An Untitled Lady
Authors: Nicky Penttila
A NOVEL
An Untitled Lady
Nicky Penttila
Copyright © 2015 by
Nicky Penttila
All rights reserved. Where such permission is sufficient, the author grants the right to strip any DRM which may be applied to this work.
www.nickypenttila.com
First electronic edition published in December 2013 by Musa Publishing
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Book Layout © 2014 BookDesignTemplates.com
To John
CONTENTS
Manchester 1819
Nash first saw her as an apparition, a gilt London trinket set down by mistake at a dusty crossroads three miles north of town. A straw bonnet atop a traveling suit of thick French silk perched on the largest of those seven mismatched trunks he’d later had to find space for in his life. But on that odd, chill May afternoon, he’d needed to make room for them only in his wagon.
“Lost your carriage, miss?”
The green of her too-wide eyes seemed to drink him in, but the corner of her too-full lips puckered down. Did his coat not meet her standards? It was good Manchester cotton, but cut for comfort, not frills. Or was it his ill-behaved hair, far too curly for this humidity? He broke her gaze to check the skies. Rain, but a half-hour away yet. Served her right to get sodden through, if she looked so askance at a worthy mode of transport.
“The letter said the stage should drop me here, and someone from the castle would fetch me.” She looked up the track, the document clutched in her glove, hope drooping like her forlorn skirt.
That decided him. Fine-drawn females should not loiter in the fields alone, especially not in these times. “And here I am,” he said, casting a leg over the side of the wagon to climb down from its seat.
She stood, an alert little rabbit, mouth twitching. Slimmer than he thought, and chin height at the most. “But you come from town,” she said.
“Aye, and I’m not a fancy carriage, but I’m going the right direction. You’ve been waiting these five hours or more, if you took the daily coach. Shall I leave you, and trust someone else to divine your presence? Or do you dare take advantage of one of the few conveyances that can readily carry all this baggage?”
She rocked back on her heels and swung her arms up. He was sure she was going to slap them onto her hips, but the lady’s training caught her, and she hesitated, dropping her hands into the pose of a prim schoolteacher instead. First point to her, then. He could fight fair.
“How far to the castle?”
“Straight, not three miles. In or out?”
She released her hands with the same tiny gesture of surrender he’d seen French sailors use after he’d boarded their ship. Even score.
She gave him wide berth, but wasn’t above taking one handle of the largest box. Together, they hefted it into the wagon, pushing his cargo to either side. The paper wrap had torn on one of the bolts of cloth, showing a swath of dark blue. She reached for it, stroking, as if she couldn’t help it.
“Is this silk?”
“Frenchie trade. Like what you’re wearing.”
She snatched her hand away. “You sound as if you disapprove.”
“Bad bargain on my part.” Nearly a fatal one, for his fledgling trading company. “Mancunians prefer local-made silks. And they’ll look sidewise at the likes of you, too, half-mourning or no. Is that all that’s in here?” He slapped a palm on the nearest trunk.
“Everyone in Bath buys their fabrics from France. We’re not at war. And it’s better quality.”
“You’re behind the times, miss. Manchester matches their best, and beats it.”
“So says the man of sales.” She followed him to the front of the wagon and held her hand out for him to help her up to the bench. Then she saw the anger on his face, and put her hand on her chest instead.
He forced his mouth into a grimace of a smile and willed his tone to be light. “I may be a lowly man of business, sure, but I also serve for a magistrate for this town. And I was born to Shaftsbury.”
“Then it’s welcome home for you, as well.” She used the bench for a hand-hold, fortunately for him, as he was shocked to a standstill. He never called that bloody dungeon of a castle home. Why had he now? And what did she mean, “as well?” He didn’t know her, and she would be hard to forget. Before he’d gained his seat, she’d already changed the topic.
“You are fortunate the Quinns will take your silks, then.”
He tugged the reins a bit too hard, and his pair lurched into motion. Her shoulders swung back, her hands reaching past her hips to the wood of the seat to hold her steady. Served her right, her smelling like sunlight on grass, yet biting sharp as any asp.
A gently bred lady, with no companion, traveling to Shaftsbury. He knew of no poor relations, in Bath nor any place else. She didn’t appear a lightskirt, not with those trunks. Nor a servant, with those cultured accents and pretty manners. Now she sat as if on a church pew, hands folded, yet her feet were braced wide, one on the side of the board, the other against his foot.
“You’re the new housekeeper?”
She glanced at him, eyes narrowed, mouth cool. “Shaftsbury lacks one?” But she quickly looked down at her gloved hands, one still mauling that letter of hers. He felt a bumpkin, snapping at some lost girl merely because he could not snap at those who better deserved it.
“I’m sorry we haven’t been introduced. I’m Nash Quinn.”
She looked up at him, eyes wide. Cat’s eyes, he decided, and the lips, turning up into the first smile he’d seen all day, a blooded rose.
“I am so relieved. I mean, your face, your hands, your hair. Just like your father.” She stopped short, her smile falling away.
Nash concentrated with effort on the too-familiar track. He couldn’t look at her. She’d thought him born on the wrong side of the blanket? Well, why wouldn’t she? An earl’s son in trade? It might have been better if he were a bastard.
“You knew the old earl?”
“I am sorry for your loss. He was a good man.” Her mellow alto softened further, as if she believed it.
He might debate that, but for the moment he let it go. “How did you meet?”
“He was my godfather. My name is Madeline Wetherby.”
“The little lost Wetherby?” He’d heard vague tales whispered of a blond child spirited away in dark of night.
“I could as easily call you the little lost Quinn. Your fa—” She stopped herself.
“My father did.”
“I apologize for my rudeness.”
“You’d as well apologize for your dropped R’s and Southern speech. As well as your silks. You may have been born here, Miss Wetherby, but you don’t belong here.” Truly, on this cart, in this country, she looked as out of place as a dove at a cockfight.
Trying not to look at her and failing, he couldn’t help but see the glint of moisture at the corner of her eye. He was a cad, just as his brother Deacon, the new earl, always said. “Don’t. You know you’ll need tannery skin to survive the castle.”
“Your father was the one who wrote to tell me to come today. But he isn’t here.”
“It’s him you’re mourning? Deacon will make you welcome, no doubt. He has to. This blasted affair, begging your pardon, it’s all for him. The grand summoning.”
“How many are invited?” She pretended to flick a dust speck from her eye. He felt his chest ease.
“Eight or ten, I believe. But it’s quality that counts. Well, nearly. The illustrious head of your house is expected, our Lord Wetherby.”
He couldn’t pretend not to hear her gasp, or see her shoulders hunch, as if warding off a blow. “Not a favorite, Miss Wetherby? Can’t say I like him, either. But he’s Deacon’s best beau, so fair warning.”
“Your own speech is an interesting combination of cant and King’s English.”
He snorted. “It’s not me you’re wanting to fight, little lost Wetherby.”
She pursed her lips. “My shining knight in dull loom-spun.”
All he could come up with was a repetition. “Save it for the castle.”
Point and match to the lady.
* * * *
Madeline Wetherby refused to admit the idea that this might not be the happiest day of her life. Wasn’t she here, in the storied Shaftsbury Castle, in the finest guest bedroom in the family wing? Hadn’t the butler assured her that she was, indeed, expected? And didn’t his master’s letter promise her the world—or at least a decent family to belong to, at long last.
But thus far, nothing had gone to plan. The coach trip had taken more than the extra day she had allotted, her note confirming her arrival seemed to have gone astray, and Lady Shaftsbury was too busy preparing for supper to greet her. And here was Nash Quinn, safe and sound, not lost to the sea after all. Surely Lord Shaftsbury would have mentioned that piece of news.
Still, Maddie forced her face into a serene lady’s mask even as the poor maid labored to smooth out the tangles in her hair. What could account for the queasiness in her middle? Could there be such a thing as too much happiness? The cold stone air of the castle sidled under the flush of her overtired skin, and she found she wanted everything over and done. The smiling, the shouts of pleasure, even the meal, though she hadn’t eaten anything since morning.
And then tomorrow—tomorrow she would have a place, and a purpose, and the rest of her life secure. No more guessing what would please her betters. They would have to guess what would please her.
She shivered. The worry was worse than the thing itself, Headmistress Marsden always said. The north wind rattled the window’s panes as it passed into the chamber. The butler had assured her the new silk curtains, Mr. Nash’s delivery, would be up by nightfall.
What did that Nash Quinn mean—she had to be tanned leather to withstand the castle? Perhaps it was to guard against the chill; it couldn’t mean to withstand the company. Though it might well hold true for him, the prodigal son. Not for her, though. Lord Shaftsbury had promised.
She stood and took a last look in the dressing-room glass. The gray of half-mourning suited her better than unrelieved black, her color was high, and the maid had managed to collect her hair into a properly missish shape. Maddie nodded her thanks, reached for her shawl, and took herself out into the hall. She stepped purposefully through a minor labyrinth of rough-hewn stairs to the door of what the butler called the receiving room.
Mr. Quinn paced outside the door, pulling at his cuffs. He looked almost guilty, as if she’d caught him doing something he oughtn’t. His odd smile disarmed her.
“No nerves?”
He appeared the prosperous merchant, in charcoal trousers, a maroon silken coat over a simple buff shirt and classic cravat. Though they hadn’t started so well, it set her heart at ease a bit to see a somewhat familiar face.
“Perhaps,” she said.
“I know the feeling. But quickest started is soonest ended. What? Did I murder the line?”
“Not at all. I have a friend who is always saying that.” She accepted his bow and his hand, so still against her own palm’s buzzing blood.
She nodded, and at his signal the underservant opened the door for them. Maddie steeled her shoulders and stepped into her future.
The room, though, seemed to thrust her into the past. Gothic in its proportions and furnishings, its high post-and-panel ceiling dwarfed the two sets of people present. Dozens of wax candles fought the gloom to a draw. Even the tall windows gave no light. A storm was coming in.
“Mama first, or Deacon?” He smiled down at her as if he’d known her all his life.
Maddie released her death-grip on his hand, sheepish, but he did not release her entirely. “Lady Shaftsbury, if you please.”
But before they had taken more than a few steps across the theater-sized chamber toward the corner where a proper lady was holding court, a tall bit of flash and finery sauntered up to intercept them.
Mr. Quinn stopped, making the man come to them. “The golden boy.”
“The prodigal son.”
Deacon Quinn, eighth earl of Shaftsbury
, shimmered in a closely tailored suit coat of gold shot with silver. Fine china, much too great for daily use.
“I see we’re out of mourning.”
“Oh, I couldn’t wear that travail one more minute.” He turned away from them, his arm sweeping the room. “Look, everyone. Even sober Nash has brought a gift.”
“She’s no gift. She’s an invited guest. Same as all of us.”
The new earl, or rather Lord Shaftsbury, turned his gold-flecked gaze back to her. “Have we been introduced?”
Maddie stilled the hornet’s nest under her corset, and spoke as carefully and clearly as headmistress Marsden had taught her. “Small wonder my face is unfamiliar, My Lord. I last saw you when I was but four years old.”
“Oooh, a mystery. Can you solve it, fair Ellspeth?” The flame of the earl’s personality, or perhaps the lilt of his voice, had drawn a young miss to his side. Spectacled and tightly ringletted, she pursed her mouth in pretty confusion. The earl’s gaze slid toward the rafters, as if he were trying to pull a memory from the shadows.
“Stubble it, Deacon.” The cobalt blue of Mr. Quinn’s eyes darkened as he bit out the words.
“Temper, temper. You’ve made me lose my train of thought. It’s no good; we’ll simply have to begin again. Do me the honor, dear brother?”
Mr. Quinn skipped the first part of the introduction. “Deacon, this is Miss Madeline Wetherby.”
“Wetherby? Not the little lost Wetherby? A capital gift, indeed, on the occasion of my majority.” He paid her a most courtly bow, leavened by an infectious grin as lopsided as his brother’s.
She matched with a deep curtsey, and a tentative smile of her own. She wasn’t sure how to take this overgrown puppy of an earl. “I regret that your father didn’t live to see this day.”
