Chapter One #2
Josie was in the kitchen, helping Mrs Dawson take inventory of the larder, when the knock sounded at the front door. She heard the housekeeper’s measured footsteps, the low murmur of voices. Then Mrs Dawson appeared in the doorway, her face pale and drawn.
“Miss Hartwell. There is a man here from Greymont Hall. He says the Duke’s steward wishes to see you.”
Greymont Hall. The Duke of Greystone’s estate.
Josie’s heart gave a painful lurch. “When?”
“Now, miss. He has a carriage waiting.”
She untied her apron with unsteady hands and glanced down at her dress—a simple black gown of mourning, plainly made and already fraying at the cuffs. It would have to suffice.
“Tell him I shall be ready in a moment.”
Upstairs, she paused before the small mirror and drew a steadying breath. The reflection that stared back at her was pale and dark-eyed, her brown hair pulled into a modest knot. She looked tired. And frightened.
She squared her shoulders and went downstairs.
The carriage waiting outside was an elegant one—dark blue lacquer, brass fittings polished to a gleam, a crest emblazoned upon the door.
A footman in blue livery assisted her inside without meeting her gaze.
Josie settled upon the velvet seat and folded her hands in her lap, willing them to still their trembling.
The journey took less than an hour. She stared out the window as the familiar lanes of Halford gave way to rolling parkland, ancient oaks lining a long gravel drive. In the distance rose the great house—vast and severe, its windows glinting like watchful eyes.
She had never been here before. Her father had occasionally been summoned to consult with the steward on parish matters, but the Duke himself had never set foot in Halford church. He was a recluse, the villagers said. A hermit. Scarred in the wars and too proud to show his face.
The carriage came to a halt before the main entrance. The footman handed her down, and she followed him up wide stone steps and through doors that seemed designed to make visitors feel insignificant.
Inside, the entrance hall was vast and chill. Marble floors, dark panelling, portraits of stern-faced ancestors gazing down from the walls. A butler appeared—tall and silver-haired, his expression as distant as the men in the frames.
“Miss Hartwell. Mr Carrick is expecting you. This way, if you please.”
She followed him along a long corridor, her footsteps echoing softly. Everywhere she looked were signs of wealth—fine furniture, gilded frames, carpets so thick her feet sank into them.
The butler stopped before a polished oak door and opened it. “Miss Hartwell, sir.”
She stepped into a spacious study lined with books. A fire burned in the grate despite the mildness of the day. Behind a massive desk sat a man of middle years, his features sharp, his expression unsmiling.
“Miss Hartwell.” He did not rise. “I am Mr Carrick, steward to His Grace, the Duke of Greystone. Pray be seated.”
Josie sat, though the chair seemed far too large for her. She kept her back straight and her hands folded neatly in her lap.
Mr Carrick studied her for a moment before opening a ledger upon his desk.
“I shall be direct, Miss Hartwell. Your father’s death has created a situation requiring immediate resolution.
The living of Halford is vacant, and His Grace intends to appoint a new vicar within the month.
You and your family must vacate the vicarage. ”
She had expected the words. They still landed like a blow. “I understand.”
“Furthermore, it has come to His Grace’s attention that your father died owing considerable debts—sums advanced in great part through Greystone—which makes them His Grace’s concern, and which now fall to you and your siblings as his heirs.”
Josie’s throat tightened. “I am aware of the debts, Mr Carrick. We are endeavouring to make arrangements—”
“Four hundred and seventy-three pounds is not a sum easily dismissed as an ‘arrangement,’ Miss Hartwell.” His gaze was cool and assessing. “His Grace wishes to know how you intend to settle this matter.”
“I do not yet know,” she said, forcing the words past the constriction in her chest. “But I assure you, we shall find a way.”
“I am pleased to hear it.” Mr Carrick closed the ledger with a decisive snap. “However, His Grace has additional concerns. Your brother, I understand, carries debts of his own in London. Debts to a moneylender of questionable reputation.”
Heat rose to Josie’s face. “My brother’s mistakes are his own—”
“They are connected to your father’s debts, which makes them His Grace’s concern.” Mr Carrick leaned back in his chair. “His Grace is well within his rights to demand immediate repayment. He could see your brother imprisoned, your family turned out without reference or assistance.”
The threat hung in the air, cold and unmistakable.
Josie’s hands clenched in her lap. “Is that His Grace’s intention?”
“That depends upon you.”
Her pulse thundered. “I do not understand.”
“His Grace is prepared to offer you an alternative.” Mr Carrick rose and crossed to the window, clasping his hands behind his back.
“The estate has suffered from His Grace’s withdrawal from society.
Correspondence has gone unanswered. Charitable efforts have been neglected.
Tenant matters require a gentler hand than my own.
Your father managed much of this in his role as vicar. ”
Josie’s thoughts raced. “You wish me to assume my father’s duties?”
“In part.” He turned to face her. “His Grace proposes this: you will come to Greymont Hall and assist with the estate’s charitable and social correspondence. In exchange, your family will be permitted to remain in the vicarage for the present, and the debts owed by your father will be forgiven.”
She could scarcely breathe. The debts forgiven. Her family secure.
“And my brother’s debt to the moneylender?”
“That will likewise be settled—provided you fulfil your duties here to His Grace’s satisfaction.”
It was too much. Too sudden. Too generous.
“For how long?” she asked.
“Until His Grace determines that the work is complete. Or until he appoints a new vicar and requires the vicarage for that purpose.” Mr Carrick’s gaze was steady.
“It is a temporary arrangement, Miss Hartwell. But it affords you time—time free from immediate obligation, in which to consider what must come next. And it keeps your brother out of prison.”
Time. It was more than she had now.
Yet to come here—to this cold, silent house—to serve a man she had never seen, who hid from the world like a ghost…
“May I have time to consider?” she asked.
“You may. But His Grace requires your answer within two days. Should you decline, the estate will proceed as it must: the debts will be called in, and you will be required to vacate the vicarage within a fortnight.”
Two days.
Josie rose, her legs unsteady beneath her. “Thank you, Mr Carrick. I shall give you my answer soon.”
He inclined his head. “The carriage will return you home. Good day, Miss Hartwell.”
She walked back through the silent corridors, her thoughts whirling. Four hundred pounds forgiven. Thomas spared. Lily safe.
All she had to do was serve a recluse in a house that felt more mausoleum than home.
The butler showed her out, and she climbed into the waiting carriage feeling as though she moved within a dream.
As the carriage rolled down the long drive, she looked back at Greymont Hall. It loomed against the sky, dark and forbidding.
Somewhere within those walls was the Duke of Greystone.
Somewhere within those walls was the man who held her future in his scarred hands.