Chapter 10
St. James’s Street, London
Edward was pleased Calliope had taken him up on his offer.
He immediately sent his mother a telegram, informing her that Whitefawn would be hosting the Harts the following week and instructing her to ready the necessary rooms. He then joined Holbrook for a drink at White’s, where he was promptly ridiculed for his actions.
“This is your master plan, then?” Holbrook asked after spitting his brandy onto the table.
The gentlemen in the leather armchairs across from them stared in horror at his manners, but Holbrook was too busy wiping the sleeve of his coat across his mouth to notice.
“Show the lady the crumbling ruins of your estate and expect her to renounce the luxuries to which she’s become accustomed in New York? ”
Edward’s confidence wavered. “Yes.”
“You do realize these luxuries include basic human necessities. Solid walls lacking drafts? Roofs unriddled with holes? Good food, warm baths, and the like?”
“She said she liked Cook’s food.”
Or had that been her mother?
“No one likes English food except the English, and even we can be picky about it at times.” Holbrook signaled for the footman with his empty tumbler. “May I bother you for another? I seem to have spit the majority of mine out.”
The footman nodded and departed.
“You talk as if Whitefawn could be blown over by one good gust of wind, when really, only some of the wings require renovation,” Edward reminded him.
“And I am certain I could make the prospect of repairing those rooms appealing to Miss Hart. Don’t young ladies enjoy that sort of thing?
Decorating their husbands’ homes to suit their tastes? ”
The footman set a new glass on the table. Holbrook tipped back the brandy, eyeing Edward over the rim.
“I believe they do,” he replied. “But I also believe Miss Hart will have the ability to do so in any home she chooses, for any husband she chooses. You are not offering her anything special in that regard.”
Edward’s frustration rose. “And how about the prospect of resurrecting an estate that has stood on Hampshire soil since the coronation of James the First? Is there not any worth in that?”
“Of course there is,” Holbrook placated.
“But can you get the young Miss Hart to agree with you? Can you make her fall in love with the property enough to devote her entire fortune to saving it, and to marry a boor such as yourself besides?” He shook his head.
“I have a hard time believing the young lady will not find more agreeable prospects elsewhere.”
Edward left White’s feeling considerably less certain about his plan than he had upon entering.
He should have known better. Holbrook could always be counted on for dropping Edward’s ego down a peg or two, which was part of the reason why they had remained such good friends over the years.
But at this particular moment, Holbrook’s remarks were highly unappreciated.
Mostly due to the fact that he was right.
What was Edward thinking? He loved Whitefawn because he’d grown up there, because it belonged to his family, and because its survival or destruction would be his legacy.
Miss Hart did not share any such ties. Her home in New York was undoubtedly of new construction, with no sense of history or heritage.
The only tie he could draw upon was her father’s ancestry, which was technically British, although according to his sources, the Harts had fought on the patriot’s side during the Revolution, so he wasn’t certain that connection would curry him much favor.
She also mentioned loving the history of New York, but that did not mean that love would translate to a deteriorating estate in the English countryside.
His plan was laughable at best, but what more could he do?
The lady had already made it clear she had no interest in him as a husband, and so there was no recourse left to him but to interest her in the estate.
Unless . . .
Unless he could make her interested in him?
What if she fell in love with him along with the property? Certainly then she would want nothing more than to marry him and become the Countess of Hayward, allocating her considerable fortune toward the preservation of Whitefawn?
Of course, he wouldn’t love her in return, but he could pretend that he did, just to get her to the altar, and then make it up to her by devoting every day of his life to her happiness. Between her fortune and his title, he could give her everything she ever wanted.
Well, everything except love, that is.
Edward gritted his teeth. What was he saying?
To do such a thing would go against the very reason he had made his deal with Calliope in the first place.
He would be using her. She would enter into their marriage thinking he loved her when he didn’t, and no matter what he owed Whitefawn, there was nothing about that notion that sat right with him.
Love was too precious a commodity to fake.
He would not fabricate such an emotion and deny Calliope the chance to find it if that was what she truly wanted.
No, he could not promise her love, but he could promise her friendship and, above that, equal partnership as it pertained to the running of the estate, which, if Miss Hart were to be believed, was far more than any of her other potential suitors had thus offered.
He knew one thing for certain: he would do whatever it took within the bounds of propriety to make this arrangement with Miss Hart work.
There were one hundred and fifty-seven families he had to answer to; one hundred and fifty-seven families who would be directly impacted if Whitefawn went under.
Their happiness, their well-being, their very survival was at stake.
Therefore, he would marry Miss Calliope Hart if it killed him. Not only because doing so would save Whitefawn, but because, childish as it was, he still wanted to prove to her that it would not take a threat of death by firing squad to get her to marry him.
My Darling Girl,
Not an hour passes in which I do not think of you and wonder what your mother has gotten you into over there across the pond. I consider you the bravest of women, to put up with her scheming as well as you’ve done.
Promise me that once you’ve found a husband—which I do not doubt will happen soon if it has not already, as I cannot imagine any man bypassing the most beautiful and intelligent girl ever to grace this planet—you’ll write just as often as you do now.
Promise also that you’ll save a place for me at your table every Christmas, and at least two or three other times throughout the year, for I cannot imagine being parted from you for much longer than that.
All My Love,
Your Doting Father
(Postmarked June 12th, 1908)