“Is Eustace returning to London?” Would he be cast out of his home after all these years? Surely Guy would not do such a thing.
“In truth, he has enjoyed my father’s hospitality unencumbered for many years. It might be difficult to relinquish it.”
“He enjoys living in Digswell,” Hetty said. “He has made many friends here.”
“I wrote to advise him. Did he mention it?”
“Not to me.”
“Until he heard from me, he might not have expected an heir to appear after the bloody Revolution.”
“Nevertheless, he would wish you to take your rightful place.”
He shrugged. “Not if I had met my end on the way here.”
What was Guy suggesting? She cringed. “Surely, you don’t suspect Eustace to be behind the attack.”
Guy looked down at his hands. “I’ve yet to find that out. As well as what lies behind the poor state of the hall. Until then, it makes no sense to discuss it.”
Outraged at even the faintest suggestion of impropriety on her godfather’s part, Hetty rose. “I’ve known Eustace for many years. He’s a good man. He would want to do the right thing.”
“It is hard to know the workings of a person’s mind. We are strangers after all. He holds no affection for me in his heart.”
“That’s very different from…” She couldn’t say the words.
He stood. “I must go. I hope we shall meet again soon.” A grin tweaked the corner of his mouth. “On horseback perhaps?”
She sighed. “This episode has put an end to my riding alone. And Papa seems to have lost his love for it.”
“That’s regrettable. But it has become dangerous, as I’ve taken pains to explain to you.”
He was just like her father beneath his bravado. His wife would have to obey him in all things. It hardly mattered, for it would not be her. Fanny, perhaps, with her biddable nature, would make him an agreeable partner in life. Hetty walked with him to the door. “You have much to do to put your estate to rights. I wish you well with it.”
He pulled on his gloves. “A difficult but necessary enterprise.”
At the parlor window, she watched him ride away through the trees. Guy must have met the real Simon at the stables who would have returned from the village.
She shivered and returned to the fireside. Did he really believe her godfather could be capable of such evil? Although to be fair, Guy hadn’t come right out and accused him of it.
She wound the tassel on a cushion through her fingers. What had occurred for the hall to fall into neglect? Perhaps Eustace’s condition was more serious than they knew.
Simon’s voice came up the kitchen stairs. Hetty was tempted to go and ask him what he thought of Guy. The groom was a levelheaded fellow, and she trusted his judgment. No need for the matter was at an end. She sighed and patted the cushion back into place. Guy had expressed the intention to marry and safeguard his heritage with an heir. And, rightfully, his wife would come from the upper ten thousand. She must put him out of her mind. A season in London had become imperative. She must find a way to persuade her father.
Chapter Eight
Several weeks passed,each day was very much like the last. The only visitors her father received were the widow, Mrs. Thompson, and her sister, Alice, and self-appointed organizers of all matters relating to the church. They took great delight in discussing the fascinating new member of the parish. Hetty suffered through their fulsome praise of Lord Fortescue, how charming he was, and how he’d granted a substantial endowment for improvements to the rectory.
To fill the long days, Hetty wrote letters, played the piano, and read, but even Byron’s poetry failed to captivate her for long. Her own attempts at verse were uninspired. She organized the maids in their duties and began to embroider a new sampler, but, after pricking her finger for the third time, threw it down in disgust.
It was hardly gardening weather. Undaunted, she forked the frost-hardened soil in the vegetable patch to prepare it for spring. It was a pastime she usually enjoyed, but she found herself furiously attacking the dirt with the garden fork as if a highwayman hid there.
Hetty made daily requests for her father to accompany her on a ride and tried to quell her temper when he usually refused. She hated to see The General shuffling in his stall, but it was too cold to put him in the paddock.
Her father, perhaps tired of her low spirits, suggested an outing to the village for afternoon tea. He would invite Lady Kemble to join them. Hetty seized on the offering even though it meant coming under the scrutiny of Fanny’s mother. She wore her smart moss-green wool beneath her pelisse. Although the weather remained chilly, there seemed little chance of snow.
The carriage rattled along through hills of oak and thorn, following the curve of the valley which led to the River Mimram. They passed the gray-stone church with the two cedars of Lebanon planted by Capability Brown last century, and then the rectory, with the Monks Walk and grove of sweet chestnuts. “Is this not God’s country?” Papa asked.
She glanced out to where sheep dotted the rolling green hillocks and sheltered beneath spreading oaks. “Digswell is very pleasing to the eye.”
