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Chapter One
December 1813
Northumberland, England
Etta crumpled theletter in her fist. “Oh, Tia. He arrives in a few days.” Her younger sister sat across from her with her nose in a book. Etta reached for Papa’s cane, still leaning against the hearth in its accustomed place. She pushed back a corner of the Turkish carpet and rapped it on the floor planks.
Tia looked up with a scowl, one soft leather shoe dangling from beneath her Devonshire brown wool dress. She leaned her head back against the oversized leather chair and sighed. An exaggerated, martyred sigh that made her long, blonde curls sway against her pale cheeks.
“He comes this week,” Etta repeated, waving the wrinkled vellum, then fingerspelling “this week.”
“This week?” Tia echoed with a nod. Her brows furrowed in a feigned expression of concern, but irritation glittered in her clear blue eyes. Then she promptly returned to her romance novel, mumbling, “Stop fretting.”
Tia prided herself on her lipreading abilities. She had not been born deaf, so except for the lingering childhood lisp, her speech had remained relatively unaffected. Her volume and pitch control varied if she became excited or her temper flared.
It was comprehension that often presented the problem. There were so many similar words and hard to “read” sounds that the sisters often resorted to fingerspelling in private. Tia could fool strangers for a short time, but her new guardian would have to be informed if he did not already know.
Etta sighed and wished she could be so cheerfully oblivious to their circumstances. Their fate rested in the hands of a stranger. A second cousin, but a stranger nonetheless.
“Why, Papa? Why did you leave us so soon?” Etta’s eyes settled on her father’s portrait above the hearth.
The painting had been commissioned before her mother had died giving birth to Tia, a second girl. Before that same little girl had been ravaged by scarlet fever at the age of ten. Once recovered, the physician had diagnosed Tia with profound hearing loss. It had been the final blow for Lord Comden. Melancholia had besieged him. Etta had watched her father’s zeal for life trickle away like the grains of a sand clock.
This likeness, always looking down over them, was how she would remember him. His hair still a thick umber, no lines creasing the handsome face, and his tawny eyes shining with jovial optimism. The same humor and confidence that brightened Tia’s demeanor. MacIntyre, their butler, always said Etta looked like her father, but Tia had his spirit.
It could have been worse, she’d thought a month ago. Papa had not left them in debt. Then she’d met with the solicitor. It seemed her father’s will had been vague in the instructions concerning his daughters. The poor man had been almost apologetic, his faded brown eyes squinting behind his wire-rimmed glasses as they darted from her face to the document in his gnarled hands.
“If no male heir is found, the estate will return to the Crown. His remaining children, Miss Comden”—he paused and nodded at Etta—“and Miss Horatia will receive all cash assets.”
“I will administer your trust until you wed or reach twenty-five years of age. The funds will be more than sufficient to ensure a comfortable living and provide a decent dowry. And if Miss Horatia does not marry…” The elderly man stopped to clean his spectacles with a small square handkerchief, the sunlight shining off his bald pate. Then he’d looked her in the eye. “The dowry portion set aside may be enough to keep her in modest circumstances.”
“Of course she will marry. Tia is a lovely, intelligent girl.”
But Lord Comden had shunned society after his wife died. Several tutors had been hired over the years. The last governess had taught them natural gestures and the one-handed alphabet for the deaf and mute. But she left and wasn’t replaced. Still, the girls had been educated in the basic skills every female must know to be a proper lady. Though their playmates had been the village children, they had socialized with the families of two country squires. Their father had followed well-meaning advice, but keeping Tia isolated from the world had inadvertently keptbothsisters hidden away on their northern estate.
“Will we continue any of our holiday traditions this year?” Tia interrupted her thoughts, her pale brows drawn together.
Etta sighed, torn between wanting the echo of laughter between these walls again and maintaining proper mourning for their father. December had always been a magical time for their family. When her mother was alive, preparations had begun in the kitchen the first day of the month. Though the memories were a bit hazy, she’d convinced her father to continue the customs once Tia had been old enough to enjoy them.
Etta had bombarded him with the sights and sounds and smells of her seven-year-old recollections: the scent of yeast and cinnamon wafting up from the kitchens daily, gifts planned and made for special persons, a loaded wagon of baskets for each family with sweet treats, a bottle of wine, and a handmade toy for any young children. “God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman” on the harpsichord and “Greensleeves” on the harp.
Etta saw the hope in her sister’s eyes now. The poor girl wasn’t yet fourteen and needed some joy. “We must have baked goods. The neighbors and villagers would be extremely disappointed.”
Tia grinned. “I’ll tell Cook. And shortbread for MacIntyre?” Their butler’s greatest woe was the English fare. He missed his Highland dishes.
Her mind wandered back to the holiday. Each Christmastide since Etta had turned seventeen, her father had sworn to find a way to send her to London for a Season. By spring, the promise had been forgotten. At twenty, their neighbor Mrs. Miller whispered about shelves and spinsters.
Etta didn’t mind. Leaving her sister would have left a hole in her heart. Besides, the squire’s wife had also warned her that thetoncould be malicious to anyone with an imperfection.
Her mood deflated as she looked down at the letter scrunched in her lap. The flowing script appeared hurried, scratched in haste. Chaotic splotches of ink marred the thick paper. The note had managed to be brief yet rambling at the same time. Did it reflect the gentleman who had written it?
“And if a male heir is discovered?” she had asked, wondering if her aunt had any children.
“This is where it becomes ambiguous.” The solicitor removed his glasses carefully and placed them on the desk. “The heir will control all the holdings, investments, and assume guardianship of Miss Horatia. He is required to support both of you until he finds suitable matches. The gentleman will also provide a reasonable dowry.”
“And if one of us does not marry?”
“He will be obligated to support you until that day.”
