Friday 4 May 2018

The Waterloo Legacy


*



The Waterloo Legacy
~
Chapter 1
~
Pennard Hall, Somerset 1815: 24th June
   ~
Having escaped to the garden, sitting alone and utterly devoid of distractions, it was so very difficult to brush aside the image of light blue eyes turning smoky grey in sunlight, and of manly lips curving to a quirky smile. Would that she could erase that special memory of her heart’s desire and the relaxed manner of his basking in the afterglow of mutual bliss. But it was all too vivid: even the remembered sweet scent of flattened meadow grasses, where they had lain surrounded by moon daisies swaying gently on a balmy summer breeze.
   Both had known the love expressed between them was oh so wrong, but heady euphoria had taken hold in the madness of the moment. Although it was true love back then, illicit love, he still expressed undying love within his letters: letters she kept hidden.
   Oh how oft she had pondered over portraits hanging in the upper gallery, and studied the likeness between her son and that of Earls’ of Weston down the centuries. Mathew’s appearance bespoke untainted bloodlines, as did that of the present earl’s younger brother, whilst her husband, the earl, resembled none of the former.
   It was quite bizarre, for Michael Melrose, Earl of Weston, was fair, with light brown eyes, and florid features. Albeit of good height, he was so unlike the taller, dark-haired, blue-eyed Melrose trait, it was little wonder there were those within society who had looked upon Michael with a curious eye. Similarities to his mother, the dowager countess, had always excused his appearance. But his sister, May, had let slip observations from time to time of a curious bent in relation to her brother’s likeness to that of an unrelated family; and the very fact the family were not of Isobel’s acquaintance, she had no means to verify May’s comments.
   Thus daydreaming, and duly caught unawares, a sudden flash of pink in her peripheral vision drew her attention, and her heart sank. Oh lordy. So often, when she slipped away to write in her journal, someone would come looking for her.
   Izzie . . . Izzie . . .” came a plaintive plea from her sister-in-law. “Where are you?”
   Holding her breath whilst tempted to take flight, instead she remained seated behind the trunk of a favoured walnut tree, half hoping the lovely May would pass her by unnoticed.
   Izzie. . . Izzie, I know you are out here, somewhere,” yelled May, quite unladylike in manner, followed by a sharp: “Isobel, answer me.”
   If May was resorting to Isobel then something was amiss, and she called out in response: “I’m here, by the walnut tree.”
   May flew to her side, cheeks flushed almost as pink as her muslin day gown, her bright blue Melrose eyes alight with excitement. “It’s over. Can you believe it? Oh how glorious it must have been for Michael, for Luke, and your brother?”
   Isobel’s heart somersaulted; part joy, part apprehension. “Over . . . you mean . . .”
   Yes . . . Yes . . . They’ve done for Boney, all over again, despite rumours of a humiliating retreat and desertion of Brussels.”
   May, excitement is all very well,” said Isobel, snatching up her journal before getting to her feet, “but remember you are a lady, not a soldier given to barrack room slang.”
   “Oh piffle and stuff-shirt,” declared May, a hand thrust to her hip in recalcitrant stance. “I’m quoting Luke’s very words, and might I remind you, I am more than of age. Besides, it’s officially declared Wellington was victorious at Waterloo. It’s all clearly written within the London Gazette, and dated twenty-second of June.”
   Isobel laughed whilst smoothing out creases from her skirts. “Have we letters, then?”
   “From Luke,” replied May, leaning forward to scoop a soft weave carriage wrap from the seat, which circled the tree.
   “Oh, then no news from Michael?”
   “Not as yet, and Luke had so little to say, hence mother is beside herself with worry.”
   “For what reason, when we are blessed with the end of war?”
   “You know mother and her intuition,” said May, as they began strolling from the lower lawn to the upper paved terrace.
   “Well yes, I do, but on such a joyous occasion as this, we should be of mind in how best to celebrate the homecoming of our heroes.”
   “My thoughts exactly, though I wager mother will never sanction preparations for a grand affair for their homecoming, which could be weeks, perhaps months hence.”
   “Why ever not, pray?”
   “My intuition tells me mother has a suspicion Luke might have been holding something back. His missive was very short, of which he dispatched post-haste on the nineteenth,” declared May, whilst trailing her fingers over a marble statuette of a shepherdess with a lamb tucked under arm. “Mother will in no way condone any celebration of Wellington’s victory, until both her sons are standing before her.”
   “But that is nonsense, for it is I who shall organise a celebratory ball for their homecoming.”
   May let slip a sigh of delight in one breath; and in the next breath, as they hurriedly ascended steps to the upper terrace, sense of unease spilled forth. “I wish you and mother liked one another better.”
   Linking her arm in May’s, she chuckled. “Your mother and I like one another well enough.”
   Piffle. Only in respectful manner, as you do with each other’s acquaintances and friends.”
   “Is that not better than mere tolerance of each other?”
   May sniffed; pointed in extreme. “I try my very best to bridge the divide between the pair of you, and I fail miserably so. And yet, both of you are as one when it comes to Mathew.”
   “Oh May . . . he’s but a child.”
   “I know, and believe me when I say: I am not in the least bit jealous of your son.”
   “Nor should you be, for your mother dotes on you.”
   “I think not, for it is Michael she dotes on. After all, don’t all mothers dote on their first born?”
   “As Mathew is my first and only child I cannot in all honesty answer that question,” nor dared she reveal the truth, for Mathew was special, very special to her. “I hope, if ever I am blessed with more children, I shall love them all with equal measure.”
   “So shall I, if ever I should find a man who will wed a girl of height matching that of a young buck. Oh, harebells, Izzie. I am all but an old maid.”
   Aware of movement within the drawing room, the garden doors before them, Isobel lowered her voice. “I would give anything to have your height and graceful countenance. Besides, you are but twenty and three years, and you have admirers at present, and soon shall have a veritable array of young titled officers returned from war and seeking a wife.”
   May paused in step and laughed: mocking in tone and mocking self. “I’m about as graceful as a goose, and although Luke is by far, a head taller than Michael, I can stay abreast of Luke at any time.”
   Preferring May’s company to that of the dowager countess, now standing watching them from the drawing room, Isobel dallied too: “I always found it impossible to keep abreast of Luke, for he used to set a gruelling pace.”
   “Yes, but you are so dainty, and Luke . . . Oh, but I don’t recall your walking out with Luke.”
   “It was but a couple of times, when Michael was indisposed with estate matters, and Harry was here, at the time.”
   “Well, of course Luke and your brother became good friends, and no doubt still are. Oh, just think, Izzie. Think what it will be like when they are all here: finally at home.”
   “Precisely, and what could be better than a grand ball to bring old friends together?”
   “But we have not set eyes on them in so long, I dare say Michael’s dark moods will be darker still or pray, knocked out of him, entirely. I do pray it is the latter.”
   Isobel commiserated with May in regard to Michael’s moods, but said: “He had much to contend with before leaving home shores, and perchance, what he saw as a weighty burden back then, will seem less so upon his arrival home. After all, he earned Wellington’s respect as that of his military attaché and spymaster in Vienna.”
   “I have oft pondered why you ever married Michael. And yes, I know it was more or less an arranged marriage, or at least, so arranged you had little choice but to go through with it.” May’s eyes purposefully collided with hers, an overtly inquisitive expression. “I have no right to ask, but do you love him, Izzie, truly love him, or is it familial love as might be between good friends?”
   “I barely knew him before we were married. Our courtship was conducted by formal letter after we had danced but a few times at Almack’s. Then of course, during that grand picnic party here at Pennard, with parents and friends in attendance, he suddenly announced our betrothal, of which my father had already approved. Thence an engagement ball was held two weeks later. All, I might add, planned and plotted between your mother and my parents without my knowledge, and as you well know, Michael and I were then married but one month, and he went off to war.”
   “As did Luke, two-months later.”
   “And Harry, likewise,” intoned Isobel, not letting May ponder too long on past events
   “Yes, but Luke and Harry had already said they were going to war, and neither of them had any of the responsibilities Michael had. By rite of his title, he should have stayed here to protect us women. What if Napoleon had won every battle and then sailed across the water with his army? What of us? What might have become of us?”
   “Don’t you see, May? That is why he went. Michael went to war to defeat Napoleon, to protect us and the country at large. They all went for that very reason and just when it seemed safe to venture home, Napoleon escaped from Elba, and thence they were again forced to take action.”
   “I might forgive Michael, in time, but I shall make my thoughts known to him. Besides, I think his recklessness in rushing off to war was to show Luke and Harry he was no liver-bellied coward.”
   “Harry would never have accused Michael of cowardice for staying here, and I cannot imagine Luke thought any differently. Do allow Michael a little respite from war on his return, before slapping a war of words to his ears.”
   May laughed. “Oh I shall like as not box him about the ears and forgive him there and then.”
   The garden door fronting the drawing room was thrust wide, and the ever imposing portly dowager countess duly stepped forth in a purple silk gown. Her countenance was somewhat austere with grey hair pinned up and tucked beneath a black lace frilled mobcap as though the silly woman had taken to mourning a great loss rather than celebrating a glorious victory. Though for once, a smile as broad as her beam suddenly swept to her face.
   “Well, Isobel, what are your thoughts on the matter of Napoleon’s defeat?”
   “Much as your ladyship’s, I should imagine, and I am so very pleased to hear Michael will be coming home,” said she, when in reality she was living in dread of his homecoming.
   “At first I had wondered at Luke’s less than informative correspondence, and having feared the worst I dressed appropriate for the coming of bad news, and now it has occurred to me, what else was there to say, other than ‘Napoleon is done for’.”
   “Precisely, your ladyship. After all, if something was amiss, it would be stated within the letter.”
   “Then dear girl, how shall we celebrate their homecoming?”
   “I had thought a ball would be a grand gesture, not only for them, but for friends and fellow officers.”
   “Then a ball it shall be, and the preparations I shall leave in your capable hands.”
   “Did I hear correctly, mother?” queried May. “You want no say, in how the ball must be organised?”
   “Good heavens. No, not at all. I am away to London; on the morrow.”
   Shocked by her mother’s statement, incredulity swept to May’s face. “Might I ask why?”
   “It is merely a matter of business I must attend to before Michael sets foot in the house.” With that said, the dowager countess let slip a furtive smile. “It’s nothing too awful, but as my eldest son is a stickler for well-balanced ledgers, there are a few discrepancies in need of setting to rights.”
   Mother,” exclaimed May. “You have not borrowed monies from . . . Oh, but you have, I can see you have.”
   “Yes dear, I lost heavily a week or so ago at carding, and must repay my dues forthwith, else my eldest boy shall see the error of my ways.”
   May’s brows arced, her tone erring moral high ground. “Michael, will like as not, curtail your expeditions to Almack’s, should he get to hear of your laying high stakes.”
   “I think not,” rallied the dowager countess, “Who shall tell him, eh? More to the point, he‘s my son, not my keeper, and I shall do as I will.”
   “As you will,” murmured May.
   “As I will,” intoned her mother, a dark look.
   And with a dismissive wave of the hand the dowager countess turned about and hurried back inside the house.
   May, let slip a deep sigh: “I do believe mother has just threatened to cut out my tongue should I breathe a word of her gambling to Michael. And how do you suppose she hid the discrepancies from Mr. Pomphrey?”
   Isobel laughed, and made toward the drawing room. “I suspect Michael was well aware of your mother’s penchant for carding long before he set sail for the Peninsular. As for Mr. Pomphrey. The dear man is simply petrified of your mother, albeit he is supposedly this household’s advisor and holder of the earl’s purse in his absence.”
   “I dare say, but how is mother to repay borrowed monies, when she was clearly short of funds in the first place?” May stopped mid-stride, as though struck by lightning. “Oh no. . . Do you suppose her intention is to sell something? Jewellery perhaps . . .”
   “If that is her only means of replacing stolen money, then it might . . .”
   Stolen?” screeched May. “How can it be construed as stealing to borrow money from the housekeeping kitty?”
   Pausing before entering the house, Isobel lowered her voice. “Let us take the scenario of a cook, any cook in any household. Or a manservant for that matter, who borrows money from the kitchen’s kitty, being that of the tin set aside for paying the fish boy and the coal merchant. Would your mother consider such action, as the stealing of monies from the house?”
   “Well yes, of course she would.”
   “Then how is your mother’s borrowing of monies from the house any different?”
   “Oh Izzie, there is no comparison.”
   “I disagree, and if your mother has to sell a jewel or two in order to replenish that of which she has spirited away, it might serve to rein back her carding hand a little.”
   “Yes, you are right, and heaven knows what Michael would say to the discovery of a theft.”
   “Precisely, and I suspect he would suppose the thief dwelt below stairs, and what of us then? Could we stand by whilst servants are questioned, humiliated, and accused of stealing money, when not one of them had a hand in the kitty tin?”
   “There is that, I grant you, but neither would I dare betray mother.”
   “Perhaps not, and I dare say it would fall to my shoulders to protect the innocent from false accusations.”
   “But Izzie, you are the countess, and you, must do, as you see fit.”
   “Oh, I see. So it is I who will be placed in the perilous position of having a quiet word with Michael, that is, if your mother should fail to cover the shortfall in household funds.”
   May screwed up her nose in mischievous manner. “He is the lord and master, and you his wife. Moreover, I would not truly have the courage to shame mother in Michael’s eyes. He is her favourite, after all.”
   With that said, May brushed past her, and fled into the house.
   Heavens above, his sister nor his mother knew him at all well, or instead chose to ignore the fact he would likely accuse his wife of having overspent on frivolous items of a fashionable bent. How then could she plan a welcome home ball and account for its expenditure?



Tuesday 10 April 2018

Duchess of Destiny (An Allingham Regency Classic)



Chapter One

‘Hurry up, or the milk will have curdled!’
A titter of laughter rippled through the company. The tall figure of Gabriel Claremont, Duke of Amersham, Earl of Rycroft, Baron Everard, draped itself negligently against the warm stone of the building. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets as he surveyed the motley band of companions who had walked with him to the dairy. A pair of intensely blue eyes tempered an otherwise saturnine expression.
Elinor felt a poke in her ribs, then Martha handed her a tray laden with glasses of frothing milk. Scrambling up the steps of the creamery, she almost cannoned into the duke.
     ‘Less haste, girl, or there will be no milk left to drink.’
     There was another titter. Half a dozen men and women had arranged themselves at intervals around the little ironwork tables scattered along the terrace. This was the latest ton fad, Martha had told her, to drink milk straight from the cow.
     ‘Your Grace.’ Elinor curtsied briefly and handed him a glass.
    For a moment he towered over her, one of the few men she’d encountered tall enough to do so. Dressed in riding-breeches and top boots with a Belcher handkerchief loosely knotted about his neck, he was unlikely to pose a challenge to Brummell, but though he was perfunctorily dressed, his broad chest exuded an uncomfortable male strength.
   She snatched a quick glance at his face and a lead weight nudged a path to her heart. It couldn’t be him. He was too young. Far too young to have known her mother. He seemed strangely familiar, though, and she looked again. Yes… she was certain he was the man who last evening had sent her headlong into a ditch. His air of casual disdain spoke an imperviousness to dairymaids and travellers alike. She had been forced to gather her skirts and leap for her life, catching only a flash of an upright figure, dark hair flying, before the racing curricle with its gilded crest was gone in a haze of dust.
    ‘So what happened to Letty?’ A man a few paces away sneered, his face weary with dissipation.
    She met his look. His thin lips appeared to have been reddened, and was that rouge he wore on his cheeks? ‘I don’t know, sir,’ she forced herself to say.
    ‘Don’t try to gammon me, girl! Servants know everything.’
    He was a truly horrible man and she would have liked to throw the milk in his face. How on earth had she come to be in this situation? When she’d made her dawn escape from Bath, she’d realised that she was burning her boats. But this! 
    ‘Don’t you talk?’ It was another of His Grace’s friends, a wispy young man wearing the tightest coat Elinor had ever seen. ‘Pretty high and mighty for a dairymaid, eh, Gabe?’
    The duke had said nothing seeming not hear his companions, but she had felt him studying her intently. Now he turned to her.
    ‘What is your name?’
    ‘Nell Milford, Your Grace.’
    ‘Nell. Short for Helen or Elinor or perhaps Margaret?’
    ‘Elinor, sir.’
    She had hoped no one would ask that question since she’d deliberately chosen Nell as a far more likely servant’s name. When yesterday she had rounded that final bend in the road and seen the formidable gates of Amersham guarded by soldiers, she’d been suffused with panic. This couldn’t be Amersham Hall - she must have taken the wrong road out of Steyning. She had walked through a quiet and green landscape, the hedgerows filled with the sweet scent of late May, but now with dusk falling she found herself stranded - outside a strange mansion in a strange locality, a lone woman, shabby and unkempt from two days’ travelling. She would have been laughed out of sight if she were to ask for charity and a bed for the night. The older guard’s question had been a lifebelt saving her from drowning. Was she the new dairymaid? Just pretend, she’d told herself, just pretend. ‘Yes,’ she’d said, and her voice had rung steady. ‘I’m the new dairymaid, Elinor… Nell Milford.’
    ‘Elinor,’ the duke was musing now, ‘an elegant name.’ 
    ‘Elegant figure too,’ guffawed a high-complexioned man sitting nearby.
    ‘I prefer Letty’s, don’t you know.’ It was the tight coat. ‘A body you could get hold of.’
    ‘And did, Hayward, as I recall­­ - ­­­­­­­frequently.’ This from the florid man. ‘Too frequently by all accounts. It’s no wonder she had to leave.’
    ‘Don’t be sad, Nell,’ the man addressed as Hayward coaxed. ‘You may not be such a plump pigeon, but I’m sure you have other attributes. She’s mighty pretty, ain’t she, Gabe?’
   The duke ignored him and continued to lounge against the dairy wall, an expression of distaste on his face. His gaze wandered from her to the glass of milk he held and back again, and she watched his hesitation with inner amusement.
   He put the glass down after only one sip and roused himself to say, ‘Take no notice of my friends, Nell. They have yet to learn their manners.’
    ‘I don’t, Your Grace.’ She thought of the locket secreted in her dress and her resolve stiffened. ‘Courtesy does not come naturally to all.’
    ‘Listen to that - and from a servant.’ The rouged man had risen from his chair as though he would come towards her. She had to quell an overpowering urge to flee.
    ‘Off with her head, eh, Weatherby?’ someone quipped.
   The duke seemed to have disappeared into his own thoughts once more, oblivious of his companions’ pleasantries. They deserved each other, she decided. He might be good looking in a careless fashion, and no doubt he was extremely wealthy, but he was as haughty and ill-mannered as they. Her leap into the ditch yesterday had been a foretaste of what was to come. She should have kept walking past those gates.
   Or should she? She had nowhere else she could go, that was the stark truth. She had not made a mistake. There was no other Amersham Hall in the district and this grand house was indeed the one she sought. For now at least she had employment, a roof over her head, and food in her stomach. But the notion that there could be any possible connection between her, this enormous property, and the heedless pleasure seeker standing so close, was nonsensical. As she had always suspected, Grainne had been delirious, her words provoked by fever.
    ‘Good morning, Gabriel.’
   A new voice had entered the fray. A neatly attired gentleman, no older than the duke himself and with a passing resemblance to him, was strolling towards the creamery from the opposite direction. His demeanour was one of a modest man and he had a pleasant but unremarkable face. The duke did not seem particularly pleased to see the new arrival and made no attempt to greet him beyond a brief nod in his direction.
   The man ignored the rest of the group and instead turned to Elinor. ‘I am the duke’s cousin, Roland Frant. I live close by at the Dower House. You must be the new dairymaid.’
   She nodded her agreement.
    ‘And this is your first morning?’
    ‘It is, sir.’
    He looked closely at her face. ‘I hope that you will happy here.’
    ‘I’m sure I will, Mr Frant.’ Her voice did not hold conviction.
    ‘Might I ask for a glass of milk, too?’ He gestured to the table where half-empty tumblers were scattered in disarray.
    ‘I will fetch it, sir.’
   Escape at last. She wondered if Roland Frant had seen her agitation and deliberately allowed her to disappear.
    ‘Spoiling the fun, Frant?’ the thin-faced man jeered. Roland merely smiled complacently.
    ‘Show’s over, folks.’ Hayward jumped to his feet, seeming keen to be gone now that the entertainment was at an end.
    ‘Why do you have such a killjoy for a cousin, Gabe?’ the thin-faced man asked.
   Gabriel Claremont did not answer. Instead he said, ‘I need to check on the stables. Emperor looked as though he was throwing a fever last night and I want him ready for the races on Friday.’
****
   Gabriel could not be sure which warranted his greatest contempt, Roland’s ingratiating airs or the boorishness of his friends. The word ‘friends’ was a misnomer; he had no friends, just people who gravitated towards his power and wealth and helped him fill the endless hours. When he’d first returned to England, he had welcomed any company. Jonathan was dead and he was distraught. He must take his brother’s rightful place, play the imposter, or so it felt. No wonder he had surrounded himself with a wall of mindless chatter and pointless action. It had insulated him from reality since he could not face the world undisguised. Life became one long dream through which he blundered, never quite hearing the voices or feeling the handshakes, never quite present. Day after day, month after month, time had blurred and been filled with an indeterminate noise that kept the void at bay. The ramshackle crowd he entertained had been that noise, but they were not his friends. They never would be. Jonathan had been his only friend and he was dead.
   Something about the girl had reminded him of his brother, not that he needed any reminder, for the memory never left him. He wasn’t certain what it was about her. Not her colouring for sure; that pale skin and those green eyes were striking in the extreme. Maybe it was the shape of her face or her tall, slender figure or just her expression - resolute and undaunted. It was an absurd connection to make, but he’d been so caught up in the fantasy that he’d hardly registered what his companions were about. He should have realised what was happening and stepped in to protect her. Instead it had been left to Roland to stop the spiteful bantering. Roland, the tell-tale of their childhood, the sly manipulator of their adult years.  
   The truth was that he lived too much in the past. But this morning, as he’d watched her and noticed her every movement, past and present had fused together. She was certainly an unusual dairymaid. Her face was too refined and her voice too cultivated, but cultivated or not she must be Letty’s replacement. She was as slim as Letty had been an armful. Slim and fashioned grey. Only the white close-buttoned bodice relieved the Quaker hues and that had been starched into subjection.
   She had waited while he drank the wretched milk, eyes downcast and hands clasped demurely in front of her. He’d been silently cursing this latest craze of ton society and grimacing in distaste when the girl’s hands had most definitely twitched. Curiously he’d allowed his glance to travel upwards. She was looking directly at him, her eyes the shade of misty lake water, but seemingly lit by an inner delight. She had been laughing at him! Her wide mouth, far too wide, had trembled slightly as though in danger of breaking into irrepressible laughter at any moment. And though he’d stared back haughtily enough, he’d been fascinated. Seeing his look she had lowered her eyes once more and stilled the vagrant hands. An unusual dairymaid indeed! For the first time in years, he felt curiosity stir.
































Georgian Romance - Lady Louise de Winter



Georgian Romance (Steamy Content) 
One grave transgression in her past, and Lady Louise de Winter, has accepted all hope for love and romance is but a dream she dare not embrace. Aware her semi-closeted existence on the Harcourt Estate is no more, and a substantial inheritance awaits her pleasure, her friend Count Casarotto suddenly brings his personal troubles to her door and seeks sanctuary. Worse, pursued by officers of his majesty’s regiment of horse, Louise endeavours to conceal his presence despite qualms as to his innocence when the bare facts are laid before her. What is more, devastatingly attracted to the senior officer, Louise battles to retain sense of propriety as burning desire within takes hold. But despite Major Fitzwilliam’s reassurance he cares not a jot about her past, the truth remains she is not as other young would-be brides. Therefore, dare she give her heart into his care?



One
~
1760 Wiltshire: February 14th
       ~
Lady Louise de Winter glanced to where swathes of snowdrops along the woodland’s edge had long since withered. She shouldn’t have ridden this way. She should have known it would bring back the dreadful moment when her father had slid from his horse and breathed his last; his death hurting still. It was a dull ache of feeling alone, utterly alone. But she was far from alone, she had servants, she had friends, she was heiress to a fortune, and she even had a lover, of sorts, and none of it mattered. What mattered was the awful fact she would have to relinquish her position as mistress of Harcourt Estate, and within the sennight; for a distant cousin had inherited her father’s title and all that it entailed.
Whilst wiping away a tear with a gloved hand she berated herself for acting the child, when she had known all along the house where she was born, where she had grown from childhood to womanhood, would one day pass to another male heir. As the eldest of three girls, both her younger sisters were now married, and she reaching the age of twenty and five, the age many young women considered themselves on the unwed shelf never to find a husband, and that was a certainty in her case.
She had, admittedly, inherited a sizeable house and lands a county distant. Though it irked somewhat to think it was the house in which her father had kept his mistress for some twenty years or more. Her mother likewise throughout her life had taken lovers, though in some respects worse than father, who had remained faithful to the one mistress. Having never puzzled which of her parents had cheated on the other first; neither had confessed to the truth when asked outright. Thus she had supposed it was a mutual arrangement, and perhaps, taking a lover was in the blood, for she could never go to a husband a virgin bride.
Looking back on a foolhardy moment with a neighbouring landowner, albeit both were very young at the time, it had lessened her chances of securing a good marriage. Despite his never having boasted of his conquest to the male fraternity of the beau monde, she was nonetheless tainted goods. Thus she had set out to ensure Amelia and Rosalie had abided to sage advice, hers, and had told them precisely the consequences of reckless indulgences. The only fortunate aspect from her disastrous moment of hedonistic insanity, she had with the grace of God escaped the indignity of falling with child.
But Max, whom she had met at a garden party, was different and they had become firm friends and then lovers. He was most careful in using the new French Letters, albeit costly, and worth every guinea for two per package. Such had indeed afforded her the freedom to enjoy fully the sensuality of having a man as married women and whores did without fear of consequences.
Whilst she could dream of love and romance, it was merely a dream, and when men had displayed great affections toward her, as happened on occasion of too many encounters at functions, she had always endeavoured to quell any notions of a blossoming romance. She could never in all honesty agree to a marriage and then have a betrothed discover to his horror after the wedding eve she was not his virgin bride.
Urging her grey gelding to the trot they skirted the woodland; and on spying the first splashes of wild daffodils dancing on the breeze near to the river, she reined Maverick down the shallow slope. It was always a tad inconvenient to dismount when there was no mounting block readily to hand, and finding a suitable gate or style or a downed tree might well entail a lengthy walk. But determined to gather a bunch of the dilly daffs she slowed Maverick to the trot, and finally drew to a halt close to the glorious little trumpets heralding spring around the corner. Kicking her foot free from the stirrup iron, and raising her right knee over the lower pommel she slid gracefully from the saddle. As always well-behaved and having let Maverick’s reins rest on his withers he set to with patient nibbling of grass whilst she in haste gathered up her skirts to rest on one arm, and settled to picking dillies with the other.
The task of keeping skirts free from her boots and holding daffs was a tiring exercise, and with a goodly bunch soon to hand she stayed a moment gazing about in search for a first primrose. The river’s flow was relatively shallow, iced grass still noticeable on the far shady bank, and leaning over the edge of the near bank she spied one primrose flowering profusely. Where there was one there would more. She strolled onward, and if there were plenty she determined she would return on the morrow and gather a posy.
Several yards farther along the bank she heard the steady tread of Maverick following in her wake, but the heavier pounding tread of a horse at the gallop drew their attention to the fore. She hadn’t expected Max today, so it was only right to presume his visit was in some way urgent.
As he drew near and reined back to the canter she sensed all was far from well with him. Impeccably attired as ever in buff riding coat and buckskin breeches, he drew his tricorne hat from head; and yelled, “Out of the way, get out of the way.”
Well she hadn’t expected that, nor had Maverick on seeing a horse at the canter and heading straight at them with no intention of reining in. Nor had she expected to see three horsemen in pursuit wearing military attire.”
Snatching at Maverick’s reins she hauled him a little way from the river path, and her faithful mount in his desire to avoid a collision almost knocked her sideways.
As Max passed them by, he said: “I’ll meet you up at the house in about a half hour if I can shake these blighters off my tail, and I’ll explain all then.”
With that said he spurred his horse to the gallop and those in pursuit, a good way farther back, soon reined in to pass her by at the trot in single file. A mere nod and polite, “Thank you, ma’am,” from the lead horseman of mean look and attired in blue military tunic was thus granted, and the second tipped his tricorne but silent in passing onward. Quick in assessing the third rider on a glorious chestnut, she noted the fair hair tied back in a queue, and he of more leisurely countenance. He duly tipped his finger to tricorne hat, his bright blue eyes keening every nuance of her person, her horse too, and with a sudden smile furthered: “Much obliged.”
Intrigued by the incident overall, the troopers not of the local militia, she pondered what Max had done to cause soldiers to chase after him. Besides, he would be lucky if she made it back to the house within the half hour. Firstly she had to walk to an old willow felled in a winter storm, and that was a good way farther along the river, and then there was the ride back, and it had taken a good fifteen minutes or more to reach her present position at a comfortable gait of trot and the occasional canter.
She again set Maverick loose to walk behind her at his leisure, and apt to dawdle in order to graze en route he was soon lagging a little way behind her. Undeterred by Max’ singular remark inferring he expected her to return to the house forthwith, she determined he would have to wait, just as she had often waited for him in the past. Thus she marched onward quite taken with the array of primroses cloaking the bank with a lemon hue, their subtle perfume drifting on the late February breeze. Max was a grown man, and whilst puzzling his present predicament she wagered he would outrun and fox his pursuers by leading them in one direction and thence back-track by a differing route.
Cheeks and nose chilled, the weight of her skirts cumbersome she dared not let them fall to the floor else the velvet fabric would draw moisture and collect mud from the path. Nonetheless it was a glorious sunny day, the first sunny day in four and she had it in mind to press a few dillies, and likewise primroses to frame behind glass at a later date. It would be a little bit of Harcourt Estate she could take with her upon relocating to Leigh House.
Once she was in the Avon vale she would have to acquaint herself with the local fraternity and church was a good starting place for meeting people and learning who was who in the general run of any locale. The local parson and his wife were always a good source all things rudimentary needs such as a farrier, the nearest wheelwright, whether there was a local cobbler. Whilst resident servants would know these things, it was a social grace to invite the parson for tea soonest rather than let him call unannounced at a time that might well prove inconvenient, albeit at his leisure.
She supposed the first few weeks would be frenetic with settling in, and she had no impression of Leigh House, its structure, it layout, nor its furnished state. She would miss the servants at Harcourt, the majority known for a long while, some since childhood and now almost in their dotage and due retirement. But she would be taking Meg, her trusted maidservant, and the senior footman Parfitt. Both were broadminded individuals, and of the utmost discretion all things the mistress.
Indeed, quite overrun with thoughts of a new home, and to some extent, a new life, the sound of horse’s hooves thundering from behind drew her from reverie. Spinning on her heels and seeing the advancing officer in blue, her heart dived. Oh lordy, he had either guessed she was acquainted with Max Casarotto, or was genuinely retreating the way he had formerly ridden across the estate.
On drawing closer he reined back from the canter to trot, and finally rode close at the walk; his former leisurely countenance given to a friendly if guarded smile. “May I be of assistance in your remounting the horse, ma’am? I should have offered beforehand, but the thrill of the chase and all rather stole my manners. I apologise, most humbly.”
Before she could put forth her preference to continue her stroll, in one liquid smooth transition of muscled legs, pert rump, and broad shoulders, he was out of the saddle and towering over her.
“That’s very kind of you to stop and offer a helping hand, and you are—”
He bowed. “Major Fitzwilliam,” replied he, his blue eyes raking her overall appearance, in particular eyeing below her raised skirts to a little leg no doubt showing above her ankle boots.
“Well major, I confess it is a tad tiresome trying to keep oneself free of mud recently churned by horses at gamely speed, and on private property at that.”
“My apologies for that too, though my lieutenant had every reason to give chase after that damnable rake, Count Casarotto.”
Sensing he had name-dropped to ascertain the slightest implication she was familiar with Max, she would not fall foul to that ploy. “Oh, then you are acquainted with the man, and what had he done to cause three soldiers to give chase?”
“A long story ma’am, suffice to say the lieutenant’s sister is beside herself with heartfelt shame.”
Oh lordy, what had Max done? “Shame?”
“The young chit is an outrageous flirt, and methinks she had it in mind to ensnare Casarotto, and well, therein doth lay the problem, for the count set to in vigorous denial she was bearing his child. Hence Lieutenant Michael Fanshawe challenged the count to a duel on the morrow, and the bounder reined his horse about and bolted, thus the chase.”
Desperate in trying to maintain sense of calm indifference to the major’s statement, and true enough, she had no lasting claim on Max, nor he on her, it was difficult to imagine he had in any way fallen foul of begetting a young miss with child.
“Ah, I see. Well, the poor girl must be beside herself with worry.”
“Indeed ma’am. And Casarotto’s chosen route across this estate led me to assume you were probably acquainted with the damnably arrogant fellow. His familiarity with the lie of the land seemed astoundingly accurate.”
“Even if I and the count were acquainted I fail to see how I could in any way assist the lieutenant in pinning him to a dual.”
“No, ma’am, that is for Lieutenant Fanshawe to achieve, but assistance in knowing where Casarotto may be heading would help in running him to ground. I’ll lay a wager he has by now eluded his pursuers and seemingly vanished on hard ground. I perceive that would likely be a private carriageway.”
“Indeed, he may well have taken to the long winding carriageway that leads from the house to the byway,” said she, aware if Max had fled that way, he would have passed her by on the opposite side of the river: therefore he had already out-foxed his pursuers.
“As maybe; now, can I help you mount, and may I escort you home?” said the major, arrestingly blue and predatory eyes levelled on hers. “I feel it my duty to do so, after having delayed your search for a suitable place to remount.”
“Indeed, I would be most appreciative of a foot up.”
Catching up Maverick’s reins he led the grey gelding forward, and having noted his placid nature, he left the reins to withers, turned, placed his hands about her waist and hefted her to the saddle. Quite the gentleman he held out his hands for the daffodils and placed them aside from the horses and immediately presented her left foot to the stirrup as though well practised in the skill of assisting ladies to saddles. He thence stepped back to retrieve her pickings, whilst she settled her right leg comfortably between the pommels. On striding to his horse flowers in hand he drew forth a handkerchief from pocket and wrapped it around the stems before remounting his steed.
As soon as ready to set off, she was somewhat amused by the major’s generous act of carrying her flowers, albeit wrapped in the kerchief to prevent the juices from the stems depositing a stain to his breeches. And she was further amused by Max’s flight, and the fact that if he had evaded the pursuing troopers he would sweat blood on seeing the major riding with her, or on hearing his voice upon entry to the house.
“You must take tea with me, major.”
“Obliged ma’am,” said he, his eyes levelling on hers in a most delightful way.
If she was not mistaken, the major was inciting a little flirting. Well in that she could oblige, as much to distract him from thoughts of Max, as to see if his gambit was purely motivated by Max’s supposed ill-deed, or whether his return ride had more to do with personal interest in her. If truly honest with herself, the major’s touch had set her pulse racing.
Had something sparked between them, or was it the lonely girl within desperate for love and affection that could never be hers?

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Author asides and historical accuracy: The word tad (tiny) drew forth a comment within a book review claiming the word tad is 20th century word. That claim is inaccurate and means the word was first recorded within a 19th-20th century dictionary, the 19th century being that of the 1800s, when the majority of dictionaries as we know them today came to fruition for standardised literary learning. That little word tad can be seen in Shakespeare plays, its abbreviation is short for something tadpole small (a measure), an expression meaning very "tiny", a "smidgen", a "speck" of dust as relevant to very small!

 There were early word lists that were very scant, not comprehensive dictionaries, such as: 
The first book generally regarded as the first English dictionary was written by Robert Cawdrey, a schoolmaster and former Church of England clergyman in 1604. Cawdrey made use of word lists published earlier in educational texts. As seen throughout history, words were long in use before the 1800s and the coming of dictionaires.  

quote Wiki: Noah Webster (1758–1843), the author of the readers and spelling books which dominated the American market at the time, spent decades of research in compiling his dictionaries. His first dictionary, A Compendious Dictionary of the English Language, appeared in 1806..    

quote Wiki: The Oxford English Dictionary (OED) is the main historical dictionary of theEnglish language, published by the Oxford University Press. ... In 1895, the title The Oxford English Dictionary (OED) was first used unofficially on the covers of the series, and in 1928 the full dictionary was republished in ten bound volumes.