Page 47 of Dare it all for Love

“Is this supposed to be reassuring?” Henry demanded in outrage.

“Yes, if you’d let me finish! I only mean that I know you are a good man, you are honest and decent, and you would be the kind of husband I would wish for my daughter if I had one. I’d take the age difference over some of the fortune hunters and fools out there in a heartbeat.”

“So basically, I’m better than the alternative,” Henry said dryly.

Jasper rolled his eyes. “If you are determined to take offense, yes, you are.”

“So you agree she could do better.”

“Damn it! No, I don’t agree, and stop putting words in my mouth. Obviously, in an ideal world you’d be closer in age, but the world is anything but ideal and nothing is perfect. We live with reality and finding happiness is a dashed hard business, so who gives a tinker’s cuss if there’s an age gap if you love each other? Life is too short, and I think Florence would be lucky to have you. There, you belligerent devil. Does that satisfy?”

Henry sat down again, nursing his brandy. “I suppose. I mean… yes, thank you, and I’m sorry. You’re right, I am in the devil of a mood. All this nonsense about witchcraft and— Bloody hell, Jasper, I never expected to fall in love again. I didn’t want to, but….”

“But there’s not a lot of choice in the matter is there?” Jasper’s expression was full of sympathy and understanding. He would understand too, knowing the merry dance Henry’s sister had led him on.

Henry laughed and shook his head. “No. It would appear there isn’t.”

They drank in companionable silence for a while and a little of the tension singing across Henry’s shoulders eased until he remembered what Jasper had said earlier.

“Wait, you said Florence had come to a similar conclusion. What do you mean by that?”

Jasper shrugged. “Only that she’s been interrogating the staff all morning.”

“What?” Henry sat up straight.

“I believe she is trying to discover any known witches or wise women in the area and any stories that might relate back to your family. She’s very perspicacious,” Jasper added with approval.

“And you let her?” Henry said, aggrieved. “What if she stumbled upon someone involved? She might put herself in danger.”

Jasper frowned. “Calm down, old man. Aren’t you getting a bit overwrought? She’s only chatting to a few of the—”

But Henry was already on his feet.

“Where is she?” he asked, reaching for the door.

“The kitchens, last I heard,” Jasper called after him as Henry did not stop to discuss the matter any longer. He was going to find Florence and put a stop to this at once.

Chapter 13

Dear Miss Weston,

I understand you do not wish to make our betrothal public yet, but I thought perhaps it would put your mind at rest to visit the place where you are soon to live.

I would be pleased to accommodate you if you wish me to invite Miss Florence and Miss Evie Knight, and whomever else you would want to accompany you for a visit under whatever pretext you prefer. Though it is not as grand as what you are used to, the farm is prosperous, and the house well maintained, but I thought perhaps you might wish to inspect it and see for yourself.

―Excerpt of a letter from Mr Sterling Oak to Miss Grace Weston (daughter of Baron and Baroness Rothborn).

17th August 1839, Bramble Cottage, Holbrook House estate, Sussex.

“Ah, well, there’s always been talk of wise women and the like,” said Mrs Simmons. The elderly woman had been nursemaid to both the earl and his son Cassius in her time and lived in a neat little cottage on the St Clairs’ estate. “And there’s plenty who kept their skills a secret too. There still are, I don’t doubt. Folk can be suspicious of things they don’t understand. As to who… let me see now.”

Florence sat patiently beside Grace, sipping tea with every outward sign of calm, though she did not feel the least bit patient. Most people had been reluctant to speak to them, unsurprisingly. They were guests, and good staff knew they did not spread gossip, even if invited to do so, and the staff at Holbrook were both too well paid and well treated to disregard their duties. However, old Mrs Simmons was a kindly soul and clearly delighted to have a visit from two young ladies, so Florence hoped she might unbend enough to chat with them.

“Well, there was old Mrs Oak, she had a knack for medicine and the like, and she’d read your tea leaves. Cards, too. I know people respected her skills. Granny Merrick was another, mind she’s long gone and never had no children. Mrs Hick… Ah, now some said she had the way, but she always swore she didn’t. Mind, after what happened with her kin it’s hardly surprising.”

“Oh?” Florence asked, setting down her teacup.

“Oh, ’twas many years ago, sometime last century, but her great-great-grandmother was hanged for a witch. One of the last ever convicted, too.”