The Secret Dowry (Clayton House Chronicles #1)

Chapter One

Charlotte Kendall hummed a lively tune as she made her way along the narrow path through the grassy field that would lead her back home.

She swung the wooden box containing her watercolor paints, brushes, paper, and lap easel beside her as she strolled.

The weather was seldom fine enough to paint out of doors in May, but they had enjoyed a week of unusually warm weather so Charlotte had put on her Spencer and braved the dewy ground to try to render a good likeness of the nearby hills and meadows.

Noticing the abundance of bright spring wildflowers peppering the grass, Charlotte was tempted to stop to paint them. But, aware that her father would likely be vexed over her long absence that day, she reluctantly continued on.

As she reached the rise overlooking her family’s property, she paused, as she always did, to admire the view of Clayton House—the only home she had ever known.

The stone manor was not large, but everyone agreed it had perfect proportions with its two wings and tall, leaded windows across the front.

A grand sweep before the elegant structure was also nicely situated far off the main road.

The property had formal gardens on three sides of the house and an un-landscaped, wildish area beyond the rear garden which stretched to the wooded grounds.

Her father’s estate was not large or valuable, but to Charlotte, Clayton House was simply perfect.

Someday, she vowed, she would attempt to capture its beauty, but not until she was confident of doing it justice. She sighed happily, and her humming turned into singing as she made her way home.

Charlotte entered Clayton House to find the housekeeper, Mrs. Wilson, hovering in the entry hall.

“There you are, Miss Charlotte—at last,” the older woman whispered. “Your father’s been asking for you every half hour since lunch.”

“What is wrong? Why am I needed—is someone unwell?” Charlotte reached out to grip Mrs. Wilson’s arm. Her father rarely required his youngest daughter’s presence, at least not that she could recall. Something must be amiss.

“Not to my knowledge, no, Miss,” Mrs. Wilson replied. “And I will not have you calling me nosy, but it may have something to do with a letter from Haverstone that arrived after you went out this morning.”

The door to the study opened, and the two women turned anxiously toward the master of Clayton House, Mr. Evan Kendall.

A tall, handsome man with hair that was still mostly dark, even at age fifty-five, he raised his eyebrows at his daughter in the hall.

Charlotte tried to gauge her father’s mood, but his countenance betrayed nothing in particular to her.

“Father, I—” she began.

“Come into my book room, Charlotte. I must discuss an important matter with you.” Without waiting for a reply, Evan turned his back on her and returned to his study.

Shrugging her shoulders in silent question, Charlotte handed her watercolor box to Mrs. Wilson and hurried in after him.

She found him seated at the large mahogany desk at the far end of the room.

He was so often there that whenever Charlotte called her father to mind, it was at this desk she always pictured him.

She took a chair opposite him and smiled.

“I had a most successful day painting, Father,” she said brightly. “While I may never be considered very accomplished, I do feel I am making progress. I think you may well agree when I show you today’s work.”

“That will have to wait, Charlotte,” he said. His tone was not exactly warm, although not brusque. She nodded silently and waited for him to continue, wondering whether she was somehow to be reprimanded. She had meant to return sooner, but the fine weather had been too lovely to resist.

“I received a letter from your sister at Haverstone this morning. Dorothea has made a proposition I find most sensible, and I have already written to her in agreement to it.”

Charlotte felt a wave of anxiety wash over her. “What…what does Dorothea propose?”

“She suggests that you depart at once and go to live at Haverstone for the entirety of the coming summer with an object to her finding you—at long last—a husband.”

Charlotte swallowed hard before replying, “I am but twenty, Father. Why the rush to see me wed? I do love to visit my sister, and Haverstone is quite nice, but I much prefer to stay at Clayton House for now.”

“You will be one and twenty in July, need I remind you? You had two Seasons in London with but the one proposal, which you refused.”

“Because Mr. Phillipton and I were not well suited,” Charlotte protested. “He is kind enough, but far too old, and his love of dice concerned me to a considerable degree. Furthermore, the man never reads. I could never be with someone who does not wish to improve his mind.”

“He would have provided you with a gracious home in a decent neighborhood in London, as well as given you a generous allowance. He even declined your dowry, modest though it is.”

“That still does not make up for the fact that I could not possibly be happy with him, Father.” Charlotte felt a prickle of tears behind her eyes and tightly clenched her fists in her lap, willing herself not to cry. “Do you not care whether—”

“And while I let you have your way and allowed you to refuse Mr. Phillipton’s offer,” Mr. Kendall continued over her, “what are we to do? You said you did not wish for a third Season this spring, and I agree that it would indeed be a waste of time and money. Your sister’s plan is a very practical one, I believe.

Dorothea and I think it high time you found a suitable husband and home of your own. ”

“This is my home,” Charlotte said in a sulky voice, refusing to meet her father’s gaze. “Mrs. Wilson and I have always managed things well enough.”

“But, you will not inherit Clayton House; your brother Miles will. Furthermore, do not think I have not noticed how Lavinia has taken on more and more of the household responsibilities of late while you go traipsing off for most of the day, painting, or whatever strikes your fancy.”

“Taking on is the precise way to put it, Father. Lavinia never even asks my permission or opinion for any of the changes she makes,” Charlotte said more angrily than she intended.

“Just because she will one day be mistress of Clayton House does not give her the right to make such decisions without even speaking to you or me. I still cannot forgive her for turning my bedroom into the new nursery.” Her voice took on the nasal, cloying tone of her sister-in-law.

“Honestly, Charlotte, your bed chamber simply has much better light, facing north, as it does. Would you have my children grow up in such a dim environment as the nursery here provides?” She gave a little snort of indignation before continuing, “Two years since you allowed her to push me out of my room and still no children for the new nursery. Perhaps Lavinia is too spiteful to—”

“Enough,” Mr. Kendall said sternly. Charlotte dropped her eyes and mumbled an apology.

Evan sighed before continuing in a gentle voice, “Your lack of sisterly affection for your brother’s wife is, perhaps, just one more reason why you must wed so that you may create your own home exactly as you wish.

Dorothea writes that she has many prospects in mind.

My dear, would you not prefer the less formal way of meeting gentlemen at dinners and country dances, instead of the rigid strictures of mixing with the ton of the London Season? ”

Charlotte’s eyes focused on the portrait hanging over the mantel behind her father.

It was of her mother, Georgiana, who had died giving birth to her.

She was still spoken of as the greatest beauty Doddington—if not the entire county—had ever produced.

Charlotte looked nothing like her, though Dorothea favored her quite a bit.

The sound of her father clearing his throat brought her attention back to the conversation.

“To own the truth, Father, I am not sure I wish to be married. I even doubt I can fall in love,” Charlotte said softly. “It is not my nature, for I have never had those romantic dreams that other young ladies seem to have.”

“Nonsense. Every woman wishes for marriage and children. You will change your mind once you get there and meet the eligible gentlemen of the county. Begin packing, for the Gillingham carriage will arrive for you in three days’ time.”

Hearing the dismissal in his voice, Charlotte nodded and rose to leave, her happy mood from an afternoon of painting now as vanished as the morning dew on the grass.

*

At dinner that evening, Charlotte ate little and silently pushed her food back and forth on her plate.

The conversation at the table swirled around her, unnoticed, as her thoughts drifted back to her discussion with her father.

She gave a start, realizing her sister-in-law had called her name repeatedly.

She turned to find Lavinia staring at her.

“Are you ignoring me, dear sister?” Lavinia asked, her eyebrows raised and lips pursed. It made her thin face look even longer, if possible, but she had been considered quite pretty when Miles Kendall began courting her. At six and twenty, she could still be called moderately handsome.

“I am sorry, Lavinia. Pray, forgive my rudeness.” Charlotte gave a perfunctory apology. “My thoughts were elsewhere.”

“Most likely on your upcoming trip to Haverstone,” Lavinia cooed. “How fortunate you are to get an invitation for such a long visit. Why, Miles and I have never stayed more than three weeks, and yet you will be there for the entire summer—nearly four months.”

“I…I always enjoy being with Dorothea. However, four months is such a long time. I shall miss my home.”