**Warning: This story does contain characters of colour and therefore includes outdated terms. I did not make this decision lightly - I have done it for historical accuracy. Outdated language exists but I have limited its usage as much as possible. I take full responsibility for any offence caused. Apologies.
As the first sprinkles of dirt fell from her hand onto the elm coffin in the empty cemetery, it was settled. Now she was Lady Amelia Warstone, The Most Honourable Dowager Marchioness of Bedgebury.
The narrow cemetery of the church closest to Denmead Hall was overwhelmed by the majestic Warstone tomb – everyone buried here was a Warstone or had served them in some capacity. The grey speckled gargoyles leered over the grand headstones. All were perfectly maintained, under the orders of God-knows-who from God-knows-when. Someone had ordered that no weeds were allowed to grow and the headstones were to be polished until they were pristine, and to this day the graveyard remained spotless.
She felt the nothingness keenly. No weeds. No dirt. No people. Nothing.
Only Amelia, a reverend whom Lord Warstone had never met, and a couple of gravediggers hunched over the black soil were here this afternoon. Lord Thomas would have liked it this way. Empty and alone, nobody pushing tears out of their eyes in the hopes of a small concession in the will. He lived with the bare necessities and he died with the bare necessities.
But the new Amelia – she didn't have to live that way anymore. Not as he ordered. After the marquess bequeathed her everything apart from his title, which was to go to a distant cousin, she could live as she liked.
The gravediggers finished. The earth was now flat, as though nothing had been overturned to begin with. The respect and, dare she say, affection she had held for the elderly marquess would always remain, but she would not. She thanked the gravediggers and gave them a few shillings each, offered the reverend a contribution to the church, and whispered her last goodbye to Thomas Warstone.
"Thank you," she gasped, not quite able to speak. It felt illegal to speak here, in the dead quiet. Warstones never wasted words, she would have to choose hers carefully. "For everything. For my home. Thank you."
Amelia began her long walk home. She supposed she could buy her own carriage and horses now. Lord Thomas had been so determined to walk everywhere, and that if it wasn't within walking distance it wasn't worth going. He was nearly thirty years her senior but he managed to take himself to and from the village several times a week. The Marchioness only went to the village every few months, but now she might have to run Lord Thomas' weekly errands.
Yes, she could get a carriage, but she did rather like her walks. And she would need someone to look after the carriage and the horses and the stables. Her household was run by two people – Judy and Paul Howell, the housekeeper and the butler. It might be a much smaller household than most marquesses enjoyed, but it had always been those two, at least since...
Charity Burns.
There was a small grave in the corner of the cemetery, completely inconspicuous, which Amelia would never be able to walk past. Charity Burns, the lady's maid. The young, bright girl who had worked so hard since the moment she entered Denmead Hall nine years ago. She had been the marchioness' companion every moment of the day for years. She had accompanied her on the long walks, sat by her sickbed, and rushed to her in the night whenever summoned. No task was too big or too small – each one was just as important as the last, no matter how tired or sick or angry she might be. Right to the very end.
Amelia could find herself another lady's maid – there were always women looking for the work. But Amelia knew she would never completely bury the wonderful young woman, so why bother?
Judy and Paul were more than enough company. The three of them had proven capable of running a household when the marquess fell ill: they could continue their lives as normal. Amelia was determined not to change a thing.
*
Amelia was just pondering what to have for dinner that evening as she broke through the hedgerow lining the front garden of Denmead Hall and she saw it. The small, black box crawled down the stone path, starkly contrasting the cream house with emerald-green ivy devouring it.
Amelia had to force herself not to run. She picked up her skirt and hastened herself to the door of the house – her house – to greet the tall visitor.
He was definitely a Warstone. Any man of that height, with thick brown hair and a Grecian nose had to be a Warstone. His eyes were a much lighter brown than Thomas', his hair longer and his shoulders slimmer, but he was unmistakeably a Warstone.
But there was something different about this stranger still – his tall frame didn't know how to hold itself up and drooped to the side, afflicted by some kind of nervous flinching.
"I trust you have a good reason for calling on me the day of my husband's funeral," Amelia snapped defensively. She was just as anxious of this man as he was of her, but she wouldn't let it tell.
"I-I-I-" The man stuttered in a high-pitched voice before taking a deep breath. "I am so sorry, your ladyship. Truly. I had meant to attend the funeral but by the time I arrived, the church was deserted so I came to meet you here."
Amelia stared hard at the gentleman while he humbly removed his new, polished hat, only to start fanning himself with it as he took some more deep breaths. He had just about calmed down when Judy and Paul flung open the door, tripping over one another as they tumbled outside.
"Your ladyship," Judy whispered, "is there anything I might do?"
"My apologies!" the man accidentally bellowed, not having quite mastered his own voice yet. "I should have said. I am Frederick Warstone."
Amelia kept herself from rolling her eyes. It had not taken long for the heirs to begin moving in on what little had been left to them. Was Lord Thomas even cold in his grave?
"Judy, would you please fix myself and Lord Warstone a light lunch and some tea? Paul, please see to it that the horses are rested and watered and Lord Warstone's driver is well fed before they make their return journey."
They still had a delicious bit of cold ham in the kitchen. From the Dowager Marchioness' clipped tone, Judy knew that it was to go to the driver, or even the horse, before the new Lord Warstone got his hands on it.
Amelia showed Lord Warstone into the small sitting room. For the past few years, they had only used one wing of the house, the rest being used for storage and space for the couple to exercise. It made the rooms they used feel warm – the small sitting room was the perfect size for two people to sit on the green chaises by the warm fire and read any of the two hundred and sixteen books on the bookshelf or paint on the easel in the corner behind the blue vase holding an array of fresh flowers. Lilies today.
Frederick Warstone struggled more than expected to navigate himself through the room without knocking anything over and came close to destroying one of the cloches before settling next to the fire. Judy brought in a small spread. Amelia could hear that Paul had returned from the stables and was removing the old paintings from the hall – one of Lord Thomas Warstone would remain in his study, with all the other Marquesses, and a painting of Lord Frederick Warstone would have to join them too, but all the other family portraits were to be placed in storage.
Amelia prepared herself for any eventuality. While she had inherited many estates from her husband, Denmead Hall remained bound to the Marquess title. She had hoped that she could continue to live here and her husband's distant cousins would find another house to settle in, but she was ready to be shipped off to a strange place as soon as she was ordered.
"I-I-I am sorry to have missed the f-funeral," the new Marquess stammered.
Amelia narrowed her eyes. It seemed he was determined to stall this conversation with his manners. "Do not worry. The funeral did not miss you."
His eyes widened, confused. "I... I hope my cousin had a sizeable turnout."
"As sizeable as he would have liked."
"Well I should like to thank you anyway," Lord Warstone continued in a more solid voice, "for taking on the task of planning his funeral. You were the closest person to him in the end so I am sure you ensured everything would be as he wished."
Amelia was slightly taken aback at his sincerity. She remained silent to let him continue.
He cleared his throat. "You were not married for very long, were you?"
Amelia did a quick calculation in her head. "A measly seven years, which is only a quarter of my lifetime."
His eyes widened again in confused panic. "Has it really been so long since- I mean, I'm so sorry. I had no-"
Amelia's narrow glare returned as she calmly interrupted: "If you are to call upon any houses within your realm, which I strongly advise you do if you want any respect as the new Marquess, I recommend you do a bit of research on your new acquaintances beforehand. Taking offence is something of a pastime for people here in Bedgebury."
The young Lord Warstone, who could have been no more than twenty-eight, the Marchioness' age, swallowed loudly and nodded. "Thank you. Thank you. I will."
While nobody at Denmead Hall had made any calls in almost five years, and Amelia certainly did not intend to start now, she couldn't help but add, "I would be happy to help with a little information gathering on your behalf. And with any other Marquess business that may be troubling you. I often helped my husband with his affairs, especially when he was ill."
Finally he smiled, a bright smile he could not control. "Thank you. Thank you very much. I would be very glad of your help." He drank most of the contents of his teacup in one loud gulp before continuing. "Lord Warstone – the late Lord Warstone – was not the most orthodox marquess, I'm given to understand."
Amelia wanted to howl with laughter at the understatement, but she settled for a small smile which relaxed her companion further. "I much preferred him that way."
There certainly hadn't been much love or passion in the match – just companionship and certainty. A way for Amelia to escape her father, and a way for Lord Warstone to at least attempt to provide an heir. After a couple of quick, nauseating fumbles, both of them agreed that his cousins would have to take the title, which was why he pressed his solicitors to use every existing legal means to ensure that Amelia would inherit as much of his estate as possible, either to be passed onto her family or brought into her next marriage. Frederick Warstone had inherited the title, Denmead, and a couple of diamonds – far from the thousands Amelia now possessed.
But Amelia hadn't been fully prepared for the cold, dull feeling of this house with one fewer occupant. She knew that, with the new Marquess unmarried, she was still technically the Marchioness, but adding Dowager to her title helped her adjust to her new predicament.
"He never said words which need not be said. He never kept objects he would not use. He never kept servants we did not need," Amelia explained. "Living by his rules was not always easy, but it is far preferable to a man with no rules at all."
"From the sounds of it, I'm very sorry my father broke with him ten years ago, before I was ever allowed to meet him. I would have liked to have known him. And you, of course."
"My husband broke with everyone." Nobody knew me.
Amelia Goddard had done very well from knowing very few people. She grew up with her governess, her parents looking in on her from time to time, before being introduced to a short line of suitors. During a family dinner when she was twenty she became acquainted with Lord Thomas Warstone and he saw the daughter of an earl as a suitable enough mother to his heir.
It hadn't quite worked out as planned, but Amelia had enjoyed her seven peaceful years on the estate. Since the passing of her parents and, most upsettingly, her governess three years into her marriage, she had not received a visitor nor seen fit to call on anyone. She received monthly letters from her cousin, a courtesy which she sometimes remembered to answer, but she never wanted for company. Charity had been too great a companion.
"Are you to return to London today?" Amelia continued sharply. She had let her guest relax for long enough.
Frederick sat up straight and nodded eagerly. "Yes, so long as I am not needed here."
"You are not." Make him leave. Make him leave.
"When was the last time you were in London?"
"I have never been. My father wanted me to marry someone from a neighbouring county and my husband hated town."
"Why a neighbouring county?"
"I was his only child so he was very attached to me."
"Oh," Frederick chuckled. "My mother has always been so keen for her children to travel and find their own way."
"Well you are one of five children. Your mother has spares."
She could talk more about her father. Talk about how he would never have imagined she would ever be a Dowager Marchioness. How he resented his duty to her, a duty he tried to rid himself of as soon as possible. But now was not the time for that.
None of this explained why Frederick Warstone had decided to call on her, unless he truly had just intended to pay his respects and scope out his new family estate. Frederick's father and Lord Thomas' had never been close, the two brothers having been born too far apart. As time went on, Peter Warstone, the younger brother, began to resent the elder Jonathan's eccentricities and his marriage to a nobody which had ostracised him – after their final argument, Jonathan settled as small a living he could on his brother, barely respectable for the son of a Marquess.
After Lord Jonathan passed on, his son still offered his uncle nothing and continued his father's isolation from society. Both Marquesses were devoted to carrying out their Marquess duties, even though they rarely met anyone living in their marquessate – their citizens were happy, even without knowing their landowner. Peter Warstone never understood their way of life, insistent that he would have made the better Marquess. One final bitter argument drove Lord Thomas to break from the family completely and find a wife to produce an heir to keep the inheritance away from his cousins.
Nothing had really worked out now that Peter Warstone's son had inherited all the responsibilities and none of the preparation.
Frederick, now slightly paler, cleared his throat and finished his tea. "Well I hope that you will like London. You see, I had rather hoped that, without any family of your own to turn to, you might consider staying with us for the season. I, um... I could use the help during my first Parliamentary sessions, and my family are all keen to become better acquainted with our mysterious cousin."
Amelia waited for him to continue, and then waited until she could think of something to say. He wanted her to come to London with him. To society. To meet people.
What the blazes was he thinking?!
But could this work to her advantage? Neither Amelia Goddard not Amelia Warstone had made their debut in society. At twenty-eight years of age, Lady Amelia Warstone, the Most Honourable Dowager Marchioness of Bedgebury, had the power to carve her own place in the world. And the power to carve Frederick's too – he was willingly stepping into her hands.
It would require for her to talk to people. She could manage that.
"I would like Denmead Hall to remain my permanent home. Alone. Will you be able to use another estate as your family's country seat?"
The Marchioness could not be so direct. But the Dowager Marchioness – nothing would hold her back.
Frederick was once again speechless before slowly nodding his head. "Of course. I wouldn't want to inconvenience you. You may keep the house."
"I will need some time to prepare for my departure," Amelia explained calmly. "It is the first time I have left this house in seven years. And I will return by the end of the season, so long as you are comfortable in your new title."
Again, that unrestrained smile broke. "Thank you, your ladyship. Thank you so much. This is better than we dared hope for. My family will be so excited to host you."
Amelia couldn't decide why the new Marquess was so eager to leave, out of nerves or excitement. Regardless, she saw her visitor to the door and waved him goodbye as he started on his short journey back to London.
"Your Ladyship," mumbled Paul. The small bald man mumbled everything. He struggled to hold up a large portrait in a gold frame. When Amelia took it from him, she saw it was the portrait painted at the end of the honeymoon. The fresh-faced Marchioness from seven years ago.
"What would you like doing with it?" asked Paul.
The Marchioness wasn't here anymore. Now was the age of the Dowager Marchioness, who threw the painting of that girl in the fire and let it scorch the last remains of her away.