Chapter 1
“All I ask, dear sister, is that you refrain from causing any further embarrassment to our family name.”
Andrew Maynard gave his request, leaned against the swaying back of the carriage, and crossed his arms, levelling Celia with an uncompromising gaze. She looked back at her brother evenly.
“I have done nothing to embarrass you thus far,” she said with a smile. “We haven’t even arrived amidst the wedding party yet. How could I have already taken a misstep?”
“You haven’t had a chance this trip,” he retorted, “but you have a long and storied history of inappropriate behaviour, and I consider it my duty to stave off future outbursts.”
“Heavens.” Celia turned and elbowed their father, Viscount Malcolm Maynard, gently in the ribs. “Do you hear this, Father?” she asked archly. “Andrew has already given me up as a lost cause. How shall I ever make it through James’ wedding without embarrassing the entire family?”
Malcolm Maynard was well used to Celia’s teasing and Andrew’s propriety.
The two personalities had clashed ever since they were children, and now, with Andrew, an established gentleman of four and twenty, and Celia, a lady only a few years younger, their father left them to their disputes without much intervention.
He sighed slightly and drew himself up a little straighter in his seat.
“It is too warm a day for bickering,” he complained. “Can you not reach some manner of truce and leave me to finish the journey in peace?”
Celia pursed her lips and turned her attention to Andrew again. “What do you think I will do, exactly?” she asked.
Andrew crossed his arms. “You know exactly what I mean,” he said. “Do not force me to say something unkind you can use against me.”
Celia pretended innocence. “If you want me to refrain from certain behaviour,” she said, “then you will need to be clear about what are off limits.”
“You force my hand,” he said resignedly, holding up one finger at a time to indicate a list. “First,” he said, “you ought to refrain from speaking your mind so openly in public settings—it makes you look like a Bluestocking, and you know it.”
“Interesting that you should mention that fine society,” she said with a smile. “I was just reading Montagu yesterday.”
He rolled his eyes and held up a second finger. “Second: do not speak of authors linked with radical and inappropriate ideas of womanhood.”
“Oh,” she said with wide eyes. “So I ought not to ask the bride her opinions on Mary Wollstonecraft?"
"Father,” Andrew said with exasperation. “She is clearly trying to antagonise me.”
Malcolm smiled at Celia with that gentle expression that she knew and loved. “She has a point,” he said kindly. “If you disapprove of her manners in society, you ought to explain where she has erred so that she might correct herself in the future.”
Andrew held up a third finger. “Hold your temper,” he said, continuing the list. “You have a poor reputation, Celia. People are already on edge around you, fearful of what you might say and do next. Growing passionate about matters that are not proper for a woman to care about makes people uncomfortable.”
“Matters like the state of our penal system?” Celia asked archly. “Or the fact that women in poverty in London have no way of rising above their station? If it is not proper for a woman to care about such things, then who is permitted to involve themselves?”
“That,” Andrew said, slapping his leg emphatically. “That is precisely the sort of conversation that you ought to avoid. And lastly, you shouldn’t be so boisterous—always inserting yourself into physical competitions that are not proper for a woman.”
Now it was Celia’s turn to roll her eyes. “You make it sound quite scandalous,” she said. “It’s not as though I’m going across the ocean to fight Napoleon, Andrew. I’m only engaging in a bit of cricket with the village children now and again.”
“And you ride,” he pointed out.
“Many ladies ride,” she said, growing as exasperated as he. “Lady Astley is always riding at her country home.” A little under her breath, she added, “She won’t cease droning on about it.”
“You know very well that is not what I mean,” Andrew retorted.
“That is all proper riding. You are quite different. You insist on helping house and bed down your animal, even if it means dung on the hem of your skirts, and you speak roughly about the intricacies of the sport as though you spent your afternoons at Tattersall’s. ”
Celia looked out the window, watching the passing countryside rattle by.
“I suppose you think riding is only proper if the lady partaking in the activity has no idea where her horse comes from,” she said, “or what its needs are? Surely a rudimentary knowledge of horseflesh could aid the lady in knowing when her mount is pushed beyond its limits.”
“No,” Andrew said tightly. “Not if the lady in question understands it is not for her to push a horse beyond its limits. Her riding ought to be restrained and for casual enjoyment only.”
“Andrew, really,” Celia said, throwing up her hands.
“You could write a new volume of Fordyce’s; you’re so taken with the subject of what a woman ought and ought not to do.” She smiled. “And you and Fordyce have something in common—both of you, though seeming experts in the field, are not, in fact, women.”
Andrew fell silent for a moment, his jaw hard. When he spoke again, the anger seemed to have left him. His voice was quiet.
“It’s for your own good, Celia,” he said.
“You do realise, do you not, that your reputation precedes you to an event such as this? People will be talking about the hoyden daughter of Viscount Maynard, and they will be watching for your every misstep. You have given us a bad name—not just yourself, but your family as well.”
The viscount stirred at Celia’s side, reaching over and taking her hand briefly in his. “That’s enough, Andrew,” he said. “Celia is not a pariah. She is only a young girl who speaks her mind. She is kind, fair, and morally upright—all the qualities that truly make a lady.”
Andrew said nothing more, only turning his gaze out the window, but his last words had struck home.
Celia watched his face momentarily and then dropped her eyes to her father’s gentle hand over hers.
For all her bravado, she was not unfeeling.
She knew she was an outsider. She knew her reputation preceded her.
All her life, people had spoken hopefully of her maturation into womanhood.
She will grow out of that wilful spirit.
She will learn a civil tongue. She will soften and be gentle at finishing school.
She will fall in love and see that a gentleman wants a woman with a meek spirit.
Yet, her governess left, she was introduced into the London Season, and nothing changed.
The long, gangly limbs and awkward manner of childhood had vanished. Celia had grown into a tall, willowy woman with light brown hair and uncommonly intense grey eyes.
She had gone through all the motions required of a girl turning into a woman, yet she had not grown out of her spirit and wit.
If anything, facing the icy propriety of her first London Season had caused Celia to buck even more against what was required of her, like a colt feeling the lead rope for the first time.
She acted as though she did not care what others thought of her, and yet, just as Andrew had said, she could see that she was an outcast to them.
Them.The sparkling, charming girls her age seemed to accept just what was required of them.
The handsome, aloof dandies who asked her to dance out of obligation.
The whispering, plotting mothers who tried to keep their sons safe from her wiles.
Celia did not want to care, yet when she was honest with herself, she knew she did. Everyone wants to belong. The difference was Celia would rather be free than belong, and society declared the two things incongruous.
The carriage lurched a little over a rough part in the road and then rattled onto a smoother section of crushed rock. Celia peered out the window and saw the countryside rolling out, lush and green, on every side.
“Have you ever been to Welbeck Abbey?” she asked her father, hoping to steer the conversation away from her indiscretions.
He frowned and shook his head. “I don’t believe I have,” he said. “I have been to the Dukeries in North Nottinghamshire, but I’ve never been invited to the estate before. It’s an eccentric place, to be sure. I’ve heard such things as pique my curiosity excessively.”
“Eccentric?” It was a word that always piqued Celia’s interest. “How so?”
“It belongs to the Duke of Portland at present,” he said.
“Andrew knows him as Lord Bentinck, although I do not believe you’ve ever met him, Celia.
He lives there with his mother, the Dowager Lady Bentinck.
She has cultivated a rather splendid kitchen garden—more than twenty acres if I remember correctly. ”
“A garden?” Celia asked, raising her eyebrows. “That is the great eccentricity?”
“There is also the tunnel underground,” her father went on. “It leads to a heated indoor riding track for the horses. You are not acquainted with such a luxury, I imagine.”
Celia smiled and laughed. “You are right to name the track and the tunnel,” she said. “Those interest me far more than a kitchen garden. I wonder if we will have a chance to see it while we are guests at Welbeck.”
“I doubt it,” Andrew interjected quickly. “We will only be there a few days, and not even the gentlemen will be spending that time at a riding track.”
Not even the gentlemen. Celia took his point and turned back to her father. “Is there a town nearby?” she asked.
“Worksop is local,” Malcolm said thoughtfully. “But not much else. As you have determined from our rather long ride, Welbeck is rural, and the surrounding country is quite isolated.”
“But we are nearly here,” Celia said, peering out again. “I felt the gravel of the drive as we turned onto it.”
She was right. Only a few moments more, and the sheep fields on either side gave way to large expanses of clipped green gardens and lush play fields with croquet already assembled on the lawn.
Great arching trees spread their branches over the road and cooled the heavy, late-summer breeze as it drifted into the carriage. The horses pulled around a loop in the road, and Celia caught her first grand sight of the abbey, suddenly large and looming before them.
Welbeck was enormous, sitting grandly along the banks of the narrow Shrubbery Lake, encircled by ornate stone walls and gardens. Celia looked at it with interest. She had grown up in a comfortable situation, but this manner of grandeur surpassed even the elegance of the London Season.
There was something sprawling and indulgent about all the space surrounding the Abbey, as though it owned the sky and water as well as the stone from which it was made.
“It is beautiful,” she mused.
“And you were reluctant to be taken away from our library and stables,” her father teased gently.
She raised her eyebrows. “If you think the duke of this place will allow me access to his stables and libraries, then my reluctance will vanish.” She quickly glanced in Andrew’s direction, then nodded stiffly.
“But of course, that will not be. No, all this wealth is for looking at and admiring. It matters not to me how great a stable there is if I am not to be permitted to ride. Nor how great a library if the doors are kept locked and barred.”
“The visit is not about you, sister,” Andrew cautioned. “It is about Manvers.”
Celia nodded, feeling a little guilty. Her brother, for all his harsh criticism of her person, was right in this matter.
James was the son of the Earl of Manvers, her father’s late and dear friend.
They had grown up together like brother and sister, and his marriage to Lady Rebecca Cavendish was a storied and impressive event.
“He chose a beautiful place for his wedding,” she said, regretting her earlier pessimism regarding the library and stables.
“It was not his choice, exactly,” Malcolm said with a frown. “After the fire damaged his own home, there was little option but to find another location. He is fortunate to have Bentinck as a friend.”
Celia nodded. The fire in question was an unfortunate accident in the kitchen that had spread up to the lower levels of the house.
Repairs were underway, but a wedding such as James and Rebecca planned could never happen in a scorched home under construction.
They were the match of the Season, and such a match demanded grandeur.
At the gate, their carriage halted, waiting for the groundskeeper to let them enter. As they waited, Andrew looked out towards the narrow lake across the field from them.
“They are fortunate in the hot weather,” he said.
“I know a few years back, the autumn rains flooded the banks of the Shrubbery and caused quite a bit of damage to the surrounding countryside.” He smiled wryly at Celia.
“Imagine how sad you would be to be separated from your library even longer because of washed-out roads.”
She smiled back at him. “It is a grim thought,” she said.
“And one that is unlikely to come true,” her father added. “The summer has been unusually dry. There is no reason to expect a wet autumn.”
“I disagree,” Andrew countered. “There is never a reason to expect rain … until it appears. The roads are hard-packed mud. If heavy rains come, there will be flooding in the extreme.”
“You always take a dismal view of things,” Malcolm said with a sigh. “Tell me, do you ever climb out of bed and think, ‘how glorious—I imagine the day holds all manner of adventure for me?”
Celia laughed despite herself, the idea of Andrew as an optimist appearing ridiculous. Andrew did not seem to find his father’s words amusing and only looked past his family to the groundskeeper outside.
“What is taking so long?” he asked.
As if in answer to his question, the great iron gate rolled aside to admit the carriage. Celia sat forward on the edge of her seat, eager to see what lay ahead.