The Last Surprise Read online

  “Chrissie, Chrissie!” Lady Daphne Ashford, age sixteen, burst through the drawing room door so fast her long blonde hair flew out behind her. A bud of great promise, she was the beauty of the family. Christine could only be grateful they would be out of mourning in time for Daphne’s come-out, for such loveliness should never be hidden in the country, garbed in black. Lady Daphne Ashford was destined to be termed “a diamond of the first water”.

  “Miss Applegate says I must ask you about my jewelry—what is mine and what I must leave. That’s not true, is it? It can’t be. It’s my jewelry. That horrid man can’t take it away!” Hands fisted at her sides, Daphne glared at her older sister.

  One more reminder of their anomalous position and Christine feared she might scream. It was too much. Too. Much. She swallowed hard and summoned a reassuring smile. “Daphne dear, Miss Applegate was quite right to refer you to me, for the responsibility is mine. And you too are right. All those bits and pieces Papa, Mama and I have given you through the years are yours. But think carefully—did Papa ever loan you jewels that belonged to the family? I cannot imagine it, as you are not out yet, but I confess I had a few family jewels which I had to return.”

  Gradually a tiny smile lit Lady Daphne’s heart-shaped faced as she considered the matter. “I have nothing that was not a gift or mere trinkets I purchased for myself.”

  Christine sagged with relief. One more domestic crisis solved. “Then you may pack every last bit—”

  “She’s wrong, I know she’s wrong!” Lady Belinda Ashford charged across the Aubusson carpet, tears streaking down her nine-year-old face. “Chrissie, Chrissie, I asked Miss Applegate how Tatiana was going to get to Yorkshire and she said Tat wasn’t going. She’s my pony, Chrissie. My friend. I’ll die without her!”

  Christine’s stomach clenched. She had held up through everything else, but her younger sister’s tears were the last straw.

  Yet she had no choice. Not only were she and her sisters the last of the direct descendants of the original Earl of Bainbridge, ennobled by Henry VIII, but she was the eldest. She had to be strong.

  She wrapped her arms around her sobbing little sister and led her to a sofa, casting a glance at Daphne to indicate she should sit in a chair across from them. Christine drew a deep breath, wiped a bit of moisture from her own eyes. “Listen to me, Linny. Listen carefully. We can only take our personal possessions with us to Yorkshire. Even if our horses did not belong to the estate—”

  “I can’t take Hebe?” Daphne cried. “Say it’s not so. She’s been mine for as long as I can remember.”

  She would not be sick, not on Mama’s gold silk brocade sofa, not on the pristine Aubusson carpet. She. Would. Not.

  This was worse than the thought of sharing a carriage all the way to Yorkshire with two watering pots when her own heart was breaking. To the devil with evil, unbending solicitors and the laws of primogeniture. That the day should ever come when she would feel it necessary to lie to her sisters. Well, fudge the truth at the very least. But she could not bear to see them so distraught.

  “Linny, Daphne, this is not our last time at Ashford Park. We will be in Yorkshire only until the new earl—” At this reminder of her papa’s death, Lady Belinda’s sobs turned to howls. “Belinda Eleanor Ashford, you will stop this nonsense immediately!”

  Since Lady Daphne had joined the chorus of crying, it was several minutes before Christine could continue. While she waited for the hubbub to diminish, she noted what an incongruous picture they made. Three young ladies garbed in raven black against the brilliant colors of the Ashford Park drawing room. Sobbing in a room filled with summer sunshine. And sometime in the last few minutes Miss Emma Applegate, the girls’ long-time governess, had slipped into the room. A woman of uncertain years and plain appearance, she had joined the three sisters in their mourning, wearing unrelieved black instead of her customary gowns of gray or brown. When the governess seemed ready to charge into the fray, Christine shook her head. Miss Applegate subsided onto a delicate side chair near the door.

  “Are you prepared to listen to me now?” Christine asked as the sobs dwindled to sniffs, wincing as her words came out rather more sharply than intended. Meekly, her sisters nodded. “The law is very clear. We own nothing but the clothes on our backs and whatever gifts we have received through the years. As much as we might wish it, the horses are not ours. Not my horse, Daphne’s horse, nor Linny’s pony.”

  “They were gifts,” Linny declared stubbornly.

  “They were on loan from the estate,” Christine corrected. “They were considered our very own mounts but they do not belong to us. They belong to the new earl.”

  “I hate him!” Lady Belinda cried, her brown eyes once again overflowing with tears. “He’s horrid, horrid, horrid!”

  “We know nothing about him,” Christine returned as evenly as she could.

  “We know his solicitor is a dastardly beast,” Daphne inserted.

  True. Christine had no argument for that. She drew a deep breath and began again. “What I am trying to tell you is that I believe our stay in Yorkshire will be but a few months, six at the most. The new earl is our true guardian and when he returns, so shall we. We will come back to Ashford Park and Ashford House in London. Except for the loss of our dear papa, life will be very much as it always was.”

  An ominous silence greeted her assertions until Lady Belinda gulped and asked, “Do you truly think so?”

  Christine did not but it was her duty to hold the family together, whatever it took, even to the extent of shocking obfuscation. It seemed more likely that the Earl of Bainbridge, delighted to be relieved of the burden of three young female wards, would leave them in Yorkshire forever.

  “Come,” Miss Applegate said, with excellent timing. “Daphne, Belinda, back to your packing.”

  Lady Christine remained on the sofa long after the others had gone. Mr. Harvey Greenlaw had known exactly what he was doing when he specified thirty days for them to pack and leave. There was, in truth, very little of their lives they could take with them on the long journey to the north of England.

  Interminable. That was the only word to describe their journey to Yorkshire. Christine gritted her teeth against yet another bump that shook their carriage like a dog shakes a stick. Another moan from Daphne, a long-suffering sigh from Miss Applegate, and a weak “I think I’m going to be sick” from Belinda. The nightmare of the past five days—no…of five weeks worse than anything she could ever have imagined—would be imprinted on Christine’s soul for the rest of her life.

  But their journey would end, and surely from this nadir their lives could only go up, making the slow yet inevitable ascent back to some kind of normalcy. Logic said it must be so, hope said it must be so, yet Christine’s spirits quailed before the unknown.One more horrid surprise and…

  No! Needs must when the devil rides. Never had the old saying been more clear. In adversity, she must be the rock on which her sisters rested. No matter what lay ahead she had to stand firm, be their anchor in the storm.

  Late in the afternoon their coach crunched to a harness-jingling, wheel-creaking halt on a pebbled drive in front of a four-square home of Georgian brick. Its architecture was so symmetrical only the ivy climbing on its walls gave it a dash of character. At least, Christine thought, it seemed large enough to accommodate four additions to the family—five including their maid Sally—without serious crowding.

  Only a butler to welcome them? Perhaps the Wetherells hadn’t received the letter she sent the day they left Ashford Park. Wearily Christine straightened her bonnet and composed her face to calm acceptance before stepping down from the coach. As the footman helped her sisters and Miss Applegate descend from the coach, Christine offered each an encouraging smile. This was it, their new life was about to begin. The looks she received in return were no more than anxious eyes and quivering lips.

  Anger shook her. How dare Papa drop dead over a game of cards? How could he leave them like this?
It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t…

  Christine unclenched her teeth, blinked and settled her feet firmly on Yorkshire pebbles. “Come,” she said, turning with determination toward the red brick of Wetherell Manor. “Let us meet our relatives.”

  Six weeks later—Toronto, Upper Canada

  Harlan Ashford’s tall frame filled the doorway of the Toronto headquarters of the Hudson Bay Company, where he was making one of his rare visits to check on any changes in his orders from Lord Bathurst. He had been in the wilderness a long time, attempting the onerous and thankless task of negotiating a truce between the two great fur-trading companies, North West and Hudson Bay. And he reveled in the semi-civilization of the streets and buildings of Toronto as he walked from the dock on Lake Ontario to the Hudson Bay office. A far cry from England but he loved this raw, new world with its wooden buildings, muddy streets and people willing to fight for the right to own a their very own bit of land.

  “Sir!” The young clerk jumped to his feet. “Welcome back. It’s been a long time.”

  Harlan smiled. Friendly faces had been few and far between since he’d put himself in the middle of the fur-trading wars. “I need to find a place to sleep and clean up a bit. Will there be someone I can talk to if I come back at, say, three o’clock?”

  “Indeed, sir, I’ll make certain of it,” the young clerk assured him. “And Mr. Ashford, sir, I’ve three letters for you.” He bent to rummage in the bottom drawer of his desk.

  Three letters. Although Harlan sent regular reports to Lord Bathurst, Secretary of State for War and the Colonies, he expected nothing more than a possible communication from Bathurst. His family was gone, he had no wife. Lady Sarah? Surely not. In spite of childhood family arrangements, he had given her no encouragement on his last leave. Nor would her stiff-rumped father ever allow her to correspond with him.

  Harlan accepted the letters from the clerk, who indicated a chair near the office’s small front window. “If you would like to open them immediately, Mr. Ashford…”

  Murmuring his thanks, Harlan accepted the offer, tearing open the missive from Lord Bathurst first. Wha-at? He was being relieved of his mission? He went back and read the letter again. Congratulations on your recent elevation…you will undoubtedly wish to return to England immediately…

  Elevation to what?

  Harlan stared at the other two letters in his lap, both from his solicitor, Harvey Greenlaw. He tore them open, checked the dates, then read the earlier one. Bainbridge dead, his heirs dead—every last one but Harlan Ashford who was now Earl of Bainbridge. He swore, the words blurring on the page. No! The burden was never supposed to fall on his shoulders. He didn’t want it, couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t do it. He’d stay in the new world and let the estates go hang.

  He looked up to find the young clerk staring at him, obviously shocked by his language. Slowly Harlan took up the last letter. He was, it seemed the legal guardian of three young ladies, ages nineteen, sixteen and nine. Good God! Until his return their mother’s brother in Yorkshire, Baron Wetherell, would stand in his stead. Greenlaw went on to boast of his swift removal of the young ladies from the Bainbridge estates so all would be ready for the new earl’s return.

  New earl. Hell and the devil confound it! The laws of primogeniture should be drawn and quartered, piked on the Tower, incinerated like a Guy Fawkes effigy.

  And maybe Greenlaw along with them. Harlan didn’t care for the tone of this last letter. Three young girls uprooted, exiled to Yorkshire. If he didn’t go back…

  They were with relatives, all would be well.

  And maybe not.

  With great rank comes great responsibility. He’d heard or read that somewhere. Had he turned into such a barbarian that he could turn his back on what tradition demanded of him?

  “I understand there’s steam passage to Montreal now?” he said to the clerk.

  “Steam and stagecoach, sir. There are a few rapids that remain unconquered.”

  “How frequently do they run?”

  “There’s one tomorrow, sir. Eight a.m.”

  Harlan nodded. “I’ll return here at three. After that it would appear I am going home.”

  “That’s wonderful, sir. You must be pleased.”

  Pleased. Most definitely not the right word. This was a surprise he could have done without. But Harlan summoned a smile for the young clerk before he strode out the door in search of the small settlement’s cleanest boardinghouse.

  Chapter Four

  September 1817

  Lady Christine stroked the white blaze above the old mare’s nose. Ella was a faithful mount, even if she could not hold a candle to her spirited Ariadne, left behind in the stables at Ashford Park. Christine dug an apple out of her pocket and watched with a fond smile as Ella seized it, munching noisily.

  “A charming sight so early in the morning,” a hearty voice declared behind her. Too close behind her. Christine stiffened but did not turn around, sensing that particular maneuver would put her nearly lip to lip with her twenty-two-year-old cousin Alymer. The bane of her existence. Her cousins Hesper and Geraldine were enough of a trial, but Alymer was fast moving from nuisance to tormentor. He had taken one look at her and decided Lady Christine Ashford was just what he needed to assure the comfortable continuance of the Wetherell line.

  “Come, come, cousin, cat got your tongue?”

  Christine tried a side-slip to the left, toward the broad square of sunshine beyond the open stable doors. Alymer’s beefy arm shot out in front of her. She ducked, moved sharply right, only to fetch up against his other arm. Pinned.

  Heart pounding, she gulped for air. Her hands fisted as she fought to control her spinning mind. Never before had he gone this far. Alymer made her uncomfortable, even nervous, yes. But this was the first time he had become an open threat.

  Calm, cool. She could handle this. She must.

  “Must I remind you, cousin, that you are a gentleman? If you do not let me pass this instant, I shall tell your mama.”

  Christine gasped as he nuzzled her neck. “I assure you, cousin, neither Mama nor Papa would mind one whit. They are thoroughly enjoying the stipend they receive from your father’s estate and look forward to adding your inheritance to the Wetherell coffers.”

  “Let. Me. Go. Now!” Christine’s words, spoken from between clenched teeth, had no effect. Alymer’s arms, imprisoning her on either side, didn’t budge.

  There had to be grooms and stableboys about. She only had to scream …

  Help her against the Wetherell son and heir? Unlikely. But what else could she do?

  Papa, how could you leave us to suffer so?

  Feeling sorry for herself was not going to save her. So what did she do now?

  A physical confrontation was out of the question—Alymer was twice her size. And yet…

  A long time ago one of the stableboys at Ashford Park—after her promise never, ever to tell her father—had offered a few lessons in self-preservation. Lessons which had horrified her at the time, lessons she had thought never to use, but…

  Christine couldn’t bring herself to attempt the two most drastic but a hard punch to what the stableboy called the “bread basket” just might work.

  Desperation lent her strength. Christine ducked her head, swung ‘round and punched Alymer in the stomach as hard as she could, then bolted for the stable door as he staggered back, obviously more surprised than hurt. The distance to the house had never seemed so far; she’d swear she could feel him breathing down her neck. She burst into the kitchen and, ignoring the startled looks of Cook and her helpers, ran up two flights of servants’ stairs, down the hall and into her bedchamber. Panting, she latched the door then fell on her bed, too horrified to cry.

  Dear Lord, what now? She’d tried so hard, truly she had. But she didn’t know how much longer they could continue in this hostile environment. In his correspondence with Sir Oliver, her Uncle Wetherell had lied. His children were not fully grown. Hesper and Geraldine
were still in the schoolroom. The baron had promptly dismissed the previous governess and added his daughters’ schooling to Miss Applegate’s duties. Both young Wetherells were described by Daphne as “plain as post”, and quite rightly Christine had to admit. And, having inherited their mother’s ill-temper, they seemed to vie with one another in an effort to think up spiteful remarks and nasty tricks to torment the “poor orphans”.

  And now…

  Now Christine had gone from finding ways to avoid her cousin Alymer’s attentions to turning him into an enemy. It might be worth it if he dropped his pursuit but that seemed unlikely. Even if he developed a disgust of her, the future Baron Wetherell would still pursue her fortune.

  Christine shivered. She had written two letters to Sir Oliver, pleading their cause. Each time he had urged her to be brave, assuring her their stay in Yorkshire would not be long. But how long could she endure? The new earl must be coming from China. By the time he got here she would have been forced into marriage with Alymer…

  No, never! The vows would never pass her lips. Even if he—

  Christine buried her face in her pillow, tears coming at last.

  For a man who had traveled the vast wilderness of Rupert’s Land by horseback, canoe and on foot, a journey into Yorkshire over actual roads was a mere bagatelle. Though after long days at sea, the continued idleness was threatening to drive him mad. Here he was, plunging north in the old earl’s coach like a knight riding to the rescue…

  Old earl’s coach. Harlan wondered if he would ever grow accustomed to thinking of the Earl of Bainbridge’s possessions as his own. Not even all the hearty congratulations in Bathurst’s offices, the obsequious bows and haste to do his bidding in the law offices of Harvey Greenlaw and Sir Oliver Tynsdale, made him feel more like a peer of the realm. His mind refused to make the leap from Mr. Harlan Ashford, employee of His Majesty’s government, to the Earl of Bainbridge.

  And the absolute last of the old earl’s “possessions” he wanted were his three daughters. What on earth was he, a single gentleman, to do with them? Particularly when even youngest of the girls undoubtedly knew how to go on in the world of England’s titled wealthy better than he did. Harlan muttered several rude words while watching the tame scenery of his homeland roll by.