Mail Order Bride: Springtime (Bride For All Seasons 1)

None was particularly weighed down by grief. Since their mother’s death, some dozen years ago, their father had left their care to nannies, nursemaids, and private tutors, while he had answered the siren’s call to his first love: gambling, in any shape and form. Thus, with such absences frequent and lengthy, his daughters had learned to get along without his presence in their lives.

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Not surprising, then, that the girls felt no great loss. In fact, the youngest daughter, Letitia, and their cousin, Molly, were more excited than sorrowful over the turn of events. Of course, Molly, with her difficult and traumatic past, was probably more physically and mentally prepared than any of them to face whatever difficulties might come along.

That there would be difficulties, Camellia had no doubt. She felt it in her bones.

“The Misses Burton,” Mr. King greeted them, as they were ushered into his cozy office. A tall man whose portliness only added to his distinguished bearing, he brushed at his splendiferous goatee and tweaked the watch fob across his ample paunch. “Welcome, ladies. Please have a seat near the fire, and get comfortable. Nasty weather we’re having, aren’t we? Might I offer you a cup of tea? Or hot chocolate?”

Camellia eyed him suspiciously as, choosing a plump rosewood upholstered chair, she settled in like a little broody hen on her nest, sweeping voluminous skirts off to one side. While she knew the lawyer only in passing, it did seem that his steady stream of conversation might indicate nervousness.

Over their plight? At this point, drowning in uncertainty, she was feeling quite nervous herself.

“Tea would be very nice, thank you.”

“Fine, that’s just fine. Let me but speak to my manservant...”

He did his best to involve his guests in idle discourse while they waited for refreshments. Simply getting to know his clients a little better. Mr. King, who had attended the December funeral along with half the world, also offered his most profound sympathies for their loss, and went on to describe his years of association with Nathaniel Burton.

“And you’re the eldest, I believe, Miss Camellia?”

“I am. Twenty-three, and a decided spinster.” There was no smile beneath the heavy black veiling, though the words indicated a jest.

Mr. King, taken slightly aback, harrumphed. Apparently not biddable at all. That was not a point in the young lady’s favor. “Ah. Please forgive an old man a rather impertinent question, but—no prospects—ah—at the moment, then?”

Camellia blinked. Her veil had been pushed back, and her face was clearly visible, pale as marble. “No, as a matter of fact. I have had my debut, of course; and I have attended a number of cotillions and social affairs that—never mind. Lately I have been keeping company with a pleasant young man, but I suspect he is more interested in my fortune than in me, myself. So—no. No one of serious intent.”

“A pity. Well, perhaps that will change. You girls all look remarkably alike, I must say. And who’s next?”

“That would be me,” said Hannah in her clear voice. “If you’re requesting ages, for some reason, I was just twenty-one in November.”

“And I’m Letitia, the youngest. Nineteen and just full of sap and sass, Mr. King.”

Oh, dear. That flippant attitude might be very unfortunate. Attempting to conceal his dismay, he glanced from one to the other. “Then you must be Molly Burton, the cousin.” He didn’t add: The child who lost her parents so tragically, and had to be taken in.

“Yes, that’s me. The same age as Letty. Born in a different month, though.”

So similar in appearance and attitude, all four with the same curly hair, black as jet; the same somewhat imperious thick-lashed blue eyes ranging in color from brilliant delphinium to luminous moonstone; the same proud carriage and tilt to the head. Well-born, well-bred, well-clothed. A quartet of orphans, with no idea of what was waiting for them.

“Ah, Justin,” he said with obvious relief, as a young man entered carrying the requested tray. “Thank you. Ladies? Please allow me to serve you.”

For another half hour or so, the little group observed the niceties, sipping at tea, nibbling at lavender cookies with rose water icing, and chatting quietly. Although the daylight, seen through heavy rep curtains of gold and russet stripes, seemed too thin to be real, the fire crackling on its hearth helped dispel gloom and chill. Certainly the pleasant warmth of the place, more gentleman’s study than lawyer’s office, with its wood paneling and carpeted floor, added to the ambiance, as well.

Except that, despite the congeniality and the surroundings, tension seemed to be creeping in on little invisible tendrils of fog, to fill the room with apprehension and foreboding.

With a sigh, Llewellyn King put aside his porcelain cup. The time had come to impart knowledge, and face facts.

“I believe I am correct in assuming that, due to your ages, no legal guardian has been arranged for you?”

Camellia, who, as most senior, was placed as spokesman for the group, showed her surprise. “I hardly think we would need one, sir. Surely our father—”

“Yes, yes.” He held up one palm. “Well, then, we really need to discuss how Mr. Burton has left you, according to his will, and your current situation.”

“Our situation?” It was Hannah who asked. “Why, as far as we know, we are to keep on as we are. Papa always assured us—” She glanced around for confirmation, “—that the house and grounds were ours, along with a suitable amount for upkeep, staff salaries, and so on.”

“And a tidy sum to provide for us for the rest of our lives,” put in Letitia, whose sweet pallid face was beginning to show the strain of uncertainty.

“This is true. However—”