The Earl's Inconvenient Houseguest
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Virginia Heath
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Chapter One
‘He is a former military man, apparently. Fought at Waterloo.’
Mrs Outhwaite leaned forward and lowered her voice to the circle of ladies unsubtly eyeing the latest arrival to Whittleston-on-the-Water with barely disguised interest. As openly staring didn’t sit well with Sophie, she instead made a great show of inspecting some apples on a market stall while surreptitiously sneaking the odd peek at their handsome and well-proportioned new lord of the manor while he loitered outside the smithy.
‘He’s from the distant Somerset branch of the Peel family and is—or rather was—Lord Hockley’s second cousin. Another only child, of course, because at best the Peels only ever seem to manage one heir at a time. They are a very unfertile family. Lady Hockley, God rest her, was as barren as a desert and I hear the new earl’s mother turned up her toes less than a year after he was born so there is no spare on that branch of the rotten tree either. No money neither, by all accounts, so he’s had quite the windfall.’
Mrs Outhwaite was a shameless gossip who said exactly what she wanted irrespective of whether it was appropriate. Not that any of those gathered would dare to pull her up in her lack of propriety, for aside from being the wife of the owner of the South Essex Gazette and therefore the single best source for any local gossip for miles around, she could turn against you on a sixpence and had a tongue far more acid than it was loose. Sophie had certainly felt the sting of it whenever she had to disagree over the years, which thanks to her own inability to keep quiet had been more often than she could count. However, since her over-dramatic aunt’s health had genuinely deteriorated, she was trying very hard to pick her battles carefully and this one wasn’t a worthy enough cause to don her armour and throw caution to the wind for. Besides, Sophie was as curious and concerned about the latest addition to the village as the rest of them were.
‘However...’ Mrs Outhwaite dropped her voice and, as one, all the gathered ladies leaned closer. ‘Yesterday, when the butcher made his weekly delivery to the big house, he thinks he overheard the housekeeper tell the butler that she overheard the new Lord Hockley telling his solicitor that he has no interest in the estate and has no plans to ever live here. All he cares about is the money!’
‘He said that?’ Aunt Jemima was as appalled by his alleged attitude as all the other ladies, never mind that the tenuous allegations came from an apparently overheard conversation of an overheard conversation. ‘How mercenary!’ She flapped her hand in front of her face as if she was about to have one of her legendary attacks of the vapours and instinctively Sophie rummaged in her reticule for the smelling salts she always carried for just such an eventuality. Although this time she did not roll her eyes at the affectation as she passed them over, because her aunt was genuinely ill this time—and not just with her nerves—and all the stress of the current uncertainty wasn’t good for her.
‘Mark my words!’ Mrs Outhwaite shook her finger heavenward like a fire and brimstone preacher at the pulpit. ‘This is another Hinkwell-on-the-Hill and he is already plotting to sell the land from under us!’
All the ladies gasped in horrified unison as they contemplated the worst. Nobody wanted a Hinkwell-on-the-Hill to happen here, but the stark reality was they were all powerless to stop it if the wheels were put in motion. In addition to his large estate to the west of the village, Lord Hockley owned practically all the land which bordered it. Which meant he was the landlord of practically every acre within a five-mile radius, most of the buildings within them and the walls of every single shop on this market square.
That alone did not make their village unique by any stretch, as there were likely hundreds the length and breadth of the country in a similar boat, but all but three paltry acres of the Hockley estate were unentailed—which left them vulnerable. Especially with their proximity to the capital and the convenience of the River Thames literally on their doorstep, Whittleston-on-the-Water was a very tempting prospect for those with delusions of grandeur. Decent land around here was scarce and went for a premium. A fact the unfortunate residents of the nearby village of Hinkwell had found out the hard way only four summers ago when their local squire sold the lot to the wealthy owner of a shipping fleet for an eye-watering sum.
At the time, nobody had worried about the transaction because the huge swathes of land had changed hands many times since the Domesday Book—but then the eviction notices began to arrive. Within months, the shipping magnate had thrown every villager out and then razed poor Hinkwell-on-the-Hill to the ground. On that hill now stood the most ostentatious mansion anyone had ever seen, and instead of the centuries-old thriving farms and vibrant local industry which he had claimed spoiled his view, there now stood acre upon acre of artificial parkland filled with imported grouse and deer. All put there by the selfish new owner to occasionally hunt when he left the capital long enough to play lord of the manor or wanted to impress his business associates or court more high society friends on his way up the ladder.
As the eyes widened around her, Mrs Outhwaite stared horrified at the newcomer as if he were the Devil incarnate. ‘Old Hockley’s mean blood courses through his veins and his determined silence is deafening. Mark my words, if the new lord gets his wicked way, we shall all be homeless by Christmas!’
All eyes swivelled across the square to the man in question. Even Sophie’s briefly left the apples to rake him up and down, and as if he sensed the intense scrutiny, their new landlord turned his back to them to stare at a wall. Worryingly aloof and detached from all the market day hubbub around him as if he cared not one jot for their little village or the people within it at all.
The self-appointed harbinger of doom gestured expansively around her, intent on terrifying her captive audience irrespective of whether the apparent villain of the piece was nearby. ‘And all of this will be gone by next summer!’
While Sophie always tried to take most of what Mrs Outhwaite said with a large pinch of salt, there was no denying his standoffishness today when the square was full with yet another bad omen.
In the eight days the new lord had been in residence, he had done his utmost to keep himself very much to himself and seemed in no hurry to do anything to alter that state of affairs. Even to his closest neighbours, of which she was one, he had been noticeable by his absence. So far, he had received only a few of the gentleman callers—briefly—but kept his own counsel about his plans during those woefully short interactions, even when directly asked. The only person he did receive, and daily, was Mr Spiggot the solicitor and he was duty bound not to reveal any of those private discussions at the risk of being disbarred. However, she wasn’t the only one to have noticed that the usually jovial local solicitor was now pale-faced and withdrawn whenever he visited the village. He could barely meet anyone’s eye this morning as he scurried across the square and that was as out of character for him as it was for Sophie to bite her tongue.
All very worrying indeed.
Today, on his first venture into the village proper, the new Lord Hockley had tipped his hat good morning to every person he passed—albeit begrudgingly—then sailed on by unsmiling like a standoffish man on a mission. Perfectly content to remain an enigma and obviously desirous of being left well alone even though Mr Spiggot would have informed him in their first meeting that he held the entire fate of the village in his hands, and everyone who lived in it was on tenterhooks.
In truth, his determined silence was indeed ominous. That was why gossip was rife. In the absence of any concrete facts, the neighbourhood, like Mrs Outhwaite, was coming to its own apocalyptic and probably prophetic conclusions.
That didn’t mean Sophie didn’t wince a bit at the older woman’s public venom.
While it was true none of his neighbours had had much affection for the recently deceased earl, largely because he had been a thoroughly horrid man for the entirety of his life, it felt wrong to tar his replacement with the same brush based on wild assumptions which were, as yet, wholly groundless. The new Earl of Hockley might well be a perfectly affable gentleman for all they knew, generous in both spirit and in deed, and a man who took his responsibilities seriously. Therefore, he surely deserved the benefit of the doubt until he proved otherwise? Especially if their family connection was as distant as it seemed to be. Somerset was a good hundred and fifty miles from this sleepy little enclave near the Thames and nobody had ever seen him before. With his rugged good looks, windswept sandy hair, piercing blue eyes and exceedingly broad shoulders, her wayward and wanton eyes would have certainly remembered him if she had.
‘We are in grave danger of upsetting ourselves unduly with wild speculations and tenuous hearsay. I am not sure anybody could be as rotten as his predecessor.’ Always the diplomat despite her tendency to turn every minor drama into a major crisis, Aunt Jemima risked Mrs Outhwaite’s wrath. ‘The Reverend Spears called upon him yesterday and said he was perfectly polite, and that although he hadn’t been offered any tea...’ a cardinal sin as far as this village was concerned ‘...they had quite a pleasant conversation and he got no sense that the new Lord Hockley intended to sell the ground from under us.’
Like Sophie, her aunt was desperate to find some good in their new landlord. They both had their fingers and toes crossed he would be a much more forgiving and reasonable one than his predecessor. If he wasn’t, then not to put too fine a point on it, the pair of them were done for.
Their pitiful funds barely stretched as it was and there was nothing in reserve to finance a rent increase, let alone a move. That aside, after sixty-seven years of living in the same house, Aunt Jemima would find it awful to start all over again somewhere new. She was so petrified of being evicted she had had to be cautioned twice already in as many days not to seek him out and beg for his mercy. She had also been too agitated to play her beloved pianoforte and sat for hours staring into space instead. It was tragic to see and not good for her failing heart. Surely he wasn’t cruel enough to forcibly wrench a sick old lady from the comforting bosom of the life she had always known?
Sophie risked peeking at him again out of the corner of her eye and winced as he finally decided to glare back. By the flattened disapproval of his lips, it was clear the new Lord Hockley wasn’t the slightest bit fooled by her intense perusal of the apples and knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the gaggle of assembled women all cackling together were in the grip of a furtive and unflattering conversation about him.
She smiled blandly at the ladies as if they were simply chatting about the weather. ‘Seeing as the gentleman concerned is but a stone’s throw away and staring, perhaps we should all continue with our shopping and discuss this later in the privacy of the sewing circle?’
Mrs Outhwaite frowned at Sophie’s suggestion and carried on regardless. ‘Did he inform the good reverend of any of his plans? Hint that he intended to stay? Make any mention of what he was going to do with all the farmland and property that isn’t entailed or why Mr Spiggot looks ashen after each of their meetings?’ She shook her head and jabbed the air again with her righteous finger. ‘Of course he didn’t! If my husband couldn’t prise any answers out of him, nobody could and a man who remains so tight-lipped when all around him are in fear of their livelihoods is not one who can be trusted. His silence smacks of treachery. Of ulterior motives and pure, unadulterated greed.’ The fire and brimstone finger jabbed the air again. ‘Mark my words, ladies, our new earl is going to sell our homes and businesses to the highest bidder for his own selfish profit with nary a care in the world for anyone else.’ Which, in a nutshell, was what everybody was so worried about.
Mrs Outhwaite leaned closer still and rapt, all the other ladies followed. ‘I have it on the highest authority that he was once married and then widowed in dubious circumstances.’ Everyone gasped again.
Sophie didn’t because the statement was caveated with the words ‘highest authority’ which was always a sure sign Mrs Outhwaite was scaremongering and actually had no earthly idea if her accusations were true but wanted to appear as if she were the oracle of all things anyway. While she took the accusation with the hugest pinch of salt, the others all shuddered in horror as if he had strangled his poor, unfortunate wife with his bare hands while she begged for mercy and then buried her in the woods. ‘No children either—although that is hardly surprising given his family history and probably just as well. The world could do without more Peels and their tainted blood.’
‘That might well change if he decides to settle here, find a wife and raise a family.’ Isobel Cartwright patted her perfect coiffure as she glanced his way, clearly already fancying herself for the role. ‘Have any of you considered that? Because I can assure you I have.’ She offered Lord Hockley one of her come-hither smiles to let him know that she was available.
‘Stop trying to flirt with the enemy, girl!’ Mrs Outhwaite practically spat in Isobel’s face. ‘Never mind that you are wasting your time. No earl is ever going to marry a shopkeeper’s daughter!’
To be fair to her, several years Sophie’s junior, well connected, fashionably attired, slimmer and significantly prettier than anyone else for miles around, shopkeeper’s daughter or not, the flirty Isobel stood a much higher chance than any other single female in Whittleston-on-the-Water of snaring herself a title. Especially as she was shameless in her pursuit of marrying well. ‘As a peer he is duty bound to produce heirs to continue their ancient lineage, and it goes without saying he will need some company in Hockley Hall. I have always thought it is too big a house for one solitary bachelor to rattle around in all alone. I wonder if anybody has invited him to the monthly assembly? If they haven’t, somebody really should as it would be very poor form to exclude him.’
Being as bold as brass, Isobel then shot him another beguiling smile across the square; however, her blatant attempt at seduction was foiled by the local butcher who chose that precise moment to emerge out of his shop and introduce himself to the new lord and then began to lecture him on something which appeared to have a great deal to do with his roof. It didn’t stop Isobel from ogling him as she jabbed Sophie with her elbow.
‘Who knew sour-faced old Hockley had a second cousin who is a golden-haired Adonis?’
‘Looks can be deceiving, young lady,’ said Mrs Outhwaite who seemed determined to think ill of him at all costs. ‘But I dare say we’ll all have his full measure soon enough, although if you want my opinion...’ Which of course Sophie didn’t but everyone else did. ‘Any handsomeness on his face is spoiled by the cruelty in his eyes. The Peel family are famously malicious and those eyes are as frigid as winter.’ She shivered for effect, which made poor Aunt Jemima blanch.
‘Have you considered that he might simply be shy?’ Even as she said the words, Sophie didn’t believe them because if his fierce scowl at the butcher was anything to go by he was more likely to be a chip off the old block rather than a breath of fresh air, and therefore as curmudgeonly, humourless and standoffish as his un-mourned distant relative had been. ‘Or overwhelmed? It must be daunting to arrive in such a close-knit community burdened with such great responsibility. Especially if one isn’t used to it.’
The close-knit aspect had certainly taken Sophie a few years to get used to when she had first arrived here a decade ago in dire need of privacy, so she sympathised if he felt overwhelmed by all the nosiness. To have come from the rigid structure of the army where he would have been told what to do by the powers above, to suddenly becoming the all-powerful master entirely responsible for all he surveyed, must have come as quite a shock too. Enough that it would explain away his reluctance to engage with anyone as yet.
Hopefully.
Mrs Outhwaite cocked her head in the direction of the glaring Lord Hockley who was now stood looming over the butcher with insolently folded arms and a frown so fierce the poor baker beside them appeared to shrink several inches under the force of it. ‘Does that man look overwhelmed or shy to you?’
He didn’t.
If anything, the new Lord Hockley seemed to be in the highest of dudgeons and didn’t seem to care one wit who knew it. But even from this distance she could see Mrs Outhwaite had got one thing very wrong. There was nothing frigid about the new earl’s eyes. The unfathomable and intense heat in them burned like the sun.
As they all stared, Lord Hockley stalked away from the gentlemen and, to everyone’s horror, straight across the square towards them. Almost as if he had had quite enough of all their nonsense and was determined to put a stop to it. Mrs Outhwaite was the first to flee and within seconds all the ladies had scattered like ants, leaving only Sophie still scrutinising the same apple as if her life depended upon it and Aunt Jemima who hovered anxiously by her side.
With no other choice other than to brazen it out, Sophie picked up two more apples and thrust them at the greengrocer. ‘Can I have a pound of potatoes too please, Mr Lynch?’ With any luck, the new earl would storm past in the middle of the transaction so that she and her aunt could pretend not to notice. ‘And half a pound of onions.’ With the cobblestones beneath her feet vibrating from the furious march of his boots, he would be gone in a matter of moments, and they could both breathe again.
‘Good day to you, Lord Hockley.’ At the sound of her aunt’s tremulous voice, Sophie cringed a split second before the boots skidded to an abrupt stop. ‘I have been meaning to introduce myself all week...seeing as we are your closest neighbours.’
This was neither the time nor the place for her aunt to beg for his charity and she prayed the poor thing would see it too. Negotiating with a furious man was never going to end well. ‘I am Miss Jemima Gilbert, a spinster of this parish, and this is my niece...’ Aunt Jemima groped for her sleeve, forcing Sophie to turn and be part of the humiliating mortification of what she feared was about to come.
Two narrowed blue eyes flicked to her as if greatly put upon by the intrusion. After a brief perusal, during which he undoubtedly came to the inescapable conclusion that she was also a dusty old spinster of this parish, he turned back to her aunt with undisguised impatience. ‘We are long-term tenants of yours at...’ The blue eyes rolled.
‘Of course you are. Isn’t everyone in this godforsaken place?’
And with that, he strode away without so much as a backwards glance.
