Chapter One
AT THE FAR end of the study was a desk set against a corner where, if a girl were overly curious and perpetually bored—as Lila was—she could hide away and entertain herself with both the thrill of being unseen and the snippets of information she was not entitled to otherwise.
Lila had discovered the hidden corner when she was first deposited at Franklyn Farm, her uncle’s estate in South Shropshire.
In an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people, young Lila often disappeared into her corner when she needed to feel in control of her space, albeit a small one.
At six years old, finding respite there was reasonable, perhaps even endearing.
At nineteen, it was ridiculous, but her uncle would never guess she still found herself there somewhat regularly.
She was trying to reflect the good manners her uncle had worked hard to instill within her, but the time had not yet come to give up her hiding place. Maybe next month.
Today Lila sat in her triangle of space with her back against one wall and her knees bent while she crocheted the second of a pair of socks.
The typical English girl embroidered, and a few knew how to knit, but the governess hired to care for Lila when she was nine had recognized her excess energy and taught her the unconventional skill of crocheting so she would always have something with minimal equipment—a single hook.
“Busy hands create a calm mind,” Miss Lowry had said.
Lila had complained at first, but in fact her mind did calm as row after row of stitches melted from her hook.
And it was practically silent—perfect to do when hiding in the corner of Uncle Peter’s study.
Lila crocheted blankets, doilies, shawls, purses, and countless caps, but mostly she crocheted socks.
She could make a pair in just a few hours, and the servants, as well as the vicar, who would distribute them to the poor, were always in need of such practical items.
Today she was crocheting socks for Neville, her cousin—and Uncle Peter’s only son—who was coming home from an extended tour to America in just a few weeks.
During the two years he’d been gone, their easy friendship seemed to have turned into something more, until the idea that Neville was the love of her life had grown into an absolute.
Just a month ago he had promised he would be home in time to have the first dance at the Marchetts’ annual Autumn Masquerade.
Their blooming romance would be the stuff of novels—heir to a profitable estate finding love with his penniless cousin raised above the unfortunate circumstance of her birth.
They had known one another most of their lives—though Neville had been at school a great deal of the time—and it made sense they would spend the rest of their lives together, as well.
As it was the second Tuesday of the month, Uncle Peter had been meeting with his solicitor, Mr. Jeppson, much of the morning.
Lila loved to closet herself away on the second Tuesday of the month if she could manage it.
She liked knowing things like the price of corn that season or when the next sheep exchange was scheduled, and the conversations often ended with some masculine gossip regarding mutual friends.
One day Neville would run Franklyn Farm and Lila felt sure a wife who had been privy to more than a decade of the estate’s financial climate could only be a help for him.
She was so comfortable with the official talk that she could listen with half an ear while she crocheted and thought about the afternoon she would spend with her good friend Eloise.
They had been working on their masquerade costumes for weeks but were going to pick bilberries today.
Franklyn’s cook had already promised to bake a pie for each family if they would do the gathering.
With the change of season, there would not be fresh berries for long.
“. . . the son of an old friend looking to settle here now that he’s sold his commission. He shall arrive the first of next week. I did so admire his father and am flattered that he asked for my help.”
Lila slowed the pace of her looping and hooking and turned all her attention to the conversation.
“Will he be settling in High Ercall permanently, then?” the solicitor asked.
The sound of rustling paper informed Lila he was likely gathering up his records in preparation to leave.
She hoped he would stay long enough to extend this topic.
Uncle Peter had told her nothing of the son of a friend relocating to this part of the county. Why would he not have told her?
“Or somewhere hereabouts,” Uncle Peter said, his chair creaking—likely he was leaning back to stretch his back after so many hours of sitting.
He was an active man and often went for a walk or rode his horse after his morning meetings.
This was fortuitous for anyone hiding in his office in that they could expect that shortly after his meeting, he would leave the estate for his constitution and give a miscreant the chance to easily crawl from her corner without discovery.
“I do so hope he takes a liking to Lila. She needs a steady sort of man.”
Lila stopped crocheting completely.
“He had a military career, you say?”
“Nearly two decades. He entered at fifteen, I believe.”
The solicitor was silent, and Lila suspected he, like her, was doing the math in his head.
“How old is he, then?” the solicitor said.
“Thirty and three.”
Lila felt her eyes go wide. Thirty-three? Fourteen years older than she was, and an ex-soldier? She was confused, or at least she wished she was confused. In truth, however, she understood too well what was happening.
“Rather older than Miss Lila, then,” the solicitor said diplomatically.
“We are not in a position to be too particular,” Uncle Peter said while Lila stared at the last row of stitches she had placed.
“When Mortimer—I suppose I shall need to call him Mr. Luthford—contacted me of his hopes to come to High Ercall after his discharge, I told him of Lila and her circumstance. I did not want to mislead him, but he had said he was in search of an estate and a wife, so I saw little reason to be coy. To my delight, he was not dissuaded by her situation, and his status would secure Lila quite well. For my part, it would be a relief to see her settled, and I will be glad if Lila remains close to Franklyn Farm. This may be the very thing for her.”
“Indeed it sounds as though it will be a good fit,” Mr. Jeppson said. “I hope Miss Lila will be as easily entreated by the idea.”
Uncle Peter let out a heavy sigh. “There is the rub,” he said. “I love her like a daughter, and daresay, after I lost Gaylene, she has been my greatest comfort. She does not feel the fear for her future that I feel, however.”
“Love is tricky business,” Mr. Jeppson said. Lila could hear movement as he stood from the chair. Uncle Peter’s chair creaked as well, and the two men’s footsteps moved away from her. “I wish you the best,” Mr. Jeppson said.
“Thank you,” Uncle Peter said. “I fear I shall need all the luck I can find.”
The footsteps exited the room, and Lila sat with her past and future stripped naked before her.
It was not Lila’s fault she was born on the wrong side of the blanket or sent to live with Uncle Peter a year before Lila’s mother died in some London rookery.
Mama had never been able to rise above her poor choices, but hoped Lila would not suffer the same fate.
And she hadn’t. Lila had been living in High Ercall as the niece of a well-respected man for nearly as long as she could remember.
She wasn’t equal in status to her uncle, however, even though she was accepted into his social circle here.
She would not have a London season—she would too easily become a source of gossip—and while her uncle had offered a generous dowry, that it came from him and not her own parents was damning.
The growing realization of her situation was part of why she felt so sure Neville was her destiny—yet Uncle Peter had not seemed to consider the match at all likely.
Instead, he was bringing a man to Franklyn Farm in hopes that he might capture Lila’s interest, and her his.
Was she considered an inappropriate match for Neville?
She pushed away the question. She was perfect for Neville.
This other man—with the stodgy name of Mortimer, no less—could never be as perfect for her as Neville was, and though she felt somewhat raw regarding what she’d overheard just now, she would not let it distract her from what she knew was not only right but her very best chance for happiness.
Once she was married to Neville, her beginnings would not be testimony against her.
She would not be a baseborn byfly niece saved through Christian charity, but a respected wife of a respected man.
She longed for that kind of resolution, and she was already comfortable with Neville.
The choice was such an obvious one in her mind. Why was her uncle so obtuse?