Lady Controversial: Regency Ladies Vol 4 Read online

  Regency Ladies Volume 4

  Lady Controversial

  Wendy Soliman

  Regency Ladies Vol 4

  Lady Controversial

  Copyright © Wendy Soliman 2022

  Edited by Perry Iles

  Cover Design by Clockwork Art

  This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations contained are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance of actual living or dead persons, business, or events. Any similarities are coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any method, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of

  The Author – Wendy Soliman

  This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction fines and/or imprisonment. The e-Book cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this e-Book can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the author.

  Chapter One

  Finchdean, Southern England: October 1816

  Isolda Crawley paused midway through chopping yet another stack of logs. Her entire body ached from the unaccustomed activity and she straightened up with a cry of pain, massaging the small of her back with one gloved hand and wiping perspiration from her brow with the other. She wondered briefly how it was possible to feel so warm when the temperature had yet to rise above freezing. She glanced at her pile of logs and winced when her muscles protested at being abused, thus answering her own question.

  ‘I swear I shall find the money from somewhere and employ a gardener by the time the spring comes around,’ she told the little dog who sat beside her, watching her from beneath a shaggy fringe with his head cocked to one side. ‘Not that I anticipate still being here by then. Once Jane has married I will be free to do as I please—and there’s no need to look so sceptical, Brutus,’ she added, shaking a finger at the terrier and smiling as she always did when she used the name that her cook had landed the poor creature with.

  It was her own fault. She’d been the one who’d accused him of being a little brute when he’d snuck into the scullery and helped himself to a sausage, in all fairness. Cook had simply adapted the insult when the dog went into his innocent head-cocking routine. A less likely looking brute it was difficult for Isolda to imagine, and the name had stuck.

  The stray didn’t have a vicious bone in his body as far as Isolda had been able to ascertain in the short space of time since she’d been adopted by the mutt. He did however possess a desperate desire to be loved—and fed. Since Isolda had plenty of love to spare and Mrs Compton found an endless supply of scraps for the dog to wolf down, the arrangement worked well. Isolda enjoyed having at least one creature beneath her care who did not constantly harp and complain. If her sister would take a leaf out of the dog’s book, Isolda’s life would be considerably easier.

  With a sigh, Isolda picked up her discarded axe and continued with her labours, getting an odd sense of satisfaction from splitting the logs with just one blow…most of the time. There was, she decided, something to be said for a job well done, no matter how menial that job might be.

  She couldn’t altogether blame Brutus for doubting her determination to employ a gardener, she supposed, returning her oscillating thoughts to her earlier resolve. One would become necessary in the spring, there was no denying that, but there were a dozen more pressing causes that urgently required an infusion of her limited funds—most notably Jane’s wardrobe, Isolda conceded. She tried not to frown when she thought of the exorbitant cost that she had already incurred fitting her sister out for a season. Even on a shoestring and using a local modiste rather than the fashionable London designer whose premises Jane preferred to frequent, the number of garments deemed necessary was extravagant at best, and the cost of making them was eye-watering.

  Isolda harboured grave doubts about Jane being presented at all, given their circumstances, but she had been railroaded into agreeing. In retrospect, she imagined that her aunt and sister had collaborated on the matter before involving her, being aware that she would object, and not just on the grounds of the cost. Isolda had been outmanoeuvred; it was now a fait accompli and had become the sole subject of Jane’s conversation.

  Isolda herself had not harboured similar aspirations, in fact the mere thought of the cattle market that represented the ton in full swing filled her with a combined sense of fear and disgust. Her aunt had supported her stubborn determination not to put herself forward, unnecessarily pointing out that her father had recently died by his own hand and that Isolda’s presence within the ranks of society’s elite would therefore be considered distasteful.

  Isolda sometimes wondered how different things would have been had their aunt been forced to sponsor a niece whom, unlike Jane, she actively disliked. Papa’s timing had been most convenient, at least insofar as Lady Bellingham’s interests were concerned.

  In Jane she was assured of a kindred spirit, and the difference in manner by which Lady Bellingham treated her two nieces—her only relatives—could not be more marked. As the beauty of the family and the daughter of a viscount, albeit a disgraced one, Jane had every right to her share of society. It was all well and good for their aunt to remind Isolda of the fact and to generously offer to sponsor Jane, but that generosity did not extend to covering very much of the cost of her wardrobe. Lady Bellingham was well aware of her nieces’ impecunious state, but although exceedingly wealthy herself she did not offer them financial support and pretended that the situation didn’t exist.

  Lady Bellingham never referred to her brother-in-law’s spectacular fall from grace, a fall that had resulted in his putting a bullet through his own head and leaving his two daughters to fend for themselves. It was a coward’s way out, Isolda thought, bringing the axe down with renewed vigour. Papa had been man enough to gamble his estate away but not strong enough to live with the disgrace that came with it. The relatively small cottage in Finchdean—which they now called home, much to Jane’s chagrin—was tucked away in the delightful Hampshire countryside and had saved them from the poor house.

  It was such an insignificant dwelling, with only just enough space for Isolda, Jane, Brutus and their two remaining loyal servants. Gladys was an ageing maid of all work who also acted as lady’s maid, in Jane’s case at least. Isolda seldom wore gowns and had no time to waste on her appearance. Jane, on the other hand, was seldom far from a looking glass. Mrs Compton, cook to the Crawley family for as long as Isolda could recall and surrogate mother to the girls, made up their motley household.

  Isolda muttered an oath when the axe slipped through her fingers and clattered to the ground. She leaned forward onto the block to save herself from taking a tumble. Her hand caught a rough edge and a splinter slid through the worn leather of her glove and into the flesh of her finger.

  ‘Ouch!’ She removed her glove, wincing as she tugged the splinter out and then sucked her finger to stem the bleeding. ‘Come along, Brutus,’ she said. ‘Enough is enough. I am more than ready for some breakfast and I dare say that you are too.’

  Brutus wagged his stumpy tail and scampered after Isolda when she turned in the direction of the cottage. She let herself in through the kitchen door, where her nostrils were assailed with the heavenly smell of frying bacon.

  ‘Ah, just in time, love,’ Mrs Compton said, turning away from the range with a smile. Isolda had never known the woman not to
have a smile on her plump face and found herself responding in like manner. ‘Gladys tried to wake her ladyship, but she threw a pillow at her and told her to go away.’

  ‘In that case she will just have to go without breakfast,’ Isolda said, washing her hands and drying them on the towel that Mrs Compton passed to her. ‘I will not have you saddled with extra work simply because she is too lazy to adhere to mealtimes.’

  ‘I wonder how you two can be so different,’ Mrs Compton said, not for the first time, as she ladled a generous serving of bacon and coddled eggs onto a plate and placed it in front of Isolda, who had seated herself at the kitchen table.

  ‘Jane is beautiful, and she is convinced she will save us all by marrying well, which entitles her to be mollycoddled, at least in her own mind. I, on the other hand, am well beyond marriageable age.’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense!’ Mrs Compton plonked herself down at the table and made inroads into her own breakfast. ‘You are just as pretty as her ladyship, albeit in a different way.’

  ‘Very different,’ Isolda agreed, rolling her eyes as she thought about her wayward dark hair that was almost impossible to tame, her nose that she considered too straight, her mouth that was too full, and as for her height…well, she was far too tall for a lady, which often made gentlemen feel threatened, or so she had been told. Her grey-green eyes were arguably her best feature, she thought dispassionately. Large and expressive, they saved her face from being completely plain and managed to convey her feelings, often without the need for words.

  Jane was her polar opposite in all respects. Petite, blonde and blue-eyed, with a face that could make an angel weep. It was a very great pity, Isolda often thought but did not say, that her disposition was not as sweet as her appearance. There again, Jane hid her temper well and it was only those close to her who tended to be on the receiving end of her fits of pique—all except Isolda, who wasn’t prepared to put up with it. Like all bullies, Jane knew when she had met her match and didn’t cross swords with Isolda unless she was assured of support from their aunt, who was never slow to level oblique criticisms in Isolda’s direction.

  ‘She’s smelled the bacon and wants her breakfast served in bed,’ Gladys said, coming into the kitchen.

  ‘Don’t take it to her,’ Isolda replied calmly. ‘She knows the rules. If she wants to eat then she must lower herself to set foot in this kitchen.’

  Mrs Compton nodded with satisfaction as Gladys sat down to her own breakfast.

  ‘Why are you all ignoring me?’ Jane flounced into the kitchen a short time later, wearing a robe and with her hair hanging loose round her shoulders.

  ‘Stop it, Jane,’ Isolda said calmly. ‘We are not here to wait on you, any of us.’

  ‘Your sister has already been outside for an hour, chopping logs, if you please,’ Mrs Compton added, plonking her fat arms on her hips and glowering at Jane.

  ‘Well, I hope you don’t expect me to spoil my hands,’ Jane replied, glancing down at the smooth hands in question and admiring fingernails that she buffed against the fabric of her robe. ‘Isolda can do as she pleases but I am sure there must be enough money to employ a boy if she would prefer not to exert herself.’

  ‘I shall need your help later today,’ Isolda said, knowing she was taking on a struggle but determined that her lazy sister would make some contribution. ‘There is mending to be done. You trod on the flounce of your grey gown yesterday and ripped it. There is darning too.’

  ‘Let Gladys do it,’ Jane said, flipping her wrist.

  ‘Gladys has more than enough to do already. You are a perfectly adequate seamstress and you must accustom yourself to the fact that we can no longer afford servants to cater to our every whim.’ Not that they had ever been able to, but that hadn’t prevented Papa from keeping on a full staff, whom he had then failed to pay. Most had eventually left and Isolda could hardly blame them for deserting a sinking ship. ‘If you want your clothes to look presentable then you will mend them yourself.’

  ‘Why are you so mean to me, Isolda?’ Jane asked, screwing up her eyes until they resembled slits and frowning as though she bore the entire world a grudge. ‘It is not my fault that we are reduced to…well, this.’ She spread her hands, one of which still held a forkful of bacon. Brutus saw an opportunity and sprang up, thinking the treat was intended for him. ‘Ugh!’ Jane hastily withdrew her hands and stared at her now empty fork. ‘Get that horrible beast away from me! I cannot think why you allow him in the house, Isolda. I am absolutely sure that he has fleas.’

  Isolda laughed at the dog’s antics and couldn’t bring herself to chastise him.

  ‘I hear tell that the Earl of Finchdean will soon be returning to his estate,’ Jane remarked after sulking for a few minutes about her spoiled breakfast. When no one made a fuss of her she quickly brightened again and returned to her pet subject, which was the supposedly rich and eligible earl. ‘Such a shame that we are living in abject poverty. I don’t suppose he will deign to set foot over this threshold.’

  ‘Heaven forbid,’ Isolda remarked, sharing an amused glance with Mrs Compton. As far as Isolda was concerned, the further the earl stayed away from them the better.

  ‘How do you know this?’ Gladys asked.

  ‘Oh, I walked into the village yesterday to check on the progress of my ball gown.’ She twitched her nose. ‘Really, it is such a pity that it cannot be of better quality. I shall feel like a poor relation when I wear it. Everyone will stare, I expect, but still… Anyway, there were some other ladies in the salon and his lordship’s imminent return was all they could talk about.’

  ‘They are clearly not the only ones,’ Isolda muttered sotto voce.

  She too had heard a great deal about the mysterious earl, and admitted to being curious. Not that they were ever likely to meet. Jane had got that much right. She had heard that he, his mother and sisters were all very self-aware and probably didn’t even know that Isolda’s little cottage existed. They would certainly not deign to step inside such a lowly dwelling even if they did—especially given that Papa’s reckless gambling and suicide had quickly become public knowledge.

  Isolda had seen Finchdean Hall from a distance—it was hard to miss—and their entire cottage would likely fit into half of one of the wings. She did not much care for what she had heard about the family. The dowager Lady Finchdean was by all accounts haughty and remote, disliked by the majority of villagers whom she treated with icy disdain. She was a woman who constantly claimed ill-health and one whom Isolda felt no pressing need to be acquainted with.

  Jane, on the other hand, would likely resort to underhand stratagems in order to bring herself to the notice of the taciturn earl. Isolda sighed inwardly and braced herself for another battle of wills. They might be impoverished but they were still ladies of quality and Isolda would not tolerate Jane being shunned by the district’s leading family. Better to avoid them altogether and prevent that situation from arising, she decided.

  ‘The earl and his family are coming down with a large group of friends for a shooting party,’ Jane said, her eyes turning dreamy. ‘Only imagine.’

  ‘Imagine what? Shooting innocent birds?’ Mrs Compton shook her head, apparently not seeing any irony in the fact that she would happily cook the innocent birds in question if they found their way into her kitchen. ‘I have much better things to do with my time, thank you, young lady.’

  Isolda turned her mind to the thousand and one things she had to do that morning and didn’t bother to make any response as Jane continued to run on.

  Ellery Haigh, Earl of Finchdean, left London behind him with an unmitigated sigh of relief. The matchmakers were circling their wagons even before the season had got underway. They had him squarely in their collective sights and he’d had more than enough of the paltry excuses they made to throw their mousy daughters into his path.

  ‘You will have to get accustomed to it,’ Felix, his younger brother, remarked. Riding together alongside the carriage conveying their
mother and sisters, Felix had correctly interpreted the reason for Ellery’s high spirits. ‘Our mother won’t permit us to hide ourselves away in the country once the season gets under way; especially as Jemima is to make her curtsey.’

  Ellery rolled his eyes. ‘All the more reason to escape while we still can. I have had quite enough of being eyed up like a prize stallion in Tattersall’s ring.’

  ‘Coward!’

  Ellery laughed. ‘Wait until they start targeting you, then you’ll better understand my repulsion.’

  Felix shook his head good-naturedly. ‘I’m not the catch that you are, big brother.’

  ‘Keep thinking that.’

  ‘Well, I’m not!’

  ‘You’re an earl’s brother. A gentleman with an independent fortune and not completely ugly, I’ll own as much. That’s more than enough to make you a target.’

  ‘Ah.’ Ellery smiled when Felix’s expression turned sour.

  George Fox, who was married to Ellery’s elder sister Sally, cantered up to join them. ‘Damned rum affair, that business with Brooke,’ he remarked, never one to mince his words. ‘I admire your restraint, Finchdean, and that’s a fact. In your shoes, I would have given the fellow a good thrashing for his impertinence.’

  ‘What business?’ Felix asked, sharing a quizzical look between Ellery and Fox.

  Ellery didn’t want Felix, five years his junior, worried by an affair that was likely something of nothing, and sent Fox a warning look. Felix still had another year to go at university and deserved to enjoy his freedom for a little longer. ‘Nothing of any great consequence,’ he said. ‘Ah, good, this is the last posting inn,’ he added as they rode into Chichester. ‘We will soon be home.’

  The ladies descended from Ellery’s travelling chaise. As always, his mother found something to complain about before her feet had even touched the ground.