Midnight Star (Star Quartet 2)

Prologue

Guildford, Surrey, 1852

“ . . . Ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . .”

Fresh clods of damp earth hit the coffin with dull, monotonous thuds. A single red rose glittered among the raw brown earth. At least he is with Mama now.

“ . . . The Lord Jesus Christ hath ordained that all of mankind must one day join him in everlasting peace . . .”

“We are so sorry, Elizabeth.”

“If there is anything we can do, Elizabeth . . .”

“ . . . We beseech our Savior to take unto him the soul of our departed friend Sir Alec Jameson FitzHugh . . .”

“Your father was a gentle, loving man . . .”

“Such a tragedy, Elizabeth, such a pity.”

“Elizabeth!”

She shook her head, clearing her mind of the vicar’s soft droning words, clearing away the condolences of all her father’s friends. She blinked as she looked up at Mr. Paul Montgomery, her father’s longtime friend and solicitor. He cleared his throat, sending a reproachful look toward her Aunt Augusta, but Augusta Penworthy said more loudly, her voice imperious, “Elizabeth, you must attend! Mr. Montgomery has more important things to do than sit watching you daydream! And, may I add, so do your uncle and I!”

“Forgive me, Uncle Paul,” Elizabeth said, ignoring her aunt. She knew her Aunt Augusta had to be here today for the reading of her dead brother’s will, for she was his only living relative, other than his daughter. She glanced toward her Uncle Alfred, sweating profusely even in the chill afternoon of early April. Her father had despised Alfred Penworthy, calling him a miserable little weasel who couldn’t drink a glass of port without Gussie’s permission.

“Chauncey,” Paul Montgomery said gently, using her nickname for the first time, “to be quite clear about all of this”—he waved at the stack of papers before him on her father’s desk—“there is very little left. Jameson Hall will have to be sold, I fear, to pay the creditors.”

“What?”

Aunt Augusta’s screech brought Paul Montgomery to a startled halt. He frowned at the woman, bending his head so he could stare at her over his thick spectacles. “Madam,” he said sternly, “it is to Miss FitzHugh that I am speaking.”

“Alec died without a farthing? Is that what you said, sir? It is impossible! He could not be so feckless!”

“Sir Alec left bequests, small ones, for the servants, madam.” Mr. Montgomery shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Elizabeth,” he continued, his expression so commiserating that Chauncey felt tears swim in her eyes, “I fear that your dear father made some rather . . . questionable investments in the past couple of years. I tried to warn him, to hold him back, but it was no use. Also, I fear that he did not amend his will. That is another reason why your aunt and uncle are here today.”

Chauncey stared at him, knowing what was to come, but asking nonetheless, “What do you mean, Uncle Paul?”

Mr. Montgomery carefully removed his glasses and began to polish the small circles on his shirt cuff. “I mean that he did not foresee that you would need a . . . specified guardian until your twenty-first birthday. He assumed, of course, that you would be wed to Sir Guy Danforth long before he . . . died. Since Alec did not so specify, your aunt and uncle, as your only living relatives, are your guardians.”

“So,” Augusta said in a disgusted voice, “I am to take the chit, feed her and clothe her, all without a sou from Alec’s estate!”

“Now, my dear, poor Elizabeth has nothing to do with her father’s lack of—” Uncle Alfred began, only to be cut off by poor Elizabeth.

“But I shall be twenty-one in a mere six months, Uncle Paul! I have no need of a guardian! What is there to guard, after all?”

And if there were something to guard, do you believe I would want my greedy aunt to have control?

“It is the law, my dear,” Paul Montgomery said slowly. “But of course, there is another alternative for you, is there not?”

Chauncey lowered her head, seeing Guy Danforth in her mind’s eye. He needed money badly, the dowry her father had promised him. Now there was nothing. “No, Uncle Paul,” she said slowly, her voice growing stronger, “there isn’t another alternative.” She rose to her feet and shook out her heavy black wool skirt. “If there is nothing else, Uncle Paul, I will go and see to your comfort. Aunt Augusta, you and Uncle Alfred will be staying for the night?”

Aunt Augusta merely nodded, saying nothing more, and Chauncey walked quickly toward the library door, wondering if her aunt was at last thinking of her brother and regretted her unkind words. She closed it softly behind her, hearing as she did so Aunt Augusta’s furious voice. “It is ridiculous that we should take the girl! Why, she’s nearly a spinster! Certainly no gentleman will want to marry her now! What, I ask you, Mr. Montgomery, are we to do with her?”

Chauncey didn’t wait to hear Uncle Paul’s reply. So much for Aunt Augusta’s brief bout of restraint.

“Miss Chauncey.”

“Yes, Convers?” She turned to face the FitzHugh butler, swallowing the hated tears and schooling her features to an impassive expression. “An excess of emotion in a woman is considered acceptable, I suppose,” she could hear her father say. She saw him shrug, giving her his dear lopsided grin. “But it does allow others to know what is in her mind. And that is not always so very acceptable, is it?”

“Sir Guy is here, miss, asking to see you.” At his mistress’s hesitation, he asked softly, “Would you like me to tell Sir Guy that you are not receiving today?”

“No, Convers, I will see him. Is he in the Blue Salon?”

“Yes, miss. Are

you all right, Miss Chauncey?”

“Of course. Please bring refreshments. No, wait, Convers. No refreshments will be necessary.” Chauncey paused a moment before the silver-edged mirror beside the Blue Salon. The pale face that looked back at her little resembled the laughing, carefree Chauncey Jameson FitzHugh. Behind her was the great hall, its huge double oak doors open onto the marble entryway. She stared into the mirrored reflection at its magnificent high ceiling etched with geometric designs and baronial heraldry, at its stone floor covered with brightly patterned Turkey carpets. Heavy mahogany furniture, darkened from deep red to brown over the years, was set in austere groupings. Medieval arms, lances and longbows and helmets, graced the walls, never a patch of dust on them, for the FitzHugh servants were a conscientious lot. She closed her eyes a moment, remembering a little girl jousting with the highly polished suit of armor that stood proudly in the far corner of the hall. Jameson Hall, the home of three generations of FitzHughs, now to pass into the hands of strangers. No more jousts with the long-dead unknown knight, no more hoydenish swims in the placid River Wey that wound its way to the east of Jameson Hall. No more cozy talks with her father in front of the massive fireplace, her skirts tucked up as she sat on the floor beside his chair. She rarely sat in the smaller chair that stood beside his. It had been her mother’s, beautiful, gentle Isobel, and she had always known that it remained Isobel’s in her father’s heart.