hapter Three

The study at Garring Manor had changed little since Ernest was a young boy, and it held no happy memories for him, because his father often chose that location to dispense discipline. As he crossed the threshold, his ears echoed with the telltale cries for mercy, which mingled with the sharp report of the leather belt, as it struck the bare flesh of his backside, and he shuddered and drained the glass of brandy his brother thrust into his hand.

“Ernest, are you all right?” Barrington carried a crystal decanter to the small table that perched between the two high-back chairs before the hearth. As he poured another healthy portion of the amber liquid into Ernest’s brandy balloon, Barrington frowned. “You are quite pale.”

“I was reflecting on our childhood and how much I detested being summoned to this room.” And Ernest resented his brother’s similar command, because it brought to mind the horrors he endured at their sire’s hand. To his disgust, as he descended the stairs, his knees buckled more than once, and his palms dampened. In so many ways, he remained the frightened little boy, lost and alone, but not so anymore, because now he had Henrietta to comfort him, as she once did. “Why do you think our father hated me so much?”

“For what it is worth, I do not believe it was a matter of hate. While I know there is no excuse for his barbaric treatment of you, I suspect he did not know how to love you. Indeed, he did not know what to do with you.” Gazing into the flames, Barrington shook his head. “Whereas I was his heir, thus he understood what was required of him, in respect to me, and he met the demands of rank but nothing more. We were never friends or drinking companions. He never invited me to White’s. While I submit he was too easy on me, he knew not how to handle you, so he hurt you to make you a man, in his way.”

“Thus he beat me for my own good, and I am supposed to believe that was love?” Pain nestled in Ernest’s chest, and he cursed himself as tears formed in his eyes. Would he never escape the horrors of the past, or was he doomed to forever revisit the savagery that haunted his slumber, even as an adult? “No matter what you say, I will curse him until my death. Indeed, I would not spit on his grave were it on fire.”

“I do not blame you, and you know I tried to protect you.” Barrington glanced at Ernest and frowned. “I tried to intervene on your behalf, and I begged him to stop.”

“I remember well.” He almost choked on the recollection, which only intensified his anguish. “Father called me a coward, accused me of soliciting your sympathy, and he whipped me that much longer and harder.”

“After that, I was afraid to interfere, because I did not wish to cause you further suffering, but I have been on your side, since we wore short coats, little brother.” Barrington shifted. “Which is why I did not protest, when Crawford informed me that you moved Henrietta into a guestroom.”

“I was going to tell you, but the situation developed far faster than anticipated.” Indeed, even Ernest did not quite know where to go, as he had not planned to offer for Hen, or any woman, when he returned to Derbyshire, yet he did not hesitate when it came to his little bird. They had already lost eleven years, and he would not waste another minute. “But you cannot claim to be surprised, as you know I have always wanted Henrietta Graham, just as you pursued Florence. Is that why you did not tell me of her return?”

“To be honest, I was rather shocked by the revelations, but I recovered. As for her return, I wanted her to surprise you, because I know of your longstanding affinity, where she is concerned.” Leaning against the armrest, Barrington propped an elbow and cradled his chin in his palm. “Still, have you any idea of the magnitude of issues you court?”

“Do you object?” Ernest gnashed his teeth. “Does Florence?”

“To Hen?” Barrington snorted. “No. And Florence was beside herself with joy, as you know she counts Hen a dear friend, as do I. We have known the stablemaster’s daughter as long as you, and we were all playmates, so there is no objection here.”

“Then what is the problem?” In truth, Ernest was not prepared to defend his position, because he only knew the ultimate goal. He would make Henrietta his wife. “Why do you take exception?”

“Come now.” Barrington arched a brow. “You cannot be that naïve. What of the Season, when you journey to London?”

“You refer to the difference in our social status, of course.” Ernest set aside the brandy, as he needed no liquid courage to confront that particular query. “But the circumstances of her birth do not signify, to me, because our devotion transcends such boundaries.”

Indeed, his was a masterful bit of trickery, to amass his fears, his anxieties, his insecurities, his doubts—his need to evade and deny them, and out of those shattered remnants of misery and pain to construct an invincible suit of armor with which to face the world, with Henrietta firmly planted at his side. And within that world, he would carve out a secret place for the two of them, where they could create their own future, without fear of recrimination.

“It will matter to society, and therein lies the problem.” As usual, Barrington highlighted the singular snare in Ernest’s plans, with unerring accuracy. “I know you. Although I can afford to thumb my nose at the ton, as I am a marquess, you enjoy no such luxury, and you have always valued their good opinion. To them, what you contemplate is forbidden, and what are you without their respect?”

“You think I have not considered that? You think me ignorant of the piety and self-righteous rationalizations construed by society to forbid something that is not wrong, in the first place? I submit Henrietta is not of low birth. Rather, she is a victim of those who would control her.” The mere thought of surrendering Hen and wedding someone else evoked a violent response, and he would not even contemplate the prospect, now that they were reunited. “But I cannot be deterred, brother. I want Hen. I have never wanted anything as much as I want her, and I will have her, with or without your blessing.”

“Wait a minute.” Barrington stiffened his spine. “Do not include me in that perfumed pack of wolves, because I am the last person to cast stones, given I took up piracy while on the run.” Then he stood, walked to his desk, opened a drawer, sifted through various items, and returned with an official looking document. “If you intend to see this through, then you should know all the facts.”

Curious, Ernest snatched the paper from his brother’s grasp and perused what turned out to be a contract between their sire and the stablemaster. As he digested the contents of the agreement, his fingers shook, and he made no attempt to hide the tears that flowed freely down his cheeks, given the gravity of the terms.

“I will never forgive him for this.” It was the final insult, and he slumped his shoulders, as the depth of the betrayal weighed heavy. In a sense, it was as though he lost Henrietta all over again.

Since that horrible day when he first learned of her departure, he suffered her absence repeatedly, as manifested by even the smallest most innocent detail. He experienced her loss in the breeze that blew through the meadow where they often played, in the cowslips that returned every spring, in the empty space where she often sat on the front porch of the stablemaster’s cottage, waiting for him, and the old yew she loved to climb.

He did not lose her just once.

He lost her countless times, in incalculable ways, over and over again, such that the torment often seemed never-ending.

“He knew what she meant to me, even then. Yet he conspired to take away the one person who gave me hope, and he paid her father a vast deal more than generous annuity to achieve his aims.” He gave vent to an unholy roar of disgust. “And I am to be disinherited and removed from the line of succession, should something happen to you and your heir, if I marry Hen.”

“No.” With feet firmly planted, Barrington folded his arms. “When our father died, and the title and estate came into my possession, our solicitor notified me of the stipulations of the entailment, and I altered them, as was my right, but the annuity remains in effect, as I would not jeopardize Hen’s financial security.”

“Why would you do that?” Ernest drew a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped his face. “Why do you care?”

“Because it was wrong, and if our father was here, at this very moment, I would tell him so.” Barrington rested a hand to Ernest’s shoulder. “Whatever you decide to do with your life is your affair, and I will support you in your cause, come what may. However, if you insist on taking Hen as your bride, you had better commit, wholeheartedly, because the task will not be easy for either of you, and it will be doubly hard on her.”

“What do you mean?” Reeling from the treachery, Ernest again emptied his glass.

“If you will ponder the situation with your customary attention to detail, you will comprehend my warning, provided you start thinking with your brain and not with your breeches.” Barrington chucked Earnest’s chin. “Men may be the stronger sex, but women rule London’s ballrooms, and the grand dames can be vicious, especially when it becomes clear that another eligible bachelor is checked off their list of potential targets. When they discover your bride-to-be is the daughter of our stablemaster, things are liable get ugly.”

“Then I must take care that they never find out her true history, else I may be moved to violence in her defense. I must compose a new account to satisfy the gossips and protect my lady.” All manner of narratives came to life, as Ernest reflected on the possibilities, and he plotted a course with unbending detail. He would persist, he would fight, he would claw his way back to that part of his life stolen from him by his unscrupulous father and find a measure of happiness. That he would triumph with Henrietta despite his father’s meddling would be the sweetest victory of all. “First, I must pay a visit to our stablemaster, assure him that my intentions are honorable, and secure his approval, else I am doomed to failure.”

~

Sunlight filtered through the drapes, as Henrietta languished in the plush four-poster of the guestroom at Garring Manor. Decorated in rich blue damask, trimmed in old gold, with refined mahogany furnishings in the Sheraton tradition, the chamber suited her tastes. Stretching, she hummed her appreciation of the soft sheets and then scooted to the edge, just as a maid entered the room.

“Good morning, Miss Graham.” Maisy, a particularly young servant, curtseyed. “Crawford assigned me to attend your needs. Shall I air a dress and style your hair?”

“But that is too ridiculous, and since when do you address me so formally?” Was it Henrietta’s imagination, or did she detect a note of sarcasm in Maisy’s tone? “I am perfectly capable of managing myself.”

“Sorry, Miss Graham.” Maisy yanked the counterpane none too gently, as she made the bed. “I have my orders, and I will do my duty, even for a stablemaster’s daughter who would pass herself off as a lady.”

“I beg your pardon?” It was the first signal that not everyone would cheer Hen’s new position in the household, and she marked her father’s prophetic words. While she anticipated some resistance from the debutantes, never had she expected discord from her own rank. What awaited her in London, amid polite society unaccustomed to marriage between the classes? “If you are assigned to perform my bidding, then you are dismissed.”

“Fine.” Maisy dropped a pillow and curtseyed. “Have a pleasant day, Miss Graham.”

Angry and more than a little hurt by the exchange, Henrietta donned a morning dress of her own design, in a pale pink muslin, with hand-painted flowers at the hem, the cuffs of the sleeves, and the neckline. After arranging her hair in a severe chignon, to match her mood, she pulled her wool pelisse from the armoire and stomped into the hall. At the landing, she spied a familiar and welcomed face.

“Florence—I mean, Marchioness Ravenwood.” Hen sketched a quick curtsey, and with outstretched arms they met and shared a warm hug. “It is wonderful to see you, and I congratulate you on your wedding, the birth of your son, and the joyous news of the impending addition to your family.”

“Stuff and nonsense, as I have always been Florence to you, dear Hen, my friend, and I am so happy you are home.” The noblewoman laughed and kissed Henrietta’s cheek. “And thank you, so much. I was thrilled when Barrington told me of your engagement to Ernest, and you must let me throw you the most extravagant wedding London has ever seen. We will post the banns, I shall take out an announcement in The Times, and you will walk the aisle at St. George’s. Can you just imagine it? It will be as we fantasized, when we were young.”

“That would be lovely.” Suddenly, the full weight of Henrietta’s decision struck her as a blow to the face, and she stumbled to the side, as she pondered what Ernest’s plan demanded of her. “Oh.”

“Hen, are you all right?” As usual, Florence provided unshakeable support. “You are white as a sheet.” She led Henrietta to a bench in the gallery. “Come and sit.”

“I do not know what is wrong with me.” Surrounded by the disapproving gazes of Ernest’s ancestors, depicted in paint and plaster, which seemed to cry out in protest, for all eternity, Hen fanned herself and then pressed a clenched fist to her mouth. In so short a span of time, she measured her existence in terms of absence, by the empty spaces she once inhabited, instinctively reaching for them as a hungry babe sought its mother’s breast. In a sense, she felt trapped between two worlds, such that neither place offered sanctuary, and it had only been one night, yet, she belonged nowhere. “I apologize, as I am not myself.”

“It could not be that you attempt to do too much, at once.” Florence peered at the ceiling, and then met Hen’s stare. “Because you would never do that.”

Together, they burst into laughter.

“How I missed you, Flo.” At last, Henrietta found an ally, and she needed one just then. “Two days ago, when Ernest and I reunited, everything seemed so clear. Although I had not seen or spoken to him in eleven years, it was as if we never parted. When he proposed, I accepted him with no reservations.”

“And now that you have slept on it, you realize things are a bit more complicated?” Florence had a way with reducing the complexities of life to their simplest form, something Henrietta appreciated. “Talk to me.”

“I know not what came over me.” When Florence arched a brow, Hen sighed. “Oh, all right. Ernest kissed me, everything went hazy, and I suspect I would have surrendered to Boney, at that point.”

“Your first love.” Florence closed her eyes and exhaled. “How enticing and delicious.” Then she came alert. “So, how was it?”

“It was magical.” Henrietta clutched her throat and revisited the cherished memory. “As many times as I engaged in such behavior with him, in my dreams, it was nothing compared to the real thing.”

“Is that when he proposed?” Florence inquired. “Barrington told me of Ernest’s plans.”

“Am I a fool for accepting him?” Henrietta reflected on Maisy’s reaction to Hen’s new status. “I do not believe everyone wishes me well.”

“What did you expect?” Florence’s statement cut Hen to her marrow. “While this may be eighteen-nineteen, there are some institutions that remain firmly entrenched in English society, and you must either overcome or ignore the naysayers, and I suspect there will be many, so you must prepare yourself for the fight, and it will be a fight.”

“Am I wrong for wanting Ernest?” Hen gulped. “Do I aim too high?”

“Do you truly want him?” Flo twined her fingers in Hen’s.

“He is the only man I have ever wanted.” Yet, from where Henrietta stood, she could not seize upon a solution that would enable her to marry Ernest and maintain her dignity. Something had to give, but what was she willing to surrender to claim the man she always wanted? “But at what cost will I break the dictates of society, and what will it do to Ernest?”

“Did Ernest share the details of Barrington’s exile?” When Hen nodded the affirmative, Florence bowed her head. “There are those who shunned me during my husband’s absence, after the authorities accused him of a murder he did not commit. While he was on the run, he resorted to piracy, to survive, and he required a pardon from the Crown to return to England.” She squeezed Hen’s hand. “During those lonely, miserable days, I prayed for Barrington’s safety and confined myself to my residence. I relied on my family for comfort, but even my father abandoned me, in some respects, and society, aided and abetted by my so-called friends, ran my name through the muck, if only to satisfy their insatiable lust for scandal and blood.”

“Ernest said he offered for you, but you feigned illness to forestall the nuptials.” Hen could not begin to comprehend what her childhood companion endured at the hands of those who should have championed her. “Of course, he explained his did so out of desperation, in order to defend you, because he knew not if Barrington would ever come home. I wish I had been there for you.”

“In some respects, you were, because I relied on fond memories of our friendship to sustain me in the darkest hours, and of that there were many.” Florence hugged her belly and smiled. “I am sure you know I have nothing against Ernest, but I could not wed him, when my heart has always belonged to Barrington, and that is why you must not yield the field. No matter what anyone says, you must be strong and win your man, because love knows no social boundaries.” She clucked her tongue. “Given how the ton treated me, they may go to the devil.”

“Florence.” Henrietta giggled and peered over her shoulder, as she was unprepared to confront the Howe brothers. “I should go.”

“Will you not break your fast with the family?” Florence brushed the backs of her knuckles to Hen’s cheek. “We are stronger, together. And we would help you make the transition into society.”

“I need to speak with my father, and I should take care of his morning meal, despite my new status.” Hen pondered his objection to her wedding and frowned. As she recalled their quarrel, her spirits sank. “He does not support me.”

“That is because he belongs to an older generation, much like my father, and they are set in their ways.” Florence averted her gaze. “And there are those who will oppose you, if for no other reason than to take fiendish satisfaction in your pain, while still others will protest because they envy you. And some simply prefer to keep you low, that they might elevate themselves.” She shrugged. “Ultimately, who knows why people do what they do, but you cannot be discouraged.”

“You are right.” With renewed resolve, Hen stood and smoothed her skirts. “And although I appreciate the invitation to breakfast, I shall instead join my father and try to mend our differences, because, whether or not he likes it, I need him on my side.”

“A wise decision, but I expected nothing less.” Flo rose from the bench. “But I would correct you in one respect.” She wagged a finger. “This is now your home, we are your family, and you require no invitation to dine with us. When you are ready, we must go shopping, to arm you for the ton’s ballrooms, and you must be perfect.”

“All right.” Henrietta inhaled a deep, calming breath, strolled to the landing, checked for any sign of Ernest, and ran down the stairs. In the foyer, she veered right and sprinted along the hall. In the back parlor, she slipped beyond the terrace doors.

After crossing the garden, she skipped into the yard. Since it was early, only a few hands went about their duties, cleaning stalls, feeding horses, and polishing saddles. A single light shone through the front window of the little cottage she shared with her father, and she climbed the steps. Unsure of her welcome, as she reached for the knob, she paused. Instead, she knocked.

With an expression of surprise, her father set wide the heavy panel. “Henrietta, what are you doing here?”

“I wish to talk, Papa.” When she noted the dark circles and lines of strain etched about his eyes, she regretted their disagreement. “I would make peace, if you permit it, as I hate being at odds with you.”

“My dear child, I only want what is best for you.” In an instant, he pulled her into his reassuring embrace, and she savored the comforting and familiar scent of his shaving soap. “You are all I have left in the world, and I would protect you from harm.”

“I am so sorry we argued.” As the tension abated, she shed a few tears and sniffed. “May I cook your breakfast, and you could help me plan my future?”

“I would love that.” Papa kissed her hair. “Come inside, and warm yourself, as it is a cold morning.”

In quiet, Hen retrieved a cast-iron pan and placed it atop a burner on the wood burning range, while her father collected the dishes. After tending the firebox, she stoked a roaring blaze. Fried kippers filled the small abode with a tempting aroma, and she scrambled eggs and toasted a few slices of bread, as tea steeped in a chipped porcelain pot.

As she assumed her place at the table that marked so many happy childhood memories, even her father appeared to have relaxed. In silence, they shared the meal. Then he cleared his throat, and she braced.

“Although you have accepted Lord Ernest’s proposal of marriage, it does not follow that you must wed him.” Papa rested his elbows atop the table and steepled his hands. “Please, hear me out, and then you may have your say. You do not know this, but I have saved a substantial sum of money, enough to afford you a brand-new start, in a place of your choosing, should you have need of it. You can go anywhere you desire. You need not stay here and grovel for scraps of approval from upper ranks.”

“Papa, I mean to be Ernest’s wife.” She quieted when he raised a finger.

“I understand that, but it may not come to pass, and I would not have you believe you have no other options.” As he gazed at his empty plate, he seemed to age ten years, and she rued the distress she caused him. “In some respects, I have always known you did not belong in the stables. Yet, I am not sure you belong in the manor house, either. But you were happy, in trade, and you are a master with a needle and thread, as your aunt boasted of your talents, so why would you waste your potential?” He leaned in her direction. “You could make your own way, on your terms, Henrietta. Beholden to none, you can be whatever you choose to be, rather than some ornament for a wealthy man. Perhaps, you could find someone from your class to take as a husband, because I would never have you bow to those who consider you beneath them, when they are not fit to wipe the mud from your boots.”

“Am I to understand you no longer object to my engagement?” Indeed, it seemed he acquiesced, thus her troubles were no more, and she could have shouted for joy. “You will give us your blessing, if I ask it of you?”

Before he could answer, Ernest barged into the cottage.

“Graham, I have come to formally offer for your daughter.” Ernest tossed a piece of parchment at her father. “I know of the contract you settled with the previous Lord Ravenwood, and I would be willing to transfer the annuity into your name, in exchange for your permission to wed Henrietta.”

“What contract?” Befuddled, she blinked and then snatched the paper from her father’s grasp, as he stammered. A quick scan of the contents left her reeling, as it detailed an unforgiveable conspiracy to keep her from Ernest. But it was her father’s involvement that struck the most vicious blow, and she flew into the kitchen, where she bent and vomited into a bucket.

“Are you all right?” When she nodded, Ernest knelt at her side and offered his handkerchief. “You did not know of the arrangement our parents orchestrated, to keep us apart.”

It was a statement, not a question.

She needed to cry, but she would go to her grave before indulging in such humiliating behavior in front of Ernest. Hiking her skirts, she rushed along the short corridor, where her father loomed, and she drew up short. “Do not touch me.”

With a sorrowful expression, he splayed his arms. “Henrietta, please, I can explain.”

“What, Father? Exactly what can you explain?” In that very instant, something inside her shattered, as a much-cherished illusion died. Her father had always been her champion. Her protector. And it was a lie. The tears rolled down her cheeks, but she cared not, as she wanted him to witness the anguish he inflicted upon her. “How you abandoned me in favor of Lord Ravenwood? How you packed me up and sent me to Kent? How you sold me into trade for three hundred pounds a year? You accuse Ernest of trying to alter my nature, but you are the one who betrayed me. You disgust me, because you have become that which you protest.”

With that, she darted around the table, wrenched open the door, and fled toward the north fields.