Ann Lethbridge – An Earl For The Shy Widow (страница 2)

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

September 1813

Autumn sunlight flooded into the tiny drawing room at Westram Cottage. Lady Petra strode to the window. Beneath a blue sky, a slight breeze stirred the leaves of a nearby oak tree and nodded the heads of the red roses along the path to the front door. A perfect afternoon for a ride, if one had a horse.

She sighed and wandered back to her chair. She picked up the embroidery she’d been working on a few moments before. A handkerchief for her brother Red, the Earl of Westram. So boring. She cast it aside and got up to straighten the portrait of her mother on the opposite wall.

‘Petra,’ her older sister, Lady Marguerite Saxby, said, ‘please stop pacing. You are making me dizzy.’

Remorseful, Petra spun around. ‘I am sorry. I did not mean to disturb you.’

Auburn haired and green eyed, Marguerite was seated at the table going through her correspondence. As usual, her luxuriant tresses were pinned back severely beneath her widow’s cap. Although she returned Petra’s smile, there was sadness in her eyes. Marguerite hadn’t looked anything but sad since she was widowed.

Did Petra have that same look? She strode to the glass over the mantel and peered at her reflection. Unlike her older siblings, she took after her mother with blonde hair and blue eyes. Did she also look sad?

She closed her eyes against her reflection, unwilling to admit to sadness. Yet perhaps she could acknowledge regret. After all, it was partly her fault that she and Harry had had such a blazing row.

She had been so happy for the first few months of her marriage. It had come as a painful shock to realise that Harry, already bored with his brand-new wife, was seeking his entertainments elsewhere. If she’d been a proper tonnish wife and simply ignored his infidelities, brushed it off as something every fashionable husband did, things would have turned out very differently. But it had hurt so much, she could not remain silent. And the more she complained, the worse he behaved until, during their last argument, she’d accused him of not loving her any more. He’d shouted back that he had never loved her and had only married her because his father insisted on it.

He’d said she was a stupid little girl who had ruined his life.

The pain had left her speechless.

The next thing she knew he had stormed off to fight the French. Worse yet was him taking her brother and her brother-in-law with him. Not only had Harry broken her heart, but her stupid naivety had cost her sisters their husbands.

She turned away from the glass.

‘Do you not have mending to do?’ Marguerite asked.

‘All done.’

‘What about the garden? Doesn’t it need attention?’

Petra shook her head. ‘Every time I pick up a shovel or pull a weed, Jeb leaps in to take over. Red seems to have given him very definite ideas about what a lady should or should not do. Honestly, I miss making hats.’

‘Make one for yourself,’ Marguerite suggested.

‘It is not the same. Besides, I have more hats than I need. I feel so useless.’ Earning an income from their fledgling millinery business had been thrilling, until their brother Red had put a stop to it. He had been horrified to discover his sisters were engaging in trade.

They still received some income from the hats Marguerite designed, but the manufacturing had been handed over to the new owner when they sold the business. Ladies of quality did not enter into the world of commerce.

Marguerite scanned the next letter in her pile. ‘Carrie sends her love and says the dog Avery bought her will have a litter of puppies at the end of November, and would we like one?’

‘How adorable. Tell her yes.’

Marguerite nodded. ‘It would be good for you to have company on your walks. A dog would be just the thing.’

Petra joined her at the table to read over her shoulder. ‘She does not say what sort of breed they are? Hopefully, not too large.’

‘I will ask her when I reply. You are right. We do not want anything too big.’ She set the letter aside and picked up the next one.

Petra wandered over to the sofa and glanced down at her fingers, rubbing the calluses she’d earned from their millinery efforts. They were already disappearing.

A great many things had changed in the past few months. Their widowed sister-in-law, Carrie, was married, and happily so, while Petra and Marguerite continued to go against their brother’s wishes and maintain their independence. Neither of them wanted to marry again. Once was enough for Petra, certainly. In her experience, men promised you the moon to get what they wanted, then did exactly as they pleased. She had been little more than a child with stars in her eyes when she married Harry. How hurt she had been to discover he’d only married her because his father had wanted the connection to nobility. She certainly wasn’t going to make that sort of mistake again.

Marguerite gasped, ‘The Thrumbys have sold the business.’

‘What?’ Petra hurried to look over Marguerite’s shoulder.

‘Avery included a note with Carrie’s letter. Here, read it for yourself.’

Petra scanned the note written in a firm male hand. The Thrumbys had received an offer for the business from a Bond Street competitor and had agreed to sell. The new owner created her own hat designs, therefore Marguerite’s were no longer needed.

‘At least they will continue to employ the ladies in the village to make up the hats,’ Marguerite said, her voice full of resignation. ‘The quality of their work is exceptional.’ She gave Petra a wan smile. ‘All due to you, dearest. You taught them well.’

‘Dash it all. That is so unfair. We needed that income.’ She bit her lip at the pained look on Marguerite’s face. ‘Now what will we do? Ask Red for help, I suppose.’

Marguerite shook her head. ‘No. We will think of something. In the meantime, we will be frugal.’

They were already careful with every penny. ‘I wish I could help more.’

Marguerite pursed her lips. ‘We will have to cut back on meat... It is so expensive.’

‘Well, Red better not hear about that, or it will be all the excuse he needs to put us back on the marriage mart.’

Marguerite paled. ‘He is sure to find out eventually. I have to think of some other way to augment our income. Sometimes publishers need illustrators for their books. I will write to them and send some examples of my drawings. Perhaps I can use a nom de plume.’

Petra nodded. ‘Good idea.’ A recollection of something she’d seen on her way to the village popped into her mind. ‘Why don’t I see if I can pick some blackberries for jam? We have lots of sugar in the pantry.’

Marguerite gave her a grateful smile. ‘Excellent idea. A good supply of preserves will help us through the winter.’

It wouldn’t be enough, though. But Petra had an idea about that, too. The countryside was full of free food if one knew where to look. Blackberries were just the start.

Not too many minutes later, Petra had equipped herself with an old straw hat, a large wicker basket and covered her oldest spring muslin with an apron that had seen better days.

Outside, a light breeze cooled the warmth of the sun and she strolled along swinging her basket until she arrived at a blackberry bush hanging over the lane. The last time she noticed it, the brambles had been covered in little white flowers. Now the prickly canes were weighed down with gleaming clusters of black fruit.

Unfortunately, they were on the other side of a ditch and hanging over the top of a dense hedge far too high for her to reach.

Bother. They hadn’t looked so high when she was travelling in the trap.

The other side of the bush grew in a field belonging to the Longhurst estate. On that side, the berries were temptingly easy to reach even for a short person such as she. A wooden stile a few feet from where she was standing offered perfect access to the field and the blackberries.

Besides, who would care? No one had lived at Longhurst since she and her sisters had arrived at Westram more than a year ago. According to the locals, the new Earl was away fighting on the Peninsula and cared not a bean for the estate. In consequence, there was no one to care if she trespassed. Besides, it wasn’t as if he had planted the brambles. They were part of nature’s bounty.

After a quick glance up and down the road, she hiked up the skirts of her old blue gown and climbed over.

Wary of fierce thorns bent on ripping her clothes to shreds, she pushed into the bush using her basket as a shield. Soon it was full of shiny blackberries and becoming quite heavy. A trickle of sweat ran into her eye and she wiped it away on the corner of her apron.

She picked a berry and popped it into her mouth. Mmm...delicious. And exactly right for jam. She tasted another just to be sure.

The jingle of a bridle and the sound of a horse’s heavy breathing had her whipping around.

A tall fair-haired man with an amused expression on his handsome face gazed down at her from the back of a huge brown horse. He leaned forward and let his glance travel down her length. It lingered at her feet.