Chapter Three
The minute Tessa heard the front door close, she sank back on her seat. She was shaking. Ferndale sold? Two years ago? She couldn’t believe it.
But Lord Alverleigh had sounded so certain. And since the Alverleigh estate shared a border with Ferndale, he would surely know. Why would he lie to her about it? He had nothing to lose, while her brother. . .
Oh, Edgar. Had he really tricked her, sold her home and lied about it? And was even now pretending to raise a loan to pay for non-existent mortgages? Which of course he wouldn’t be able to get, and so the only choice left for her would be to marry Sir Henry Lester.
She could challenge him on it, of course, but if Lord Alverleigh was right—and she had a sickening feeling he was—Edgar had been lying about the mortgages all along.
He knew she hadn’t intended marrying ever again. She hadn’t wanted to marry the first time—or the second—but had endured both marriages in the sure and certain knowledge that it was her duty to her family, to save Papa’s life, and later Edgar’s.
Had those been lies too? She picked up her tea cup and tried to swallow some of the cold tea but a lump in her throat made it impossible.
She took a deep breath. She wouldn’t ask Edgar about Ferndale; she couldn’t trust him to tell her the truth. She would have to find out for herself. But how?
She glanced at Lord Alverleigh’s card sitting on the side table. If Edgar saw it, there would be questions. And nasty repercussions. She picked it up and tucked it into her reticule, out of sight.
She rang for another cup of tea and, over a gently steaming cup, pondered her choices. There was really only one thing to do—to go to Ferndale and see for herself.
#
THE YELLOW BOUNDER raced along. Inside, Tessa clung to a leather strap, bouncing and swaying.
The little yellow carriages certainly lived up to their nickname, she thought.
Not that she minded. She watched the countryside flash by, half excited by the prospect of going home at last, half dreading what she would find.
She’d given Edgar the slip, and hired the carriage herself, using the money she’d secretly squirreled away over the last year. It was her first real act of independence and she felt quite proud of herself. Hiring a carriage had been fearfully expensive, but time was of the essence.
Edgar had gone to a country house party and would be gone for a week.
“There’s a good chance I’ll be able to raise the money for a mortgage,” he’d told her.
It was just an excuse. It would be a bachelor affair, all gambling and shooting and loose women, she knew.
Tessa would never be invited to such a gathering.
Edgar was very strict about her reputation.
So he’d left her at home with Mrs Thracknell, the grim woman he’d hired as her chaperone.
Tessa had given her the slip too, leaving a bottle of brandy out the night before—Mrs Thracknell could never resist alcohol—and slipping out at dawn.
She knew the woman would report her to Edgar eventually, but she’d deal with that when it happened.
She’d left a note to say she’d gone to stay with a female friend—unspecified.
She had no female friends. Ever since Edgar and Papa had brought her to London, she’d always been with a husband, or with Edgar or with Mrs Thracknell. Personal friends were not encouraged—were actively discouraged, in fact. Not that any had tried.
Through the big glass front window of the carriage, Tessa watched the countryside slide by.
Ferndale, how she’d missed it. She’d never been lonely there, even though she hardly saw anyone, only NannyJune and Phillips.
While for the last ten years she’d almost never been alone but was constantly lonely.
She dozed a while, only waking when they stopped at a posting inn to change the horses.
Sometimes she stepped down to stretch her legs, or to visit the facilities or have a hot drink.
No food, despite the fact that she hadn’t eaten all day.
She was too nervous to eat. They were moving ever closer to Ferndale.
She loved it so much, had thought of it so often over the years, planning what she would do to it, once she was free to go home.
The house had been terribly shabby. She’d realized that in retrospect—not that she’d cared at the time—and would be even more so now.
And the estate would need a lot of work to bring it back to profitability.
Neither Papa nor Edgar had ever shown an interest in it, even though they spent any income the estate earned. But she’d learned a bit about land management during her marriages, and she knew exactly what she would do once she was home again at Ferndale.
Her stomach cramped. It couldn’t have been sold, it just couldn’t.
Not long now. The countryside was becoming more and more familiar as they passed. The shape of those hills, that old stone bridge, the tumbledown cottage with the crooked roof: small landmarks that she didn’t even know she’d memorized, but they brought a lump to her throat.
Home.
The carriage slowed and turned in between two tall wrought iron gates. Dread swamped her. Lord Alverleigh had told her the truth. In her memory those gates had been old and rusting: now they gleamed with black paint.
Her heart was pounding. She could barely breathe as they drove down the curving driveway toward the house and she took it all in, all the changes.
Everything was as neat as a pin. The lawn, which she’d only ever known as shaggy grass filled with weeds and wildflowers, was now green and smooth as velvet.
Here and there were well-tended flowerbeds, bursting with spring flowers.
In the distance she could see the old orchard and even from here she could see the trees had been neatly pruned. Some were in blossom.
She glanced toward the forest, her heart heavy with the burgeoning realization that this would be the worst of all.
She couldn’t tell from this distance, but she already knew it would have been cut back, dozens of trees cut down and harvested, the beautiful tangle of undergrowth cleared away, not a fern or a bramble in sight.
No place for foxes or badgers to hide and bring up their young.
Her stomach clenched and she felt as though she might throw up. Despite having eaten nothing all day.
Her brother had sold her home. Sold Ferndale. And lied to her about it. In the worst way, and for reasons that made her want to scream. Or curl up and whimper.
How could he?
The carriage pulled up in front of the house.
Tessa didn’t want to get out, didn’t want to have her worst fears confirmed—she’d seen enough—but the front door had opened and a butler stepped forward, a man she’d never seen before.
The postilion let down the steps and gathering what remained of her poise she alighted.
Acid rose in her throat, but she managed to say, “I’m terribly sorry, but I think I’ve come to the wrong house. I was looking for the . . .”—she pulled a name out of thin air—“the Taylor family.”
The butler’s brow wrinkled. “I don’t know any Taylors hereabouts, madam. This is the home of Mr and Mrs Sanderson and their family.”
Tessa nodded. She could hear childish shouts and laughter coming from behind the house. It felt like her insides had been gutted. She managed to say, “Perhaps the Taylors were before your time. Have the Sandersons lived here long?”
“Coming up to two years, madam. I came with them from their previous abode outside of Bath. Would you care to come in? I’m sure Mrs Sanderson would like to meet you.
And she might know more about the previous residents.
” He hesitated. “Though I think the name was Blackstone, or Blaxland—something like that.”
“No, no thank you. It’s getting late and I must get on and find my friends,” Tessa said hurriedly and turned away, fearing she might throw up.
He inclined his head. “Good luck finding them, madam.”
She climbed back into the carriage, and it drove back down the driveway. Tessa didn’t see much. Her eyes were blinded by tears.
Two years! The Sandersons had moved two years ago. It was just as Lord Alverleigh had said.
So much for Edgar’s claim of mortgage arrears. Her beloved home had been sold and was lost to her forever. Strangers lived there now. It was lost to her. Forever.
#
BY THE TIME SHE REACHED London again, Tessa had cried herself out, slept a little and commenced some serious thinking. She’d been a fool, a stupid, trusting fool to think that her brother—and no doubt her father too—had been looking after her interests, as they’d claimed.
She thought back to the day they’d arrived at Ferndale, when she was fifteen, and Papa had looked her up and down and then said to Edgar, ‘Looks like we have another asset.’
She’d asked them about it later, but they just shook their heads and told her it was business—men’s talk. And naive little idiot that she’d been, she’d accepted that.
Stupid, needy, ignorant little girl, imagining that Papa and Edgar had come for her because they cared about her.
That feeling had lasted all through her first weeks in London, when Papa, with the advice of a lady friend, had purchased all new fancy grown-up clothes for her, and put her on a strict beauty regime, attempting to tame her wild hair, and using endless lotions on her skin, which they said was dreadfully tanned from all the time she spent outdoors.
She learned to keep her hands clean and to grow and polish her nails, to keep herself and her clothes tidy, to get used to a maid dressing and undressing her.
She was never alone, which had been very hard for a girl used to solitude and freedom.
They trained her relentlessly, in etiquette, and how to dance, and to serve tea elegantly. And to talk to men. She’d been horribly shy at first, but when they’d introduced her to the man who became her first husband, he’d claimed he found her shyness delightful.