A Season of Romance Read online

  ‘And you do not regret it?’ Miss Morrison wrung her hands and gazed at her anxiously.

  ‘Not for a moment,’ declared Lucia stoutly.

  ‘But you might have been rich,’ said Grace. ‘She might have made you her heir.’

  ‘Yes, and she might not. My great-aunt is an eccentric and not to be relied upon. She said if I would not forsake Papa then the family would not receive one penny at her death.’

  ‘My dear child, one might wish you had done something to placate her,’ said Miss Morrison, refilling the teacups. ‘Our position here is most precarious.’

  ‘As you said in your letter.’ Lucia nodded. ‘Which is why I am come home. At nineteen I could not justify staying at Miss Emerson’s Academy any longer, although my experience teaching the younger girls might be useful, if I have to become a governess.’

  ‘I pray it will not come to that,’ said Miss Morrison sitting down opposite Lucia. ‘I will strain every sinew to prevent you having to suffer such a fate. I know what it is to be at the beck and call of a selfish, demanding employer – not here of course,’ she went on hurriedly. ‘I was extremely fortunate that your sainted papa employed me to educate you and your cousin. Here I have always been treated with respect and made to feel I was part of the family. Most employers would have had no compunction in turning me off, when Lady Quidenham took charge of your education.’

  ‘How could Papa do that, Morry?’ Lucia reached out and gasped her hand. ‘Mama had just died and I was going off to school. Someone had to help Grace and look after the house. And besides, he never really paid you a wage after that, did he?’

  ‘He provided for us all with never a murmur of complaint,’ replied the old governess, hunting for her handkerchief. ‘And he left both Grace and myself fifty pounds in his will, which he could ill afford.’

  ‘But even if you add that to the interest from the one thousand pounds in Funds that he left me, it is still barely enough to live on,’ said Lucia. ‘It is certainly not enough to allow us to keep this house.’

  ‘It gives us something to live on for the moment. Then perhaps we might take in a lodger,’ suggested Grace.

  ‘That is possible, I suppose,’ said Lucia. ‘But it would hardly support us all. At least, not without the strictest economy.’

  With an anguished sob Miss Morrison buried her face in her hands.

  ‘Dear Mrs Luckington would turn in her grave if she knew you were reduced to this.’

  ‘I do not think she would be surprised about my looking for work,’ reasoned Grace. ‘After all, if she and Uncle Charles had not taken me in, I should have had to find employment of some sort. As it is, I was allowed to share your lessons, Lucia, and even when you went to school Morry continued to teach me. Although I confess I am not a great scholar.’

  ‘Your talents lay in your hands, Cousin,’ said Lucia, smiling. ‘You are the most accomplished needlewoman I know. Oh dear, how vexatious this all is, not knowing what is to become of us.’ She yawned. ‘Perhaps it is because I am so tired that I cannot think straight. I suggest we all go to bed, and perhaps in the morning we shall be able to see things more clearly.’

  *

  However, by morning no new solution had occurred to any of them. Lucia fetched a sheet of paper to work out their finances, several ideas for making money were discussed and abandoned. Miss Morrison suggested she might find work as a governess again, and Grace could take in sewing.

  ‘That might bring in enough for you to remain living here, Lucia,’ said Grace, hopefully.

  ‘What, have you two working yourselves to the bone to keep me in luxury? That is not to be thought of. We might perhaps open a dame school.’

  Miss Morrison shook her head. ‘Mrs Groves already runs one, and there are not enough pupils to support two such establishments.’

  By the end of the day nothing had occurred to them and at dinner that evening Lucia suggested that they should begin to sort out the attics in the morning.

  ‘We shall need to put a bed up there if we are to take in lodgers,’ she reasoned. ‘And besides, we are going around in circles and not finding any new ideas. The attics have not been touched since Mama died, so at least if we clear them we will be achieving something.’ An irrepressible dimple peeped. ‘And who knows, we might find a strongbox full of jewels hidden away!’

  The following morning the three ladies set to work with a will. They donned their linen aprons and began by cleaning away years of dust and cobwebs from the trunks and boxes stored under the eaves before bringing them downstairs, a few at a time, to examine the contents.

  ‘Goodness,’ exclaimed Lucia, peering into one particularly large trunk. ‘Just look at all these gowns! The materials are so heavy…and the skirts are enormous. I think these must be from Grandmama’s day.’

  ‘Oh, this is beautiful,’ breathed Grace, pulling out a quilted petticoat and a gown of rich blue wool damask.

  Carefully they unpacked the trunk, revealing bundles of embroidered silks, thick velvets and heavy corduroy.

  Lucia smiled. ‘I can see your hands are itching to get to work making something from all these, Grace.’

  ‘Oh yes, I would very much like to work with such wonderful stuffs.’ She held up a swathe of cream silk embroidered with a colourful array of exotic birds. ‘No one wears such gowns now, but imagine what a pretty reticule this would make. Or even a spencer to wear over a summer gown. Or this velvet would make a wonderful redingote!’

  Grace’s enthusiasm was infectious. Lucia and Miss Morrison became caught up in the excitement as they knelt by each trunk, carefully taking out the contents. Most of the materials were hardly worn and their colours still jewel-bright.

  ‘Do you know, I think we could do something with all this,’ said Lucia, sitting back on her heels. ‘We might fashion new muffs from the fur lining of the cloak, and a tippet and hat from those velvet skirts. Or rather, you might do so, Grace. Your sewing is so fine I believe you are a match for any seamstress in Bath.’ She looked up, her eyes shining. ‘We could set you up as a dressmaker’.

  ‘Yes!’ Grace bounced up and began to pace the room, her brow furrowed as ideas flooded in. ‘We could turn these gowns into new clothes, tippets, caps, gloves and so on that we can sell. Even the quilted petticoats might be turned to good use! We could then buy more fabric, sprig muslins and light silks – ‘

  ‘Morry and I could help,’ added Lucia. ‘Although my sewing is not nearly as good as yours. And Morry could also keep the accounts. You would be famous in no time!’ She swung around towards the old governess. ‘What say you, Morry?’

  ‘It is a splendid idea,’ agreed Miss Morrison. ‘However.’ She paused. ‘I am not sure there would be that many customers in Little Furzewell.’

  Her soft words were like a dowsing of cold water. Grace subsided back to her knees and Lucia stood, biting her lip.

  ‘We would need to move to a large town,’ she said slowly. ‘Bath, perhaps. Or London.’

  Miss Morrison threw up her hands. ‘Heavens, my dear Lucia, have you thought of the costs such a move would incur? If we cannot afford the rent here then we would never manage anywhere else!’

  ‘I could use my inheritance. Once Grace’s gowns are in demand, we could soon recoup our investment.’

  ‘Oh no, Lucia, I could not let you do that!’

  Grace’s anguished cry was so heartfelt that Lucia did not press the idea.

  ‘I agree,’ added Miss Morrison. ‘We could not let you take such a risk, Lucia. Think how disastrous it would be if our little venture should fail.’

  ‘I do not see how it can fail!’

  Her cheerful response brought a sorrowful look from the old governess.

  ‘That is what your dear papa used to say, every time he came up with a new scheme. They were all, without exception, unsuccessful.’

  Crushed, Lucia lapsed into silence, but when Grace reminded them all that it was market day and suggested they should all walk into the high street
to buy provisions, she declined.

  ‘I will stay here and pack everything away again in the trunks,’ she said. ‘Whatever we decide to do with these gowns, we need to look after them.’

  When Grace and Miss Morrison had gone out, Lucia set to work folding up the rich material, pausing to admire a particularly beautiful French silk brocade. The fabrics were far too valuable to leave mouldering in the attics, but for now they would have to go back there. When she reached the final trunk, she discovered that it was not quite empty, for a number of fine linen chemises and petticoats lined the bottom. They had been disturbed and needed refolding so she pulled them all out, and discovered beneath them a small bundle of letters tied up in pale pink ribbon.

  Intrigued, Lucia lifted out the papers. The ink was faded but she could read the address, written in an elegant flowing script.

  ‘Mistress Joanna Verwood,’ she murmured. ‘That was Grandmama, before she was married.’

  Her heart gave a little skip. That was forty years ago! She had a faint memory of her maternal grandmother, a kindly lady habitually dressed in black. She must have packed away all these gorgeous clothes when Grandpapa had died, shortly after the birth of their only daughter. The gowns forgotten, Lucia sat on the floor surrounded by a riotous sea of colour and began to read.

  *

  When Miss Morrison and Grace returned from the market, they found the little room had been tidied, the trunks were all shut and Lucia was sitting by the fire, deep in thought.

  ‘We should not have stayed out so long!’ declared Grace, unbuttoning her pelisse. ‘I beg your pardon, Lucia. Are you quite fatigued with packing everything away?’

  Lucia looked up at that.

  ‘On the contrary,’ she said, her dark eyes shining. ‘I have had an idea. What Papa would have called A Grand Plan!’

  CHAPTER TWO

  The ancient town of Quidenham was situated some fifty miles from Little Furzewell. After its heyday as the centre of a wool producing area in the Middle Ages, it had sunk into a quiet backwater and was not now on any main coaching route. Lucia was therefore obliged to take the mail coach to Broadway and then hire a gig to carry her the five miles to the Dower House, where she hoped to find her great-aunt in residence.

  Miss Morrison, whom Lucia had brought with her for propriety’s sake, voiced her worry that the Dowager Viscountess might not be at home but Lucia was more confident.

  ‘My great-aunt is a creature of habit,’ she told her companion as she guided the gig’s sluggish pony through the winding country lanes. ‘She is always in town by the beginning of April, then she spends August in Ramsgate for the sea air and returns here for the autumn and winter. Her habits have not changed for the past ten years or more. How do I know? Because it is always trumpeted in the society pages of the newspapers. The Dowager Viscountess Quidenham, dear Morry, is very rich, and therefore, very important.’

  ‘And do you think she will see us?’

  Lucia’s dainty little chin lifted a fraction.

  ‘Having put so much effort and money into coming this far, I am determined she will!’

  The Dower House was a surprisingly restrained residence for such an eminent personage. Built in the local honey-coloured stone, it stood four-square within gardens that even on a late September day were full of colour and interest.

  ‘Well,’ said Morry, brightening as she looked about her. ‘This is very pretty. Very welcoming.’

  Lucia said nothing. She knew appearances were deceptive and expected no welcome from Lady Quidenham.

  Having presented themselves to Aston, the dowager’s aloof butler, they were left to kick their heels in a small sitting room while he went off to enquire whether his mistress was receiving visitors. Miss Morrison perched herself on the edge of a chair but Lucy was unable to sit still and paced the room. A large mirror hung above the fireplace, but after a cursory glance at her reflection she turned away to look at a series of small paintings on the opposite wall. They were delicate watercolours of plants, a little faded, but notable for the detailed work.

  ‘How pretty,’ she murmured, studying the picture of a densely branched shrub bearing little white flowers. The next showed a small tree with purple daisy-like flowers and she peered closer at the small hand-written inscription beneath the painting. ‘Dusky Bay, N.Z.’

  ‘The Antipodes,’ said Morry, nervously clasping and unclasping her hands in her lap. ‘I wonder how much longer we –’

  But at that moment the door opened and she jumped to her feet as the butler came in.

  ‘Her ladyship will see Miss Luckington,’ he announced regally. ‘Alone.’

  Lucia waved Morry back to her chair and followed the butler out of the room. Miss Morrison might be aggrieved at the dowager’s decree, but Lucia herself thought it might answer very well.

  She was shown into a large drawing room, furnished with more furniture and paintings than could be considered elegant. Lady Quidenham was sitting in a high-backed arm chair to one side of the fireplace, clad in funereal black and with one beringed hand resting on an ebony cane. Lucia approached and made her curtsy to the old lady, who eyed her coldly, no sign of approval in her lined face. As soon as they were alone, Lucia smiled.

  ‘Good day, Great-aunt Evadne. You are looking very well, ma’am.’

  ‘And what is that to you?’ snapped the dowager. ‘Ungrateful girl.’

  Nothing daunted, Lucia removed her bonnet and mantle and said calmly, ‘You call me ungrateful because I would not desert my family. You know I cannot agree with you.’

  The ebony cane tapped imperiously on the floor.

  ‘What do you want? If you have come to ask for money, you can go now – ‘

  ‘No, no. Well, not exactly. I want your assistance.’

  ‘Indeed?’ The dowager’s pale eyes snapped. ‘Why should I help you?’

  ‘Because you are my great-aunt, and my godmother, too. Also, because you were very fond of my grandmother.’

  ‘Ha! My sister Joanna has been dead and buried these twenty years, my girl. She is beyond any help of mine now. And don’t think I have any family feeling for you.’

  ‘No more than I have for you,’ replied Lucia cheerfully. ‘However, I think you can be of use to me.’ She smiled. ‘I think you might even enjoy helping me.’

  The dowager fell back in her chair, looking stunned, and Lucia’s smile grew.

  She moved towards the bell pull, saying brightly, ‘Shall we ring for some tea? It has been a long journey and I admit I am quite parched.’

  Speechless, the dowager could only nod her assent and when the butler appeared Lucia astounded him by calmly requesting that refreshments should also be taken to her companion, waiting below.

  ‘You have nerve, Lucia Luckington, I’ll say that for you,’ muttered the dowager, as the butler went out.

  ‘Since you declared at our last meeting that my father was a spineless good for nothing, I must attribute that to your side of the family,’ replied Lucia, her good humour unimpaired. She took a seat opposite the dowager. ‘Not that I agree with you. Papa had a great deal of courage. He married Mama in the teeth of her family’s disapproval and he struggled continually to keep us all.’ She sighed. ‘It was his judgement in financial affairs that was sadly lacking.’

  ‘He was a gamester, and a bad one at that!’

  ‘Yes, he was, poor lamb,’ Lucia agreed. ‘He was always chasing some mad-cap scheme. But at least he never came begging at your door, or anyone else’s.’

  She broke off as the tea tray was brought in, along with a second tray bearing a selection of little cakes. Silence was maintained until the servants had withdrawn.

  ‘I hope you do not expect me to put you up here,’ declared the dowager, watching Lucia take charge of the tea tray.

  ‘Oh no. I have booked rooms at the Quidenham Arms.’

  ‘Good. I never have guests to stay.’

  ‘What, never? Not even family?’

  ‘All the family I eve
r cared about has gone,’ snapped the old lady. ‘That pompous fool who is now viscount is not welcome here. Nor that namby-pamby wife of his. If only Quidenham and I had had a son – ‘

  She broke off, something that Lucia thought might be a hint of sadness shadowing her eyes. Silently she handed the old lady a cup of tea and returned to her own seat. She was not surprised when, after a few moments, hostilities were resumed.

  ‘So, what is it you want of me?’

  ‘I want you to take me to Town with you in the Spring.’

  This cool announcement caused the dowager to almost choke on her tea.

  ‘London! Are you out of your senses?’

  ‘Not at all. After all, who should take me but my own great-aunt?’

  ‘I have done enough for you already. I paid for your schooling and that was more than you deserve!’ The dowager’s cup rattled in its saucer as she put it down. ‘I have told you, madam, your side of the family is no concern of mine. Your mother made a foolish marriage to a hapless gamester. And more fool her mother for allowing it!’

  ‘But they were in love.’

  ‘Love! Bah. There is no such thing.’

  ‘Is there not, Aunt Evadne?’

  ‘Of course not. And do not call me that!’ The thin, claw-like hands gripped the arms of her chair. ‘You had best leave now, before I lose my temper.’

  She reached out for the bell pull.

  ‘But you were very much in love once, Aunt.’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Yes, you were. You told Grandmama as much.’

  The dowager’s hand stopped in mid-air and she looked askance at Lucia, who continued innocently.

  ‘I was sorting through an old trunk and I found some letters. Letters you had written to Grandmama, declaring that your heart was broken because you had been separated forever from your true love.’ She added softly, ‘The mysterious Mr T.’

  The dowager’s hand fell and she stared at Lucia.