Chapter 1
Fault Lines
Hetty sighed heavily and then gave a startled yelp as an apple hit her on the head.
“Ow! Cilly, you beast, that hurt,” she complained, rubbing the side of her head the apple had struck.
They were sitting in the garden of Hatherley Hall, home to the Dowager Duchess of Hawkney, who was an intimate friend of their grandmama. Sprawled on a picnic blanket under a large tree, each of them had a book in hand. Except Hetty had abandoned hers some time ago.
“You deserve it,” her sister said unrepentantly. “You’ve been insufferable all morning. If you are bored, find something to do.”
“I would, if I knew what that might be,” Hetty objected. “It’s just so dull since Hart and Angel left.”
Cilly glared at her. “Charming. They only departed this morning. I’m sorry my company is so deadly dull.”
“Cilly, you know I didn’t mean it like that.
It’s just that their lives are just beginning and they are free to do what they wish, to go where they please, and mine is…
” Hetty drew in a deep breath and met Cilly’s concerned gaze.
Her sister had far more reason to complain than she did.
“I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m insufferable.
Oh, come for a walk into town with me, there’s a darling.
At least we might look at the shops and perhaps go down to the beach and have a paddle too. ”
“It’s too hot,” Cilly said, pulling a face.
“Hardly, this is one of the first warm days we’ve had all year but it’s stuffy rather than hot. There’s no air. I’m sure it will feel fresher down by the shore. Please, please, sweet Cilly!”
Cilly gave a dramatic groan and flopped back onto the blanket, covering her face with her book. “Will you give me some peace if I do?”
“Oh, of course I will, best of sisters.”
“Only sister,” Cilly pointed out, pedantic as ever. “And I shall hold you to that. Very well, you wretched creature. Though getting changed is such a bother.”
With an exclamation of relief, Hetty got to her feet and pulled her sister up, practically towing her into the house.
Her maid, Jenkins, looked up from her position in a chair by the window as Hetty hurried into her bedroom. Jenkins was perhaps six years Hetty’s senior, and a sensible, no-nonsense woman who had been with Hetty since she was little more than a girl herself.
“Where’s the fire, my lady?” Jenkins asked, setting down the mending she’d been working on as Hetty appeared with her usual burst of energy.
“In my head,” Hetty said, laughing. “We’re going for a walk into town, and then down to the shore to see if I can put it out.”
“Not likely,” Jenkins replied dryly. “If his grace ain’t smothered that spark by now, there’s no snuffing it out at this late stage.”
Hetty returned a mock severe expression, hands on hips.
“Very droll, Jenkins, you ought to be on the stage. Now, if you’ve stopped laughing at my expense, would you like to come with us?
” she asked, for though she was at liberty to walk out with her sister unescorted, she knew Jenkins was fascinated by the sea, which she had never seen before coming to Little Valentine.
“Well, I’ve not yet finished adjusting that hem on the primrose silk yet,” Jenkins said, clearly warring between what she wished to do and knowing her duty.
“Oh, bother the hem. There’s no rush, is there? I shan’t need it for a few days yet. Come on, we might even have a paddle if there’s no one about.”
Hetty grinned as she saw the moment temptation won out and Jenkins gave in. “Oh, in that case. Yes, please.”
Jenkins did her usual sterling work in readying her mistress and herself in under half an hour, and still they found Cilly waiting for them in the grand hallway.
Her elder sister was ever the more efficient and sensible of the two of them and never dithered over what gown or what bonnet or anything, really.
“How pretty you look,” Cilly remarked upon seeing Hetty in the new blue muslin gown she’d donned for their expedition. She had pared it with a short spencer in pale yellow and had been rather pleased with the outfit herself.
“Thank you, as do you,” Hetty replied, admiring Cilly’s trim figure in pale green cambric as she took her sister’s arm.
“Thank you, Howard,” Cilly said politely as the butler, who was a dear fellow, opened the door and wished them a pleasant walk.
They strode out in silence for a while, each enjoying the breeze that ruffled their hair and the chance to stretch their legs. It truly was a lovely place, and the knot of tension that habitually kept Hetty’s shoulders tight seemed to unravel a degree.
Cilly must have felt the same way, for she turned to Hetty with a smile.
“Isn’t it beautiful? I’m so glad we are staying for the summer,” Cilly remarked as they made their way towards the town.
She stopped to admire the wildflowers that adorned the roadsides: oxeye daisies that swayed in the breeze, bright clusters of red campions, and the pretty mauve of field scabious.
“I shall pick some of these glorious wildflowers on the way home and we shall each have a little bit of countryside for our dressing tables. How I love it here. I never want to return to town.”
“Surely nowhere in the world is better than Ealdor Palace,” Hetty suggested, attempting to look affronted as she echoed a sentiment her father would have wholeheartedly endorsed.
“I shall not dignify that comment with an answer.” There was a slightly cynical twist to Cilly’s lips that Hetty did not like to see. She feared that her lovely sister was far more unhappy that she let on—than either of them let on.
They were both adept at showing the world the sunny, untroubled faces of young women without a care in the world.
They had learned at a young age how to pretend, to play make believe, to show people what they wished to see rather than the disagreeable truth.
Perhaps they had learned it too well, Hetty mused, for she found her sister increasingly hard to read.
Cilly had every right to be angry at the future laid out before her.
If Hetty had been in her position, she would have raged and thrown things at their father and pitched an almighty fit, which is why the duke had never attempted to marry her off to a man of his choosing.
Even he had not the fortitude to deal with his youngest daughter’s reprisals if he was foolish enough to force her into a marriage she did not want.
Cilly was another matter.
Her older sister was far more biddable, too aware of what she saw as her duty, and would go to the altar like a good sacrificial lamb.
Hetty knew that, at the ripe old age of six and twenty, Cilly was perilously close to being on the shelf.
Despite receiving many offers for her hand, Cilly had never found the man she truly wished to marry.
Inevitably, their father had lost patience and taken the choice away from her.
He would not be swayed, despite them both pleading for him to reconsider.
Cilly had finally capitulated in the spring. Hetty had been appalled.
It was the only thing she and Hetty had ever truly argued over, so furiously that it had taken some time to mend the breach between them. Now they both tiptoed around the subject as if it might rear up and savage them if they did not tread with care.
“At least being married will free me from father’s influence.”
Hetty looked around in surprise at her having broached the subject, her expression one of such shock that Cilly returned a sad smile.
“We shan’t row about it, Hetty, please, but I cannot pretend it will not happen. I can pretend many things, but not that. By Christmas, I shall be the Countess of Crenshaw.” There was resignation in her tone, apprehension too, which Hetty quite understood.
A picture of the earl flitted behind Hetty’s eyes, and she fought a shudder.
He was close to sixty, florid faced and as wide as he was tall.
An uncouth fellow who lived for hunting and cared nothing for art or music or that his new wife would be utterly miserable under his roof.
He also doted upon his hunting dogs; a parcel of savage looking beasts that barked and snarled like they would eat one up with relish.
Hetty did not doubt that they were well enough if one got to know them, but Cilly was terrified of them, and the earl thought this amusing rather than worrisome.
She was a brood mare to him, nothing more, and whilst Hetty did not believe he was a cruel man, she feared his rough manners and harsh character would destroy her gentle sister.
Hetty reached out and took Cilly’s hand, squeezing it tightly.
“We shan’t row. Just know that you only need say the word, and I shall do all in my power to stop the marriage.
Failing that, I shall rescue you once you are wed, and we shall flee to the continent and live out our lives in foreign parts. ”
“You really would too,” Cilly said, admiration glinting in her eyes as she regarded Hetty with affection. “You are so much braver than I, Hetty.”
Hetty made a scoffing sound. “What rot. I’m not the least bit brave, I’m just not so nice as you. I’m bad tempered and crotchety and I must have my own way in all things.”
“Hetty,” Cilly scolded gently. “What a Bambury story.”
Hetty shot her a grin, for it was that or cry. “Come along. I have the desire to spend a shocking amount of money on a new frock.” Turning, she called to Jenkins, who was dawdling a discreet distance behind them. “Do you fancy a new hat, Jenkins?”
“Oh, my lady,” Jenkins said, utterly scandalised. “I’ve not had the opportunity to wear the last one yet. Don’t you dare!”
But Hetty only returned a wicked grin and hurried them all along.
The Dog and Duck, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 15th July 1816
Gideon set down his tanker and smiled his thanks at the man opposite him.
Silas Ridley was a local man, though they’d met in London. A fellow architect who spoke well of Ridley had recommended him to Gideon, and so far, they had rubbed along well.