Marrying His Cinderella Countess

At first she had been so optimistic. Dear little Oscar’s North African adventures had, to her considerable surprise, pleased Messrs Broderick & Alleyn—presumably because she had refrained from having him captured by corsairs—and was even now being printed for the delectation of young people thirsting for information on date-harvesting, camels, and the uses of papyrus for paper-making. Even better was the money for the book that was now sitting in Hodgkin’s Bank in Lancaster, along with Mr Grimshaw’s quarterly rent.

A significant part of that flowed back into the Grimshaw coffers, in the form of Marjorie’s wages and payment for eggs, milk and a weekly ride into Lancaster for marketing, of course, but that was perfectly affordable.

And they were comfortable enough. After a month of hard work the house was clean, and mostly warm now that constant fires had had time to sink their heat into the thick walls. She and Polly had a bedchamber each, and the other upstairs rooms were closed off. Downstairs she used the parlour as a sitting room and study, and Polly reigned in the kitchen.

When—if—it stopped raining Polly had plans for a kitchen garden and a hen coop, but that would only put some food in their stomachs. It would not help with the main problem.

She mended her pen and tried to think of the positives. The rain kept her inside and usefully occupied in writing a novel of passion and romance, with a grey-eyed desert lord on a black stallion…a hero who kissed like a dream… It was a rational use of her North African research, Ellie told herself, and was considerably more warming than her latest project for Broderick & Alleyn—a juvenile history of Scotland that was dragging along because it took so much longer for her to obtain the books she needed for research, being so far from the London libraries and bookshops.

When she finished the novel she hoped to sell it to the Minerva Press, and was trying to think up a suitable nom de plume. But she had to complete it first, and get it accepted. Goodness knew when—if—that would produce some money.

And she was well. Not cold, moderately comfortable, doing productive work. Putting on weight…

She grimaced at the thought, running a finger over the rather tight seams of her bodice. Much as it had smarted, she had taken Blake’s criticism—or perhaps concern was a kinder description—to heart. She had no need to peck at her food to keep her womanly curves at bay. There was no potentially dangerous man in the house, and outside it no one saw her without the layers of clothing the weather forced on everyone this year—the year they were calling Eighteen Hundred and Froze to Death.

Even so, it had been difficult at first to abandon the discipline of always being hungry and to get used to the feeling of sometimes being full up without feeling apprehensive.

So she was well, busy, plumper… Lonely. The answer to that was to work harder. But, although she was tired by eleven in the evening, there was nothing to fill the long, sleepless hours at night as she lay listening to the soft hiss of rain, the soughing of the wind and thought about a strong male body curled protectively around hers.

How was he? Where was he? Was he happy? She feared not, although why she could not say.

Ellie gave herself a brisk mental shake and looked again at the accounts book. Blake was no longer any concern of hers and she had other things to worry about. Good health, hard work and even all the success in the world with one as yet unwritten novel would not help with the problem of the state of the roof.

She had called in a builder to investigate a wet patch Polly had discovered, and he had found a dozen more. The roof itself would stand for a hundred years, he assured her. The problem was it would leak like a sieve while it did so. Some of the heavy stone slates had slipped, their pegs had rotted, and it all needed stripping off and re-fixing.

When it stopped raining, of course.

Then there was the stream that provided their water supply. Despite the rain, the thing was becoming a trickle—and that, Grimshaw had informed her, was because Farmer Bond over on the next farm was diverting water for his new stockyard. Apparently he was perfectly entitled to do because the spring rose on his land. At least, so had said the lawyer she had asked to advise her.

Now she had no stream and a fat lawyer’s bill for unwelcome advice. Grimshaw had said the only thing to do was to sink a well. And then he’d told her what that was likely to cost. As it was, he was having to take his stock over to the far side of the land he rented from her to water them. The lawyer had said that according to the terms of his lease she was supposed to provide him with an adequate water supply, and if she did not he could legitimately ask for a reduction in rent. So far he hadn’t asked for one, but Ellie was braced for the shock when he did.

The lawyer had also helpfully pointed out that either she had to raise money for the well and the roof or accept a lower rent and the loss of income—which would further delay the roof and the well—or find someone to buy a farm where there was little water despite constant rain. Except, of course, in the attics, and soon in the rooms below as well. And with the farm went her rents…

The figures tumbled over and over in her head, getting in the way of her writing, getting in the way of her attempts to plan. If she spent the money from the publishers on the roof or the well—it wouldn’t do both—then there went her tiny nest egg…

The knocker was rapped sharply. Strange. Ellie put down her pen. The Grimshaws and the farm workers would go to the kitchen door, so did pedlars. It sounded again. Polly was probably up to her elbows in bread dough.

Ellie took off her writing apron and went to the front door, opened it and found a bedraggled young gentleman on the step and a pony trap standing in the muddy yard.

‘Excuse me, ma’am, but I’ve lost my way. I was hoping for directions to Lancaster.’ He took off his hat politely and stood there with the rain soaking his hair.

He seemed eminently respectable—and very, very wet. ‘You had best come in out of the rain and have a cup of tea before you go on. It will take you another hour, and you will catch your death if you don’t warm up a little. Lead the pony around to the back, where you will find a shed to shelter the trap. Then come in through the kitchen door.’

‘I am very much obliged to you, ma’am.’ He resumed his hat, somewhat pointlessly, and did as she’d said.

Ellie went through to warn Polly to put the kettle on while she went upstairs for a stack of towels. Ridiculous how much she was looking forward to an hour’s conversation with a total stranger when what she needed was a pixie or an elf, or whatever the local supernatural life forms were, to come and guide her to a crock of gold. That or the arrival of a financial wizard.

The young man introduced himself as James Harkness, on his way to conduct some business in Lancaster. Polly took his dripping coat and hat to put in front of the fi

re and promised to find him an oilskin for his shoulders before he ventured out again.

He proved good company, regaling them with tales of his encounters on the road north. He accepted a second cup of tea and a slice of cake with expressions of gratitude.

‘This is a fine old house, ma’am. It looks sturdy and warm.’

‘Sturdy enough except for the roof,’ Ellie said grimly, and reached for another slice of cake. The seams in her good brown gown would have to be let out soon. ‘Which is in dire need of work.’

‘I am sorry to hear that, ma’am. It will be a big job on a place this size, I should imagine.’