Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter One
Lincolnshire, 1868
“Oh, Miss Barton, how wonderful to see you! Isn’t it simply dreadful?” the unfortunately familiar female voice declared pleasantly.
Grace Barton smiled noncommittally as she turned to face Miss Myrtle Hurley and her silent twin sister, Miss Ethel, who were now blocking her way as formidably as any brick wall.
As always, the elderly women wore virtually identical black bombazine dresses, gray wool cloaks, ratty fur muffs they had apparently owned since the Regency, and corresponding black bonnets. Their thick white hair was dressed the same way, and to a stranger, they would look like mirror images of the same, sweet elderly woman.
Unfortunately, Grace knew from long experience that neither the brisk April breeze blowing from across the fens and tugging at her thin wool cloak and bell skirt, or the smell wafting toward them from the nearby fishmonger’s, would cause them to move until they had said what they wanted to say.
“Good afternoon,” she said evenly, wondering what particular piece of salacious gossip the Hurleys would regale her with today.
“Good afternoon,” Miss Myrtle, the eldest of the twins by a full five minutes, said breathlessly. She always spoke breathlessly, and she always smiled, no matter how terrible the tale she was going to relate, or how damning her criticism.
Grace often felt that was how the Hurley girls-who had been “girls” for the past seventy-five years-managed to avoid criticism themselves. If any other person who did not look like the epitome of sweet seniority said the things they did and revealed the secrets they told, they would be shunned.
“It’s just too distressing!” Miss Myrtle exclaimed. “Not for us, of course, but for so many others!”
“What has happened?” Grace asked, keeping her tone carefully neutral as she shifted her basket into her other kid-gloved hand, partly because she was impatient, but also because Miss Ethel was trying to peek inside, and Grace didn’t want her to see the contents. It was none of the woman’s business that the fish Grace had purchased was the cheapest she could find.
“It’s the rents,” Miss Myrtle announced, not without a sense of importance. “Sir Donald is raising them-most definitely! I heard it from Mrs. Banks herself not two hours ago.”
Grace swallowed hard. As well as the holder of the largest estate in the country, Sir Donald was also the landlord of Barton Farm. For once, the Hurleys’ news was important and, if it came from his housekeeper, likely to be true.
“I do so hate to be the bearer of bad tidings,” Myrtle Hurley said eagerly, a pleasant smile still on her round face. “But everyone will know sooner or later. Sir Donald came home yesterday, and he has already spoken with some of his tenants!”
How typical of the Hurleys to treat this news of a raise in rents as just another fascinating piece of gossip! Grace thought, keeping any sense of her displeasure from her face. The Hurleys had nothing to fear, for their parents had made quite a tidy fortune in the wool trade, which they had bequeathed to their daughters. Sir Donald could triple the rent, and they would not suffer.
Not so herself and Mercy. Her family had been the major landholders here for over three centuries-the village Barton-by-the-Fens was even named for them. Sadly, in her grandfather’s time, a series of investments had turned out to be disasters. Her father had done his best to recoup, to no avail. Little by little, their land had gone to Sir Donald, until all they were left with upon their parents’ deaths three years ago was one acre and their house, and all they had to live on was the interest from her mother’s dowry, not very much at all.
“Do you know how high he intends to raise them?” Grace asked, her voice quite cool and calm in spite of her inner turmoil.
“No, I don’t how much he intends to raise them,” Miss Myrtle said rather primly. “It is improper for ladies to discuss business matters.”
“Improper,” Miss Ethel murmured.
Grace didn’t point out that they were discussing business matters at that very moment, and as far as she was concerned, if the Hurleys wanted to be the unofficial town criers, they should expect to be interrogated. “Do you know when?”
“It’s none of our business,” Miss Myrtle answered affably. “Perhaps when he does, he will pay for more policing. The chief constable claims he is unable to do anything about the vagrancy problems unless he can hire more help.”
She nodded in the general direction of The Three Crowns, one of the small brick establishments that lined the village square, where a group of ragged, ill-fed men lingered. Simultaneously all three women pulled their cloaks tighter, as if to ward off the men’s unblinking stares.
“And just the other day, my dear, I heard that some travelers were robbed on the road to Grantham by a band of brigands. Even our countryside is not safe anymore!”
“Not safe,” repeated Miss Ethel firmly and with an affable smile.
If the proposed rent increase would go to improvements in the county, Grace would have been less upset about it, even though the means to pay would still be a problem.
Unfortunately, she doubted Sir Donald had any intention of spending the extra income on anyone but himself. After his recent knighthood-which had come as a surprise to everyone in Barton-he had declared the house that had belonged to his family for three generations was not grand enough for a knight. Work on improving, or at least expanding, the stone structure had begun immediately.
“I should be going--” Grace began, hoping to get away from the Hurleys before they could impart any more bad news.
“They do say he’s thinking of marrying,” Miss Myrtle noted.
“A rich heiress,” Miss Ethel announced.
“If he did marry well, then perhaps he wouldn’t have to raise the rent,” Grace observed hopefully, and not all that hope had to do with the proposed rent increase. “If you ladies will excuse me, I had better get home to Mercy.”
“Oh, and how is dear little Mercy?” asked Miss Myrtle solicitously, as if Mercy were a child of six instead of a young woman of eighteen.
“Very well, thank you,” Grace lied.
She lied because if the Hurley girls discovered Mercy was ill, they would arrive at the house at the most inconvenient times with soup, or medicines they bought from peddlers and Gypsies, or simply to “see how she is, poor dear.” Afterward Grace would hear from those who thought she ought to know that the Hurleys considered their housekeeping faulty, their garden untidy, and their food undercooked.
At times such as these, Grace was relieved they had no servants to reveal that Mercy had been sick this morning.
“I hope she isn’t too distraught over Adam’s absence,” Miss Myrtle said, coy as a fifteen-year-old as she spoke of her nephew.
“She has not mentioned him this past month,” Grace