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Authors: Elaine Young
The Mistress of Black Grove Manor
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Table of Contents
The Mistress of Black Grove Manor
In Love With a Preacher’s Daughter
A New Love Baby Daddy Next Door
Not Just Another Soul Mate Book
Knocked Up by The Navy Shifter
The Highlander’s English Princess
Betrothed and in Love with a Commoner
In Love with the Wrong Brother
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The Mistress of Black Grove Manor
By: Elaine Young
Chapter One
58 Harrogate Road is home to Mrs. Wharton’s Ladies Residence. A far too elegant name for a tumbledown boarding house on the lower East side of London. The London Society for Improving the Condition of the Laboring Classes had thrice visited and usually found it up to code. For three shillings a week, a woman could find a place to lay her head.
There were four bedrooms and an attic for let. The rooms were small, each holding two to three beds with straw mattresses. Each room had a window that let in a thick, heavy breeze laden with soot and city scents. Even so, the women ran washing lines from one side of the room to the other. The landlady, Mrs. Wharton, was a robust middle-aged widower with a heart as large as her waistline.
The girls at Mrs. Wharton’s Ladies Residence were eagerly anticipating the postman’s arrival. Gathered in the sitting room were Imogen Nelson and Rebecca Sewell. It was rare to see these two parted. Imogen was artistic and bookish preferring her own company to that of others. She came from the Canfield Abbey and was still adjusting to life in London. Rebecca was the polar opposite, she was a wonderment of energy and utterly fearless. Her red hair suited her. The girls had become thick as thieves upon becoming flat mates.
“I see him,” cried out Rebecca, “He’s rounding the corner by the butcher.” Her copper curls bounced across her shoulders as she hurried to the front door. Imogen was close behind, “We shouldn’t run. We will frighten the poor man.”
A knock on the door brought them to attention. Rebecca’s hand was immediately slapped away by Mrs. Wharton before she could reach the handle.
“Ladies of substance are never to answer the door. We have had this discussion several times, Rebecca, and yet here you stand ready to throw open the latch on the first knock.”
Rebecca lowered her head, “Yes Mum, we have.” Her eye caught Imogen’s, a sly smile crept up her cheek.
A second knock on the door interrupted Mrs. Wharton. “Good Lord,” she spun around and unlatched the door. “Are you without a modicum of patience sir?”
The postman unfazed by her harsh tone and solemn features tipped his hat and handed her a packet of letters.
“Good day Mum,” he winked at Rebecca before turning towards the street, “and ladies.”
The girls were close behind Mrs. Wharton as she moved to the drawing room and took a seat in an overstuffed chair in front of the lace-curtained window. She often commented on how the light in this room was most forgiving to one’s complexion. The girls sat quietly on the settee as Mrs. Wharton shuffled through the post stopping on a large manila envelope. She opened it and skimmed its contents. After what seemed like an eternity to the impatient girls, Mrs. Wharton looked up.
“Mum?” Rebecca had been waiting for the postman all week, now her excitement was turning to worry.
“There is nothing for you Rebecca,” she paused. “I need to speak with Imogen.” Rebecca was surprised by Mrs. Wharton’s flat tone.
“But I was…I’ve been waiting…”
Mrs. Wharton walked to the door of the drawing-room, “Rebecca, you would serve yourself well by closing your jaw before you trip over it.” With an indignant sigh, a very confused Rebecca exited the drawing room. Imogen wasn’t sure what was more confusing to her, the fact that there was nothing for Rebecca, who normally received a least three invitations a week or Mrs. Wharton’s ominous tone.
“A letter has arrived for you. It is from Hill and Hollow Law Offices.”
“Hill and Hollow?”
“Hush child,” Mrs. Wharton cautioned as she pulled down her reading glasses and examined the letter in her hand. “Give me a tick to gather my thoughts.” After some minutes, Mrs. Wharton placed her glasses on top of the papers on her lap.
“I’m going to explain this to you as best I can.” She cleared her throat before continuing, “You will be leaving us…”
“Leaving…? Mrs. Wharton stopped her mid-sentence.
“Tut…tut, let me explain the matter first, according to the solicitor, you are being sent to stay with your benefactor, Sir Jonathon Braywick of Black Grove.”
“Sent away?” she spat out the words as if they had stung her tongue.
“Imogen, I appreciate this news is rather shocking, but I must insist you allow me to explain your situation. It seems that you have come into an inheritance. However, a codicil of the will states you are unable to take possession until you turn twenty-one. This letter is addressed to you directly,” Mrs. Wharton handed a letter to the stunned Imogen.
“A solicitor, Mr. Ellcroft, has indicated that he will visit us tomorrow for tea. I am confident that he will be able to answer all your questions. Don’t worry dear, we will get this sorted.” With a rustle of silk, Mrs. Wharton left Imogen to read her letter in private. She pulled up the wax seal on the envelope and unfolded its contents.
Dearest Imogen,
It is with great anticipation that I look forward to your arrival.
I trust that the Hill and Hollow solicitors have been able to settle any hesitations or concerns you may have had in this matter.
With Sincere Regard
Jonathon Braywick
Imogen slid the letter back into its sheath. Her mind was racing in a hundred different directions. Inheritance? Who is Sir Jonathon Braywick? None of it made any sense to her. She had grown up in a rural parsonage with her Aunt Nora, who was Nanny to the Vicar of Canfield’s children.
This letter was going to change everything. Tucking it into her pocket, she made her way out of the drawing room into an onslaught of questions from Rebecca.
“Imogen, are you alright? You are pale as a ghost.”
“I’m fine Becky, thank you.”
As much as she wanted to run up to her cramped attic room and hide, Imogen knew it was best to face it now, or Rebecca would be nattering at her all evening. She enjoyed her cloistered attic existence, choosing not to entangle herself in the drama of a boarding house full of young women. Rebecca, however, was the single exception to that rule with her flaming hair and ready smile, she could charm even the weariest of people. With her hand in Rebecca’s, Imogen followed outside to the back garden.
“You are not fine in the least madam; now tell me the news.”
“The news is beyond dreadful.”
Imogen felt her face flush and throat tighten. The shock was beginning to settle in. The garden walls closing in on her with each breath.
“I don’t know where to start,” began Imogen, “it’s all so strange.”
“How about we start at the beginning. That’s always a good place.”
Imogen reached in her pocket and handed Rebecca the letter. “I’m being sent to live with this person.” Rebecca opened it with great interest and read its contents.
“What? Leaving us?” Rebecca could feel Imogen tighten up. “I’m so sorry love, I’m thinking of myself, and you must be frightened to the bone,” she draped her arm around Imogen’s shoulders. It was an unexpected yet appreciated gesture as she was feeling very alone and anxious.
“I need to rest and reconcile this. Becky can you let Mrs. Wharton know I won’t be having dinner.”
“Are you sure? Something warm in your belly will help you sleep better. My mother always said, ‘full belly = empty mind.’ You can’t worry on a full stomach.”
“It is a lovely notion Becky, and as much as I would relish having a quiet mind this evening, I don’t think my thoughts will be chased away by Mrs. Wharton’s beef stew.”
“Why not? It chases the rats away.”
The seriousness of the occasion was subdued with giggles.
“Becky you must promise to keep this a secret. I hardly know myself what is happening, I can’t bear the whole house speculating.”
“Of course Gennie, of course,” Becky smiled, “Your secret is safe.”
Even though the promise was made, Imogen knew it would be impossible for Rebecca to keep a secret this salacious. Imogen returned to the rooming house and walked past the hens gathered in the drawing room. She could feel their eyes on her. As her foot hit the first step on the stairs, she knew they would all be clucking about her letter and Sir Jonathon Braywick before she reached the top of the landing.
