by Kate Archer
I have arranged for a modiste named Mrs. Belle to come and take your measurements for suitable mourning seaside attire, as I have been informed by my duchess that she is the only lady who will do. Mrs. Belle will send the clothes on to you at Ramsgate once they are readied.
Lord Dalton should already be making his way to that town. I will send you there with an escort of four carriages, four armed coachmen, and eight stalwart grooms.
I pray these plans meet with your approval. My carriages will arrive at dawn on Tuesday.
Glastonburg
Daisy dropped the letter and it fluttered to the carpet.
“Good Lord,” Mrs. Jellops said, looking alarmed. “What does he say?”
“His letter is both generous and terrible,” Daisy said. “He puts two hundred pounds a month in your hands.”
“Two hundred pounds for what?” Mrs. Jellops said.
“Our household. He sends us to Ramsgate.”
“Ramsgate! Whatever for? Why do we not go to Somerset?”
“Lord Dalton is to accompany us,” Daisy said. “I believe this has something to do with the Dukes’ Pact.”
Mrs. Jellops was quiet for a moment. She, like most people, was not as quick-witted as her charge. Finally, understanding overspread her features. “You cannot think it is a scheme to marry you off to Lord Dalton?”
“I can, and I do,” Daisy said. “What a ridiculous notion! It is skating near scandalous to have him living in the garden, for one. For another, if the duke had bothered to become at all acquainted with me, he would know that I intend never to marry. I have no need to, and I will never put myself at the mercy of a man. It was my mother’s mistake, but it will not be mine.”
“Lord Dalton also says he will never marry,” Mrs. Jellops said. “Goodness, if your suspicions are true, the duke is a misguided creature. He ought to be throwing his son in front of ladies who desperately want to marry.”
“I suppose the duke thinks himself very clever,” Daisy said. “I suppose he does not mind if his scheme results in any talk.”
“Perhaps, though,” Mrs. Jellops said, “it is for another reason. Perhaps Lord Dalton himself has suggested it. He is virtually penniless after all. Perhaps he needs a place to put his feet up and eat good dinners. He is a gloomy sort, but for all that he does seem to enjoy your company. Or enjoy it as much as Lord Dalton enjoys anything.”
Daisy laughed at the notion. “If that is the case, Lord Dalton will rue the day he went to Ramsgate. He is to stay in the old cottage on the back lawn—do you not remember it?”
Mrs. Jellops smiled. “Oh dear, yes. He shall not be very comfortable.”
“As for dinners, he may shift for himself,” Daisy said. “I see no reason why I must provide them.”
Mrs. Jellops tapped her forefinger against her chin. “Except it is now the duke’s funds that will pay for everything.”
Daisy had not considered that. Still, she did not see why she should be forced to dine with Lord Dalton every evening. Especially not Dalton.
She had perhaps allowed herself to enjoy their verbal sparrings more than she ought. She had perhaps failed to understand why people thought his scar marred his looks when it only made him look…more him. She had perhaps thought him superior to the posing dandies of the season.
That was precisely why he should not make it a habit to dine in the house. She had allowed herself to find him interesting because he was never any threat to her. Dalton was a man whose real temperament could not be known. It was too hidden; he revealed nothing.
Daisy was certain that was precisely how her mother had made the mistake with her father. The dear lady could not make him out, and so invented a temperament for him that had never been and only later found she was mistaken.
It suited Daisy, just now, to claim she would never marry. She would stay with that attitude for some time or forever, she knew not. She was not unaware of the problems of spinsterhood—particularly the lack of children she very much wished for and the greatly reduced social circle. If she did ever conclude that she might marry, it would only be to a gentleman who was thoroughly known and proved not a man like her father.
She thought she could devise ways to know, because she knew all the little things about her father. How did a gentleman treat animals and children and those who were weak? How did he interact with servants? How did he seem when a delay was caused, or a wine glass spilled over, or an errant ember burned a hole in the carpet? Was he generous or mean? What were his gambling habits? How did he take his losses? Were there any rumors of him having participated in a duel? Did he spur his horse more than he ought?
When it came to her father, she knew the answer to all those questions. And as for his horse, Daisy was certain he had spurred the beast one too many times, and the horse had finally got its revenge by throwing his master over a fence.
The weaker often did get their revenge somehow. The horse would throw, the cook would overbake, the maid would build a damp fire, and the daughter…well, the daughter would simply outlive. Her mother had not had the chance, and Daisy would not waste her own opportunity.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Charles had arrived to Ramsgate late the evening prior. Now, in the cold light of morning, he stared at the drawing room of the ramshackle structure he was meant to occupy. No, he could not even call it a drawing room, as that would imply there were other rooms of differing uses. There was no library, no sitting room, no dining room, not even a water closet—only a privy some yards behind this hovel. There were not servants’ quarters! There was only this room, a lone bedchamber, and a rudimentary kitchen with no cook in it. The roof over his head was laid bare, with no proper ceiling put in—he could see darts of sunlight coming through gaps in the old shingles.
He’d met the agent to open the main house and had, at first, thought it might be pleasant. The house itself was located on the west cliff. It was commodious, of sturdy gray stone, and had a charming view of the sea. The furnishings were not elaborate, but then a seaside house did not need expensive curtains that would only grow moldy from the salty ocean mist or deep carpets that would only trap sand. Its worst fault was that it needed to be cleaned up, it looked as if the occupants had suddenly left without the slightest preparation. For all that, he thought it would do very well, indeed.
He should have realized why the agent paled when he asked to see the cottage and informed the man that he would stay in it. Amongst the fellow’s mumblings about its modest circumstances, he’d followed him through the back garden to one of the smallest houses he’d ever seen. It seemed hardly worth the effort of building!
“This is unacceptable,” Charles said to the agent standing by the door.
The agent, glancing around the sparse room, did not see reason to argue with the assessment. “Perhaps, my lord,” he said hopefully, “you might consider a hotel? Or there are any number of bachelor apartments to be had. You might even rent your own house.”
Charles thought he might consider any or all of those things, had he any money to pay for them. The particulars of the Dukes’ Pact were so well known by this time that he could not think he would be extended credit by a landlord. Any proprietor worth his salt stayed well apprised of who was in town and what they had at their disposal. They had no choice, else there would be an endless parade of young men who had suffered heavy gambling losses enjoying their rooms for free.
The agent reddened and Charles took that as rather a confirmation that his predicament was well understood.
“This will have to do, for now,” he said. “Perhaps there are ways to bring this place up to snuff.”
The agent nodded eagerly, as if relieved to hear the lord duping himself in such a manner. Charles well knew he was fooling himself. There was not enough money in the world to make something of this place.
It was an ungodly situation. Bellamy, his own butler, would stay in the main house. So would his valet, as there was nowhere to put him in here. His servants would live in better co
nditions than their master!
His father was a cruel fellow. Or his mother, or his grandmother. Or all of them, whoever had cooked this scheme up.
Well, they might plot and plan all they liked. Living in rough conditions would not be enough to defeat him. He would liken it to his old tent in the war or the camping he had done as a youth. It certainly would not be any more comfortable.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Harry Dale, Viscount Burke and heir to the Duke of Somerston, knew full well that he should not have accepted the Minkertons’ offer to stay at Ramsgate. All in the neighborhood thought him as an older brother to Belle Minkerton. Belle Minkerton, herself, looked up to him as a brother. After all, he was four years her senior and she was not even to be out until the coming season. His parents and hers had a longstanding friendship born of close proximity and similar tastes. It would not have occurred to any of them that there was anything romantic in the air. And of course, there was not, it was only in his own head. Everyone, his parents and the Minkertons themselves, looked forward to whatever assistance he would lend at her launch. What eligible fellows would he steer in her direction?
He would rather not steer anybody toward her. He had been in love with Belle since the moment he’d first set eyes on her all those years ago. Her father, a baron who’d been sent to Antigua by his father to make a family fortune, had found he could not abide the slave trade. Much to his father’s surprise, he’d returned not with a fortune but with an Antiguan lady he’d made his wife, after spending some years as an attaché to an admiral. He had brought his bride to England when Belle was just thirteen and settled on the neighboring estate. Her hair was ebony that shined in tight ringlets in the sun, her skin a rich deep brown, her dark eyes perennially amused, her lips always dancing on the edge of a smile. He had stuttered at their first meeting, and she had smiled kindly then, as if encouraging him not to make such a cake of himself. He had been certain his face had gone a deep red, though of course later, alone, he assured himself that he would only have appeared sunburnt.
At first, he’d been just seventeen and it was no more than a boyish crush—a deep secret he kept from his friends lest they tease him mercilessly. Over time though, he had grown into man and she into woman and the crush had not left him. It had transformed itself to a more mature love and he did not know what he was to do about it.
Though really, there was nothing to be done about it. It was not their age that separated them, but their relationship to one another. Belle would never regard him as anything but a brother and so as a brother he must act. He wished for her happiness above anything, though it inevitably led to his own never-ending unhappiness. He would assist her during her season, though he’d really rather not.
His resolve was firm on the idea. He knew that he should have stayed well clear of her over the summer. Yet, here he was, in her very house. He cursed himself for his weakness.
It would have been well if he could have been more like Dalton. That gentleman might be trapped in the company of Miss Danworth and yet he would never fall for her charms. Dalton was impenetrable. He was not.
He would call on Dalton as soon as he might. Perhaps spending more time with the hardened gentleman would rub off on him. He would introduce Dalton and Miss Danworth to the Minkertons and thereby keep Dalton’s good example of disinterest squarely in front of him.
Burke sighed. If he were to be honest with himself, he did not mind bringing Dalton into Belle Minkerton’s sphere because he knew full well she would not like him. She would size him up and find him self-indulgent for his scowling, as she would not know that of all gentlemen, Dalton had been most changed by war. At school, he’d been the one always joking. The transformation was an understood thing among his friends, though nobody thought it right to comment upon. They’d all just become incredibly lenient with him, even forgiving him for endless interference with their future wives. Burke supposed it must be a testament to their friendship that they’d not all broken with him. Not even Lockwood, who he’d imprisoned to keep him away from his lady.
He’d thought Dalton would slowly come out of whatever morass he’d landed in, but the change seemed rather permanent at this point. He should be deeply ashamed that he was happy Belle would not like him. He should be even more ashamed that he would probably fail to mention the cause of his friend’s unhappy outlook.
He must get better at wrangling his feelings!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The lead coachman the duke had sent for Daisy and Mrs. Jellops had been convinced that they departed early enough to make the trip in one day, assuming they did not require too many stops. Daisy was not so anxious to arrive to Ramsgate and insisted it be done over two days with a stop overnight at an inn. If she had her way entirely, she might have stretched it to three days, but that would have pushed the already-irritated coachman a step too far. While most travelers would prefer to arrive to their destination as quickly as possible, Daisy would rather be jostled in a carriage day after day forever than reach the house at Ramsgate.
She gripped Mrs. Jellops’ hand as they neared the outskirts of the town.
Mrs. Jellops squeezed back and said, “But my dear, it will not be as it was. You are the mistress of the house now and nobody shall come through the doors unless you admit them.”
Daisy nodded, knowing in her logical mind that was true. Still, she could not erase the memories of what those past summers had been. Her father was always attracted to low company and the house seemed forever filled with soldiers of some sort. As they caroused downstairs, Daisy and Mrs. Jellops would bar her door with furniture pushed up against it before they dared sleep. Even as a young girl, she’d sensed the danger without needing Mrs. Jellops to tell her.
Her father, thinking as highly of himself as he did, would never imagine that one of those soldiers invited in and served his best brandy would dare meddle with his daughter. But men dared all sorts of things late at night and full of liquor. Sometimes, it might even be in the daylight, as Daisy had found cause to run out of the garden one afternoon after being forcefully kissed by one of those men.
Daisy felt her heart pounding as memories flooded back. “You do not think,” she said, “that some of them, those who made their home in the town, might see the house has been opened and come knocking?”
Daisy had no need to identify who them were, Mrs. Jellops knew well enough.
“If they have the nerve to do it,” Mrs. Jellops said, “Lord Dalton will put them to rights. I suspect they would leave with a bleeding lip or a blackened eye.”
Daisy’s heart slowed its pounding. Mrs. Jellops was right, whatever Lord Dalton was, he was a refined gentleman and would not countenance her father’s rough associates.
“Lord Dalton may not be the most cheerful fellow,” Mrs. Jellops went on, “but I think he can be relied upon.” The lady hesitated a moment, as if a new idea was presenting itself to her.
“What is it?” Daisy asked. “I can see that something worries you.”
“Ah, I suppose it is nothing. I only fear that Lord Dalton may not be in the best of spirits having gained an understanding of his accommodations.”
Daisy bit her lip. “That is true, I suppose. But then, would it really be possible to further darken the lord’s mood? Black cannot become blacker, after all.”
Both ladies did their best to suppress their laughter, silently looking out their respective windows and only the shake of their shoulders giving them away. It was forever a habit between them, born of dark days, to laugh when contemplation grew too uncomfortable.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Charles had done his best to ready the house, and ready the hovel that was to be his own home for the duration. He’d hired a service to straighten both places, wash linens, gather the dust up, and air things out. He’d already spent one dashed uncomfortable night in the cottage, harangued by crickets and beetles and God knew what else crawling around. It had rained in the early morning and he was helpfully informed of that fact by the ge
ntle pounding of drops on his forehead. He’d arisen damp and irritable. The next night, he’d spent in the house in peace, but now that Miss Danworth was set to arrive, he’d be back to his untenable lodgings.
He had not been able to avoid noticing the maids’ pursed lips at the endless amount of empty wine and brandy bottles that littered the main house. They were under tables and rolled into corners, standing on bookshelves, and hiding behind curtains. There were cabinets full of them and a bin in the kitchen overflowed. Even for himself and his not particularly fastidious household, this seemed beyond the pale. He shuddered to think what had gone on in the house when Lord Childress was its master, or what Miss Danworth may have witnessed.
Bellamy and Charles’ valet, Tate, had arrived several hours ahead of Miss Danworth and Mrs. Jellops. Their reactions came as no surprise to Charles.
Bellamy worked to keep the mirth from his face, especially after he’d got a look at the well-stocked wine cellar. His mirth faded mightily when he was informed that procedures in this particular house would not mirror their own in town. His butler was not to touch a bottle in the cellar without the express permission of Miss Danworth. While it had never bothered him that his servants were drunk below stairs, it would not suit a lady.
Tate, a retired Navy seaman, had looked round the ramshackle cottage to see where and how he would do his work. The curses that flew from him would have made any sailor blush. He had marched back to the house to devise a system of attending his lord across a garden each day without even the most rudimentary set-up to aid him. Though he deemed it impossible, Charles was certain he’d come up with some plan or other.
Finally, the ladies’ carriages made their way up the drive and stopped at the front doors. Two of the grooms leapt down and assisted Miss Danworth to the gravel.
While many a lady had been made drab in mourning, her black silk dress seemed to suit Miss Danworth. Her person was all blond curls and pale cheeks and seemed even more so in their current dark frame. Her blue eyes shone bright on the cheerless background.
