An Untitled Lady: A Novel

by Nicky Penttila

  But would she marry a merchant, such as him? Another idiotish thought, Nash berated himself. Ladies with creamy skin, handsome manners, and seven traveling trunks would not stoop to bunking in his cozy hovel, especially when they had been promised a castle. All women want to be princesses.

  This would-be princess, perfectly turned out at six in the morning, lifted her toast to her mouth. But her hand shook. She put it back on the plate, and spoke the words he had been dreading since he woke this morning.

  “Did you read the letters?”

  “They were as you say.” A wave of anger sent spikes down his chest and into his belly.

  “I’d like to re-read the correspondence entire, if I may. I’m rather interested in myself as a child.”

  His throat seized. Nash held the coffee to his lips, trying to fool his gullet into releasing a swallow. “It’s not pretty,” he croaked out. As her face pinched in at the nose, he tried to repair the damage. “No, that’s not what I mean. I mean—”

  He watched the change come over her features, the smooth skin taut, the wide eyes closing to almond shape, the full lips pressing themselves compact. The lady from the crossroads.

  But she wasn’t as skilled at it yet as she should be. He read doubt, despair, and even hope arguing for purchase under that glassy lady’s mask. He didn’t want to see how they were hurting her. He didn’t want to feel that he was to blame. There was no profit in it.

  The truth of the letters danced on his tongue. He swallowed it. And tried to meet her gaze.

  * * * *

  Maddie looked into his eyes and knew he was lying about something. His shoulders hunched, and his long hands didn’t seem to know what to do with themselves. But his face was still, and his eyes calm. Clearly, he made a good man of business, able to bluff and throw smoke. He certainly did not have the gift of tongues, though.

  “I understand your meaning,” she said into the silence his last bewildering statement had created. The space between his brows puckered. Could he not be as sure of his meaning as all that?

  She wished sleep had come last night. Her years of training had not prepared her for the explosion of events yesterday. But today Lord Shaftsbury must say yes. She must be persuasive, no matter that her thoughts were as muddled as the baths at Spa.

  Who was she? The daughter of an earl, or of a common laborer? Should she be birthing and training up the next line of great men and fine ladies, or the next shepherds and farmer’s wives? What if the Quinns sent her away, to live with the cottagers, could she even bear it?

  Of course she could. Anything, except perhaps returning to Wetherby. There were far too many hurtful memories there.

  “Why did you not return home for holidays?”

  It was as if he’d read her mind. She shivered inside. “The new master would not have me.”

  “This Lord Wetherby? Surely you mistake the matter.”

  “He did not invite me, in word nor deed. He never wrote.” He’d made it quite clear that he considered Maddie no family of his. She had thought he blamed her for his brother’s death, though how a three-year-old could be to blame for a carriage accident she couldn’t fathom. But his reason was entirely different. Adopted! Sharing not a drop of blood. And with the gentry, blood was all.

  In her imagination, even in those of her dreams that hadn’t been nightmares, Maddie had the arguments that would magically remake Deacon Quinn’s mind into her image of it. He would read the letters, recall himself to his duty, and get Mama launched on the preparations for the wedding. But even in the half-light of early morning, Maddie knew it would take more than that. She would need to be persuasive. Back in Bath, all her arguments had seemed so strong. But here, in this mountain of a castle, they seemed gossamer. If only the previous Lord Shaftsbury had lived just six months more.

  And this Quinn, the one opposite her, was the least likely to help her stake her claim, no matter his words of comfort the night before. He’d read the letters, and likely found some loophole, some alley through the words to help his brother escape her clutches. And could she blame him?

  They heard the murmurs of men approaching. Mr. Heywood turned into the breakfasting room, while the butler, Emmett, continued down the hall.

  “Can’t stay. Just a bite.” But the sturdily proportioned man took three slices of toast and the pot of preserves to himself. He had a fast, neat style of eating, no wasted time and no crumbs, on cravat or beard. Still he touched a napkin to the corner of his lips.

  “Early day, Heywood?”

  “Late already. Ellspeth’s like the dead to raise in the morning. Says she wants to come home for the week. Told her she’d need to rise at dawn if she wanted my carriage. Now she says she’s nearly ready. Women.” He poured a half-cup of coffee into the cup a maid hastily provided to him. Taking the precaution of blowing over it, he downed it in one draft. He patted Mr. Quinn on the back, a punch, really.

  “A shame about the letters.”

  The younger man’s mouth pinched, as if he’d drunk a lemon. “Shaftsbury told you?” he finally said.

  Maddie’s heart lurched into her throat. She shot a glance at Mr. Quinn. “What is the matter with the letters?”

  His gaze shifted away from her, and then away from Mr. Heywood, who was downing another half-cup of coffee. What was he hiding?

  “No matter.” Heywood set the cup down with a crack. “You couldn’t have counted on them to save you, Miss Wetherby. We Mancunians shift for ourselves. I have a proposition, for you. I’m needing another bookkeeper, for the venture I’m starting with Nash here. What do you say?”

  For a moment, Maddie could say nothing. What about the letters? Was this an alternate offer? Could he possibly be serious? Had she fallen so far as to need to become a working girl? But then, who was she, really? And she would need an income, as well as a place to call home, if these Quinns played her wrong.

  “We’ve a dormitory for women, a fine place. Probably like enough to your school days.”

  She couldn’t say no to a guaranteed home. But she couldn’t bring herself to say yes, either. Not yet. She took a deep breath, forming an answer.

  Mr. Quinn jumped in first. “You’d make a working girl of her?” His fair face reddened, even in the green light of this odd solarium. The color also called out the red tinting hidden in the brown of his wayward hair.

  “She won’t get a better offer. Even this is more than she warrants, if one were to go by connections.”

  By connections? Maddie knew he couldn’t mean the viscount. Did he know more about her family—her true family? Would he tell her?

  “She warrants far more than that, in my father’s eyes. You dispute him?” Mr. Quinn’s words seemed to push him to his feet.

  They looked at her, awaiting an answer. “It is a generous offer, sir.” She ignored Mr. Quinn’s snort. “But allow me time to think upon it. Just a day or two. So much has changed, I’m afraid I need time to sort myself out.”

  “Understood.” Mr. Heywood happily punched the younger man on the shoulder, not seeming to notice the glare he received in return. “But a good businesswoman knows when to reel in an opportunity. And when to cut bait.”

  “We’ll take care of her.”

  “Nothing is sure in this world. But Miss Wetherby, if the Quinns do desert you, don’t return to Wetherby. Come to town, to me, and we’ll sort you out.” He tipped his head to her and grinned at Mr. Quinn. “Magistrates’ meeting on Thursday. I’ll see you there, won’t I?”

  “I’ll remember.” Mr. Quinn remained standing, staring at the open doorway. He was as tall as the new earl, but looked stronger, his forearms testing the seams of his simple shirt. She wondered what it would have been like had this man been born first. She wondered if he ever wished it, too. She could not afford to care.

  “What happened last night?”

  He turned back, his face a careful mask. Maddie’s mind raced. Had her earl lied to her? Was it all one horrible mistake? Could she have been wrong
all these years? Had he truly not known who she was? Had he rescinded his offer on his deathbed? Why didn’t Mr. Quinn just say something?

  She could not wait him out. “You’ve found something ill.”

  He shook his head. He started, stopped, reconsidered, started again. The suspense was strangling her.

  Finally, he spoke. “My brother burned the letters.”

  She shot to her feet, her head spinning. “The earl? Why? My letters, too? Those were mine.”

  “Please, sit. You look about to faint.”

  She wanted to hurl herself across the table and strangle him. Instead she sat, hard. She put her palms on the table, hard. The cutlery clattered. “You promised,” she said, her voice dripping venom.

  Mr. Quinn froze where he stood. “He did it so quickly. I know it’s no excuse. We did read them; your claim is true.”

  “But I have no proof, thanks to you. It’s my word against that of an earl.” She’d lose. She’d lost.

  He seemed to recover himself after a long moment, rubbing at his eyes and sinking back onto the bench. “Don’t worry. Whatever happened last night we can still make it good. Make you whole.”

  No one could do that.

  { 8 }

  Nash paced the house, read the papers, and paced the house again until the clock at last struck eleven, the earliest Mama ever rose. It was always a danger bearding her in her den before the coffee had kicked in, but he checked with her maid of chambers, who declared it safe.

  She’d already ceded the earl’s chambers to Deacon, but even in the generous north light of her new rooms, she looked worn. Father hadn’t lingered, and his death was mercifully brief. But she had grown weak these past months. He should convince Deacon to take her to London, or Plymouth, or Spa. Society and sea air might do her good. It was foolish to think the absence of the canker that was his father would cure all her ills.

  She sent for another pot of coffee, and watched him carefully as he sat in the chair opposite hers at the tiny boudoir table.

  “So it’s to be an interrogation?”

  “Mother.”

  “I remember when you would sit at my feet, your head on my knee, eyes closed. Why, I would ask. Just happy, you would say.”

  “A long time past.”

  “But not so long a mother can’t remember. Dear heart, when was the last time you could say you were happy?”

  So she was going on the attack. He could beat this back. “Friday, Mama, before I remembered I must attend Deacon in all his state and finery.”

  She laughed. “A chance to visit me does not make up for the distaste you have for your brother?”

  “It isn’t distaste, and you know it. Deacon cares not for what he should: the land, the people, the future.”

  “So you are disgusted with me.”

  “With you?”

  “For not having birthed you first.”

  Her tone was light, but Nash frowned. He hadn’t thought of it that way. “I do not mean to cast aspersions on you in any way, Mama.”

  “No need for the formality, sweeting. I merely tease. You used to love that, too.”

  He stood and walked to the window beside her. “Time has changed me. Not all for the good.”

  “Was it really so hard in the Navy? Shaftsbury said you suffered terribly.”

  “He told you that?”

  “He truly was not the tyrant you boys paint with such relish. Oh, he could be hard, but deep down he was a good man. And he cared for nothing more than family.”

  Here was his opening. Nash banished the stray feelings his mother’s words conjured up.

  “Why was Shaftbury so interested in Madeline Wetherby? One, he was her godfather, and no one else’s.”

  “Yes, while I wasn’t pure enough to stand godmother.” Her bitterness led him to turn back to look at her. She tilted her head, her long natural hair swinging in its tail. “She looks nothing like him, if that is what you are implying.”

  “Two. When she has relatives of her own, he is the one who paid for her to go to school, and for far longer than he paid for Deacon’s schooling.”

  “Deacon came home on his own. I’m sure Shaftsbury would have loved having him continue to Cambridge. Even Oxford.”

  At least she was talking. He pushed on.

  “Three. He maintained a steady correspondence with her. A regular exchange of letters, like clockwork.” He found it hard to swallow.

  “So that’s it. You are jealous of the little orphaned girl.”

  “I’m not.” But he was. He could at least admit it to himself. He dropped back into the chair, running his hands through his hair. He’d forgotten to do up the band in the back properly.

  “You look a positive scarecrow. My brush is over there.”

  He did as she bid, and sat cross-legged in front of her chair the way he had when a brutish boy. She brushed through his hair, none too gently. He winced and pulled away a bit. She harrumphed.

  “Were you my man, I’d have barked at you already, Mama.”

  “Your man, had you one, wouldn’t touch you, seeing this rat’s nest. Did you sleep at all?” The pulling gentled, carrying his thoughts into a slower rhythm.

  “I believe father intended to settle money on her, but it was to come with the marriage.”

  “You learned all this from the lady’s correspondence?”

  He stiffened, remembering the scene at breakfast. Miss Wetherby was contained, indeed, but not without passion. He sighed under his mother’s hand, relaxing again. “No, I’ve learned it from you.”

  She brushed the last, now smoothed strands into her hand, and tied the bow a shade too tight. “She was a beautiful child. A green-eyed angel. Lady Wetherby was giddy over her. And Deacon.”

  “Why don’t I remember her?”

  “We kept you boys apart at that age. Deacon wasn’t ready for a brother then.”

  Nor ever. Nash rolled his eyes behind closed lids.

  “Don’t be so hard on your brother. It takes more than three generations to make a true peer. Cecil Wetherby is only the second, you know. Your father and grandfather took to it like fish to water, but our Dee has yet to find his way. Why make it harder for him?”

  “Shaftsbury wanted this match, and he knew all about the lady.”

  “Even wise men make mistakes.”

  “Has she truly changed from yesterday to today, Mama? Did you?”

  “Don’t be daft. Of course she’s changed. Everything has changed. And thank Providence we dodged that bullet. Can you imagine the scandal?”

  “The same scandal as when he wed you, a tradesman’s daughter?” He tilted his head back. In reply, she kissed his forehead. “Has your mama slipped from her pedestal? I suppose your argument has merit. You always were the little debater. If the girl is a squire’s daughter, she might do for the likes of you, perhaps. Deacon, never.”

  “What if her father isn’t even a squire?”

  She rested her hand on his shoulders. “So strong.” Her touch melted some of the stiffness. He rolled his head to ease the tension in his neck. “This has nothing to do with you, my sweet. Don’t vex yourself. You have enough to worry about, with that monstrous warehouse and all your men scurrying over the seven seas.”

  He allowed himself the luxury of a moment’s relief. His mother’s voice could always soothe him. It was good to know that, at least, still held true.

  “After all,” she said in that honey voice, “this is family business.”

  Nash shot to his feet, chest burning.

  “You seem to forget, ma’am, that I am part of this family too.”

  “I have not.” Her voice was nothing soft now. “You were the one who deserted us, and who kept away. You always make it so clear how unhappy you are whenever you deign to make an appearance.”

  “I will not argue with you, Mama.”

  “Because you haven’t the standing.”

  “No. Because family is a birthright. Regicides still have families. It seems that o
nly I do not.” And Miss Wetherby, he suddenly saw.

  She frowned, a paper subterfuge. As he walked away, she called after him. “Make peace with Deacon.”

  “I have no argument with Deacon.” He could not keep the anger out of his voice.

  “Then you should have no problem with it.”

  Nash had just enough control to keep from slamming the door.

  * * * *

  Maddie remembered the castle as a medieval palace, but the truth was it had been built only a century ago by an earl whose chief image of a castle was square turrets and walled gardens. The entry might have a weighty iron drop-gate, but the outer walls had wide windows, difficult to defend.

  Its name, Shaftsbury Castle, had captured her imagination. At school, during gusty winter afternoons, she would conjure up a vision of her life-to-be, queen of the castle. Its king, the new earl, had been no more than a dark shadow at her left as she walked the corridors or welcomed guests to the many evening entertainments at which she would be the perfect hostess. She sat through countless fine concerts in Bath’s upper Assembly Room, transposing them in her mind onto a stage somewhere in the castle, with herself the proprietress. She would host singers and harpists especially.

  Now, on this very real day in late May, Maddie wanted only to escape the castle, to be free of this tangle if only for an hour or two, to be somewhere that made sense. The walled gardens, which rambled alongside the south wall, were the perfect choice. Her traitorous feet took her in the opposite direction, though, toward the castle’s working side. She passed the kitchens, their animal pens just below the hill. When she saw the two-storey horse barn, she knew why her steps had brought her here. This was where she’d hidden on that long, fretful, summer’s night.

  At the side entrance, her hand reached down for the latch, not up as she had then. As she passed through, her shiver was memory, not terror. Just as on that night long ago, no one saw her.

  She trod carefully through the tack rooms and skirted the stalls, her quick breaths pushing the strong animal scents out as fast as she took them in. The ladder was in the same place, leading to the loft.