Chapter One
England, 1814
“I cannot allow you to stay here alone, Hetty,” the Earl of Stanton said, shaking his head for emphasis. He leaned back in his leather-covered chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “And I won’t have you further enervate Lady Stanton with any more arguments on the subject.”
“Oh, Papa, it takes much more than an argument from me to distress my step-mother,” Henrietta pointed out, less than tactfully. Her spirits sank. Her father’s stern words did not match his weary tone, but his very pose gave him an air of implacability. She knew he found her entreaties distasteful. Briefly, she closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. She must stay calm.
Facing the Earl anew, she suppressed the familiar sense of futility, of anguish, and resentment that threatened to weaken her resolve. “Cannot Aunt Woodridge stay with me?” she asked, hoping to wrest a concession from him. “At least for the duration of your journey? She would not decline a request from you. Why, she’d be delighted to spend time in Sussex. The air here ... and the prospect of a Little Season in Town, too, as my chaperone. She would enjoy that.”
The Earl again shook his greying head and rose from his seat. He walked across the parquet floor of his library to one of the tall windows overlooking the front lawns.
Henrietta watched him. Despite his thinning hair and slight paunch, he cut a fine figure. The chocolate brown coat and fawn breeches he wore suited him. Yet now his shoulders drooped and he held his head bowed. His age as well as his mood showed in his posture. Irrepressible longing for a sign of affection, for an understanding of sorts, drove her from her seat. She joined him by the window.
“Papa, I beg of you,” she said softly, laying a beseeching hand upon his arm, “pray don’t insist on this! I realize I cannot live with you forever, but the Hall is my home...”
When he did not respond with even the slightest gesture, Hetty let her words trail. She, too, gazed upon the wide sweep of lawns. Luminous air set the grass aglow in brilliant hues of green; emerald where the sun shone brightly, bluish where the manor cast its huge shadow. The day would come when she must leave Sycamore Hall, but not yet. Not yet! Here she could remember...
“Papa? Let me stay. I beg of you. I shall await you contentedly, I promise. Oh, I have no need of company, or a Season, or even a chaperone, as long as I may stay here.”
Stanton did not turn to look at her, and Hetty wondered whether memories ever plagued him. Did he think of his first wife? She doubted it; he certainly doted on his second one. He needed an heir. She, a mere daughter, didn’t signify.
Bitterly, she prompted, “Papa?”
“No.” The Earl still refused to glance at his daughter. His profile grim, he ignored her touch and said in an angry tone, “Once and for all, Henrietta, you may not stay alone while your Mama and I travel. I don’t expect the Conference to last long, but I promised Violet we would tour Italy once we leave Vienna. She wishes to see Venice and Rome, and now that the monstrous Corsican no longer haunts us, I shall indulge her. I cannot predict the length of our journey.”
He finally faced Hetty, his expression softening just a little. “Now, if only your governess had not left! I might have considered keeping her here, as hired companion, although Violet does not think a governess suitable for the rôle of a respectable chaperone—”
“Papa!” Outraged, Hetty forgot herself enough to interrupt her father. “Miss Beckwith is eminently respectable, and all that is good and kind. How I wish she had not left me!”
The wistful outcry sounded childish to her, and, ashamed, she fell silent. Miss Beckwith had answered the plea of an ailing relation and gone off to Dorset before Christmas. According to her last letter, she expected to be away for a long time. Dismissing Hetty’s outburst with a shake of his head, Stanton continued, “All that does not matter. Staying in London without the supervision of your Mama is out of the question.”
“What am I to do, then?” Appalled by the quavering in her voice, Henrietta lifted her chin and kept the urge to weep at bay.
“You will either accept one of the many proposals for your hand before I leave or you will suffer the consequences.”
“Consequences?”
“Yes, if you refuse to obey me in this, Violet will choose for you.”
“Violet?” Hetty stared, incredulous. “L-lady Stanton?”
“Indeed. Just so. I trust her ladyship’s judgement in this matter. Moreover, I am occupied with matters of estate and the planning of our journey.”
At this, Hetty’s heart ached. “You truly would have me wed in such haste, against my will? Merely to be rid of me so you may travel?”
Stanton briefly closed his eyes and sighed before he addressed his daughter. “I wish you would learn to control your tongue, Henrietta. Your outbursts are unbecoming, and no, I do not think of my convenience alone. It is time for you to accept your responsibilities, my dear.
“I would not insist on a wedding by special license. A betrothal, properly gazetted, would satisfy me. You might stay then in Town, even with Woodridge if you so desired. I have received many a hint from eligible gentlemen. Violet thinks you are too critical by far. You’ve spurned each suitor.”
“Ah yes, the wise Lady Stanton.” Hetty couldn’t refrain from expressing her sarcasm. The thing was quite hopeless, the young wife would always win! “Very well, Papa. If I must choose a husband, then do parade the gallants before me. If there should be one among them with whom I cannot find fault, I shall accept him.”
This fine show of daughterly compliance pleased Stanton. He patted Henrietta’s shoulder—she had long since removed her hand from his arm—even while she turned to leave; however, watching her cross the room with a firm stride, he frowned. The condition attached to her promise struck him.
With a groan of sheer dismay, he put a hand to his forehead. The prospect of having to settle this matter to his ladies’ satisfaction appalled him.
|