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Those disbelieving tones came from the superannuated dandy who had first greeted me on arrival. He had changed into another, even more elaborate costume, this one in shades of pink. His name was, if I remembered correctly, Simon Broadbank, and as a cousin of my late grandmother’s, he was titular manager of the estate.
“A cotton broker, yes.”
“There has never been a shopkeeper in the Wentworth family,” sniffed my aunt-by-marriage Lucinda in tones redolent of discovering one’s kinsman was a smuggler or highwayman. A tall, straight, spare lady, she was incongruously dressed in the height of girlish fashion.
“Young Peter actually kept a shop?” Great Aunt Zipporah, she of the wrinkled face and superfluity of ruffles, asked in horror. “To think of a Wentworth becoming a common tradesman!”
“No, an office. He arranged deals between those who raised cotton and those who bought cotton,” I temporised, having very little clear idea of exactly what Father had done.
“My son, no better than a Cit,” my grandfather muttered, his face stormy. The idea that he might have been frail or ill had been eradicated the moment I was presented to him. Aged, yes; somewhat bent in body, yes, but a power emanated from him that quickly disabused any idea of frailty. It would be difficult to imagine his face being other than stormy; craggy to the point of roughness, with overgrown eyebrows that resembled nothing so much as an untrimmed shrub, but even so, completely inadequate to hide the two cold hard pebbles that were his eyes. Look as I might there was no resemblance whatsoever to my handsome, charming father. “He never had a thought to his breeding, otherwise he would never have left his duty here.”
“And your mother, my dear? Has she remarried? I am surprised that she would allow you to come so far alone,” said my aunt in a vastly superior tone.
Being a new and vigorous - which some called brash - people, it is said that Americans are not so punctilious on the niceties of social behaviour as other, older nations, but that remark shocked me to my toes. “None of my family would think of such a scandalous thing, sir. My mother died when I was but twelve, and my father brought her sister and her husband into our house to ensure that our home did not attract the attention of the prurient minded.”
Aunt Lucinda’s eyes widened. Obviously my petty little bolt had gone home, which pleased me. It also pleased Mr. Broadbank, for he chortled softly.
“A hit,” he murmured just loud enough to be assured of being heard. “A definite hit.”
“When the invitation arrived, to come here-” invitation was a mild word for the strongly worded letter demanding my father’s presence in England, sadly coming only two months after his demise “-and I decided to come in Father’s stead, every propriety was observed. I travelled on a ship with Mr. and Mrs. Carstairs, two dear friends of ours and well-known in Charleston, and once in London Mrs. Carstairs and your own man of business helped me engage Miss Brown, who is both sedate and of sufficient years to be a decent chaperone.”
Miss Brown, almost a caricature of a soured old maid, regarded all Americans as little more than barbarians and had seemed surprised that my wardrobe was not comprised solely of skins and homespun. Being dressed by her was not a necessarily pleasant experience, as both of us disliked it intensely; she because as a companion she thought she was too good to act as a ladies’ maid for the very few days it had taken to travel here and I simply because I disliked her.
“And rightly so,” said Patience Barwick, the plain woman who though wearing evening dress was still indisputably plain. A distant relative of some branch of the family, she was impoverished and kept on sufferance at the Hall to be companion to Great Aunt Zipporah. “I believe Miss Clarissa to have behaved with both taste and decorum.”
“Who cares what you believe?” rumbled my grandfather. “What is important is how we are going to make her part of the family now.”
Father had said that his father was difficult. It was now obvious that he had grossly underspoken!
“I should like a tour of the Hall, if you please,” I said slowly, fully realising that a woman - and an American, at that! - being so declarative was the social equivalent of flinging down a gauntlet, but I didn’t care. I didn’t like these people, for all that they were kin. “Then I should like to ride the land and see several places of which Father spoke. Then I plan to spend some time in London before returning home.”
The reaction was instant and close to chaotic. There were babblings of how such was not possible, protests that I could not make such a short visit and ending with a flat statement from my grandfather that such a plan was ridiculous and, now that I was home, I had to stay here.
“Besides,” he added with the finality of an unquestionable order, “you cannot leave until Basil arrives.”
Obviously, the taste of the name was bitter in the old man’s mouth.
“And who is Basil?” I asked, startled at the sour mutterings which ran around the table.
“The heir, of course,” said Mr. Broadbank in a dark tone.
“The usurper,” said Aunt Lucinda, her face hard.
“Who cannot wait to put us out of our home,” whimpered Great Aunt Zipporah, her tiny rosebud lips pursing like those of a baby about to cry.
“Basil is my nephew,” Sir Mordecai said, his words dripping with bitterness. “Son of my late brother Ezekiel. And, since both your father and his brother failed to do their duty and provide me with male heirs, Basil is to inherit Wentworth Hall and the title.”
“He as much as said that, when he inherits, he intends to clean house,” Aunt Lucinda muttered. “He is probably trying to find a way to deprive me of my jointure.”
“So why are you leaving him the title?” I asked, garnering sharp looks from all present.
“There is no ‘leave’ about it, miss,” my grandfather replied, regarding me much as he would have a village idiot. “He is the next in the bloodline. It all must go to him.”
“That is a silly system,” I said before thinking, and reaped another glare.
“Excuse me, your Lordship,” said Freeman, the awesomely correct butler, who to my mind more resembled how a Baronet should look than did my harsh-featured grandfather. “There is a caller - Mr. Percival Mountjoy. He asks to be seen immediately.”
Sir Mordecai’s eyes narrowed in distaste, but Aunt Lucinda seemed to glow with pleasure.
