Lara Temple - Lord Hunter's Cinderella Heiress

‘Pluck. Well, that’s just my name for her, though Father prefers to call fillies and foals after their sires, so she’s known as Argonaut’s Filly, but that’s a mouthful, so I just call her Pluck, because she is. Plucky, that is.’

‘Like you.’

Her eyes widened.

‘Hardly. I’m the least plucky thing that ever was.’

‘Now that’s not quite fair, Miss Nell,’ Elkins interjected as they turned back towards Tilney Hall. ‘There’s none like you for throwing your heart over a fence.’

She shrugged, annoyed at herself and at them, though she didn’t know why.

‘That’s different. I know what I’m doing when I’m on a horse. You can see Lord Hunter to the house, Elkins. Goodbye, Lord Hunter.’ She rode off, feeling very young and foolish she had succumbed to showing off. He had been kind about it, but she still felt ridiculous.

She hoped her aunt didn’t have one of her whims and insist she dine downstairs because then he would see how wrong he was about her pluck. She wasn’t yet formally ‘out’ in society and she rarely dined with guests, which suited her just fine because those occasions when her aunt did demand her presence were sheer purgatory. Her father’s temper was nothing next to Hester’s vindictiveness.

* * *

Just when Nell thought the hour of danger had passed, Sue, the chambermaid, rushed into her room.

‘Her majesty says you’re to join the guests for supper, Miss Nell.’

Nell shook her head, desperately trying to think of some way to avoid this disaster, and Sue clucked her tongue.

‘There ain’t nothing for it but to go forward, chick. Hurry, now. Luckily I added a flounce to your sprigged muslin and it isn’t quite so short now, but you’ll have to keep the shawl over your shoulders because there’s nothing we can do now about the fact it won’t close right.’

‘I can’t... I won’t!’

‘You can and will. There isn’t aught else to wear, chick. Really, your father should know better but men are fools. That’s right—best heed me. Men are fools and you’re better a mile away in any direction!’

Nell stood like a seamstress’s dummy, rigid and useless as Sue busied about dressing her in her one decent muslin dress with its childish bodice and equally childish length. Though Mrs Barnes was an excellent cook, neither she nor Sue were capable seamstresses and the new flounce was clearly crooked and this would surely be the night the straining fabric would finally give way to her late-budding bustline. She would sit down and there would be a horrible rending sound and everyone would look at her and her aunt would sneer and oh so kindly suggest Nell go change and perhaps ask her why she had insisted on wearing that dreadful old dress and really she despaired of the girl because no matter how hard she tried to make her presentable there was only so much one could do with such a hopeless long meg... Nell would leave the room and of course not return because she had no other dress that was suitable for evening wear and because she couldn’t face their contemptuous and condescending stares and sniggers, and tomorrow her father would rant at her for having humiliated him in front of his guests and for being as dull as dishwater and less useful.

‘I can’t do it. I can’t. She is just doing it so she can make a fool of me again. I won’t.’

Sue squeezed Nell’s hand.

‘I wouldn’t put it past her but it will be worse if you don’t go. Here, don’t cry now, chick. Think—in two days you’ll be on your way back to school.’

Nell pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes.

‘I wish I could go tonight. I hate coming here. I wish I could stay with Mrs Petheridge always.’

‘Well, Ma and I are glad you are here summers at least.’

Nell scrubbed her eyes and blew her nose.

‘Oh, Sue, I didn’t mean I don’t love you and Mrs Barnes. You know I do.’

‘Aye, you don’t have to say a thing, chick—we know. I wish for you that you could stay there year-round. Lucky your aunt doesn’t know how much you like that school or she’d have you out of there in a flash. Proper poison, she is, and no mistake. Now go stare down at your nose at the lot of them. Lord knows you’re tall enough to do just that. Bend your knees so I can get this over your head, now. Goodness, what do they give you to eat in them Lakes? I swear you’ve grown a size since you had to wear this just a month back.’

Nell chuckled and slipped her arms into the sleeves, struggling against the constricting fabric. Thank goodness for Sue. She was right—Nell could survive two more days.

This optimistic conviction faded with each downward step on the stairs. Her aunt was already in the drawing room and the familiar cold scrape of nerves skittered under Nell’s skin, almost painful in her palms and up her fingers, like sand being shoved into a glove. She kept her eyes on her pale slippers peeping out and hiding back under her flounce as she made her way to the sofa where she sat as meek and as stupid as a hen, praying that was the worst people thought of her.

The door opened again and out of the corner of her eye Nell saw two pink confections enter the room, followed by an older couple. She had learned to look without looking and she inspected the two pretty, giggling girls and their mother, who wore a purple turban so magnificently beaded with sparkling stones Nell couldn’t help staring.

‘Stop gawping, girl!’ a voice hissed behind her. ‘Keep your eyes down and your mouth shut or I’ll send that slut of a maid of yours packing, cook’s daughter or not! And pull that shawl closed. You look like the village tart with your bosom spilling out like that. Ah, Mr Poundridge, and Mrs Poundridge! So wonderful you could come for supper. So these are your lovely daughters! Do come and meet Sir Henry’s daughter, Miss Helen. She is not yet out, but in such informal occasions she joins us downstairs so she can acquire a little town bronze. Sometimes I wonder what we pay such an exorbitant amount to that school for, but what can one do but keep trying? Perhaps your daughters could give her some hints on the correct mode of behaviour in company. Oh, what lovely dresses! Do come and meet our other guest tonight, Viscount Hunter...’

Nell kept her eyes on her clasped hands as her aunt sailed off, dragging the Poundridges in her wake, only daring to raise her head when she heard her aunt’s voice mix with her father’s. None of them was looking at her except Lord Hunter. He stood by her father, flanked by the old suits of armour Aunt Hester had salvaged from the cellars, and together they looked like Viking and Celtic warlords under armed escort. She hadn’t seen him when she entered because she hadn’t looked and her mortification deepened as she realised he must have seen everything.

Nell’s eyes sank back to her hands. The gritty, tingling pain and the clammy feeling was still climbing, and though it hadn’t happened quite so badly for a while, she knew there was nothing to be done but wait it out. If she was lucky it would peak before her legs began to shake. She tried to think of Mrs Petheridge and her friends at school, but it was hard. Her left leg was already quivering. She wanted to cry at how pathetic she was to let this woman win each time, but self-contempt didn’t stop her right leg from beginning to quiver as well. Think of brushing down Petra. No, Father was there, glaring. Think of Mrs Barnes and her cinnamon bread... No, her mother had died with an uneaten loaf by her bed, so she could smell it. Of Charles’s sweet smile as he helped her mount the first time they had come to the Wilton breeders’ fair; of how he had put his arm around her when Father had raged. If he were here, she might be able to bear this...

Two days. Just today and tomorrow. Her right leg calmed and she pressed her palm to her still-shaking left leg. In two days she would see Anna and sit in Mrs Petheridge’s cosy study with the chipped tea set and ginger biscuits, helping the girls who cried for home or who threw things, because she was good with them. She breathed in, her lungs finally big enough to let the air in, and the clamminess was only down her spine now and between her breasts under the scratchy shawl.