The Gamekeeper's Lady

Snively’s muddy eyes twinkled, but there was sadness in them too. ‘He’s seems a little irritated, miss. Not his normal sunny self.’ He winked.

She almost laughed. ‘It’s probably his g-gout.’

‘Yes, miss.’

‘And the w-weather. And the state of the Funds.’

‘Yes, miss. And I gather he’s lost his glasses.’

She grinned. ‘Again. I’ll go to him the moment I am changed.’

Snively shook his head and the wrinkles in his bulldog face seemed to deepen. ‘No point, miss, he knows you took Pippin.’

Dash it all. One of the grooms must have reported her hasty departure. She sighed. ‘I’ll go right away. Thank you, Snively.’

He looked inclined to speak, then pressed his lips together.

‘Is there s-something else?’

‘His lordship received a letter from a London lawyer yesterday. It seems to have put him in a bit of a fuss. Made him fidgety.’ Snively sounded worried. ‘I wondered if he said anything about it?’

Uncle Mortimer was always fidgety. She stripped off her gloves and bonnet and handed them to him. ‘Perhaps Mr Simon Bracewell is in need of funds again. Or perhaps it is merely excitement over my p-pending nuptials.’

Snively’s dropping jaw was more than satisfying. He looked as horrified as she felt. He recovered quickly, smoothing his face into its customary bland butler’s mask. But his flinty eyes told a different story. ‘Is it appropriate to offer my congratulations?’

‘N-not really.’ All the frustration she’d felt when Uncle Mortimer made the announcement swept over her. ‘I’m to m-marry my cousin S-Simon.’ After years of him indicating he wished she wasn’t part of his family at all.

His eyes widened. His mouth grew grim. ‘Oh, no.’

She took a huge breath. ‘Precisely.’ Unable to bring herself to attempt another word, she headed for the study to see what Great-Uncle Mortimer wanted. Steps dragging, she traversed the brown runner covering a strip of ancient flagstones. This part of Wynchwood Hall always struck a chill on her skin as if damp clung to the walls like slime on a stagnant pond.

A quick breath, a light knock on the study door and she strode in.

Great-Uncle Mortimer sat in a wing chair beside the fire, a shawl around his shoulders, his feet immersed in a white china bowl full of steaming water and a mustard plaster on his chest.

In his old-fashioned wig, his nose pink from a cold and his short-sighted eyes peering over his spectacles at the letter in his hand, he looked more like a mole than usual.

He glanced up and shoved the paper down the side of the chair. Was that the lawyer’s letter to which Sniv-ely referred? Or another letter from Simon begging for funds?

‘Shut the door, girl. Do you want me to perish of the ague?’

She whisked the door shut and winced as the curtains at the windows rippled.

‘The draught,’ he moaned.

‘Sorry, Uncle.’

‘I don’t know what it is about you, girl. Dashing about the countryside, leaving doors open on ailing relatives. You are supposed to make yourself useful, not overset my nerves. Have you learned nothing?’

He put a hand up to forestall her defence. ‘What sort of start sent you racing off this morning? I needed you here.’

Of all her so-called relatives, she liked her uncle the best since he rarely had enough energy to notice her existence.

‘I d-don’t—’

‘Don’t know? You must know.’

She gulped in a deep breath. ‘I don’t want to marry S-S—’

‘Simon. And that’s the reason you dashed off on Pippin?’

She nodded.

‘Ridiculous.’ He leaned his head against the chair back and closed his eyes as if gathering strength. ‘I am old. I need to know that my affairs are in order. Simon has kindly offered to alleviate me of one of my worries. It is the perfect solution. You do not have to get along, you just have to do your duty and give him a son. Surely you would like a house and children of your own, would you not?’

A dream for most normal women, the image sent a chill down her spine. ‘No.’

‘There is no alternative.’

‘I can s-support myself.’

His bushy eyebrows shot up and he opened his eyes. ‘How? Good God, you can scarcely string two words together.’

Heat rushed up to her hairline. Anger. ‘I d-draw. Art.’ Even as she said the words, she knew her mistake.

His face darkened. He sat up straight. ‘What respectable woman earns money from daubing?’ He made it sound like she had proposed selling her body.

‘I’m not r-respectable.’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘You have been brought up to be respectable. You will not bring shame on this family.’

Like your mother. Like the Wynchwood Whore. He didn’t say it, but she could see he was thinking it by the tight set to his mouth and the jut of his jaw.

Dare she tell him about the drawings she’d already sold? Prove she could manage by herself? The money she earned would give her an independence. Barely. What if he prevented her from completing the last pictures of the series? It would void her contract, a contract she’d signed pretending to be a man. She sealed the words behind her firmly closed lips. Not that he ever let her finish a sentence.

‘And another thing,’ he said. ‘No more excursions on Pippin. There is too much to do around this house.’

She stared at him. ‘W-what things?’

‘Simon is bringing guests for the ball. There will be hunting, entertainments, things like that to arrange. I will need your help.’

Horror rose up like a lump in her throat. ‘G-guests?’

‘Yes. The ball will also serve as your come out.’

A rush of blood to her head made her feel dizzy. ‘A come out?’

Mortimer tugged his shawl closer about his shoulders. ‘Don’t look surprised. Anyone would think this family treated you badly. It is high time you entered society if you are going to be Simon’s wife. We can hope no one remembers your mother any more.’