“I would have some,” Amelia decided to test the waters. Her father always seemed to warm them just a touch.
“Ha!” her father laughed out as he raised his glass to his lips.
“Perhaps it’s not the worst thought, William,” Deborah interjected, much to Amelia’s surprise. “Remember what you told me.”
“Of course,” her father’s face seemed to grow very serious suddenly—a look which he was not known for. “Paul, you may pour my daughter a sip or so.”
“Very good, My Lord,” Paul replied, and Amelia smiled politely at him while he filled her glass.
This can’t bode well. Whenever they give me something I want, they take something in return.
“What about me?” Bridget asked.
“You may continue to dream,” Deborah said to her daughter, and so Bridget shirked back to her sandwich.
“Listen, girls,” William sat forward, and reached into his waistcoat for his tobacco case. “Your mother and I have something to discuss with you.” He opened the small tin and produced a hand-rolled cigarette, which he proceeded to light and puff on as he sat back in his chair comfortably.
“I do not know why you cannot use a snuff box like the rest of society,” Deborah made a face of discontent at her husband as the smoke wafted in lazy circles around the table.
“A snuff box?” William laughed out in disbelief. “Mark my words, dear, these little paper sticks are the future. As soon as we can mass produce them, they will take the world by storm. I already am in contact with a man in France who believes he can make such a machine.”
“We are not here to talk about tobacco,” Deborah sighed.
“No, of course not, my dear,” William sat up a bit and tapped his ash into the tray that Paul had hastily set down. It was uncommon for one to smoke tobacco in that fashion, let alone at the luncheon table, and yet William was right—it would eventually become the standard for tobacco consumption. “Your mother and I have something to talk to you about.”
“You said that,” Amelia looked her mother dead in the eyes. He had better not say what I think he is going to say.
“Yes, well,” William drummed his fingers on the table and took another lingering drag. “It is high time I expanded my business in London,” her father said. “There are ample competitors who already make the most of the capital, and I would be a fool not to throw my hat into the ring, so to speak.”
“What does your business expansion entail?” Amelia asked, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.
“Perhaps you should explain it, dear,” her father said, bowing his head to his cigarette slightly.
“Should I?” Deborah shifted her eyes toward her husband. “Very well, so I shall.”
“What is going on?” Bridget asked, clearly confused by the subtleties, but Amelia had an idea of the trickery in the works, and she detested it.
“Your father and I have been discussing the prospect of taking you girls to London, beginning this parliamentary season,” she began, but Amelia did not allow her to continue.
“Beginning?” Bridget asked, eyes wide.
“I knew it,” Amelia protested, crossing her arms. “You cannot make me marry some arbitrary old gentleman. Their morals are as liver-spotted as their hands.”
“Amelia!” Deborah shouted out, whipping her napkin against the table. “You will not speak like that.” But Amelia saw that she had made Paul conceal a smile, and that brought her further confidence.
“I will never force you to marry anybody,” William said, putting his hand atop his wife’s and giving her a silencing, commanding look. “But you cannot tell me that you have not thought about touring the London season, the balls, the luncheons, the shops, has it not crossed your mind? And after that is done, to live among the summer gardens? To see the city in the fullness of her life?”
“Live?” Bridget asked excitedly. “How long shall we be there?”
“Just for a year or two, Darling,” their father said, as if a year or two truly were only a few months in his mental calendar. But so it often was with businessmen.
“While I would most certainly enjoy that certain decadence the city has to offer,” Amelia began, “for who would not, alas, I would not enjoy being paraded about as a prize heifer for auction. And two years? My life here shall be nonexistent should I ever return.”
“Amelia!” Deborah could not control herself.
“It is all right,” William said, playing peacekeeper. “Who would want that?”
“I can think of a great number,” Deborah scoffed.
“Let us call a truce, the both of you, and I shall be the mediator,” William waved his cigarette in the air, trying to collect their attention. “Listen to me.”
“You are not in the service any longer, dear, and the war is quite done,” Deborah retorted.
“Not all of them,” William said, rolling his eyes.
“This is where she gets it,” Deborah exclaimed, throwing down her napkin again. “You do nothing but encourage her,” and with that, Deborah rose from the table and stormed away to one of her private reading rooms.
“Go after your mother, Bridget dear, see she’s settled,” William said casually, sitting back in his chair and once again dragging on his cigarette.
“Yes, Father,” Bridget said, and quickly made her exit.
“Well,” William said, reclining fully now that his wife was gone. Amelia looked at him coldly.
“You said you would never subject me to that, you know I don’t want it,” Amelia challenged him, her arms folded firmly.
“I know, dear,” her father put out his cigarette on the tray, and leaned forward onto the table and rested his head on his palms in a friendly manner. “She blames me for spoiling you.”
“Do many fathers speak to their daughters so candidly?” Amelia was still fighting for a foot of good ground.
“I should hope not,” William laughed, refilling their wine glasses himself. “Else the Empire might collapse.” Amelia could not help but give a chuckle, and she knew that laugh had given him the door he needed to walk through. “Listen to me.”
“Yes, Father?”
“You are nineteen years old. I know that seems young to you, too young for marriage at any rate, and I am inclined to agree. However, there are certain things to consider. Perhaps you will not find a husband, but at least the world will know you exist, that you are a young beauty worthy of courting. Should suitors come to our home for the next seven years, I would think it splendid.”
“You would be alone in that respect,” Amelia said.
“You must be easier on your mother. She knows how the world works.”
“And I don’t?”
“No, you don’t,” he responded, and she felt herself shirk back into her chair an inch or two. Seeing her retreat, William sighed and stubbed out his cigarette after only a few drags. “I shall make you a bargain.”
“What sort of bargain?”
“We are all going to London, you have no choice in that matter,” William began. “But if you would do me the favor of attending the social events that your mother chooses, then I will permit you time for your own attentions, and an allowance funding it.”
“You would do that?” Amelia blinked.
“Don’t get too excited,” William said. “Paul will be your escort at all times.”
“What sort of allowance are we discussing?”
“Don’t get greedy now,” her father said, smiling back at her. “Do we have an accord?”
“Very well,” Amelia resigned. “We have an accord.”
“Good!” William pounded his hand flat against the table. “You cannot tell me that you have not looked forward to a trip into London. Or rather, an extended stay.”
“You’re correct,” Amelia found herself smiling. “I have long desired to see the city, although I was fearful of the cost.”
“Worry not daughter, for the cost will be entirely mine,” and he raised his glass in a toast. “To a ti
me in London then.”
“Two years in London,” Amelia smiled and accepted the toast. “I confess I am excited. There is so much to see and to do, I should think two years is not enough.”
“As you should be!” William exclaimed. “There are folks who spend their entire lives within the city limits and still have not seen all there is. Now come, let us make ready, we should leave before the roads worsen even further. Go and fetch your sister, and we shall be off as soon as your mother collects her things.”
* * *
Two coaches were prepared, one for the family and one for the arduous amount of luggage assembled by the Countess. The bags were packed in precariously, as a light snow wafted down upon the servant’s heads and woolen caps.
It made it look to Amelia as if they were all suddenly in their old age and gray-haired, a thought which amused her for a few moments as she prepared to step out of the front door.
Bridget came up alongside her and slipped her arm through Amelia’s, clutching it tightly to her rib cage. “Isn’t it so exciting, sister?” Bridget buzzed, barely able to contain her excitement. “To live in the city, there is so much to do. We can visit the shops, the churches, and oh, the people. There will be people there the likes of which we’ve never met.”
“This is true,” Amelia said, shuffling her feet. “Won’t you be sad to go so many months without your dear Stapleton?”
“Oh.” Bridget’s eyes widened. “I hadn’t realized, oh dear me,” and she began to fuss. “Whatever will I do?”
“You will be just fine, sister,” Amelia reassured her. “He is not going anywhere. And besides, have you forgotten the haunted manor?”
“The haunted manor?” Bridget cocked her head.
“You remember the one we read of?” Amelia went on, trying to focus on the things she would most enjoy throughout the course of the trip. “The Duchess hung herself from the chandelier they say, and the townhouse has been empty for twenty years.”
“Oh I remember,” Bridget exclaimed, her eyes immediately glossing over with excitement. “The old Cloudfield Manor.”
“Yes, that is the one,” Amelia confirmed. “We shall have to pay it a visit, shall we not? And see if there is any truth to the rumors of her ghost.”
“We shall,” Bridget replied, her cheeks rosy from the chill breeze wafting through the entryway. “I would find that most enjoyable.”
“I thought you might,” Amelia said with a smile. Her sister was a kind and gentle soul, and easily distracted from the things that temporarily upset her. In truth, she had no worries or cares in the world, save their beloved ghost stories, and keeping their mother happy. Her jovial nature often raised Amelia up into high spirits, and she was excited to tour London with that joyous personality. It would be a welcome reprieve from scheduled social engagements.
“Are you ready, girls?” their father called from the carriage, the light snow dusting all across the shoulders of his overcoat. “Let us be away.”
“Has everything been packed, Paul?” their mother’s voice came from behind them as she bustled through the foyer, her furs elegantly arranged upon her shoulders.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Paul replied, stepping in from the front step. “Twice over.”
“Thank you, Paul,” she said, sliding on her gloves. “Come daughters, let us join your father.”
“Come on then,” he waved from the coach’s open door. “Let’s away!”
“He behaves sometimes as if he were not an Earl,” their mother snorted, adjusting her fur hat made from American beaver pelts.
“He is only excited,” Amelia added, as Paul helped her and Bridget into their fur overcoats.
“As you should be,” her mother tacked on as a footnote. “I could hardly contain my excitement the first time I went into society.”
“I cannot wait,” Bridget squealed, scrunching her cloak together, and their mother smiled warmly at her younger daughter.
“I should like to hear so,” she replied. “Now come, he has stood in the snow waiting for us long enough.”
“Come on!” he waved again.
The three of them went down the steps into the breezy snow, and climbed aboard the comfortable, weather-proofed carriage, nestling into the space as Paul clicked the door shut behind them.
“Tally ho!” their father called out while thumping the roof of the carriage with his cane. “To London!” So the carriage lurched forwards, and the horses began to trudge down the frozen road, the wheels creaking with each revolution against the frigid air as Amelia’s breath fogged out before her, clouding on the window.
“To London indeed,” she whispered to herself, and they left their countryside manor on the horizon as they traveled toward the largest city on the planet, all the occupants of the carriage with very different ideas of how their time would be spent there.
Chapter Two
The Balfour’s townhouse in London was not as large as their country home, but it was all together just as lavish and opulent. Standing three stories and stretching two lots on the city block, it was a formidable, almost palatial looking structure, befitting of an Earl, a Countess, and their two daughters.
From the country home, they had brought with them a lady’s maid for each of the girls and the Countess, as well as the Earl’s manservant, and of course Paul was there as the head butler. The house itself had its own kitchen and cleaning staff who stayed there year round in the adjoining servant’s quarters, and so when they arrived it did not seem as if the house had been empty for months at all. Rather the lamps were all lit, the fire was crackling, and the smell of roasted fowl and spiced cider flooded the chambers.
In the courtyard, which was completely enclosed between the manor’s main wings and the servant’s quarters, there was a small enclosure which held a number of hens clucking about, and the sound of the livestock brought Amelia a bit of homely and familiar comfort.
The interior was incredibly decorated, with golden frames on the paintings, crisp expensive wallpaper, ornate arrangements of flowers in crystal vases, and all other manner of finery that matched the stature of the occupying family.
They had quickly made themselves at home. It was not the first time Amelia and Bridget had been there, but it had been a number of years, and now the sisters could walk about the property as adults and truly appreciate the grandeur of the space, and how fortunate they were. Riding in, they had seen the extensive and sprawling shanty towns that existed outside of London proper, and Amelia had shuddered to think of living in those tin shacks through the dead of winter.
How they must freeze, what discomfort they must face.
Amelia walked through the house idly. It was cold and frigid outside, but it was not so much the temperature that dissuaded her from leaving the house, but rather, a lack of any idea whatsoever on how she should spend her time. Eventually, completing her third lap of the manor, she came across her sister in one of the reading rooms, pouring over a thick book.
“There you are,” Amelia said, leaning against the door frame. “Whatever are you doing all the way up here?”
“I am pretending to be studious,” Bridget said with a grin. “Come and look.”
“Oh?” Amelia gave her sister a sly smile in return as she meandered over to the desk where Bridget sat. From her closer vantage point, she could see that her sister had laid a thin periodical over the pages of the thick manuscript that she appeared to be reading. “What are you studying?”
“The Wynyard ghost story,” Bridget said excitedly, looking up. “It is quite famous.”
“I believe I have heard it, but not in detail,” Amelia slid into a seat beside her sister. “What are you learning?”
“The details,” Bridget put her nose back down in the book.
“Is that not an American story?”
“Because it happened in America does not make it American,” Bridget rolled her eyes. “It happened to Englishmen.”
“Don’t tell the Americans that.”
“Listen, this is from the writings of one Frances Williams-Wynn.”
“She was very well known in her time,” Amelia could not help but to be interested. “She is a fine writer.”
“I should like to be a writer,” Bridget professed with a sigh. “It seems so freeing.”
“Come then, let us read the story,” Amelia tilted the pages toward her, and began to let the words of a woman who had been dead for over a decade wash over her, filling her head with the most swirling, vibrant images and emotions. The infamous ghost story of the time read as follows:
During the American war, Major Wynyard—who afterwards married Lady Matilda West—Gen. Ludlow, and Col. Clinton, were dining together in a mess-room at New York. In this room there were but two doors, one of which led to a staircase, and the other to a small closet, or rather press, without either door or window. A man entered at the door, when Gen. Ludlow, the only one of the gentlemen whose head was turned to the door, exclaimed, “Good God, Harry! What can have brought you here?”
The figure only waved its hand and said nothing. At his friend’s exclamation Major Wynyard turned round, and his astonishment at seeing a brother whom he had left in England was so great, that he was unable to speak. The figure stalked once round the table, and then disappeared through the closet door, pulling it after him, without fastening it. One of the gentlemen rose immediately to open the door, but the figure was already vanished, and no trace of any mode of egress was found in the closet.
Col. Clinton, who had never seen Mr. H. Wynyard, and was less horrified than his friends, proposed that they should mark both the day and the hour on which they had seen this strange apparition, believing that they should never hear of it again, but at the same time, thinking it might be a satisfaction to know the precise time of so extraordinary an occurrence. The next mails which came from England brought news of the death of Mr. Henry Wynyard, which had taken place at the same hour, two days after that on which his brother had seen the figure.
Some years after this, as Col. Clinton and Gen. Ludlow were walking together in London, Col. Clinton exclaimed: “There is the figure which we saw in America.” Gen. Ludlow turned round, and saw a man (whose name Lord Bagot had forgot) so famous for being so like Mr. H. Wynyard, that he was perpetually mistaken for him. This man never had been in America. All these facts were told to Lord Bagot by Col. Wynyard, in the presence of either one or both of the gentlemen who were with him at the time that this extraordinary adventure happened.
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