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‘Do you think she is going to ask us to live with her?’ Jo asked, pulling a face. She had been cutting out a fashion plate from a magazine given her by some friends, which she intended to make into a doll for one of the poor children in the village. It was an attractive illustration; pasted on to a piece of board, it would make a toy for one of her worthy causes. Jo was always willing to help and had spent the morning visiting a poor family in the village. ‘I think I would rather not be her guest, Mama.’
‘You know we cannot stay here for much longer,’ Marianne reminded her sister. At nineteen she was the eldest of the three Horne sisters and generally accounted a beauty, with her honey-blond hair and eyes that were a greenish-blue and often reflected her moods. She had a soft, very appealing mouth and was known for her equable disposition. ‘It is only because the living is in Lord Wainwright’s gift that we have been allowed this special favour—and we cannot expect it to continue for ever. We ought by rights to have left within a month of Papa’s loss.’
The Reverend Horne’s death had been such a shock to his family, for he had always seemed hale and filled with energy, forever working for his parishioners or in his long back garden, where he thought it no shame to grow food for his table and that of others.
‘We need not despair,’ Mrs Horne said, trying to rally herself as much as her daughters, because any mention of the Reverend’s death was enough to have them all in tears. He was much missed by his family and parishioners alike. ‘There is always the cottage that belonged to your grandfather. It is mine, though it has been let for years and provides me with a small income of my own. However, we could live in it if we had to. I know it means moving to Cambridgeshire, but I think I might prefer that to living on Agatha’s charity, which would not be comfortable for any of us.’
‘Please, do not say we must live with Lady Wainwright,’ Lucy cried. Her blue eyes filled with tears. ‘If only darling Papa had not died. He was such a good person, always helping others. Why did he have to get pneumonia and die? I think God was cruel to take him from us.’ The youngest of the three sisters, she was her family’s darling. She burst into tears and was comforted by her eldest sister, who put an arm around her and hushed her.
‘Don’t cry, dearest,’ Marianne said, stroking Lucy’s soft hair, which was like pale silk, shimmering in a ray of sunshine that pierced the long windows overlooking the back garden. Just now the garden was a mass of roses and sweet-smelling flowers, a peaceful haven for the birds and droning bees. ‘We all wish that Papa was still with us, but tears will not change things. We have to decide what to do for the best. Uncle Wainwright has been good enough to let us stay here until we have had time to come to terms with our loss, but he needs to provide a proper house for the new vicar—and this is his property.’
Lord Wainwright was a generous man, and Marianne knew that her family had reason to be grateful to him, but his wife, her mama’s sister, lost no opportunity to make them aware of the fact that they were living on her husband’s charity. Lady Wainwright was very conscious of her position in society and had always let her sister know that she was very much below her in the social scale as the wife of a poor parson.
‘But it is our home,’ Jo said. ‘It is unfair that we should have to move. Why can the new vicar not live somewhere else? Lord Wainwright has plenty of houses. He could let us stay here if he wished.’
‘Because this is the Vicarage,’ Marianne said. Jo was the fiery member of the family. She had hair the colour of flame and eyes that were sometimes as green as the emerald in Mama’s wedding ring. ‘Uncle Wainwright may let us live in one of his other properties, but we must leave this house soon. It is the way things are, Jo, and there is nothing we can do but be grateful that we shall still have a home.’
‘Can you not talk to him, Mama?’ Jo demanded, unwilling to be pacified by her sister. ‘He likes you. I sometimes think he likes you more than he does Aunt Agatha.’
‘Jo!’ Mrs Horne was startled. She was well aware that her sister’s husband had feelings for her, but she was careful never to presume on them. ‘You must not say such things. It is quite untrue, my dear. Besides—’ She broke off as they heard the rattle of carriage wheels at the front of the house. ‘Your aunt is here. Please, my darlings, no more of this talk. Remember that for the moment we are living on your uncle’s charity.’
Jo subsided, though she looked stubborn. Of the three girls, she possibly found it the hardest to hide her resentment of the problems that had beset them since the Reverend Horne’s untimely death. She had a bright, quick mind like her father, and she had taken his loss hard. Marianne and Lucy grieved for Papa, as Mama did, of course, but it was Jo who was angry at the unfairness of their situation. The discovery that Papa’s trust fund, as a younger son, had ceased on his death, had thrown the family into a precarious situation financially.
Marianne smiled at her sister encouragingly. She understood what Jo was feeling, because she had never been particularly fond of her aunt. Lady Wainwright had a dominant personality and her marriage had given her an inflated idea of her own importance. A woman of some temper, she tended to look down on Mrs Horne because she had married for love a gentleman of good birth but little fortune—and perhaps, the perceptive Marianne thought, because she was aware that her sister had been truly loved.
Marianne rose to her feet as the imperious figure of her aunt swept into the room. Lady Wainwright was tall and thin, her features often giving the impression that she found life sour. She surveyed her sister’s family as they curtsied politely, nodding as if she expected no less. They were beneath her in rank, and must be made aware of what they owed to their benefactor.
‘Cynthia,’ she said and kissed the air as Mrs Horne presented her cheek. ‘You look tired. I suppose it is no wonder with all your troubles. Well, I have good news. Wainwright says you may have the Lodge. It is smaller than this house, but adequate, I dare say, for you cannot afford to entertain as you did. You will move as soon as it can be arranged.’
‘That is good of him…’ Mrs Horne was flustered, relieved that she was being offered a home, though there were only three bedrooms at the Lodge, which would mean that two of the girls must share, and their maid Lily would have to sleep in the kitchen on a truckle bed. ‘It is very kind of him, I’m sure.’
‘Yes, for he need not have done anything,’ Lady Wainwright said, ‘and would not but for the fact that you are my sister.’ She smiled in a satisfied way as she saw her sister fade back into her chair. ‘But that is not all my news. I must tell you that my physician has decided I need to take the waters in Bath.’ She put a hand to her ample bosom, just now clad in crimson silk. ‘Wainwright insists that I overdid things when we were in London. It was Annette’s coming out, as you know, and now that she is safely married I have time for your daughters, Cynthia.’
Marianne and Jo exchanged glances across the room, their expressions registering shock and dismay. Neither of them wished to be the centre of Lady Wainwright’s attention, but they knew that it must be one of them, for Lucy was too young to come out yet.
‘But we…’ Mrs Horne subsided under her sister’s frightful eye. ‘Of course we should be grateful for the house, but—’
‘You did not look for anything more,’ Lady Wainwright finished for her. ‘And why should you? The tenancy of the Lodge is extremely generous of Wainwright—but this is to fall on my shoulders. I have decided that I shall take Marianne to Bath with me. I believe she will have plenty of chances to find a good match there, for she could not normally expect to look higher than a younger son, though as my niece she may gain some credit. I might have taken her to London with Annette, but I thought it a waste of money and time. Annette is an heiress and received several excellent offers, as you know—but Marianne must settle for something less. I hope that she may catch a baronet if she is fortunate, but, if not, a gentleman of some reasonable fortune will do well enough.’ She looked at Marianne expectantly. ‘There, miss, what have you to say to your aunt? Is that not more than you could ever have hoped for?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Marianne answered. She clasped her hands in front of her, because it would not do to speak as she felt. Every sensibility cried out at her aunt’s words, making her embarrassed and angry. Had Lady Wainwright couched her invitation in another way, she might have been grateful for the opportunity, but as it was she could hardly keep from letting her anger show. ‘It was kind of you to think of me…’
Mrs Horne saw her daughter struggling and understood her resentment. Fortunately, a knock at the door heralded the arrival of Lily with the tea tray, and for a few minutes they were occupied by the pouring and serving of tea, tiny cakes and biscuits, all freshly made by the girl that morning under Mrs Horne’s expert eye.
‘That gel is well mannered and she makes a decent cake,’ Lady Wainwright said as she ate three of the almond comfits one after the other and then sipped her tea. ‘If she ever leaves your employ, I should be happy to take her.’
‘I am sure she would be gratified to know that,’ Mrs Horne told her, ‘but I simply couldn’t manage without her, Agatha. She has been invaluable and offered to work just for her bed and board when she knew how we are situated. Of course I pay her what I can, but I am afraid it isn’t much.’
‘Lily knows you would give her more if you could,’ Jo said. She had watched her aunt’s hand reach for the last of the almond comfits, which were her favourites, and felt cheated, because she hadn’t managed to save one for herself. ‘Besides, she loves being with us. I am sure she would rather live with us than at the Hall.’
‘You are very outspoken, Josephine,’ Lady Wainwright said. ‘I wonder that your mother allows you to speak your mind so openly—but I dare say it is all of a piece. Cynthia never was a disciplinarian.’
Jo opened her mouth, but shut it again at a warning look from her elder sister. She got up and went over to glance out of the window. Seeing the curate walking towards the house, she excused herself to her mother and ran out through the French doors to greet him.
‘Well, really,’ Lady Wainwright exclaimed. ‘You must teach that girl better manners, Cynthia. Otherwise she will never marry.’
‘I am not sure that Jo wishes to marry,’ her mother said with a fond look at her second daughter as she stood talking to the curate. ‘She is rather a bluestocking, I am afraid, though where that came from I do not know. I suppose her father, for it is not from me. I was never much given to study.’
‘You were always something of a featherbrain in your youth,’ Lady Wainwright said. Marianne made a movement of protest for it was not the truth, but her mother’s expression prevented her from speaking out. ‘However, we shall not draw comparisons. Marianne is decidedly the beauty of the family, and she does get that from you, for you were a beauty in your day, Cynthia.’
‘How kind of you to say so,’ Cynthia said and smiled faintly. ‘I believe I was admired once upon a time.’
‘You are still very handsome,’ Marianne said, rushing to her defence. ‘No one could think otherwise.’
‘Yes, I agree,’ Lady Wainwright said, surprising them. ‘I think you might make another match if you set your mind to it, Cynthia, which would be much the best for you if it could be achieved—that is why Marianne must make a good marriage. She will then be able to introduce her sisters into her circle and perhaps you, too, may meet someone suitable.’
‘Oh, no, I do not think—’ Once again Mrs Horne was saved by the arrival of her maid, this time bearing a letter. ‘Yes, Lily, is that for me?’
‘Yes, it is, ma’am,’ Lily said and beamed at her. ‘It has come all the way from Cornwall and the post rider says that he is to return for your reply in the morning—unless you wish to give it now?’
‘That sounds urgent,’ Cynthia said and took the letter. She broke the seal in an agitated manner, because she knew it must be from Lady Edgeworthy, her Aunt Bertha. She scanned the lines swiftly and then closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Oh, dear, it seems that my Aunt Bertha has been ill, Marianne, and she begs that you go to her at once, for she needs a companion.’
‘Marianne is to come to Bath with me,’ Lady Wainwright cried. ‘You must write and tell Lady Edgeworthy that it is impossible—or send one of the other girls.’
Cynthia sat up straight in her chair, because she was caught on the horns of a dilemma, but for once she was not prepared to give in to her sister. ‘I am sorry, Agatha,’ she said. ‘Marianne is Bertha’s godchild and I think, in this instance, I must deny your request. Bertha is elderly and possibly frail. I know that she loves Marianne dearly, and I think she must take precedence this time.’
Lady Wainwright gave her an awful look. It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she would withdraw her favours from the family, but she knew that it was not in her power to deny them the Lodge. Wainwright had been most insistent that he wanted to give them a home of their own, and had even inclined towards letting them stay at the Vicarage. His wife had persuaded him that it would look odd if he did, so he had substituted the Lodge, though he had told his wife that he might look out for a larger establishment for them in time.
‘Well, I suppose if she has been ill…’ Lady Wainwright rose to her feet. ‘I shall have to think about this again, Cynthia. I am not sure whether or not Josephine is ready to go out into society, but I will let you know my decision in a few days.’
Marianne smiled and went to kiss her aunt’s cheek. ‘It was very kind of you to think of me, Aunt,’ she said. ‘But I am sure my great-aunt needs me or she would not have sent all this way and paid for a reply.’
‘No, perhaps not.’ Lady Wainwright nodded. ‘You are a good girl to give up pleasure for yourself in favour of Lady Edgeworthy. I shall consider whether I think Josephine is ready to accompany me to Bath, but I must confess I should have been happier with you.’
Marianne made no answer, but went to the door to see her aunt off. She returned to find the parlour in turmoil. Jo had returned to the room and was venting her frustration at not being able to tell Lady Wainwright what she thought of her invitation, and Mrs Horne was trying to soothe her.
‘You never know, she may decide that you are not good mannered enough to accompany her,’ Marianne said with a sparkle in her eyes. She dodged the cushion Jo threw at her. ‘Well, you do not exactly put on your best manner when she is near, Jo—do you?’
‘Perhaps not,’ her sister said, her cheeks pink. ‘But she is so—so smug!’
‘Yes, she is,’ Marianne agreed. ‘And some of the things she says to Mama make me want to strike her, but we must be careful. Politeness keeps us from saying too much—and her husband has done a great deal to help us these past months.’
‘Indeed he has,’ Mrs Horne said. ‘I do not know how we should have managed without him. Besides, you will meet others like your aunt in company, Jo. You have to learn to bite your tongue, my dear. It will not do to be churlish or ill mannered, for you would soon find yourself unwelcome.’
‘I know,’ Jo said and looked slightly ashamed. ‘But she does try my patience so. If she asks me to accompany her to Bath, I need not go—please say I may refuse her, Mama.’
‘I cannot compel you to go,’ Mrs Horne said and looked distressed. ‘But it will make things so difficult, Jo, my dear. You know your aunt as well as I—and, besides, it might be a good thing for you. She is sure to buy you some new clothes, and you may meet someone nice.’
‘I am not sure that I wish to marry,’ Jo reminded her. ‘It is a pity that I am not Aunt Bertha’s godchild—I would willingly exchange places with Marianne.’
‘You might enjoy yourself in Bath,’ Marianne reasoned. ‘You are always saying that there are never enough books in the library in Mallham, Jo. I dare say there will be many more in Bath, for it is a fashionable spa.’
Mallham was the small neighbouring village, and their nearest town was Huntingdon, a drive of some fifteen miles. While the Reverend Horne had lived, they had managed to visit the town every few weeks to purchase or borrow books, but now, without the carriage that they could no longer afford, it was impossible.
‘Yes, I suppose there is that,’ Jo agreed, looking thoughtful. ‘And there may be some literary circles I might join for the time we are there.’
‘There is also the matter of Lucy’s future,’ Mrs Horne said. ‘I know she is young yet, but she will wish to marry one day, and I shall never be in a position to give her a Season in town. Your godmother may do something for you, Marianne, and Jo may find a husband in Bath…if she wishes—but what of Lucy?’
The sisters turned to look at Lucy. She was sitting by the window, looking out, her head full of dreams, hardly aware of the discussion going on behind her, but she turned to look at them and smiled.
‘Did someone speak my name? I was dreaming again…of a knight on a white horse who came and rescued me from the castle of the wicked witch. He took me to his home in a land where the sun always shines, and then I sent for all of you to come and live with me. And we were all happy ever after.’
‘Oh, Lucy,’ Mrs Horne said and shook her head, smiling because, though she tried very hard not to favour her, Lucy was her baby and her darling. ‘You read too many fairy stories, my love. I fear that you will be disappointed one day when you discover that the knights you dream of are only fables.’
‘Oh, I know that,’ Lucy replied, uncurling from her seat in the window and coming towards them. She was perhaps potentially prettier than either of her sisters with hair that floated like white gold about her face and made her look like one of the princesses she dreamed of, her eyes a deep-sea blue that seemed as mysterious as the ocean. ‘I just like to dream because everything is so awful. I did hear what my aunt said, but neither Marianne or Jo want to go with her. Do they have to, Mama?’
‘I am not certain that I shall refuse after all,’ Jo said and put an affectionate arm about Lucy’s waist. ‘It will be an experience, and an author must experience life to write about it…’ She waited expectantly for their questions.
‘Jo?’ her mother asked anxiously. ‘Just what are you up to?’
‘I have decided to write a book,’ Jo said and laughed as her mother looked shocked. ‘It is not so very wicked, Mama. Other ladies do it and I think I should like to try, though of course I cannot afford to have it published, and I do not imagine a publisher would pay me. However, for my own pleasure and that of my sisters, I shall write my story.’
‘How exciting,’ Lucy said. ‘Will it have knights and princesses in towers, Jo?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘It will be a love story, Lucy, though it may not end as your fairy stories do with everyone living happily ever after.’
‘I shall look forward to hearing you read little bits of it,’ Marianne said, ‘though we may have to wait for a while, because I think I should go down to Aunt Bertha almost immediately, do you not, Mama?’
‘Oh yes,’ her mother said and clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘Do you suppose that poor boy is still waiting for my answer?’
‘I asked him to return in the morning when I went to the door with my aunt, Mama. I knew you would wish to consider your reply. He will be here at seven of the clock tomorrow so that your letter may catch the mail coach at half-past seven.’
‘How thoughtful you are, dearest,’ her mother said, giving her a look of approval. ‘I hope that you did not mind giving up the visit to Bath in favour of your godmother?’
‘You must know that I did not,’ Marianne said. ‘It is always a pleasure to see Aunt Bertha, and I could not do otherwise when she wrote and asked for me especially. I expect she feels lonely, though I know she has a companion.’
‘I thought you would feel as you ought,’ her mother said with a smile. ‘We must go through your clothes, Marianne. Fortunately, you had a new evening dress last year, which you have hardly worn, but we must see if we can manage something further—I would not have you go there in rags.’
‘I am not yet reduced to that,’ Marianne said and laughed. ‘Indeed, several of my gowns will be perfectly suitable with a little refurbishment.’
‘You must have at least one new gown,’ her mother said with a fond smile. ‘I had been saving my shillings for your birthdays, but I think Marianne’s gown should come first—do you all agree?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Jo said. ‘Aunt Wainwright will not have me shame her so she is bound to have some dresses made for me. You don’t mind, do you, Lucy?’
‘Of course not,’ Lucy said, though her birthday was in a few weeks’ time. ‘Marianne must have some new clothes.’
‘We shall go into Huntingdon and buy them,’ Mrs Horne said. ‘There is no time to waste, Marianne. We shall take the mail coach in the morning—all of us. It will be a treat and we surely deserve it after these past few months.’
The girls looked at each other in delight. Jo thought of the books she might subscribe from the library, Lucy thought of the adventure it would be to ride in the mail coach, and Marianne was wondering how much ribbon and trifles she could buy with five shillings, which was all the money she possessed in the world.
However, Mama had been hoarding her shillings for some time and she actually had ten pounds in her purse when they descended from the coach the following day.
There was but one shop in the small town that sold gowns already made up, and they set off immediately, because Jo wanted to help her sister choose her new clothes before visiting the library.
In the event, Mrs Herrington had three gowns in stock that would fit Marianne: a pale blue silk with a high waist and little puff sleeves that would do for an evening party, a dark blue walking gown and a yellow afternoon dress. All three looked well on Marianne, needing only a few tucks here and there, which she could easily do herself. After some deliberation she decided that she would need the evening gown the most, but the seamstress saw their difficulty and told Mrs Horne that she could make a good price for all three.
‘Oh, no, Mama, that would be much too expensive. I can easily refurbish some of my others with new ribbons and some silk flowers,’ Marianne protested.
‘How much for the three?’ Mrs Horne asked bravely. She kept her smile in place when she was told that the evening gown was five guineas, but twelve would buy all three gowns.
‘Oh, dear, I am afraid that is beyond me,’ Mrs Horne said and frowned. ‘It is very reasonable, madam, but too much for me. We shall take the evening gown, but must say no to the others.’
The seamstress looked disappointed. ‘They were made for a customer who did not pay her bills,’ the seamstress replied. ‘I am letting them go at cost to recover some of my money.’
‘I wish we might take all three,’ Mrs Horne said. ‘But it cannot be done. If you would be kind enough to have it delivered to the posting inn, madam. We have some more shopping to do.’ She smiled at Marianne. ‘You will need slippers, too, my love—and a bonnet if we can manage it.’
‘It is a beautiful dress, Mama,’ Marianne said as they left the shop afterwards. ‘But expensive.’
‘I should have liked to purchase all three,’ Mrs Horne said. ‘But we shall buy some material from the market and you and Jo can make at least one afternoon dress before you leave if you each do some of the sewing.’
‘I’ll help, too,’ Lucy said and then laughed, for she was not yet as clever a seamstress as her sisters, being inclined to fall into a dream over her work.
‘Yes, you can help, dearest,’ Marianne said and smiled at her. ‘Besides, I have several dresses that can be refurbished with new sashes and some fresh lace.’
‘I have some lace put by,’ her mama said. ‘Yes, I dare say it will be enough, Marianne—and who knows, your aunt might give you something.’
‘You do not mean Aunt Wainwright?’ Marianne frowned. ‘I had rather not, Mama.’
‘I meant my aunt Bertha,’ Mrs Horne said and smiled. ‘Now, let us see what else we can buy…’
Two pairs of slippers and a pair of boots were bought next, but the bonnets proved too expensive. Marianne purchased some ribbons to refurbish her old ones, and a bunch of silk flowers. Both she and Jo were good at making and trimming their hats, and it was something they enjoyed doing together.
Jo had slipped away to the library while they were purchasing some small items from Mama’s remaining shillings, and returned with an armful of books for herself and Lucy. Her young sister was delighted with the illustrated copy of fables and thanked her sister with a hug and a kiss.
After partaking of some bread and honey and tea at the inn, they collected their parcels and climbed wearily into the coach heading home.
‘Well, that was a splendid day,’ Mrs Horne said. ‘I shall save my money again for some months and then we may do it again—perhaps for Lucy next time, because I am sure that Agatha will give you a generous sum to purchase your clothes, Jo. She would not allow you to appear with her in Bath looking dowdy.’
‘Yes, I dare say,’ Jo replied. She already had her nose in a book and was lost in a world of her own.
Mrs Horne gave her a rueful look. Jo was the least easy to manage of her daughters and she dreaded to think what might happen if she accompanied her aunt to Bath.
When they arrived back at the Vicarage, it was to discover that a letter had come from Lord Wainwright. In it, he said that he would be sending Marianne to Cornwall in one of his own carriages. She might therefore seek a refund on the public coach ticket that her godmother had purchased for her, and he had sent a small purse of gold sovereigns, which, once opened and counted, amounted to twenty pounds.
‘Oh, Mama,’ Marianne said in awe. ‘It is far too much. We must send it back. I could not take all that from my uncle.’
‘Nonsense,’ Mrs Horne said and smiled. ‘It is good of him, to be sure, and I did not expect it—but he would be offended if we returned it. You must write him a letter, my dear, and thank him for his kindness.’
‘I am very willing to do so,’ Marianne said, ‘if you think we may accept such generosity?’
