The Wicked Wager (32 page)

So the Blackthorn mansion stood bold and proud fighting the
onslaught of stinging rain while within its grey walls the dowager and her daughter,
Lady Anne Radclyff, sat huddled by the fire, wincing ever so delicately every
time the thunder roared. They did not discourse on appropriate topics but
awaited the arrival of our heroine, Miss Penelope Winifred Rose Spebbington
Fairweather, and this is where we begin our tale.

The dowager cast a worried glance at the door while Lady
Radclyff stared at the grandfather clock, willing its giant needles to move.

“She is late, mama.”

“She will be here soon enough.”

“Do you think she is dead?”

“Annie! She is not
that
late!”

“Yes, but she is coming all the way from that … that Finny
village. It has been raining all day and she refused our offer of a carriage.
The post chaise could have lodged itself in a pothole and overturned. I suppose
she is lying in some gully, blood pooling underneath her awkwardly twisted body
and not a soul in sight.”

“It’s Finnshire not Finny, and she has her maid with her.”

“Well, then the maid is dead too. The weight of the carriage
finished her off well before her mistress. Poor Miss Fairweather twitched and
trembled for eons, fighting for that last breath.”

“I will seriously contemplate your very vivid scenario if
Miss Fairweather does not arrive in the next five hours. Until then can we
converse like gently bred women? If your brother heard you speaking like this,
he would have you sent to the country for the next three seasons.”

“I am bored. I can’t go to the shops, drive or feel excited
about the season. Do you know that I attended one hundred and five balls last year
alone, and that does not count the dinners and tea parties?”

“Miss Fairweather would have loved to attend one hundred and
five balls last year. You have had the pleasure of three seasons, while the
poor dear has never been to anything but the village dance.”

“What do you think she is like? Have you ever met her?”

“I have not met her … but her mother and I attended the same
ladies academy. Her mother, Esther, was bright, full of life and laughter, and
if her daughter is anything like her…”

“Was?”

“She died giving birth to Miss Penelope Fairweather. Mr
Thomas Fairweather, Penelope’s father, married the vicar’s daughter Gertrude
within a year of Esther’s funeral. Gertrude went on to have five more children.
I initiated a correspondence with Gertrude to ensure that Esther’s daughter was
well looked after…”

“You couldn’t have the step mother drowning the child …”
Lady Radclyff interrupted.

“Anne! Miss Fairweather is not an unwanted kitten! Where was
I? Oh, yes, Gertrude writes to me often. Her letters are full of her children’s
antics. I feel as if I know them, “the dowager said dreamily. “I have imagined
them growing up. They used to wail all night and then they were falling off
apple trees …”

 “You are rambling again, Mama. I don’t care about Miss
Fairweather’s siblings. I want to know about
her
.”

“Why? You have never shown this much interest in any of my
other guests before.”

Lady Radclyff sucked on a lemon drop, her mouth pursing in
thought.

“The other guests were all the same. They say the same
things, they are brought up the same way, and they all wear the same clothes.
It is as if a single London lady and a
London
gentleman have been put into different moulds by God and recreated again and
again. I can predict what the replies to my questions will be. No one is
original. While Miss Fairweather sounds original.”

“Original?”

“I have never met a country bumpkin before.”

“Annie!”

“Well, it is true isn't it? How in the world are you going
to introduce her to polite society?”

“Esther, her mother, was very well mannered, a little
enthusiastic but still a lady. And I expect Gertrude has brought up her
stepdaughter correctly.”

“How many siblings does she have?”

“Five younger sisters.”

“Six girls and not enough money to pay for a season for even
one child. I think your friend would have had more to worry about than teaching
the girls how to curtsy and hold a fan.”

The dowager sipped her tea and didn't reply.

“So I am right!”

“No, I am sure Miss Fairweather knows the basics.”

“I can hear a but …?”

“Gertrude sounds as if she dotes on Miss Fairweather, yet
when I asked if I could sponsor Penelope’s season in London … her reply was a
little damp. She cautioned me against the idea …”

 “Is the girl dim?”

“No, Annie, the girl is not dim,” the dowager paused and
then added, “at least I hope not.”

Lady Radclyff smiled in triumph. “I cannot wait to meet
her.”

“You will be disappointed. The girl will be frightened and
will probably utter not a word on her first day here. Besides, I am not sure if
Gertrude is not biased. She is the stepmother, and I think she was reluctant to
send Esther’s child to me. I had the feeling she would rather I took
responsibility for one of her own. I can’t fault her for it, but I am worried
that Penelope has been denied her place.”

“Miss Penelope Fairweather,” said Lady Radclyff testing the
name aloud. “She will have red hair and black sparkling eyes … a witch with a
beauty that shall enthral the ton.”

“She will be mousy with brown hair and brown eyes, a
veritable wall flower,” the dowager replied.

“In any case she is dead now.”

“It is not even two hours since her intended arrival.”

 “I hope she is not dead. She is my only hope of
survival during the season.”

The dowager rolled her eyes and picked up her knitting. They
sat in silence, eyes straying every now and then to the ticking grandfather
clock. As the minutes went by, the dowager became worried and Lady Radclyff
more impatient.

“Shall I ring for some more tea?” Lady Radclyff finally
asked.

“As you wish,” the dowager replied, tossing aside her
knitting.

Lady Radclyff reached for the bell, but before she could
ring it the butler knocked and opened the door.

 “Miss Fairweather,” he announced.

“Send her in,” Lady Radclyff said, dropping the bell back in
its place.

A hesitant finger nudged the door open and then the rest of
Miss Fairweather entered the room. The dowager and Lady Radclyff inspected the
new comer with interest.

Miss Fairweather was not pretty nor could she ever be a
wallflower. She was rustic, a woodland creature with an aura of something fay.
She had brought the mist, rain and the storm with her into the drawing room of
the Blackthorn mansion.

She had brown hair and brown eyes, but that was the only
thing that matched the dowager’s prediction. Her dark wild hair defied the
multitude of pins stuck here and there. Her bonnet was askew and sat
precariously on her head threatening to topple at any moment. Her nose was
delicate, the very tip round and pink. Her chin was stubborn and her mouth
sensitive. Rebellious freckles dusted her flushed cheeks. Her alert, bright
eyes darted curiously about the room, the hand gripping her skirt the only
indication of her nervousness.

She wore a shapeless, mud splattered dress which made both
the women wince, but it was not the dress or the young lady’s appearance that
made Lady Radclyff squeal or the dowager scream in terror.

It was the goat that did it.

Miss Penelope Fairweather had bounded into the room followed
by a goat. A medium sized white goat with black hooves and a bright peachy nose.
It stared around the room through long lashes, its hooves digging into the
plush blue carpet.

Miss Fairweather curtsied, aiming her elegant dip not at the
dowager or Lady Radclyff but at the butler.

“Thank you, Perkins, that will be all,” the dowager hastily
interrupted, just as Miss Fairweather opened her mouth to ask the butler his
name.

Perkins scuttled out in relief, carefully manoeuvring
himself away from the goat.

The dowager composed herself. “Miss Fairweather, I am
delighted to have you here. We were getting worried, the rain and the storm ...
you brought a goat,” she finished abruptly.

Miss Penelope Fairweather stood dripping water, a tiny
puddle forming at her feet. Her eyes took in the luxury of the blue drawing
room, the burning fire beckoning her. Her leather slippers squelched loudly as
she hurried forward and bobbed a curtsy aimed in the general direction of the
two women.

“Yes, this is my pet Lady Bathsheba. Lady Bathsheba, this is
… err … the dowager and …?”

“Lady Radclyff,” Lady Radclyff supplied helpfully.

“… Lady Radclyff and we are to stay with them for a while.”
She turned to the dowager, “I had heard that some ladies in London keep tigers
and elephants, so I did not think my onliest loneliest goat would cause any
trouble …”

The dowager’s right eyebrow shot up at the ‘onliest
loneliest’ bit.

Lady Radclyff grinned; she had never been introduced to a
goat before.

Penelope continued speaking unaware of the sensation she was
causing, “Mary was to take her to the kitchens but the poor thing was
distraught over making the wrong sort of impression downstairs. I mean, a
lady’s maid arriving with a goat is not impressive. Among servants you have to
appear assertive from the very beginning or you end up with the worst of tasks.
Mary told me that. She wants to be liked and perhaps find a stablehand to
marry. She loves babies … you have to marry to have babies but Lilly our
neighbour was shipped off to Dublin because she had a baby without a husband …
which was odd… so err … Mary said that a maid with a goat is not desirable. I
agreed to keep the goat until she impresses them downstairs and …” Penelope
faltered at the disapproving look in the dowager’s eye.

The dowager sank back in her seat. She eyed the nervous girl
with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. Miss Fairweather’s thoughtfulness
towards her maid was commendable, yet her disregard for the impression she
herself would make upon arriving with the goat was another matter. Unmarried women
having babies … the dowager shuddered. She wanted to clamp a hand over her
avidly listening daughter’s ears.

She wanted to scold Penelope but she couldn't, not when the
girl had just arrived. She needed to go slow. This one fault could be
overlooked. A kind heart was not such a bad thing and appropriate topics of
conversations could be taught.

She glanced at her daughter, who looked like she had been
given a giant present wrapped in tinsel with bows hanging off the sides, and no
wonder. Miss Fairweather had brought a goat and curtsied to the butler.

Things could have been worse. The girl could have been lying
dead in a pool of blood.

“You are soaking my dear. Would you like to change? We can’t
have you catching a cold on your very first day here,” the dowager asked.

“Thank you, but I think Mary wouldn’t appreciate being put
to work after our long trip from Finnshire. Besides, I can see you have not yet
had your tea. I don’t want to delay you any further. I will sit by the fire and
will be dry in no time.”

“Yes, but … you are dripping!” Lady Radclyff exclaimed.

“I am sorry, are you worried about the furnishing? I didn’t
think...”

“Don’t be silly. A bit of water will not harm the cushions,”
the dowager said, sending her daughter a quelling look.

“Well then, you needn’t worry about me. I have been caught
in the rain plenty of times and never caught a cold. The old hag... I mean, the
healer in our village often says that the thunder peals to scare away those
weak of heart. Lightning strikes to send people scuttling home, but only the
brave stay to feel the happy rain on their skin.”

“Not the brave but fools rather who don’t mind catching
their deaths,” Lady Radclyff muttered under her breath.

The dowager helplessly wrung her hands. She wondered if the
girl was touched in the head. Happy rain, a goat as a pet and wanting her tea
in soggy skirts! And it had not been five minutes since her arrival. She
stroked her temple, a headache she was sure was not long in coming.

She nodded to Miss Fairweather to take her seat, her mind
racing to come up with a solution on how to present the unpresentable to the
ton.

‘Penelope’ will be released this December. If you would
like a free copy of the book as an early Christmas present then email
[email protected].

Anya Wylde lives in Ireland along with her
husband and a fat French poodle (now on a diet). She can cook a mean curry, and
her idea of exercise is occasionally stretching her toes. She holds a degree in
English literature and adores reading and writing.

If you enjoyed reading ‘The Wicked Wager’,
then please connect with Anya Wylde on
Facebook
,
Twitter
,
Pinterest
, or
Google+
to be
notified about her upcoming releases.

Website: www.anyawylde.com

Copyright:

This work is copyright. Apart from any use as
permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part maybe reproduced, copied,
scanned, stored in a retrieval system,

recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means,
without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to