Chapter Two
Agatha Holmwood would have walked directly to nearby Yeovil, climbed onto the first northward-traveling mail coach, and returned home.
She would have, if the choice had been hers.
But, no matter that she was nearing twenty-one and not a dunderhead by anyone’s estimation, she was female and, therefore, hadn’t the slightest control over her comings and goings.
Thus, rather than take a jaunt to Yeovil and have a gander at their famous gloves before hying herself home, Agatha instead stood in the bedchamber assigned to her father, watching him pace and awaiting his decision.
“Estimates place the Warrick estate’s value considerably higher than that of Birchall.” Father compared every family’s estate, income, and standing to that of Birchall, the finest home in their neighborhood.
Birchall, of course, didn’t come near the stateliness of Chatsworth or Lyme Park or Attingham, but it was the jewel of the westernmost corner of the northwesternmost tip of Shropshire, a distinction which meant a great deal to at least a dozen people.
How could Agatha fail to recognize the importance of the Birchall measuring standard?
“Do the estimates include the silver, Father? Because I would point out that we have not yet seen that.” She lowered her voice and whispered somberly, “It might be plate.”
Father was quick to correct that idea. “Plate? In a house of this size?” No one in her family had ever understood or shared her sense of humor.
Agatha made a vague sound of acknowledgment, knowing that doing so was most likely to convince her father to continue on with whatever he meant to tell her.
Father clasped his hands behind his back as he made yet another circuit of the room. “I’ve been speaking with some of the others, and consensus seems to be that the Warricks are looking for an heir who is young, of your generation and not mine.”
Agatha nodded solemnly. “One does not wish for an heir with a foot in the grave.”
“A foot in the grave?” Father’s eyes pulled wide, and his gaze fell on her once more. “How old do you think I am, young lady?”
“Why, you must be very nearly forty.” She emphasized the final word with just the right amount of horrified amazement. She knew perfectly well her father was fast approaching fifty, but teasing her family members, even if they didn’t understand her jests, was far too diverting a pastime to give up.
Father shook his head and pressed forward with the topic at hand. He would wear a path in the rug with all his pacing. “Everyone is convinced the Warricks will choose a young person as heir, but there is no consensus as to whether they will prefer a male or a female.”
Agatha managed not to roll her eyes. How was this portion of the Warricks’ puzzle even up for debate? In matters of inheritance, finance, opportunities—in all matters, really—a male was always preferred. It was the way of the world.
“There is only one thing to be done, Father. We will return home and allow the young gentlemen to enjoy their sport.”
“Sport?” Father eyed her with confusion once more. “I hadn’t heard there was to be sport today. The season isn’t right for birds or foxes.”
“But the season is ideal for sniffing out an inheritance,” Agatha responded.
“I had hoped you would feel that way.” Not only had he missed the note of sarcasm in her tone, an eagerness entered his eyes that left her immediately wary. “With this bequest, you would have a dowry that could fetch you a very well-heeled husband from the highest ranks of Society.”
“Or a fortune hunter,” she countered.
“Nonsense. We could afford to be fastidious, Agatha. This estate and the income from it would win you a husband who would open doors for the rest of the family.” Father’s eyes took on an almost desperate glow.
“Your sisters could marry. Our home and lands could be put to rights. Your brother would at last have some expectation of an income. You could save us all.”
“So long as you haven’t allowed your hopes to reach inadvisable heights,” Agatha said dryly.
“I am glad we agree. Come sit.” Father pointed to the window seat.
She obeyed. He, however, didn’t stop his pacing for even a moment. She might have to win this inheritance simply so they wouldn’t have to pay to repair the flooring.
“We do not know yet which of the Warricks will have the most say in the final decision.” Father spoke matter-of-factly.
Clearly her participation in the contest the Warricks were hosting was a foregone conclusion in his mind.
“Generally, one would assume the husband would have the most influence on financial matters, but I have known enough marriages in which that was not the case to make me wary of simply accepting that assumption. We, therefore, need to decide which of the two you are most likely to influence.”
“Which of them is most likely to be won over by a plum pudding? I make a delicious plum pudding.”
Father waved that suggestion aside. “They have a fine cook, I’m certain. And all the pudding they could wish for.”
“Pie, then?”
“I think we can safely rule out food-based strategies, Agatha.” Father spoke with tried patience.
His fingers tapped against each other behind his back.
His brow pulled low. “They are looking for an heir, someone to care for this estate after they’ve passed on in the way they would wish for it to be looked after.
They want someone who feels like family. ”
“In that case,” she assumed her most ponderous tone, “my best approach would be to disagree with them about trivial things, consider it a disproportionately personal slight, and then rehash the argument at inopportune moments.”
Once again she was on the receiving end of one of Father’s confused glances. “I want her to think of you as her daughter.”
“How is that different from what I just said?” She really needed to stop jesting or Father’s face would be permanently twisted with bewilderment.
“Father, I can appreciate that this inheritance would be a most welcome windfall for the Holmwood family, but can you not see how ridiculous this is? A house full of impoverished people setting themselves against one another in the hope of being handsomely paid for their viciousness? It’s rather unseemly. ”
“Who is to say this undertaking will be vicious? I am certain the participants will be civil.” For a man who had lived fifty years in the world, Father understood so little of it.
“I, for one, am looking forward to the farewell musicale when we all join in songs of friendship and mutual approbation, followed by long, drawn-out embraces and promises to exchange letters.”
“Don’t say things like that around the Warricks.” Father spoke in utter earnest. “They’ll think you’re a bit touched in the head.”
“I am convinced that they are a bit touched in the head, so this might help our ‘seem like family’ strategy.”
Father sighed, the sound one of frustration rather than true weariness. “There is some comfort in knowing you tend to be quiet and demure around strangers. And you are pretty when you smile. That should help.”
“Thank you, Father.” She chose to see compliments in his vaguely uncomplimentary comments. It made life simpler.
“Please, for the sake of your family, attempt to make an impression—a favorable impression—on the Warricks. This could change our family’s entire future.”
He was right, of course. Surely there was a way to participate in the “festivities” without completely sacrificing her dignity, especially when a certain fair-haired young gentleman was about.
She’d noticed him the moment he’d walked into the drawing room that afternoon.
He’d carried himself with a calm confidence, had immediately greeted another attendee with the warm smile of friendship.
He’d come with another gentleman, one she’d guess was his brother—there’d been a noticeable resemblance.
He’d not been there more than a quarter hour before his gaze had settled on her.
She’d done her best to simply breathe whilst under his scrutiny.
In that moment she’d been keenly aware of her outdated traveling dress and twice-mended gloves, and she’d silently decried the poor manners of their hosts to not allow new arrivals even a moment in which to freshen their appearance and smooth their hair. She’d been an utter fright.
Agatha didn’t know whether to go down to dinner looking as ghastly as she admittedly still did, simply to prove to Mr. Golden-haired Adonis that she didn’t worry overly much about strangers’ opinions on her appearance, or to put extra effort into rectifying her horrific demeanor to prove that he ought not to have judged her based on a moment’s glance.
Of course, that meant admitting she’d judged him as well.
What he didn’t know couldn’t hurt . . . her.
“I will make certain I say at least three complimentary things about you to him over port tonight,” Father said.
An uncomfortable mixture of hope and panic immediately set in. “You are acquainted with him?” At the very least, she might learn the gentleman’s name.
“Vaguely,” he said. “He belongs to the club my grandfather belonged to and my father had intended to join before realizing the true state of his finances. Still, Mr. Warrick and I have exchanged the occasional generic greeting.”
Mr. Warrick. Good heavens, of course he was speaking of Mr. Warrick.
“While I do my best to speak, however briefly, with Mr. Warrick tonight, you need to make an impression on Mrs. Warrick.”
“I could recite the monarchs in reverse order,” Agatha suggested. “That cannot fail to make an impression.”
“No. No puddings or pies. No backwards kings and queens. No oddities, Agatha. Smile. Be demure. Find something about her to genuinely compliment. And please take this seriously.” Father sat beside her on the window seat.
“A profitable estate and your family’s future are at stake—their entire future. ”
What was a bit of groveling when one’s entire family was in such desperate need? It wasn’t as though she’d already spent two decades needing to beg, plead, borrow, and generally humble herself for whatever bit of charity her neighbors were willing to bestow.
Some young ladies were adept at playing the pianoforte. Others sang like angels. Some could paint beautiful watercolors. Agatha had a knack for setting aside every last shred of her dignity and humiliating herself for her family’s sake.
I need a new talent.