Page 5

Much too soon the coach turned off the lane leading from Rosebury onto a rutted gravel drive.

They bounced and jolted so hard that it was amazing their teeth didn’t chip.

After being almost tossed off the seat, Mary grabbed hold of the carriage strap and held fast for at least ten minutes before they came to a stop before a lovely early Georgian manor.

The house was built of sandstone. Columns and a portico graced the entrance.

Roses scurried up the walls, almost obscuring some of the windows.

The house was definitely in need of a mistress.

A stately older man in a black suit stepped out, followed by two footmen who looked suspiciously familiar.

“Was this place fully staffed before?” Mary asked.

For the first time her aunt fidgeted, twisting the fringe on her shawl around her fingers. “Er, I’m not quite sure what arrangements were in place.”

Mary pressed her lips together. “I could swear I’ve seen those footmen before.”

“Well you see,” Eunice made a fluttering motion with her hand as if to send the question away, “Mama handled the specifics.”

Naturally . “I hope she remembered to hire some of the locals, or they will not be happy.”

“There, you see, Mary?” Her aunt gave a sunny smile. “That is just what Mama meant when she said you would know how to go on. I would never have thought of hiring the local people.” She patted Mary’s hand. “You will do very well here.”

Mary heaved a resigned sigh.

The coach door opened. One of the footmen lowered the steps then assisted her and her aunt to the ground.

The older man stepped forward and bowed. “My lady. Welcome home. Your lady’s maid has already arrived, and Rose Hill awaits your inspection. I am your butler, Simons.”

The rest of the staff lined up by rank. She scrutinized them, but they gave no indication they knew her.

How in the world had Grandmamma arranged all of this in such a short time?

Simons escorted her down the row of servants, making the introductions as Mary memorized each name and asked a question or two about their lives.

Finally the housekeeper, Mrs. Enderson, a short plump woman with a ready smile whom Mary guessed to be in her early fifties, showed Mary to her rooms. “You’ll find a small parlor through the door to the left.

The dressing room is on the right. Attached to that is a bathing chamber.

I’ll send tea up while your bath is being made ready.

” The woman’s smile grew larger. “My lady, may I say how happy we are to have you here? It is a shame Mr. Featherton has been held up in Town.”

Featherton? The only Feathertons she knew were .

. . No, surely not. Grandmamma had said the person was of no consequence.

England must be littered with Feathertons who were no relation to those Feathertons.

And who had written the senior staff? It might behoove her to discover exactly what had been said.

The difficulty was that in asking she might give herself away.

Mary gave herself an inner shake, smiled politely and pitched her voice in a manner that would suppress any more questions about Mr. Featherton, whoever he was. “Yes, a pity.”

Mrs. Enderson bobbed a curtsey and left.

Mary removed her bonnet and placed it on the dressing table. She’d hated using that tone with the housekeeper, who only meant well. Yet it would not do to have any of them questioning her so-called marriage. She would make it up to the woman later.

Much better to let them think she’d had a falling-out with the man whom she was pretending to have wed.

Mary shielded her eyes against the sun’s reflection as she gazed up at the front of the manor house. The days were already shortening, and they’d had their first frost. Not surprising as they had barely had a summer at all. Soon the Harvest Festival would be upon them.

When she’d arrived at Rose Hill, her first tasks had been to order every single window washed and the climbing roses cut back.

After that, she and the steward, Mr. Stuttart, had gone over the accounts, debating various ways to raise the estate’s income.

She had also hired more servants. Locals this time.

Grandmamma had been right. There was a great deal of work to do here.

Shortly after arriving, Mary had vowed to do everything she could to earn her keep.

Maybe then she wouldn’t feel so guilty for the ruse, and if she really were Rose Hill’s mistress, she would ensure the estate was in good repair.

Aside from that, behaving in any other fashion might cause unwanted speculation.

Mary sincerely hoped Mr. Featherton who owned Rose Hill never found out about her deception, or if he did, she would be long gone, and untraceable.

Thinking of one Mr. Featherton caused her to remember Mr. Kit Featherton.

Mary sat back on her heels. Although they had never been properly introduced, during her one full Season, she had dubbed him Mr. Perfect.

Perfectly dressed, perfectly mannered, a perfect dancer, and perfectly able to ignore her.

The only time he had come close to her was when they happened to come together during the course of a minuet or a country dance.

She sighed. Every time his gloved hand had touched hers, she’d felt a tingling sensation.

He had caught her gaze, holding it as if he wished to spend more time with her.

Yet he never did. He was the only gentleman she had wanted to dance attendance on her who did not.

Of course, he had no need of her dowry, nor did he care that she had been the Incomparable of the Season.

Turning back to the matter at hand, Mary was less sanguine about Eunice’s idea to attend church and be on friendly terms with the neighbors.

Yet she was right. It would have appeared odd for them to remain in seclusion and it would have caused talk.

Instead they became part of the community.

Mary found it odd that after the first introductions, no one had asked about Mr. Featherton, not even the staff.

On the other hand, having her aunt with her as a companion was as strong a sign as she could give that her husband was not expected to begin living at Rose Hill anytime soon.

Leaning heavily on his cane, Mr. Stuttart hobbled out the front door and directed his attention up. “It does look much better, my lady.”

She studied him quickly. Poor Mr. Stuttart had had one illness or injury after another.

He appeared to be doing better now. She followed his gaze.

Once the roses had been cut back, the house and roof had been cleaned.

Mary smiled. “Yes, it does. It is amazing how a little work can yield such an improvement.”

“Speaking of yields, I have the numbers from the apple and pear sales. That idea you had to get all the local farmers together made quite a difference.”

It had been the practice of her father’s to combine produce from the local farms, marketing it as a whole.

There was much less chance of anyone being undercut that way.

Rose Hill had been barely self-supporting, and she hoped to increase the earnings per acre so that much-needed repairs on the estate could start being made before a roof fell in, or a family suffered because the estate could not afford renovations to its tenants’ houses.

If the worst were to occur, and she was found out, Mary could point to the improvements she’d made.