Chapter One

54 2 0
                                    

Spring 1806, Dorchester, England
Bachelor gentleman seeks mature female, accomplished hostess, to organise fund-raising activities for Foundlings' Hospital. Residence provided, excellent remuneration.
Miss Phoebe Duvall's eyes blurred with tears as she placed the Dorset and Devon
Herald on her desk.
This could be it. The very lifeline she and her fragile Aunt Molly needed if they were to keep a roof over their heads.
Mature. Well, she was over one-and-twenty, so her attitude must be mature. She'd grown up quickly, running the entire Blacklands estate in the three years since Papa's disappearance, with more opinion than actual assistance from her aunt.
Accomplished hostess. She wasn't experienced, but how hard could it be, organising the loan of a marquee, ordering some additional help in the kitchens, and making sure the supply of wine never ran out?
The Foundlings' Hospital. What more laudable cause was there? She must answer this advertisement forthwith—it was the perfect solution to her financial woes. She wouldn't get access to Papa's fortune for another seven years—when he could be legally declared dead—and if the weather carried on as it had been recently, the much-anticipated Great-Uncle Charles's trust fund wouldn't mature in time. In another three months, Blacklands House, with its worm-eaten roof timbers and tipsy tiles, would be ruined by water ingress.
There was nothing for it—she had to act immediately and make this position her own, lest someone beat her to it.
She dipped her pen, pondered a moment, then produced a succinct but impressive reply, which she was certain would win over the unnamed bachelor gentleman. Then she hunted down Molly and found her seated comfortably by a roaring fire in the drawing room, nodding over a copy of John Gay's Fables.
"Aunt, I'm going out for a little while. May I take the carriage?"
"Certainly. I have no plans to go out." Molly tucked a greying curl under her cap, then frowned. "I do hope you're not going to do anything foolish, niece. Every time you go out on your own, I fear you have some madcap fundraising scheme up your sleeve. Just don't get into a coil. Promise me."
"I'm only going to Paulet's, to see what books they have in." Paulet's was the address given in the newspaper advertisement, but Aunt didn't need to know that.
"Maybe you should take Cecily. Or perhaps I should bestir myself to come with you."
"I don't need a chaperone at my age, Aunt. And if I feel at all threatened by the prospect of going into the bookshop, I'll take the coachman in with me."
Phoebe cut off Molly's protest with a kiss, then hurried off to don her pelisse, scarf and bonnet before ordering the carriage.
She waited in the benign sunshine of the bright spring day, and hoped this spell of fine weather would last—they'd been waiting an age for it to arrive. The border plants were springing into new leaf, as were the multi-coloured tulips that had been her father's pride and joy. Until he'd disappeared without trace.

A huge rosemary bush near the door exuded its exotic scent into the mild air. Rosemary for remembrance—but Phoebe didn't want to remember. Not now. It made her too sad. She stepped down onto the drive and stared up at her home. At a cursory glance, Blacklands House was splendid, with its Elizabethan red brick and diamond-paned windows—full of character, mystery and fascination. What the casual observer could not see was the damp, the rot, and the mildew. How long would it take to make enough money to mend the roof? Perhaps she should book the builders now, in anticipation of being able to pay them when the trust fund came through. And if she secured this employment, maybe she could negotiate an advance on her wages.

The crunch of wheels on gravel heralded the arrival of the carriage, and she set off for Dorchester, the earlier thrill at having found the notice in the paper already receding as doubts assailed her. It would be a huge upheaval; how far away did the bachelor gentleman live? Would he allow Molly to accompany his new hostess? How could she be sure Blacklands would be cared for in their absence?

She sighed as she gazed through the window. She was doing precisely the kind of foolhardy thing her aunt had warned her not to—which made her feel guilty on top of her anxiety.

A Treacherous EngagementWhere stories live. Discover now