Polly Whitby was every bit the perfect English rose. That was Eliza’s first thought upon seeing her neighbor’s bright blue eyes and ash-blond hair. She ushered them into a parlor replete with tufted velvet divans and salmon-pink curtains that matched the rather overblown dress she was wearing. Eliza presented the bouquet of peonies she’d gathered from the garden and took a seat across from their hostess while Lydia stood off to the side, arms crossed over her waist.
“Miss Whitby, this is Lydia. She’s my sister.”
Polly offered Lydia a prim smile. “Please, Miss Sullivan, have a seat. Bandini will be in with our tea in only a moment.”
“It’s Miss Tourant, not Sullivan.” Lydia swept her lilac-hued skirts to the side and perched next to Eliza, as if she were a terrified bird about to take flight. “Eliza is only my half sister.”
“I see.” Polly looked from Lydia to Eliza, quietly assessing.
Eliza wondered how long it would be before the inevitable questions began.Have you the same father? Or mother?The comparisons would come next—often politely silent, but still made—eyes darting from her own pale, freckled skin and copper-blond curls to Lydia’s luminous olive complexion and coiled brown ringlets.
Polly’s demure scrutiny was interrupted at that moment by a maid in a brilliant fuchsia sari. She was bearing a tray stacked with dainty cakes, fragrant steaming tea, and a silver service. Polly poured and passed an enameled teacup to Eliza. “You’ll want lots of milk and sugar in this.” She dropped two lumps into Eliza’s cup, following it with a generous splash of milk, then did the same for Lydia. “Now stir.”
After a few turns with a spoon, the saffron-colored liquid melted into a lovely shade of gold. Eliza raised the cup to her lips and was rewarded with an exquisite, spicy sweetness. Her eyebrows lifted. “This is delightfully uncommon.”
“Magical, isn’t it? Bandini makes the very best chai. I grew up in Calcutta, you know. When my father was raised to admiral, he sent me home to manage the estate. We’re all tied to the navy here, every last one of us. They even weave sailcloth for the fleet in the village.” Polly took a breath, crossing her legs and sitting back against her chair. “My friend Sarah Nelson will be joining us shortly. I hope you don’t mind. We’ve all been a bit curious about you. We were most surprised when Lady Sherbourne didn’t will her estate to the church. She must have cared a great deal for you.”
“That’s the funny thing—I didn’t know my aunt at all. She and my mother were close, but I was barely four when I met her. I only remember a tall woman in a very large hat. It was a shock to find I’d been granted her estate. I’m meeting with her solicitor to go over the details of the will tomorrow.”
“Well. Sherbourne House is a fine home, and should you need a housekeeper, a butler, or any other staff, I should be pleased to provide references for you.”
“Thank you, but I think we’ll manage on our own. Lydia and I were raised on a farm. We’re used to housekeeping.”
Polly’s cheeks colored. “Perhaps you might change your mind. These country homes require constant upkeep. They tend to decline rapidly without the proper care. The damp weather, you know. You’ll at least need a cook. The Wards’ cook just trained a new girl and they’re sending her out. She’s Irish, but she’s a hard worker and doesn’t blather on too much about her popery.”
Lydia covered the dainty crucifix at her throat with quick fingers.
“Our father was Irish,” Eliza said, the corners of her mouth curling. “From Kildare.”
“Well.” Polly cleared her throat.
“Regarding houses in disrepair, who lives in the house at the crossroads?” Eliza asked, eager to change the subject. “The Second Empire with the metal gates?”
Polly shifted in her chair and looked down. “They’re an old Hampshire family. It’s a tragic story, really.”
“Was there a fire? It looks it.”
“There was. Three winters ago. Thomas Winfield—he was the fourth Viscount Havenwood—died in the fire as well as his son Gabriel,” Polly said. “His eldest son, Malcolm, is the only remaining person living there. He’s inherited the title.”
So it had been Malcolm out riding the night before. “And was there a mother? A viscountess?”
“Yes, but no one knows what happened to her.” Polly’s eyes widened as she relaxed into a gossiping tone. “She disappeared afterwards. They dredged the river, searched the forest, but she’s never turned up. She’d gone quite mad, you see. She hadn’t been out in society for some time before the fire.”
“How terrible it is to lose your entire family.” Eliza blinked twice. “It’s difficult to carry on after something like that.” She swallowed more of the tea to chase the sudden taste of metal from her tongue and concentrated on the dizzying wallpaper.
“They’ve always been an odd family—scandalous, even. There’s talk of murder. That he might have even killed his mother. We really don’t associate with him.” Polly gave a tight smile. “I’d advise you do the same.”
The doorbell rang, and a young woman with plump, pretty features and dressed in mannish clothes was let into the room. Polly stood to receive her kisses. “Sarah, these are our new neighbors: Miss Eliza Sullivan and her sister, Miss Lydia Tourant. I was just telling them about Lord Havenwood and the fire.”
“Polly!” Sarah scolded. “Bringing out all the mad cats straightaway, are we? You’ll terrify them!” She turned to Lydia and Eliza, sweeping her hat from her head with a gallant flourish. “Hello. I’m Sarah Nelson. Our Polly’s a raging gossip. Pay her no mind. Malcolm’s a bit strange, that’s all.”
“Pleasure.” Eliza offered her hand. “I found the conversation invigorating. I want to learn everything about Hampshire I can. It’s delightful to finally be here.”
Sarah gave Eliza’s fingers a squeeze and turned to greet Lydia. “Our first Americans in Cheltenbridge! They’re like perfect dolls, aren’t they, Polly?”
Polly inclined her head, her eyes narrowing. “Quite.”
“If you’re all settled in at Sherbourne House, you should come to our ball. Grandmama is inviting all the local gentry.”
