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One
Chapter 1
Helen Davenport was keenly aware she ought not to listen in on private conversations. Her governess had always told her as much, but in moments such as these, exceptions could be made. After all, it wasn’t everyday one’s entire future was at stake.
She pressed her ear against the cold brass keyhole on the door of her father’s study. Inside, she could hear the fire crackling. The boots of her would-be suitor, Mr. Thomas Chapman, tread across the squeaky, loose floorboard opposite her father’s favorite chair.
In an agitated voice, Mr. Chapman exclaimed, “You, sir, had led me to believe that Miss Davenport’s dowry wasmuchmore substantial than this paltry sum.”
Helen heard the sound of shuffling papers. Her heart beat against her ribs as if it were an unruly thoroughbred stallion galloping through a field.
Her father sighed. She could picture him removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes. Calmly, he replied, “As you may be aware, Mr. Chapman, fortune has not smiled kindly upon my estate this past year. Between the flood damage from the River Lea and the poor harvest yield, I’ve been forced to borrow funds from—”
Mr. Chapman abruptly cut her father off. “I have no care for your excuses, sir. I should have listened to the advice of my friends and steered clear of the country gentry.” He stomped towards the door. “I have wasted my time and my efforts in courting a penniless country chit.”
Helen covered her mouth with her hand. Her muscles tensed.
Wasted efforts? A penniless country chit? She conjured an image of the afternoon riverside walks she’d taken with Mr. Chapman. He’d been every inch the gentleman these last few weeks.
What happened to the man who read her poetry under the shade of an oak tree? The man who offered to ride into town during a thunderstorm so that she might have the perfect frame for her watercolor painting?
She’d allowed herself to hope it might finally be her turn to marry. Now, her fate as a spinster was all but sealed.
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” her father said.
A chair scraped against the floor. She heard Mr. Chapman exhale. Helen immediately inched away from the door and scrambled over to her favorite chaise seat near the front window of the sitting room.
Helen adjusted her skirt and, with shaky, clammy hands, picked up the wooden hoop containing her embroidery sampler. Her needle stabbed the rough cotton.
She was nearly three and twenty. She’d had four unsuccessful Seasons in London and only two offers of courtship. She knew Papa wouldn’t be able to afford another Season.
Her father’s study door flew open. Without so much as a glance in her direction, Mr. Chapman strode out of the Davenport abode with haste. From the window, she watched as he yanked the reins out of the hands of a waiting groom and bolted onto his horse’s saddle.
“Let’s go, boy. There is nothing more for us here.”
She swallowed hard and watched the bay gelding canter down the narrow lane away from the Winterbrook estate.
“Goodbye, Mr. Chapman,” she whispered.
Her cheeks burned in shame, and a stray tear escaped from the corner of her eyes. She swallowed it, letting the taste of bitter salt linger on her tongue. The sampler fell from her hands and clattered onto the floor.
She had promised herself she would not grow upset again if nothing came of Mr. Chapman.
Do not my connections to an earl at least count for something?
Helen felt hopeless and lost. She dabbed her eyes with the sleeve of her dress. At the present, there was nothing else she could do. She breathed deeply.
She supposed they were ill-suited to one another in the first place. Mr. Chapman only cared for entertaining. Like her father, she preferred books to the company of people.
The hinges on her father’s study door creaked. Hugh Davenport, a man in his early fifties with greying hair and large amber eyes, stood at the doorway holding his spectacles.
She stood. “Papa?”
He placed his arms behind his back. “And just how much of our conversation did you hear, my dear?”
She bit her lip. “Everything.”
His shoulders hunched. He carried himself as if the weight of the world rested upon his shoulders. “I suppose you ought to come through, then.”
