old their backs sagged nearly to the ground.
She had attempted to hire someone to take her to London, but no one within a twenty mile radius would supply a service without money up front due to her husband’s unpaid debts.
“I am a poor Duchess,” Margaret sighed. Tipping her head to the side she arched an eyebrow at the sheep grazing next to her. “Have you ever heard of a poor Duchess? No? Well, me either. Although no use crying over spilt milk, I suppose. Stiff upper lip, best foot forward and all that. Here we go.”
Springing to her feet she wiped her grass stained palms on the sides of the brown breeches one of the stable boys had given her before he left and straightened out her white linen shirt. It belonged to her husband (consequently it was the only thing she had of his since he had forgotten to give her a ring) and was nearly three sizes too big. The long hem line helped distract from the fact that her breeches – while in otherwise good condition – ended just below her knees. Had it not been for her shock of fiery red hair that tumbled nearly to her waist and her narrow, pixie like face that could never be confused for anything but female, Margaret might have passed for a boy, something she would not have minded in the least.
It was an inescapable fact that men had better luck than women. Why, just look at her husband: eight months ago he had been broke and destitute; now he was rich as a lark and off traveling the world spending her dowry while she was stuck in his downtrodden estate. Not fair at all, that.
Giving the sheep an absent pat on its furry head, Margaret skipped down the side of the hill and half walked, half ran the rest of the way to Heathridge.
In better hands the fifty seven room estate must have been nothing short of magnificent, but time and neglect had taken its toll. Paint was peeling from the window trim. Large chunks of plaster were missing from the walls. Even the grass surrounding the estate was overgrown and filled with weeds after the gardener had quit and there had been no money to replace him. The inside of the mansion was no better than the outside, with dingy floors, dusty tapestries, and an overpowering smell of mold on rainy days.
Flushed and perspiring slightly, Margaret slowed to a more dignified walk just short of the front steps. They spiraled out from the main door, yet even they were chipped on the edges and grass had begun to grow between the granite cracks.
Hastings, the butler/footman/occasional head cook met her just inside the door with a cool glass of lemon water. A portly man in his early fifties, he had loyally served at Heathridge for thirty years and had not received a salary for the last two of them. Still he stayed on, mostly in part because he had no where else to go, and no family to speak of.
“Here you are, Lady Winter,” he said, extending the glass to Margaret.
She took it and drank thirstily, hiccupped, and set the glass aside on a dusty table. “I have told you not to call me that,” she reminded him sternly.
“It is your name,” he said.
“No, it is my husband’s name. And we both know I am hardly a Lady, so why bother with all the fuss? Call me Margaret if you must, Maggie if you want, and never, ever,” she paused to shudder, “address me as Duchess.”
The hint of a smile appeared beneath Hastings’ rather impressive salt and pepper moustache. “As you wish, Lady Winter.”
Margaret threw her hands up in the air. “Heavens, why do I even bother? What time is dinner tonight, Hastings?”
“Half past five o’ clock, Lady Winter.”
“I have time for a ride, then?”
“If you wish.”
“Ha!” she cried triumphantly. “You did not do it that time.”
“Do what, Lady Winter?”
Her shoulders slumped. “I give up. If I am not back in time for dinner, start without me.”
“Certainly not,” said Hastings, looking appalled at the very idea.
Margaret rolled her eyes. “There are five people living here
She had attempted to hire someone to take her to London, but no one within a twenty mile radius would supply a service without money up front due to her husband’s unpaid debts.
“I am a poor Duchess,” Margaret sighed. Tipping her head to the side she arched an eyebrow at the sheep grazing next to her. “Have you ever heard of a poor Duchess? No? Well, me either. Although no use crying over spilt milk, I suppose. Stiff upper lip, best foot forward and all that. Here we go.”
Springing to her feet she wiped her grass stained palms on the sides of the brown breeches one of the stable boys had given her before he left and straightened out her white linen shirt. It belonged to her husband (consequently it was the only thing she had of his since he had forgotten to give her a ring) and was nearly three sizes too big. The long hem line helped distract from the fact that her breeches – while in otherwise good condition – ended just below her knees. Had it not been for her shock of fiery red hair that tumbled nearly to her waist and her narrow, pixie like face that could never be confused for anything but female, Margaret might have passed for a boy, something she would not have minded in the least.
It was an inescapable fact that men had better luck than women. Why, just look at her husband: eight months ago he had been broke and destitute; now he was rich as a lark and off traveling the world spending her dowry while she was stuck in his downtrodden estate. Not fair at all, that.
Giving the sheep an absent pat on its furry head, Margaret skipped down the side of the hill and half walked, half ran the rest of the way to Heathridge.
In better hands the fifty seven room estate must have been nothing short of magnificent, but time and neglect had taken its toll. Paint was peeling from the window trim. Large chunks of plaster were missing from the walls. Even the grass surrounding the estate was overgrown and filled with weeds after the gardener had quit and there had been no money to replace him. The inside of the mansion was no better than the outside, with dingy floors, dusty tapestries, and an overpowering smell of mold on rainy days.
Flushed and perspiring slightly, Margaret slowed to a more dignified walk just short of the front steps. They spiraled out from the main door, yet even they were chipped on the edges and grass had begun to grow between the granite cracks.
Hastings, the butler/footman/occasional head cook met her just inside the door with a cool glass of lemon water. A portly man in his early fifties, he had loyally served at Heathridge for thirty years and had not received a salary for the last two of them. Still he stayed on, mostly in part because he had no where else to go, and no family to speak of.
“Here you are, Lady Winter,” he said, extending the glass to Margaret.
She took it and drank thirstily, hiccupped, and set the glass aside on a dusty table. “I have told you not to call me that,” she reminded him sternly.
“It is your name,” he said.
“No, it is my husband’s name. And we both know I am hardly a Lady, so why bother with all the fuss? Call me Margaret if you must, Maggie if you want, and never, ever,” she paused to shudder, “address me as Duchess.”
The hint of a smile appeared beneath Hastings’ rather impressive salt and pepper moustache. “As you wish, Lady Winter.”
Margaret threw her hands up in the air. “Heavens, why do I even bother? What time is dinner tonight, Hastings?”
“Half past five o’ clock, Lady Winter.”
“I have time for a ride, then?”
“If you wish.”
“Ha!” she cried triumphantly. “You did not do it that time.”
“Do what, Lady Winter?”
Her shoulders slumped. “I give up. If I am not back in time for dinner, start without me.”
“Certainly not,” said Hastings, looking appalled at the very idea.
Margaret rolled her eyes. “There are five people living here
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