numbly. She felt deprived of the power of speech. The day before yesterday, she had been the only child and heiress of a reasonably rich merchant of good family. Yesterday, she had been about to become Lady Sylvester. Today, she had been informed that she was a poverty-stricken orphan who was to be sent away to be an elderly lady’s companion—with all that that entailed. Running errands, walking the pug: someone who was neither a servant nor a gentlewoman, but something in-between.
Later, alone in her room, she began to question a little what her stepfather had just told her. Was it really true that her father had left her nothing? That the Trust had been false, nothing but a lying fiction? That she had been living for the past twelve years on her stepfather’s charity? Surely she and her mother would have been informed of that if such had been the case.
She made up her mind to visit the family solicitors to discover the truth. She would not tell Mr Mitchell of her intentions, merely say that she needed to take the air in the family carriage.
But her stepfather, knowing her strong and determined character, so like her late father’s, had foreseen that she might wish to do such a thing, and was able to prevent it by informing her mother that, until it was time for Susanna to travel to Yorkshire, it would be unwise for her to go out in public.
‘The female mind is so delicate,’ he said, ‘that it might, in such a situation as Susanna finds herself in, be inadvisable for her to venture out of doors. A brief period at home, before she makes the long journey to Yorkshire, will do her a power of good.’
‘If you say so,’ her mother said falteringly.
‘Oh, I do say so, Mrs Mitchell. After all, like you, I have her best interests at heart!’
It had been her mother who told Susanna of her stepfather’s decision.
Susanna had stared at her, more sure than ever that something was wrong. She had been about to refuse to obey any such ban and even considered telling her mother of her suspicion that Mr Mitchell had been lying about the Trust and her father’s not having left her anything.
Then she looked at her mother with newly opened eyes and knew that she would not believe that her husband was lying, would simply see Susanna as trouble-making and ungrateful towards a man who had graciously taken the place of her father ever since she had married Mr Mitchell.
Not only would Mr Mitchell make doubly sure that she was confined to the house, but she would make an enemy of them both, to no profit to herself. He would simply assert that the misery of being jilted had unhinged her mind—and she had no answer to that. She was helpless and knew it.
Susanna had taken her mother in her arms and kissed her childhood innocence goodbye. She would go to Yorkshire and try to make a new life there, far from the home which was no longer her home, and where she was not wanted.
Somehow, some day, God willing, she would try to repair the ruin which Francis Sylvester had made of her life…
Chapter One
1819
It had been one of Lady Leominster’s most successful balls, she afterwards boasted to her lord the next morning, who merely grunted and continued to read the Morning Post. His wife’s conversation was only wallpaper in the background of his busy life. It would never do to let her know how useful her balls and other entertainments were, she would only get above herself and, heaven knew, she was too much above herself as it was without his praise elevating her even further.
‘And even the Wolf, the Nabob himself, came—after refusing everyone else’s invitations, even Emily Exford’s.’
M’lord grunted again. This time in appreciation. He had spent a happy half-hour with Benjamin Wolfe, discussing the current state of England, gaining advice on where he might profitably invest his money as the post-war depression roared on, showing no signs of breaking.
‘Not a bad move, that,’ he conceded grudgingly. ‘The feller seems both knowledgeable and helpful. Invite him to our next dinner.’
‘They say that he is looking for a wife.’
‘Shouldn’t have any difficulty finding one, my dear. With all that money.’
‘True, m’lord, but his birth? What of that? Does anyone know of his family?’
‘Well, I do, for one,’ said Lord Leominster, smiling because for once he knew of a piece of gossip which his wife didn’t. ‘Same family as the General of that name. Poor gentry—went to India and made his pile there, or so he says. Besides, money sweetens everything. It’s its own lineage, you know. Half the peerage goes back to nameless thrusters who received titles and consequence solely because of their newly gained riches—nothing wrong in that.’
Lord Leominster’s distant ancestor had been a pirate with Francis Drake and was the founder of the family’s wealth with loot wrested from Spanish treasure ships.
His wife shrugged and abandoned Ben Wolfe as a topic. ‘They say that Darlington is about to offer for Amelia Western—that should be a meeting of money, and no mistake. He was paying her the most marked attention last night.’
She received no answer. Lord Leominster was not interested in idle gossip for its own sake. Ben Wolfe, now, was different. Such creatures had their uses.
Lady Leominster was almost right. The previous evening, George Wychwood, Viscount Darlington, had offered for Miss Amelia Western and been accepted. He had spoken to her father and received his blessing earlier in the day and had come to Leominster House solely to propose to her.
As usual, she had that dowdy goody of hers in tow. Well, she wouldn’t be needing a duenna when she was his wife, as she surely would be soon, and the dowdy goody could be given her notice, move on either to be some old trot’s companion or to shepherd some other innocent young woman and make sure that the wolves didn’t get at her before the honest men did.
And speaking of wolves, wasn’t that Ben Wolfe in earnest conversation with their host? George Darlington frowned. He had mentioned Ben Wolfe’s name to his father, the Earl of Babbacombe, earlier that day, and the Earl had made a wry face and said, ‘You would do well to avoid him like the plague. His father was a wretch, and like father, like son, I always say—although there were rumours that he was not Charles Wolfe’s son at all, just some by-blow brought in when Wolfe’s own son died at birth. I thought that he had gone off to India—enlisted as a private in that skimble-skamble Company army. What can he be doing in decent society?’
Uninterested, George had shrugged. ‘Made a fortune there, they say. Became a Nabob, no less. Been put up for White’s and accepted.’
He had little time for his father’s follies and foibles, having too many of his own to worry about.
‘Money,’ said his father disgustedly. ‘Whitewashes everything.’
His tone was bitter. There were few to know that the Wychwood family was on its beam-ends and desperately needed the marriage which George was about to make. Lady Leominster had been wrong in her assumption that money was about to marry money.
Certainly George had no knowledge of how near his father was to drowning in the River Tick and, if he had, would have thought Ben Wolfe a useful man to ask for advice on matters financial, not someone to despise.
As
