Ann Lethbridge - The Gamekeeper's Lady

‘Bring the light closer, Frederica, for goodness’ sake—how can I read in the dark?’

Frederica rose from her chair and moved the candlestick on the tea table two inches closer to her uncle.

Looking up from the most recent missive from Simon, Mortimer peered over his spectacles at her. ‘That’s better.’ He coughed into his ever-ready handkerchief.

Frederica handed him his tea. She hated tea in the drawing room. A senseless torture for someone who had not the slightest chance of making polite conversation under the best of circumstances. Which made her almost easy conversations with Mr Deveril all the stranger.

‘You s-said you needed to talk to me about something, Uncle?’ She needed to get back her drawings of squirrels. She hadn’t yet decided which ones to colour.

‘Is everything prepared for Simon’s visit?’

Inwardly she groaned. ‘Yes, Uncle.’ She took a deep slow breath. ‘I’ve asked Snively to have the sheets for the guests’ rooms aired and instructed him to hire help from the village for the day of the ball.’

He glanced down at the letter in his hand. ‘Radthorn is bringing guests, too, I gather. They will stay at the Grange with him. The ball is going to be far grander than usual. Simon has raised a concern.’

Hurry up and get to the point. She tried to look interested.

Uncle Mortimer lifted his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. ‘He worries you have nothing appropriate to wear. That you won’t be up to snuff. In short, he says you need dresses. Gowns and such. Kickshaws. He also says you need a chaperon, someone to keep an eye on you.’

Oh, no. Frederica’s body stiffened bowstring tight. Vibrations ran up and down her spine as if at any moment she would snap in two. A chaperon would interfere with all her plans. ‘I d-d-d—’ Inhale.

‘Do.’ Uncle Mortimer shifted in his seat. ‘Simon is right, you run around the estate like a veritable hoyden. Look at the way you ran off yesterday.’ He shook his head. ‘Do you even know how to dance?’

‘Simon showed me some country dances.’ Sort of. ‘Mrs Felton in the village has my m-measurements and can make me up a gown or two, but I d-don’t n-need someone watching over me. I’m almost five and twenty.’

Uncle Mortimer scratched at the papery skin on the back of his hand, a dry rasp in the quiet. A deep furrow formed between his brows. ‘Simon said there must be waltzing.’

She gulped, panic robbing her of words. All of this sounded as if Simon had every intention of submitting to Mortimer’s demands. Because he needed money, no doubt. She felt a constriction in her throat.

Breathe. ‘I’ve n-never attended the T-Twelfth Night ball before—why this time?’

Uncle Mortimer stared at her for a long time. He seemed to be struggling with some inner emotion. ‘Dear child. You cannot wed a man like Simon without at least learning some of the niceties. Given your…your impediment, I would have thought you would be eager to oblige. I am going to a great deal of expense and trouble, you know.’

He sounded kind when she’d never heard him sound anything but impatient. He was trying to make her feel guilty. ‘I’d be h-happy s-single.’

‘We are your family. You are our responsibility. Simon is generously shouldering the burden. You must do your part.’

‘Simon must know I’ll never be a fitting wife. After all, I’m m-my mother’s daughter.’

A knobby hand pounded on the chair arm. Uncle Mortimer’s tea slopped in the saucer. ‘Enough. You will do as I say.’ As if the burst of anger had used up all his energy, he sagged back in his chair and covered his face with one hand.

Frederica took the teacup from her uncle’s limp grasp. ‘Surely we can d-do without a chaperon.’

‘No,’ he whispered. ‘Lady Radthorn has agreed. It will be done.’

Could this nightmare get any worse? ‘Lady Radthorn?’ Frederica had seen the old lady in the village. She looked very high in the instep. Not the kind of person who would take kindly to a noblewoman’s by-blow sired by no one knew who, but everyone assumed the worst.

‘No arguments. Lady Radthorn has arranged for the seamstress to attend you at her house tomorrow. You will need a costume for the ball. Several morning and evening gowns and a riding habit. The bills will be sent to me.’

Frederica felt her eyes widen as the list grew. ‘It sounds d-dreadfully expensive.’

Uncle Mortimer’s jaw worked for a moment. He swallowed. ‘Nothing is too much to ensure that you have the bronze to make you worthy of Simon.’ He closed his eyes and gave a weak wave. ‘No more discussion. All these years I have paid for your keep, your education, the food in your stomach with never a word of thanks, ungrateful child. You will do as you are told.’

Selfish. Ungrateful. The words squeezed the breath from her chest like a press-yard stone placed on a prisoner’s chest to extract a confession. Was someone like her wrong to want more than the promise of a roof over her head?

It all came back to her mother’s shame. The Wynch-wood Whore. She’d only ever heard it said once as a child, by Mrs Doncaster. Frederica had turned the words over in her mind with a child’s morbid curiosity, and later with a degree of hatred, not because of what her mother was, she had realised, but because she’d left Frederica to reap the punishment.

The sins of the father will be visited upon their children. Who knew what her father’s sins actually might be? For all she knew, her father could be a highwayman. Or worse, according to the servants’ gossip.

Well, this child wasn’t going to wait around for the visitation. She had her own plans. And they were about to bear fruit. In the meantime she’d do well not to arouse her uncle’s suspicions. ‘As you request, Uncle,’ she murmured. ‘If you d-don’t n-need anything else, I w-would like to retire.’

He didn’t open his eyes. Frederica didn’t think she’d be closing hers for most of the night. She was going to finish her drawings and be up early to catch a fox on his way home. The quicker she got her drawings done, the sooner she could get paid. If she was going to escape this marriage, time was of the essence.

In the hour before dawn, normally quiet clocks marked time like drums. The ancient timbers on the stairs squawked a protest beneath Frederica’s feet. She halted, listening. No one stirred. It only sounded loud because the rest of the house was so quiet.

Reaching the side door, she slid back the bolt and winced at the ear-splitting shriek of metal against metal. Eyes closed, ears straining, she waited. No cry of alarm. She let her breath go, pulled up her hood and slipped out into the crisp morning air.

To the east, a faint grey tinge on the horizon hinted at morning. Ankle deep in swirling mist, she stole along the verge at the edge of the drive. Her portfolio under her arm and her box of pencils clutched in her hand, she breathed in the damp scent of the country, grass, fallen leaves, smoke from banked fires. Somewhere in the distance a cockerel crowed.

Thank goodness there was no snow to reveal her excursion.

Once clear of Wynchwood’s windows, she strode along the lane, her steps long and free. Gallows Hill rose up stark against the skyline. Its crown of four pines and the blasted oak, a twisted blackened wreck, could be seen for miles, she’d been told. She left the lane and cut across the meadow at the bottom of the hill, then followed a well-worn sheep track up the steep hillside.

By the time she reached the top her breath rasped in her throat, her calves ached and the sky had lightened to the colour of pewter. Across the valley, the mist levelled the landscape into a grey ocean bristling with the spars of sunken trees.