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"What was his name again?" Mrs. Simpson asked, her capable hands kneading dough for bread.
"Dunford. Something-or-other Dunford," Henry said in a disgusted voice. "They didn't see fit to inform me of his first name, although I suppose it doesn't matter now that he is Lord Stannage. He'll probably insist that we use the title. Newcomers to the aristocracy usually do."
"You talk as if you're a member of it yourself, Henry. Don't be turning your nose up at the gentleman."
Henry sighed and took another bite of her apple. "He'll probably call me Henrietta."
"As well he should. You're getting too old for Henry now."
"You call me Henry."
"I'm too old to change. But you're not. And it's high time you lost your hoydenish ways and found yourself a husband."
"And do what? Move off to England? I don't want to leave Cornwall."
Mrs. Simpson smiled and forebore to point out that Cornwall was indeed a part of England. Henry was so devoted to the region that she could not think of it as belonging to any greater whole. "There are gentlemen here in Cornwall, you know," she said instead. "Quite a few in the nearby villages. You could marry one of them."
Henry scoffed. "There is no one here worth his salt and you know it, Simpy. Besides, no one would have me. I haven't a shilling now that Stannage Park has gone off to this stranger, and they all think I'm a freak."
"Of course they don't!" Mrs. Simpson replied quickly. "Everyone looks up to you."
"I know that," Henry replied, rolling her silver-gray eyes. "They look up to me as if I were a man, and for that I'm grateful. But men don't want to marry other men, you know."
"Perhaps if you'd wear a dress...”
Henry looked down at her well-worn breeches. "I do wear a dress. When appropriate."
"I can't imagine when that is," Mrs. Simpson snorted, "since I've never seen you in one. Not even at church."
"How fortunate for me that the vicar is a most open-minded gentleman."
Simpy leveled a shrewd gaze at the younger woman.
"How fortunate for you that the vicar is overfond of the French brandy you send over once a month."
Henry pretended not to hear. "I wore a dress to Carlyle's funeral, if you recall. And to the county ball last year. And whenever we receive guests. I have at least five in my closet, thank you very much. Oh, and I also wear them to town."
"You do not."
"Well, perhaps not to our little village, but I do whenever I go to any other town. But anyone would agree that they are most impractical when I'm out and about overseeing the estate." Not to mention, Henry thought wryly, that they all looked dreadful on her.
"Well, you'd better get one on when Mr. Dunford arrives."
"I'm not completely daft, Simpy." Henry chucked the apple core across the kitchen into a bucket of scraps. It fell squarely in, and she let out a whoop of pride. "Haven't missed that bucket in months."
Mrs. Simpson shook her head. "If only someone would teach you how to be a girl."
"Viola tried," Henry replied cheekily, "and she might have succeeded if she'd lived longer. But the truth is, I like myself just fine." Most of the time, at least, she thought. Every now and then she'd see a fine lady in a gorgeous gown that fit her to perfection. Such women didn't have feet, Henry decided. They had rollers—virtually gliding along. And wherever they went, a dozen besotted men followed. Henry would wistfully stare at this entourage, imagining them mooning after her. Then she laughed. That particular dream wasn't likely to come true, and besides, she liked her life just fine, didn't she?
"Henry?" Mrs. Simpson said, leaning forward. "Henry, I was talking to you."
"Hmmm?" Henry blinked herself out of her reverie. "Oh, I'm sorry, I was just thinking about what to do about the cows," she lied. "I'm not sure we've got enough room for all of them."
"You should be thinking about what to do when Mr. Dunford arrives. He did send word that it would be this afternoon, didn't he?"
"Yes, blast him."
"Henry!" Mrs. Simpson said reprovingly.
Henry shook her head and signed. "If ever there was a time for cursing, it's now, Simpy. What if he wants to take an interest in Stannage Park? Or worse—what if he wants to take charge?"
"If he does, it will be his right. He does own it, you know."
"I know, I know. More's the pity."
Mrs. Simpson shaped the dough into a loaf and then set it aside to rise. Wiping off her hands, she said, "Maybe he'll sell it. If he sold it to a local, you wouldn't have anything to worry about. Everyone knows there's nobody better to manage Stannage Park than you."
Henry hopped down from her perch on the counter, planted her hands on her hips, and began to pace across the kitchen. "He can't sell. It's entailed. If it weren't, I daresay Carlyle would have left it to me."
"Oh. Well, then you're just going to have to do your best to get along with Mr. Dunford."
"That's Lord Stannage now," Henry groaned. "Lord Stannage—owner of my home and decider of my future."
"Just what does that mean?"
"It means that he's my guardian."
"What?" Mrs. Simpson dropped her rolling pin.
"I'm his ward."
"But...but that's impossible. You don't even know the man."
Henry shrugged. "It's the way of the world, Simpy. Women haven't brains, you know. We need guardians to guide us."
"I can't believe you didn't tell me."