Chapter One
Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned / nor hell a fury like a womanscorned.
William Congreve’s play,The Mourning Bride, had been on Priscilla Hartwell’s mind for two years now. She’d experienced firsthand what it was like to have not one, but two men reject her outright and leave her heartbroken and desolate. She had become a spinster at the age of twenty-four. If only she could have been fortunate like her older sister, Bridget, who had married the perfect man who could support her well.
Priscilla pulled her thoughts out of the past and focused on what was currently happening. The jarring coach she had been riding in for several hours now was gnawing on her already tattered nerves. She had accepted a position as the Dowager Duchess of Englewood’s lady’s companion.
Although anxious to move ahead with her life, Priscilla especially wanted to get away from her father, who was ruining the hopes and dreams of every one of his children, as he expected them to marry someone wealthy instead of for love. Once she realized she would never marry because of having no dowry, she was satisfied to be the companion to the dowager duchess.
Now Priscilla would get to wear nicer gowns instead of ones that had been altered every year since she was fourteen. Finally, she would be able to hold her head high at Society’s functionswithout the fear of someone gossiping about her poor family and how the Hartwell daughters were only after men with money.
The Dowager Duchess of Englewood was in her early sixtieth year and really didn’t need a companion, but she was very good friends with Priscilla’s grandmother—and so the deal was made that Priscilla would live with the dowager, who was crippled and confined to a rollerchair.
The rhythm of the coach slowed, and Priscilla peered out the window at the magnificent three-story estate as they approached. It was very similar to the one Bridget was living in with her adoring husband, Lord Adrian Worthington. The grounds were immaculately cared for, and so very green. There was even a flower garden off toward the back of the estate that was visible. She hoped the dowager would allow her to spend time in the gardens.
Priscilla smiled. Perhaps good fortune was indeed smiling upon her, just in a different way.
She clutched her satchel and scooted closer to the door. The dowager had sent her own coach decorated with the family’s crest of blue and silver on the door. Priscilla had never felt so regal in her life. She prayed this wouldn’t be the last time she enjoyed this special emotion. She needed more of it, and often.
The coach stopped and a footman opened the door. He helped her down before lifting her trunk off the back of the coach. She walked up the several steps toward the estate. A butler wearing a black and red uniform waited at the open door, and when he saw her, he bowed slightly.
“Welcome to Englewood Hall. I am Martin. We have been expecting you.” He motioned to her satchel. “I will have that taken to your room.”
Priscilla smiled at the older man and handed the satchel to another footman who stood nearby. The butler’s pure white hair was still full, which surprised her, since he appeared to be in hissixties. He was very dignified in his later years, and she thought he was quite pleasant.
“I thank you for your welcome, Martin.”
“The Dowager Duchess of Englewood is waiting for you in the sitting room, Miss Priscilla. If you will follow me, I shall take you to her.”
“Of course.”
Nervously, she wrung her hands as she followed the butler. The tiled floors were polished to perfection, and every lamp, table, and picture was impeccably dusted. Living in this manor would be like living in a museum, but it would be a relief not to have to clean and cook, as she had done for several years, since their father made very little money and she and her sisters had to do the duties of a servant.
As she followed the butler into the sitting room, immediately she recognized the dowager duchess. The bony, shriveled old woman with silvery-white hair sat hunched in her cushioned chair, staring toward the hearth. Low flames danced on the burned log as bits of smoke curled up toward the chimney.
“Your Grace, Miss Priscilla is here,” Martin announced.
The older woman’s back straightened slightly and she turned. When the woman’s gaze landed on Priscilla, her eyes widened and she smiled, enhancing her many wrinkles, but her brown eyes sparkled like stars.
“Miss Priscilla.” She motioned with her hand. “Come here so I can see you better. I don’t have my spectacles at the moment, so you are a blur.”
After curtsying, Priscilla grinned and moved closer. “It’s so nice to see you again, Your Grace. Grandmother Hartwell speaks so highly of you. I feel as if I know you already.”
The duchess nodded and took hold of Priscilla’s hands. “Your grandmother is such a dear friend. I’m so happy to have one of her granddaughters as my companion.” She squinted andpeered toward the butler. “Martin? Will you ask Mrs. Jones to have tea brought in?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Priscilla was tempted to get the tea service ready herself—since that was what she had done at home—but she quickly stopped herself. She must remember she was the companion of a duchess and not her servant.
The dowager patted the armrest of the sofa next to her. “Please sit so we can chat. There are so many things I would like to know about you.”
Nodding, Priscilla sat on the sofa and folded her hands on her lap. “I, too, have many questions. Although I’m sure I’ll learn quickly, I don’t know how to be a companion to a duchess.”
The older lady chuckled. “Keeping me entertained is probably the thing you will do the most. Your grandmother told me you play the pianoforte quite well, and since I love music, I’m sure I’ll ask you to play for me many times throughout the day.” She glanced down at her crooked fingers and sighed heavily. “I used to play well myself, but old age is taking over my body quickly.”
“I absolutely love playing the pianoforte.” Priscilla beamed. “Would you like me to play something for you now?”
“Indeed. Help me into my chair and take me to the music room.”
