Abby Grahame: Wentworth Hall

“I’m eighteen, Nora! I don’t have to have my mother’s permission for my nightgown.”

“You got that in Paris, didn’t you?” Nora guessed with an air of disapproval. “And I’ll wager her Ladyship wasn’t with you when you bought it.”

“Nora!” Maggie scolded. She had known Nora for as long as she could remember and she wasn’t about to be lectured to by the waifish, freckle-faced maid with whom she’d played as a child while Nora’s mother cooked downstairs in the servants’ quarters.

“Have it your own way,” Nora gave in. “You always do, anyway.” She pulled open a dresser drawer and selected a full-length slip, stockings, garters, a corset, and underdrawers.

“I don’t want to wear any of that,” Maggie insisted. “It’s the middle of August. I don’t need stockings and I most certainly do not want a corset.”

“No corset?!” Nora exclaimed. “What’s going to hold you together?”

Nora’s horrified expression made Maggie burst out with laughter. “Same as what holds you together, I imagine. My bones and skin. At least I hope so!” Sifting through the clothes hanging in her armoire, Maggie contemplated her Parisian purchases. “Here, look at this, Nora.” She held up a straight-lined floral sheath of a translucent fabric, lined with green satin. It was worn with a coordinating billowy green tunic-length jacket. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“It’s something, all right,” Nora allowed. “You’ll certainly make an impression at the breakfast table. But wear it at your own risk. And don’t be saying I selected it for you.”

“I’ll take the blame,” Maggie agreed. Nora helped her change into the outfit. Truthfully, wearing something daring made her feel like her old self again. It felt good. “I’m starving. I take it I haven’t missed breakfast?”

Pulling down her quick updo, Maggie shook her hair out, letting it spill around her shoulders, and began to brush. Without comment, Nora plucked the brush from her hand and continued the job. “No, you’re in luck. His lordship’s talk has delayed everything this morning.”

“What on Earth is he babbling about for so long?”

“It’s about those houseguests coming to live here at Wentworth Hall.”

Maggie addressed Nora’s face in the mirror. “Houseguests?” she asked. “Coming here? Whoever could they be? And how long will they be staying?”

“The Fitzhughs. Don’t know more than that,” Nora mumbled, holding a couple of pins in her mouth as she arranged Maggie’s hair. “There,” she said, admiring her handiwork.

Nora went off to take care of Lila, and Maggie headed down the hall. From the curved central staircase she could see the immense lobby below on the main floor of the estate. Most of the indoor staff of about thirty was assembled and listening to Lord Darlington’s address. Craning over the balcony to hear his words, they came to her in a low drone. The staff could see her, though they dared not give any indication of it, but Lord Darlington’s back was to Maggie and so he continued undisturbed.

Her father was dressed in a navy blue, single-breasted waistcoat, vest, and pants. His crisp white wing-collared shirt was nestled beneath a perfectly done black bow tie. His black shoes were polished daily and gleaming. As she descended the stairs, Maggie noted that the ever-widening bald spot on his head also held a shine and it amused her to imagine his manservant, Gerald, polishing it . Maggie would not put it beneath her father to request such a service.

“Are there any questions about what I have just said?” Lord Darlington asked the staff as Maggie settled on the stairs behind him.

“None at all, sir,” Percival the head butler spoke for the others, standing with his usual square-shouldered perfect posture. “The young Fitzhughs shall be cared for with no less diligence than if they were His Royal Highness King Edward himself. We look forward to attending to their every need no matter how major or how minor. You can count on us, sir.”

“I will count on it,” Lord Darlington replied. “Indeed, I will insist upon it. You may dismiss the staff.”

“Thank you, sir,” Perceval said with a sharp nod.

Lord Darlington turned and noticed Maggie on the steps. “The Fitz-whos?” she asked.

“Maggie. Good to see you up and about this fine morning. I take it your travel malaise has lifted?” Lord Darlington held out his hand and helped Maggie up from the stairs. “And what, may I ask, are you wearing?” he asked, taking in her rather eccentric outfit as she stood up.

“It’s the latest thing from Paris. Isn’t it delightful? It’s Aunt Daphne–approved.”

Lord Darlington’s face was less delighted. “Well, I’m not certain I approve. Though I am glad to see you, regardless of your attire. You will not wear that in England—and certainly not while we have houseguests.”

“All right, Father. I will change if you insist. But first you must tell me, who are the Fitzhughs? And why are we hosting them with such fanfare?”

“You may have heard me speak of my days serving in the army during the Second Boer War in South Africa.”

Endlessly , Maggie thought, and hoped she hadn’t inadvertently rolled her eyes, a gesture her father deplored.

“Reginald Fitzhugh was my closest friend and during a particularly violent skirmish, he saved my life. Ever since then we have been closer than brothers.”

“Then why have I never met him?” Maggie asked.

“Reggie went on to make his fortune in diamond trading, which required him to stay close to the diamond mines of South Africa,” Lord Darlington explained. “We have corresponded avidly for the last twenty-five years.”

“And now he’s dead?”

“Sadly, yes. His wife also passed on many years before, and that leaves his children with no one to care for them but us.”

“Us?” Maggie asked, the pitch of her voice rising, aghast at the thought of taking on any responsibility for small children. “How old are the little tykes?”

“You needn’t worry, Maggie; Teddy and Jessica Fitzhugh are almost your age. They will both turn eighteen in a matter of months.”

“They’re twins?”

“Quite so, and given this tragic turn of events, they are dependent on our kindness. I expect you will treat them with the same warmth and hospitality as members of our family receive.”

Members of our family receive about as much warmth as a snowstorm , Maggie considered, but decided not to voice her thoughts. “I’m sorry to hear of their father’s death. But certainly, they must be perfectly capable of living on their own at their age?” she asked instead.

“Their fortune is being held in trust until they turn eighteen,” Lord Darlington answered. “Their father made the contract iron-clad, I’m afraid. No way to get them any money a day before their birthdays.”

“Ahh,” Maggie said, amused that the plot had just thickened. It certainly explained her father’s sudden and uncharacteristic benevolence.

“And what, might I ask, is meant by ahh ?” Lord Darlington asked.

“Oh, nothing,” Maggie replied with a cagey smile. He knew what she meant. The Darlington fortune was not what it once had been. The trappings were still there: the immense grandeur of Wentworth Hall, the staff of servants, the expensive clothing. But Maggie wasn’t blind… or deaf… or dumb… and you would have to be all three to live in Wentworth Hall and not see that the family funds had been overspent and badly invested. A fresh infusion of a South African diamond fortune would be just the boost they needed. She wondered how her father planned to get his hands on the Fitzhugh fortune. Perhaps Wesley would have to return from Oxford and wed Miss Diamond Mines? She only hoped Jessica Fitzhugh was passably attractive, for her elder brother’s sake.