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CHAPTER1
Cornwall, England, December 1822
Matilda Matthews’s day was ruined by a terrible downpour of icy rain that shrouded her home Meadow Cross, the little cottage on the edge of the Earl of Castleton’s estate where she had lived her entire life. She had hoped for snow; it was certainly cold enough.
A wall of unpleasant gray clouds and sleet had cast a pallid tone to the skies and ice shimmered on the rippling ivy that climbed up the cottage walls. They’d had such a late fall that the ivy on the walls had stayed green far longer than usual, but come tomorrow it would begin to wither beneath the frost. Not for the first time, Matilda was thankful for her Aunt Florence’s beautiful paintings of spring flowers that hung upon the walls of their little cottage. She and her aunt had called the paintings “the wallflowers.” For a few moments, one could look upon them and believe it was spring and not a bitterly cold winter.
Matilda gazed out the window with a weary sigh. She had wanted to go to the village today, but it was far too wintry to set foot outdoors. Her Aunt Florence had insisted she stay home where it was safe and warm, and she’d had to agree that was wise, no matter trapped she felt indoors.
“What is it, dear?” Florence spoke from where she sat in an armchair by the small fire. She had been ill for the past week, which worried Matilda greatly.
“Oh, nothing,” Matilda said. “I just wish it hadn’t rained.”
The two lived a quiet life, one she loved, but every so often, she craved a little more excitement. She wanted to at least visit the shops in the village and mingle with her friends there, even though she had no money to spend. They lived on a very small yearly income left in a trust by Matilda’s father, who had been the steward of the Castleton estate. He and the late earl, Bernard Brynnwood, had been close friends despite their age difference, and when her father had died, Bernard had set money aside each year for Matilda and Florence to live on. The earl had given them the use of Meadow Cross cottage for life. He charged them no rent, and his only wish was that, weather and health permitting, they would join him once a week for a nice dinner at his grand house a short way across the field, beyond a small patch of woods. Those dinners had always been enjoyable, and the old earl was as sweet to her as any doting grandfather, despite the fact that she was not a blood relation to him. But the earl had died two weeks ago, and their future was now uncertain.
Matilda splayed a hand on the glass windowpane and peered at the rain. She blinked, and suddenly it was snowing. In just a few moments, the rain had turned to thick thumb-sized clumps of snowflakes which drifted down so heavily, it was almost impossible to see anything beyond the small fence that bordered the garden in front of the cottage. Something dark moved in the snow, a hazy shape that grew larger as it drew closer.
Was it a figure in a cloak coming into the garden toward the cottage? She started toward the door, hoping to intercept the visitor, when she heard a rapid knock. She opened the door and saw the figure was already rushing away through the snow. Confused, she glanced about and then down at the ground. A letter sat on the edge of the doorway. Matilda bent and retrieved it. She turned the letter over to see the wax seal of the house of Castleton. She quickly shut the door and broke the seal. Since the passing of the old earl, she and Florence had been waiting to hear from the new earl, Bernard’s grandnephew.
“Who was at the door?” Florence asked.
“I’m not sure. But they delivered a letter from His Lordship.” She unfolded the parchment and read the words silently to herself.
To the residenceof Meadow Cross cottage,
Arthur Brynnwood, the new Earl of Castleton, is the owner of Meadow Cross cottage where you now reside. He requests your immediate departure forthwith unless you are willing to pay one pound a month in rent. You have five days to collect all objects and furnishings which belong to you and to vacate the cottage. All questions can be directed to Lord Castleton or his new steward, Henry Fulton.
Sincerely,
Mr. Fulton
Matilda readthe letter twice more, her confusion and distress growing so strong that her hands trembled. She and Aunt Florence couldn’t leave. Their annual income only covered food, firewood, a bit of coal, and other small but vital necessities. It could not cover his proposed rent here, let alone rent at a new place, assuming they could even find one. Cornwall was not a hospitable land this time of year, and there were few places to let at this time.
They had no other family or connections who might take them in. Even though Matilda was twenty years old, she felt ancient with her worries.
“Mattie, what is it? What does it say?” Her aunt’s question was punctuated by a violent sneeze at the end.
“It… it’s a letter from Arthur Brynnwood, the new earl. He is asserting a monthly rent of one pound… or else we must be gone from Meadow Cross cottage in five days.”
“Hewhat?” Florence dissolved into a coughing fit. “He cannot do that… surely…”
“Unfortunately, as the new earl, he has every legal right.” Matilda’s reply was quiet, but her mind let out a desperate scream. What were they to do?
“Surely he can be reasoned with? Bernard was always so generous with us. I’m sure we need only remind his grandnephew of Bernard’s promise to us.”
“I’m not sure we can count on this man to be as compassionate.” Matilda feared he might be quite the opposite, given the abrupt tone of his steward’s letter.
“Perhaps I ought to speak with him,” Florence said. She started to rise from her chair, only to bow forward with a mighty cough. She withdrew a handkerchief and covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking.
Matilda caught her aunt and gently helped her back into the faded armchair.
“Your cold is getting worse. I think you need to stay here.I’llspeak to him.”
Perhaps if she batted her lashes and did her best to flatter his ego, this arrogant man would show some mercy and allow them to stay.
“You mustn’t be cross with him, Mattie. You said it yourself—this is his land, not ours.”
Matilda’s lips pressed into a firm line. Snow frosted the edge of the windows, and a chill wind whistled eerily down the chimney, making their small fire sputter and spark.
