Mrs. Foxglove looked so befuddled that Ellie wanted to whoop with delight.
“Well, whatever the case,” the older woman said pointedly, “such bizarre behavior will never land you a husband.”
“How did we come to be on this topic?” Ellie muttered, thinking that the subject of marriage had come up entirely too often that day.
“You are three and twenty,” Mrs. Foxglove continued. “A spinster, to be sure, but we might be able to find a man who would deign to take you.”
Ellie ignored her. “Is my father home?”
“He is out performing his calls, and asked me to remain here in the event any parishioners decide to visit.”
“He left you in charge?”
“I will be his wife in two months.” Mrs. Foxglove preened and smoothed down her puce-colored skirts. “I have a position in society I must uphold.”
Ellie muttered some unintelligible phrases under her breath. She was afraid that if she actually allowed herself to form words, she'd do far far worse than taking the Lord's name in vain. She exhaled slowly and tried to smile. “If you'll excuse me, Mrs. Foxglove, I find I am most weary. I believe I will retire to my room.”
A pudgy hand landed on her shoulder. “Not so fast, Eleanor.”
Ellie turned around. Was Mrs. Foxglove threatening her? “I beg your pardon.”
“We have some matters to discuss. I thought that this evening might be a good time. While your father is gone.”
“What could we possibly have to discuss that we could not say in front of Papa?”
“This concerns your position in my household.”
Ellie's mouth fell open. “My position in your household?”
“When I marry the good reverend, this will be my home, and I will manage it as I see fit.”
Ellie suddenly felt ill.
“Do not think that you may live off my bounty,” Mrs. Foxglove continued.
Ellie didn't move for fear that she'd strangle her future stepmother.
“If you do not marry and leave, you will have to earn your keep,” said Mrs. Foxglove.
“Are you insinuating that I must earn my keep in some other way than I am currently earning it?” Ellie thought about all of the chores she performed for her father and his parish. She cooked him three meals a day. She brought food to the poor. She even polished the pews in his church. No one could say that she did not earn her keep.
But Mrs. Foxglove clearly did not share her opinion on the matter, because she rolled her eyes and said, “You live off of your father's largesse. He is entirely too indulgent with you.”
Ellie's eyes bugged out. One thing the Reverend Mr. Lyndon had never been called was indulgent. He had once tied up her older sister to prevent her from marrying the man she loved. Ellie cleared her throat in yet another attempt to control her temper. “What exactly do you wish me to do, Mrs. Foxglove?”
“I have inspected the house and prepared a list of chores.”
Mrs. Foxglove handed Ellie a slip of paper. Ellie looked down, read the lines, and choked on her fury. “You want me to clean out the chimney?!?”
“It is wasteful for us to spend money on a chimney sweep when you can do it.”
“Don't you think I am a bit too large for such a task?”
“That is another matter. You eat too much.”
“What?” Ellie shrieked.
“Food is dear.”
“Half of the parishioners pay their tithe in kind,” Ellie said, shaking with anger. “We may be short of many things, but never food.”
“If you don't like my rules,” Mrs. Foxglove said, “You can always marry and leave the house.”
Ellie knew why Mrs. Foxglove was so determined to see her gone. She was probably one of those women who could not tolerate anything less than absolute authority in her household. And Ellie, who had been managing her father's affairs for years, would be in the way.
Ellie wondered what the old biddy would say if she were to tell her that she'd received a proposal of marriage just that afternoon. And from an earl, no less. Ellie planted her hands on her hips, ready to give her father's fiancée the blistering setdown she'd been holding in for what seemed like an unbearable length of time, when Mrs. Foxglove held out another slip of paper.
“What's this?” Ellie snapped.
“I have taken the liberty of making a list of eligible bachelors in the district.”
Ellie snorted. This she had to see. She unfolded the paper and looked down. Without lifting her eyes back up, she said, “Richard Parrish is engaged.”
“Not according to my sources.”
Mrs. Foxglove was the worst gossip in Bellfield, so Ellie was inclined to believe her. Not that it made a difference. Richard Parrish was stout and had bad breath. She read on and choked. “George Millerton is past sixty.”
Mrs. Foxglove sniffed disdainfully. “You are not in a position to be choosy about such a trivial matter.”
The next three names on the list belonged to equally elderly men, one of whom was downright mean. Rumor had it that Anthony Ponsoby had beaten his first wife. There was no way that Ellie was going to shackle herself to a man who thought that marital communication was best conducted with a stick.
“Good God!” Ellie exclaimed as her eyes traveled down to the second-to-last name on the list. “Robert Beechcombe cannot be a day over fifteen. What were you thinking?”
Mrs. Foxglove was about to respond, but Ellie interrupted her. “Billy Watson!” she shrieked. “He is not right in the head. Everybody knows that. How dare you try to marry me off to someone like him!”
“As I said, a woman in your position cannot—”
“Don't say it,” Ellie cut in, her entire body shaking with rage. “Don't say a word.”
Mrs. Foxglove smirked. “You cannot speak to me like that in my home.”
“It isn't your home yet, you old bag,” Ellie bit out.
Mrs. Foxglove lurched backward. “Well, I never!”
“And I have never been moved to violence,” Ellie fumed, “but I am always willing to try a new experience.” She grabbed Mrs. Foxglove's collar and pushed her out the door.
“You will be sorry you did this!” Mrs. Foxglove yelled from the walkway.
“I will never be sorry,” Ellie returned. “Never!”
She slammed the door and threw herself on the sofa. There was no doubt about it. She was going to have to find a way to escape her father's household. The Earl of Billington's face danced in her head, but she pushed it aside. She wasn't so desperate that she had to marry a man she'd scarcely met. Surely there had to be some other way.
By the next morning, Ellie had devised a plan. She wasn't as helpless as Mrs. Foxglove would like to believe. She had a bit of money tucked away. It wasn't a vast sum, but it was enough to support a woman of modest taste and frugal nature.
Ellie had put the money in a bank years ago but had been dissatisfied with the paltry rate of interest. So she took to reading the London Times, making special note of items relating to the world of business and commerce. When she felt she had a comprehensive knowledge of the 'change, she went to a solicitor to handle her funds. She had to do it under her father's name, of course. No solicitor would handle money on the behalf of a young woman, especially one who was investing without the knowledge of her father. So she traveled several towns away, found Mr. Tibbett, a solicitor who did not know of the Reverend Mr. Lyndon, and told him that her father was a recluse. Mr. Tibbett worked with a broker in London, and Ellie's nest egg grew and grew.
It was time to draw on those funds. She had no other choice. Living with Mrs. Foxglove as her step-mother would be intolerable. The money could support her until her sister Victoria returned from her extended holiday on the continent. Victoria's new husband was a wealthy earl, and Ellie had no doubt that they would be able to help her find a position in society—perhaps as a governess, or a companion.
Ellie rode a public coach to Faversham, made her way to the offices of Tibbett
& Hurley, and waited her turn to see Mr. Tibbett. After ten minutes, his secretary ushered her in.
Mr. Tibbett, a portly man with a large mustache, rose when she entered. “Good day, Miss Lyndon,” he said. “Have you come with more instructions from your father? I must say, it is a pleasure to do business with a man who pays such close attention to his investments.”
Ellie smiled tightly, hating that her father received all of the credit for her business acumen but knowing that there was no other way. “Not precisely, Mr. Tibbett. I have come to withdraw some of my funds. One-half, to be precise.” Ellie wasn't certain how much it would cost to lease a small house in a respectable section of London, but she had close to 300 pounds stashed away, and she thought that 150 would do nicely.
“Certainly,” Mr. Tibbett agreed. “I will simply need your father to come here in person to release the funds.”
Ellie gasped. “I beg your pardon.”
“At Tibbett & Hurley, we pride ourselves on our scrupulous business practices. I could not possibly release the funds into anyone's hands but your father's.”
“But I have been conducting business with you for years,” Ellie protested. “My name is on the account as a codepositor!”
“A codepositor. Your father is the primary holder.”
Ellie swallowed convulsively. “My father is a recluse. You know that. He never leaves the house. How can I get him to come here?”
Mr. Tibbett shrugged his shoulders. “I will be happy to come out to visit him.”
“No, that will not be possible,” Ellie said, aware that her voice was growing shrill. “He gets most nervous around strangers. Most nervous. His heart, you know. I really couldn't risk it.”
“Then I will need written instructions with his signature attached.”
Ellie sighed in relief. She could forge her father's signature in her sleep.
“And I will need these instructions witnessed by another upstanding citizen.” Mr. Tibbett's eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You do not qualify as a witness.”
“Very well, I will find—”
“I am acquainted with the magistrate in Bellfield. You may obtain his signature as a witness.”
Ellie's heart sank. She also knew the magistrate, and she knew that there would be no way to get his signature on that vital piece of paper unless he actually witnessed her father write out the instructions. “Very well, Mr. Tibbett,” she said, her voice catching in her throat. “I will—I will see what I can do.”
She hurried out of the office, pressing a handkerchief up to her face to hide her frustrated tears. She felt like a cornered animal. There was no way she was going to be able to get her money from Mr. Tibbett. And Victoria wasn't due back from the continent for several months. Ellie supposed she could throw herself on the mercy of Victoria's father-in-law, the Marquess of Castleford, but she wasn't at all certain that he would be any more amiable to her presence than Mrs. Foxglove. The marquess didn't much like Victoria; Ellie could only imagine how he'd feel about her sister.
Ellie wandered aimlessly through Faversham, trying to gather her thoughts. She had always considered herself a practical sort of female, one who could rely on a sharp brain and a quick wit. She had never dreamed that she might someday find herself in a situation she couldn't talk her way out of.
And now she was stuck in Faversham, twenty miles away from a home she didn't even want to go back to. With no options except—
Ellie shook her head. She was not going to consider taking the Earl of Billington up on his offer.
The face of Sally Foxglove loomed in her mind. Then that awful face started talking about chimneys, and spinsters who ought to be and act grateful for anything and everything. The earl started looking better and better.
Not, Ellie had to admit to herself, that he had ever looked bad to begin with, if one was going to take the word “look” in its literal sense. He was sinfully handsome, and she had a feeling he knew it. That, she reasoned, should be a black mark against him. He was most likely conceited. He would probably keep scores of mistresses. She couldn't imagine he'd find it difficult to gain the attentions of all sorts of females, respectable and otherwise.
“Ha!” she said aloud, then looked this way and that to see if anyone had heard her. The blasted man probably had to beat women away with a stick. She certainly didn't want to deal with a husband with those kinds of “problems.”
Then again, it wasn't as if she were in love with the fellow. She might be able to get used to the idea of an unfaithful husband. It went against everything she stood for, but the alternative was a life with Sally Foxglove, which was too horrifying to contemplate.
Ellie tapped her toe as she thought. Wycombe Abbey wasn't so very far away. If she remembered correctly, it was situated on the north Kent coast, just a mile or two away. She could easily walk the distance. Not that she was planning to blindly accept the earl's proposal, but maybe they could discuss the matter a bit. Maybe they could reach an agreement with which she could be happy.
Her mind made up, Ellie lifted her chin and began walking north. She tried to keep her mind busy by guessing how many steps it would take to reach a landmark ahead. Fifty paces to the large tree. Seventy-two to the abandoned cottage. Forty to the—
Oh, blast! Was that a raindrop? Ellie wiped the water from her nose and looked up. The clouds were gathering, and if she weren't such a practical woman, she would swear that they were congregating directly over her head.
She let out a sound that one could only call a growl and trudged onward, trying not to curse when another raindrop smacked her on the cheek. And then another pelted her shoulder, and another, and another, and—
Ellie shook her fist at the sky. “Somebody up there is deuced mad at me,” she yelled, “and I want to know why!”
The heavens opened in earnest and within seconds she was soaked to the skin.
“Remind me never to question Your purposes again,” she muttered ungraciously, not sounding particularly like the God-fearing young lady her father had raised her to be. “Clearly You don't like to be second-guessed.”
Lightning streaked through the sky, followed by a booming clap of thunder. Ellie jumped nearly a foot. What was it that her sister's husband had told her so many years ago? The closer the thunder follows the lightning, the closer the lightning is to oneself? Robert had always been of a scientific bent; Ellie was inclined to believe him on this measure.
She took off at a run. Then, after her lungs threatened to explode, she slowed down to a trot. After a minute or two of that, however, she settled into a brisk walk. After all, she wasn't likely to get any wetter than she was already.
Thunder pounded again, causing Ellie to jump and trip over a tree root, landing in the mud. “Damn!” she grunted, probably her first verbal use of the word in her life. If ever there was a time to begin the habit of cursing, however, it was now.
She staggered to her feet and looked up, rain pelting her face. Her bonnet sagged against her eyes, blocking her vision. She yanked it off, looked at the sky, and yelled, “I am not amused!”
More lightning.
“They are all against me,” she muttered, starting to feel just a little bit irrational. “All of them.” Her father, Sally Foxglove, Mr. Tibbett, whoever it was who controlled the weather—
More thunder.
Ellie gritted her teeth and moved onward. Finally, an old stone behemoth of a building loomed over the horizon. She'd never seen Wycombe Abbey in person, but she'd seen a pen and ink drawing of it for sale in Bellfield. Relief finally settling within her, she made her way to the front door and knocked.
A liveried servant answered her summons and gave her an extremely condescending look.
“I-I'm here t-to see the earl,” Ellie said, teeth chattering.
“Servants' interviews are conducted by the house-keeper,” the butler replied. “Use the rear entrance.”
He started to shut the door but Ellie managed to jam her foot in the opening. “Noooo!”
she yelled, somehow sensing that if she let that door shut in her face she would be condemned forever to a life of cold gruel and dirty chimneys.
“Madam, remove your foot.”
“Not in this lifetime,” Ellie shot back, squeezing her elbow and shoulder inside. “I'll see the earl, and—”
“The earl doesn't associate with your kind.”
“My kind?!” Ellie shrieked. Really, this was beyond tolerable. She was cold, wet, unable to get her hands on money that was rightfully hers, and now some puffed-up butler was calling her a prostitute? “You let me in this instant! It's raining out here.”
“I see that.”
“You fiend,” she hissed. “When I see the earl, he'll—”
“I say, Rosejack, what the devil is all this commotion?”
Ellie nearly melted with relief at the sound of Billington's voice. In fact, she would have melted with relief if she weren't so certain that any sort of softening on her part would prompt the butler to squeeze her out of the doorway.
“There is a creature on the doorstep,” Rosejack replied. “It refuses to budge.”
“I'm a ‘she,’ you cretin!” Ellie used the fist she'd managed to wedge inside the house to bat him in the back of the head.
“For the love of God,” Charles said, “Just open the door and let her in.”
Rosejack whipped open the door and Ellie tumbled in, feeling very much like a wet rat amidst such splendidly opulent surroundings. There were beautiful rugs on the floors, a painting on the wall that she would swear had been done by Rembrandt, and that vase that she'd knocked over as she fell down—well, she had a sick feeling that it had been imported from China.
She looked up, desperately trying to peel the wet locks of hair from her face. Charles looked handsome, amused, and disgustingly dry. “My lord?” she gasped, barely able to find her voice. She sounded decidedly unlike herself, raspy and hoarse from her arguments with God and the butler.
Charles blinked as he regarded her. “I beg your pardon, madam,” he said. “Have we met?”
Chapter 3