The Cinderella Heiress
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Janice Preston
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Chapter One
Miss Beatrice Fothergill sucked in a long, silent breath as she eased open the front door and slipped outside. She held that breath as she quietly closed the door behind her. It released as a white plume as she hurried down the driveway, away from Pilcombe Grange, dreading the entire time a shout that would summon her back. For she knew she would obey that summons, despite her desperation to discover the meaning of the letter she had received two days ago from Messrs Henshaw and Dent, solicitors, of Bristol. She would have no choice but to return, because the hint in that letter of something that would change her life might be nothing more than a cruel joke, and if she burned her bridges with her half-brother, Percy—and with his wife, Fenella, who frequently threatened to turn Beatrice out—what would she have? Where would she go? As Percy and Fenella never hesitated to remind her, on a daily basis, she was utterly dependent upon them for the roof over her head and the food she ate.
But the letter... She cradled the hope that letter had sparked deep inside her as she reached the road, where the stone pillars that marked the entrance to the Grange would hide her from view. Her hope was for a miracle. For something...anything...that would change her life.
It had been sheer luck she had met the postman as he delivered the post on Monday while she walked Fenella’s obnoxious, pampered pug, Gertrude, around the garden in the rain. And there, among the letters for Percy, had been one addressed to Miss Beatrice Fothergill. For her to receive a letter was unheard of, for she knew no one who would write to her. No one at all, in the entire world. She had hidden it under her cloak and then, shaking with excitement—and with nerves, lest she was caught—had opened it in the privacy of her bedchamber.
The letter had been from Mr Arthur Henshaw, solicitor, and it had summoned her—for it was more of an order than a request—to his office in Bristol for a meeting at noon on Wednesday the thirty-first of January 1816, when she would learn something to her advantage. A post-chaise would be sent, at no expense to herself, to collect her from Pilcombe Grange at ten o’clock. It would convey her both to the meeting and home again afterwards. And, Mr Henshaw had written, should Miss Fothergill choose not to attend the meeting, then she would miss out on the opportunity of a lifetime.
Beatrice had resolved there and then that neither Percy nor Fenella should know about that meeting because she knew Percy would insist upon accompanying her and her instinct was to keep this to herself, because he would somehow contrive to spoil things for her.
Beatrice peered anxiously along the road, praying the post-chaise would be on time and Fenella would not notice she was gone before she was safely on her way. She would doubtless pay the price for disappearing without a word, even though she had left a note in her bedchamber promising to be home before darkness fell, but that price would be worth it, for this one adventure. The idea of an adventure made her laugh. Her! Beatrice Fothergill—the least adventurous person in the world—eager for an adventure. But, since Father had died five years ago, and Percy had inherited the baronetcy and the Grange and she had been left with nothing but Percy’s charity to rely upon, Beatrice had—ever more frequently—looked ahead at the life that stretched before her and she had seen a future of nothing but drudgery and loneliness.
She peered along the road as the thud of hooves and the rattle of wheels penetrated her thoughts. A bright yellow post-chaise, drawn by four horses controlled by two postilions, headed towards her at pace. She stepped away from the shelter of the pillar, and the vehicle slowed before halting next to her.
‘Miss Fothergill?’ The lead postilion touched his tall hat.
‘Yes. I am Miss Fothergill.’
The postilion leapt down from his horse. He opened the chaise door, and Beatrice, her heart pitter-pattering, climbed inside.
‘Two hours should be plenty of time to get you to Bristol for your appointment, miss.’
‘Thank you.’
Beatrice sank back into the squabs as the post-chaise jerked into motion. She opened her reticule and withdrew the letter to read it for the umpteenth time.
The journey took longer than anticipated when the post-chaise was held up behind a heavily laden farm cart, its driver deaf to the postilions’ yells and insults. The road was too narrow to overtake at first but, finally, they managed to pass the lumbering wagon—its driver waving cheerfully, grinning toothlessly, seemingly still oblivious to the curses hurled in his direction—and Beatrice found herself bouncing around as the team were urged faster to make up time.
They pulled up before a house in the middle of a terraced row of similar houses and the door was opened by the same postilion as before.
‘Here you are, miss. All safe and sound, in the nick of time,’ he said, grinning up at her.
He handed Beatrice down the steps. ‘We’ve orders to pick you up in an hour, miss, so we’ll see you then.’
‘Thank you.’
Beatrice gazed at the building before her, her heart quailing as she realised she had accomplished the easy bit. What would she learn inside there? How would she know what to say...how to behave? Percy was right—she was stupid. Why did she ever think she could cope with something like this on her own?
The door in front of her opened, to reveal a young man with slicked-back brown hair and stooped shoulders. He stared at her, his eyebrows raised.
‘I received a letter from Mr Henshaw. I have an appointment. I am Miss Fothergill.’
‘Follow me, Miss Fothergill. Mr Henshaw is waiting for you.’
As Beatrice followed the man, presumably a clerk, up a steep, narrow flight of stairs, a clock somewhere above them chimed the hour and Beatrice counted as she climbed. Noon. At the top of the stairs, the clerk crossed the landing to a door and knocked.
‘Enter.’
The clerk opened the door. ‘Miss Fothergill, sir.’ He stepped aside for Beatrice, who was quaking inside but desperately trying to hide it.
The brightness of Mr Henshaw’s office reassured Beatrice after the dinginess of the stairs and landing. Her gaze swept the room, taking in the bookshelves lining the walls and the massive mahogany desk with a high-backed chair on one side and three ordinary chairs lined up opposite. In the middle of those sat a woman dressed in a royal blue gown and a matching bonnet who did not even glance around when Mr Henshaw—a balding, middle-aged man with eyeglasses and pursed lips that gave him an air of disapproval—bowed to Beatrice and said, ‘Thank you for attending this meeting, Miss Fothergill. Please, may I take your cloak?’
He hung it on a coat stand in the corner of his office. ‘If you would care to take a seat, Miss Fothergill?’
He indicated the row of three chairs and Beatrice sat to the right of the woman in blue, shivering a little as she did so. A sidelong glance at the woman next to her revealed she was tall and slim, with an incongruous-looking smattering of freckles across her beautifully sculpted cheekbones and aristocratic nose. A strand or two of hair at her temple revealed hair of rich, fiery red. She did not as much as glance in Beatrice’s direction and gave the impression of being the epitome of reserve and restraint. Beatrice said nothing, not quite daring to attract her attention in case... Her thoughts stuttered to a halt and shame curled through her as she understood she did not dare in case the other woman became angry with her.
Is that really what I have become? So unsure of myself that I dare not say boo to a goose?
She smiled then at the mental image that popped into her mind—a white goose seated next to her and dressed in a blue velvet gown and bonnet, but she soon bit back that smile. She would be mortified if the other woman thought she was laughing at her. To divert her thoughts, she scanned the surface of the desk, hoping for some clue as to why she had been summoned, but it was bare apart from a pile of documents, an inkstand and a wax jack.
Mr Henshaw made no attempt to introduce the two women but remained behind the chairs, out of sight. The silence—unbroken apart from the tick of a clock on the mantelshelf and the occasional sigh and an impatient tap of his foot from Mr Henshaw—did nothing to reassure Beatrice. She nibbled her lower lip, her thoughts turning to what Percy would say when she got home. What punishment would he deem fitting for what he would label disobedience on her part? Her vision blurred as she stared down at her hands, twisting together in her lap. She wished someone would say something to break the tension and, more importantly, to keep her thoughts from her horrid brother and his even more horrid wife.
A knock at the door made her jump.
‘Miss Croome, sir.’
Beatrice couldn’t help herself. She twisted to look over her shoulder at the newcomer as Mr Henshaw relieved her of her coat and told her to sit down.
The poor thing. That was her instant reaction as she took in Miss Croome’s general air of poverty—a shabby dove-grey gown that hung on her frame and that particular large-eyed, hollow-cheeked, dull-skinned appearance of the hungry. She was pretty, though, despite her gaunt appearance. Then she shot a look at Beatrice, who felt an immediate jolt of energy run through her. She whipped her head back around to face the front, feeling herself grow red. Did she know Miss Croome? Had they met before? She seemed familiar somehow but, more than that, it felt as though the room had suddenly come to life with the newcomer’s arrival. The lady in blue, she noticed, did not as much as glance at Miss Croome, even as she sat in the third chair.
Mr Henshaw returned to his chair. ‘Allow me to make the introductions,’ he said. ‘Miss Aurelia Croome.’
Beatrice leaned forward to smile a greeting. Miss Croome’s hair was hidden under her chip straw bonnet, but the eyebrows that framed her blue eyes—those eyes that so reminded Beatrice of...who? She still could not place her—were fair, suggesting her hair would also be fair.
‘Miss Leah Thame.’ Mr Henshaw indicated the woman in the middle, who acknowledged the other two with a cool nod.
‘And Miss Beatrice Fothergill.’
Beatrice felt her cheeks glow, but she managed a smile. Miss Croome frowned for an instant as their eyes met, but soon turned her attention to Mr Henshaw, staring at him with a look of irritation.
‘Well. This is quite unprecedented.’
Beatrice waited for the solicitor to elaborate, but he removed his spectacles to stare at each woman in turn before removing a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his brow. Very slowly, it seemed, he replaced his handkerchief.
‘Yes. Quite unprecedented, not to mention perplexing. You ladies must appreciate it has given me a real dilemma as to how best to proceed.’
His expression turned even more disapproving.
‘Perhaps if you enlightened us as to the purpose of this meeting, Mr Henshaw, we might shed some light on your...er...dilemma,’ said Miss Croome.
Her speech was more refined than Beatrice had expected.
‘Yes. Well...’ This time the pause was to allow Mr Henshaw to polish his eyeglasses—again, moving with frustrating slowness—with that same handkerchief. ‘Yes...the terms of the will are quite clear, of course. I just... I simply...’ Again he paused, his high forehead wrinkling in puzzlement. ‘Lord Tregowan—the current Lord Tregowan—will be unhappy, you may be sure of that. I have written to him again, to clarify matters. Bad tidings for him, but I did not draw up this will, you understand. I thought I had her latest will and testament—drawn up by me and signed and witnessed three years ago in this very office.’
Tregowan? Mama had been companion to Lady Tregowan, before she married Father—and, of course, before Beatrice had been born. But...a will? Could it be that Lady Tregowan had remembered Mama? But Mama had died ten years ago, when Beatrice was twelve. How did that explain why Beatrice had been summoned? But that hope for a miracle still glimmered deep inside... What if this was the miracle she had been praying for?
‘This...’ The solicitor picked up a document, dangling it by its corner as though it were distasteful. ‘This arrived last week. And yet I cannot refute its authenticity. I’d recognise Her Ladyship’s signature anywhere and it is witnessed by the partners of a legal firm in Bath, although quite why she went to them I have no notion. No. I am afraid it is authentic. There can be no doubt of it.’
The lady in blue... Miss Thame...straightened, her chin lifting. ‘Mr Henshaw. If you would be good enough to proceed...?’
‘Patience, Miss Thame. Patience.’
Beatrice could almost feel the other woman’s indignation as the solicitor eyed her patronisingly.
‘The three of us have been sitting in this office for twelve minutes now,’ Miss Thame continued, enunciating very precisely, ‘and, in my case, considerably longer, and all we have learned is that the reason for this meeting—which you arranged, requiring the presence, I presume, of all three of us—meets with your disapproval. I have taken leave from my post to attend here today and I should appreciate your expedition of the matter in order that I may return to my duties as soon as possible.’
Inside, Beatrice cheered Miss Thame for her courage in speaking so to the solicitor.
‘Miss Thame—’
But Miss Croome interrupted as he began to remonstrate with Miss Thame.
‘You spoke of a will, Mr Henshaw?’
The solicitor settled back in his chair. ‘Indeed, Miss Croome. The will of Lady Tregowan, late of Falconfield Hall, near Keynsham in the County of Somersetshire.’
Silence reigned in the office. Beatrice leaned forward to glance at the two other women. They looked like she felt—utterly dumbfounded. Both of them had spoken out and she forced herself to find her own courage and say something.
‘My...my mother worked at Falconfield Hall. She was companion to Lady Tregowan. Before I was born.’
‘Quite. Your mothers each had a connection with Falconfield. And with Lord Tregowan.’ Mr Henshaw’s expression was close to a sneer as his gaze travelled over the three women and Beatrice’s courage fizzled away.
‘My mother did not work there,’ said Miss Thame. ‘She and her parents were neighbours of the Earl and the Countess.’
Beatrice immediately felt chastened and wished she had neither spoken out nor confessed her mother’s connection to the Tregowans and Falconfield Hall, even though she was aware Miss Thame was putting the solicitor in his place rather than belittling her contribution. But it was hard to dismiss years of being reminded by Percy that her mother had been a nobody.
Miss Croome spoke then. ‘I know of no connection between my mother and Falconfield Hall,’ she said, ‘but Lady Tregowan did once visit my mother’s milliner’s shop in Bath.’
Beatrice felt better on hearing that Miss Croome’s mother had been a milliner. And, come to think of it, Miss Thame had spoken of her post, so she was really no better than either Beatrice or Miss Croome.
Mr Henshaw checked the will. ‘“Miss Aurelia Croome, born October the fourth 1792 to Mr Augustus Croome and Mrs Amelia Croome”?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then there is no mistake. I am convinced it is the three of you who are to benefit from Her Ladyship’s largesse.’
Excitement stirred. Benefit? Largesse? Could this indeed be the answer to Beatrice’s prayers?
‘What is the connection between the three of us?’ Miss Thame asked. ‘It is clearly through our mothers, but how?’
Henshaw appeared to sneer.
‘The connection is not through your mother, but through your sire. You are half-sisters.’
Beatrice gasped but, before she more than half-grasped what he had said, Miss Thame blurted out, ‘But...that is not possible. Papa...he would never... He was a man of the Church! He would never...’ Her voice drifted into silence as Mr Henshaw pursed his mouth. Then Beatrice heard her inhale sharply. ‘My father,’ she said, haughtily, ‘would never have played my mother false.’
‘Well, I would believe almost anything of my father.’ Miss Croome’s blue eyes bored into the solicitor, before flicking a sideways look at Miss Thame. ‘And, as for yours, I believe what Mr Henshaw is implying is that Lord Tregowan fathered each of us—presumably, in your case, before your mother married Mr Thame.’
Her words seemed to jumble inside Beatrice’s brain. She heard them all, but she couldn’t make sense...couldn’t work out what it meant for her... Did it mean Father was not her father? Her head swam and she closed her eyes to stop the sensation that the room was in motion, gripping her hands together on her lap. She could feel the familiar, unwelcome quiver of her legs beneath her gown and she concentrated on taking deep, even breaths.
‘That is correct.’ Henshaw’s voice appeared to come from a distance away. ‘It was Lord Tregowan who arranged the marriage of each of your parents, once your mothers’...er...conditions were made known to him. And, from what I gather, each marriage was to a gentleman in need of funds and none of your mothers suffered a lowering in their status after their indecorous behaviour.’
Mama was already with child—carrying me—when she wed Father? Lord Tregowan was my father? I am illegitimate? Beatrice’s stomach tangled hopelessly into knots as the implications swirled inside her head. Does this mean Percy is not my brother? Not even my half-brother?
‘This...’ She sucked in a deep breath, trying in vain to control the wobble in her voice. ‘If this is true, it changes everything. I do not know what I shall do.’
Mr Henshaw sent Beatrice a withering look, causing her to shrink back in her seat even as the full implication of his words still battered her. Percy is not my brother. Resentment bit through her confusion and that fact resounded in her head, bringing a surge of joy in its wake, for—if this were true—then Miss Thame and Miss Croome were her half-sisters! She had family...someone other than Percy and Fenella. And her miracle had already happened.
‘You mentioned the current Lord Tregowan earlier.’ Beatrice tried to quash her own conjectures in order to concentrate on what Miss Croome was saying. ‘Does that mean our father is dead?’
‘He died eight years ago and the title and the Tregowan estates—which were entailed—passed to his heir. Falconfield and the London house were brought to the marriage by Lady Tregowan and he left them to her. He’d fallen out with the current Lord Tregowan’s father years before and so refused to leave his heir any more property than he was forced to under the entail.’
‘Have you proof of this?’ asked Miss Thame. Leah. Beatrice’s sister! Joy continued to bubble inside her.
‘I have had copies made of Her Ladyship’s will, which you may take with you when you leave,’ Henshaw said. ‘It confirms your paternity.’
‘Would you kindly get to the point swiftly, Mr Henshaw?’’ said Miss Croome. Aurelia. Such a pretty name. ‘Clearly you are unhappy, and I, for one, will be pleased to leave this fusty old office behind. You mentioned bequests, so please say why you have summoned us and be done.’
Mr Henshaw glared at her. ‘Very well. Lady Tregowan of Falconfield Hall has passed away and it is my duty to advise you that she left the three of you her entire estate, to be divided equally between you subject to certain conditions.’
Beatrice quivered with excitement and anticipation. I’ve inherited something? Will it be enough to break away from Percy?
‘How much is it worth?’ Aurelia asked.
‘It is substantial. It comprises Falconfield Hall and its land, which, as I said, is near to the village of Keynsham on the Bath Road, plus a town house in London, and various funds, the income from which, in the past year, amounted to over fifteen thousand pounds. You are now three very wealthy young ladies.’
