons must make themselves useful as they can.” Arabella looked the young man up and down. “I hardly think you’re suited for the army.” It was a direct cut at his lack of physique. “Perhaps law then, or the church?”

  Torin’s face grew red and his lips hardened into a thin line. He opened his mouth to say something, but Haro, certain that politeness would have no part in it, forestalled him by jumping into the conversation.

  “’Pon rep! The house has been dull this afternoon. All of the ladies disappeared and we gentlemen were left to our own devices. It’s remarkable how necessary the fair sex is to the enjoyment of daily life.”

  Mr. Hastings laughed. “My afternoon was hardly dull, but to each his own, Lord Anglesford. To each his own!”

  “I am sorry you were so deprived of entertainment,” said Eda, “but I should think each of the womenfolk had quite a good reason for disappearing.” She straightened her shoulders in her simple black gown—an unfortunate contrast with Arabella’s blue silk.

  “Ah, yes,” said Haro, having tiptoed around the sticky subject of Oxford only to step into a far muddier patch of conversation. “But I’m sure we’d all just as soon forget those reasons.”

  He looked down at Arabella sitting near him. “Despite all the unpleasantness, you still look marvelous—a rare beauty in that blue dress.”

  He tried to continue his delicate balancing act by addressing his cousin across the table next. “And you look well, too, Eda. I…hope you found Jenny easily enough.”

  “No thanks to you.” Her tone was still as chilly and pointed as the icicles on the eaves.

  Haro knew he had made a mull of it as soon as the words came out. What kind of fool tries to compliment two ladies—rivals!—at the same time?

  Arabella stiffened at the mention of the wretched beast. Her hand found Haro’s underneath the table and held it tightly, as if she were in need of protection and aid all over again. Haro rubbed his thumb in a gentle circle over the edge of her palm and felt her relax.

  “Your nag,” said Arabella, “is not exactly a horse that I would be proud to keep in my stables.”

  “Then”—Eda set down her wine glass with a flourish—“it is just as well that these stables don’t belong to you.”

  The rest of the dinner and the evening passed in like manner—William Hastings growing somnolent from a full stomach, Lady Anglesford becoming more agitated by the constant friction, Torin becoming more petulant as Arabella needled him, and Eda fencing every thrust with her own sharp tongue. Haro played the part of peacemaker as best he could, but over and over again, one question was running through his head: “Is Woldwick worth this?”

  And there were more than a few times that night that he was tempted to answer no.

  8

  On the following day, Great-Uncle Harold finally made an appearance. He had come in from an early morning walk in the woods, dressed in an impossibly long greatcoat with a towering hat pulled down tightly over his ears. Like the young earl, Uncle Harold was impressively tall, and although age had stooped his shoulders a little, he still claimed that the top of his head was the highest in all the county.

  The family and their guests meandered through the breakfast room, each at his own pace. Lady Anglesford had disappeared to speak to the housekeeper about the daily tasks. William Hastings had taken his barouche into the nearby village, both to take the air and to post some letters of business. The younger set was loitering outside the drawing room discussing their plans for the day when Uncle Harold materialized.

  The Emison brood greeted him fondly. Both young men shook his hand with delight, and Eda—standing on tiptoe—planted a kiss on his wrinkled old cheek. Arabella hung back a little, her posture stiff and unwelcoming. Haro had mentioned his uncle to her, and indeed, they had caught brief sight of him when first entering Woldwick’s grounds, but his odd appearance, his reputed eccentricity, and his failure to introduce himself to the Hastings upon arrival had done nothing to endear him.

  Shy as he was of strangers, Uncle Harold was still a model of politeness when they were forced upon him. “Haro, my boy,” said the old man, fixing his eye on Arabella. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to this young lady?”

  “But of course!” said Haro, taking Arabella’s hand and presenting his fiancée to the elderly gentleman.

  “Delighted to make your acquaintance,” said Uncle Harold. “You put me quite in mind of the Countess of St. Petersburg when she was young.”

  Eda and Torin both began to giggle. One of Uncle Harold’s favorite stories was how he had almost convinced the aforementioned countess to run away with him in the long ago days of youth.

  “And how do you like our winter woodlands?” asked the elderly gentleman, his skin still pink from an exhilarating walk through the landscape.

  “To be honest, I find the woods a little too close,” said Arabella. �
��I hope to have them cut back a few furlongs in the spring to allow more sunshine in the house and on the gardens.”

  Great-Uncle Harold stared at her as if she had just indicated a wish to chop off the Archbishop of Canterbury’s head. “Ah, I see,” he murmured after a moment. “An ambitious project, indeed, but ill-advised, most ill-advised. The trees are the soul of the place, you know, and poor old Woldwick would be quite dispirited to be shorn of her sylvan glory.”

  Arabella smiled condescendingly. “Yes, but I think the feelings of the inmates of the house are of rather more importance than the feelings of the house itself. And I find it quite dispiriting to have all the rooms so much in shadow even at high noon. It will be a vast improvement, I promise you.”

  And as the strange, old uncle continued to stare openmouthed, Arabella came closer to Haro and curled one hand possessively around his arm. Haro looked down in surprise, pleased to find her there. He was discovering how enjoyable it could be to have a handsome young woman so ready to hang upon him. He smiled at her, giving her just the assurance she needed and wanted to display to the rest.

  However aghast Uncle Harold might be at her plans for the grounds, an eccentric recluse like him could have little power to combat the wishes of the new Lady Anglesford.

  ***

  If Uncle Harold’s appearance came as a shock to Arabella, the appearance of a mysterious stranger later that afternoon proved just as disconcerting to her fiancé, the earl. The betrothed pair had just finished a chilly promenade through the gardens when an unknown rider approached on the road.

  The Emisons were expecting no guests, and so naturally, Haro squinted hard to see who the visitor could be. “That’s not a county man,” he said, judging by the great number of capes that decorated the rider’s shoulders. “Come,” he said to his fiancée. “Shall we see who it is?”

  Arabella, who had also been straining her eyes to discover the visitor’s identity, agreed—although when they came within shouting distance of the rider, she stumbled on the slick cobblestones of the driveway and almost turned to go back inside the house.

  “Miss Hastings!” said the rider, dismounting with alacrity. His face was all aglow from the brisk ride in the wintry air. “I was told that I could find you here and…that you were engaged to be married.” He cast a questioning glance at the tall, blond man beside her.

  Arabella held tightly to Haro’s arm, perhaps to forestall another fall on the frosty cobblestones. “Ah, Monsieur Bayeux,” she said formally, and then, in explanation to Haro—“This is Philippe Bayeux, an architect that my father has employed more than once.”

  Haro noted that he was a handsome young man of middling height, whose nose as well as his name bespoke his French ancestry. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Haro, politeness keeping him from inquiring what the deuce the fellow was doing at Woldwick which was a good half hour’s ride from the village.

  Arabella trained her clear brown eyes on the unexpected guest. “I have invited him here to draw up some plans for renovations to the western wing of the house.”

  Monsieur Bayeux opened his mouth to say something then shut it again as if he had thought better of it.

  “Renovations to the west wing?” asked Haro in surprise. He swallowed uncomfortably, unsure whether to address this issue with a stranger present. “You’ve mentioned nothing to me on the subject—”

  “Oh, yes,” said Arabella quickly. “I did not wish to ask your opinion until I had some concrete plans to show you. It is so hard to speak in vague generalities regarding architecture. But I do think that the west wing will need some updating in the Palladian style. It looks positively pre-Conquest as it is. Once Monsieur Bayeux has made some drawings, we can make a decision, yes?” She smiled encouragingly at Haro, and at Bayeux as well.

  Haro almost thundered out a “No!” But he remembered, before it was too late, that if it were not for the mill owner’s money, he would soon have no control over Woldwick at all. It was best to be conciliatory, and perhaps, with a little time, he could dispel this notion of remodeling that had come upon Arabella so suddenly.

  “I suppose the housekeeper can prepare a room for our guest,” said the earl in slow, measured tones.

  “And I suppose I can get to work with the drawings right away,” said the visitor just as slowly. His dark, handsome face was clouded with some emotion which Haro could not decipher, and his eyes held a disconcerting intensity.

  “Excellent,” said Arabella with a briskness that matched the outside air. “Let’s come inside then, shall we?” And leading Haro by the arm, she entered the main door of the house as if she were already mistress there.

  ***

  William Hastings, it turned out, was just as surprised to see Philippe Bayeux as the young earl had been. As he returned from his day trip to the village, it had begun to sleet, and he found the others watching the dreary day out of the windows of the great room.

  With a quick hello to Haro, Mr. Hastings stomped over to the fire in the hearth to warm himself, rubbing his hands before the lively flames. When he turned around to warm his backside, he caught sight of the new visitor on the sofa and started visibly.

  Monsieur Bayeux’s eyes dropped, and no word of greeting passed between the two men. “Arabella,” said the mill owner, clearing his throat ominously. “Come here.” Retiring into a small alcove just off of the drawing room, the father and daughter conducted a private conversation, although Mr. Hastings’ gruff whisper was loud enough to be heard by those nearest to that side of the room.

  “What is he doing here?”

  Arabella’s soft voice gave a lengthy and inaudible explanation.

  “I will not abide it!”

  Her hand plucked at his sleeve. She seemed to be entreating him not to make a scene.

  The scene had already been made, however, and it was only the good breeding of the Emison family that made them feign ignorance to it. “And where did you receive your training in the field of architecture?” asked the Countess of Anglesford, trying to divert embarrassment from her new guest. No matter how unexpected or unwelcome he might be, a true hostess must disguise those facts.

  “In France, my lady,” said Monsieur Bayeux. The hint of Gallic accent in his voice indicated that he had probably been born there as well.

  “Such a lovely country,” said Eda, more for the sake of entering the conversation than from any sincere sentiment. Her blue eyes glinted devilishly, and Haro could see that she was up to no good. “And was it in France that you first met Miss Hastings?” Whatever embarrassment the Countess of Anglesford was trying to cover up, Eda was determined to bring out into the open.

  Bayeux colored a little and gave a cautious answer. “No, I first met Mr. Hastings and his daughter in London, after I had come across the Channel to practice my craft.”

  “Miss Hastings is no doubt a great admirer of yours—of your work, I mean,” continued Eda archly. Her eyes flicked over the Frenchman’s dark, handsome face.

  Haro stood up sharply and, casting his fair cousin a look of menace, began to pace in front of the fire that Mr. Hastings had abandoned so abruptly. It was vexing enough to think that Arabella had made clandestine plans to renovate his boyhood home without Eda insinuating that there was some other motive in the architect’s visit.

  But despite Eda’s leading statements, Bayeux would not be herded into saying anything untoward. “Yes, Miss Hastings has kindly expressed interest in many of my models and completed projects.”

  By this time, the whispered conference in the alcove had come to an end, and the Hastings—having come to an accord—rejoined the others.

  “Well, Bayeux,” said the portly mill owner, imbuing his voice with a joviality that his earlier reaction belied, “Arabella tells me you’ll get started right away with plans for the new wing here at Woldwick.”

  “That is my intention,” replied Bayeux, bowing his head courteously, “although I seem to have left some of my drafting materials behind,
so I shall have to go into the village tomorrow to procure some. The horse I have is hired, so perhaps I might return him and borrow one from the stables?”

  “Very good, very good,” said Mr. Hastings, lending out one of the Emisons’ mounts without so much as a by your leave. He turned to Haro with a coarse little laugh. “I suppose you did not expect me to make improvements on my investment so rapidly. Well, neither did I, my lord! Neither did I!”

  9

  Haro had barely retired for the night before he heard a gentle tap at his bedroom door. Pulling on his Chinese-patterned dressing gown, he turned the door handle and found himself face to face with his great-uncle. “Haro, my boy,” said Uncle Harold, walking in and making himself at home. “Do you have time for a small drink and perhaps a smattering of conversation?”

  “Of course,” said Haro, casually filling two glasses from the decanter on the bedside table. He gave his uncle the single armchair and flung himself on the Roman couch at the foot of the bed.

  “I’ve had a bit of a shock today,” said Uncle Harold, hunching forward in his chair and rolling his glass back and forth between his hands. “A bit of a shock, I must say.”

  “Oh, yes?” Haro had an inkling of what—or who—had delivered that shock to his aged relative. He could see that Uncle Harold was struggling with how to phrase his complaint, perhaps from an inbred delicacy toward the weaker sex or perhaps from a sensitivity toward the young earl’s feelings.

  Haro generously flushed the subject out into the open. “Is it something to do with Miss Hastings, my fiancée whom you met this morning?”

  “Yes, that’s it! The tall, brown-eyed miss,” said Uncle Harold, wagging a finger with excitement. He took a quick swig from the tumbler of brandy. “She’s your bride-to-be, you say?”

  Haro nodded. “We were betrothed just last weekend.”

  Uncle Harold raised a gnarled hand to his head and pulled at his gray hair with concern. “I don’t mean to meddle—the last thing a young man wants is an old fool meddling in his affairs—but this Miss Hastings seems a very precipitate young woman. No sense of tradition, my boy. No sense of stability. You may not have heard her this morning, but I believe she actually stated that the woods at Woldwick were unsuitable and should be cleared!”