entrance?”
“Yes, and then let’s go to the west side of the manor, and head into the forest.”
“Why the forest?”
“Do you remember the favor that Annabelle asked of me?”
Lillian stared at her for a moment of incomprehension, and then she rolled her eyes. “Good God, Daisy, can’t you think of something better to do than carry out a ridiculous errand like that?”
Her younger sister gave her an astute glance. “You just don’t want to because it’s for Lord Westcliff’s benefit.”
“It’s not going to benefitanyone,” Lillian replied with exasperation. “It’s a fool’s errand.”
Daisy responded with a resolute stare. “I’m going to find the Stony Cross wishing well,” she said with great dignity, “and do as Annabelle asked of me. You may accompany me if you wish, or you can do something else by yourself. However”—her almond-shaped eyes narrowed threateningly—“after all the time you’ve made me wait while you browse through dusty old perfume shops and apothecaries, I should think that you owe me just a little forbearance—”
“All right,” Lillian grumbled. “I’ll go with you. If I don’t, you’ll never find it, and you’ll end up lost in the forest somewhere.” Looking out into the hallway again, and ascertaining that it was still empty, Lillian led the way toward the servants’ entrance at the end of it. The sisters tiptoed with practiced stealth, their feet noiseless on the thick carpeting underfoot.
Much as Lillian disliked the owner of Stony Cross Park, she had to admit that it was a splendid estate.
The house was of European design, a graceful fortress made of honey-colored stone, cornered by four picturesque towers that stretched toward the sky. Set on a bluff overlooking the Itchen River, the manor was surrounded by terraced gardens and orchards that flowed into two hundred acres of parkland and wild forests. Fifteen generations of Westcliff’s family, the Marsdens, had occupied the manor, as any of the servants were quick to point out. And this was hardly the full extent of Lord West-cliff’s wealth. It was said that nearly two hundred thousand acres of England and Scotland were under his direct control, while among his estates were numbered two castles, three halls, a terrace, five houses, and a villa on the Thames. Stony Cross Park, however, was undoubtedly the jewel in the Marsden family crown.
Skirting the side of the manor, the sisters took care to keep close to a long yew hedge that sheltered them from view of the main house. Sunlight glittered through the canopy of interlaced branches overhead
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as they entered the forest, populated with ancient cedars and oaks.
Exuberantly Daisy threw her arms into the air and exclaimed, “Oh, I adore this place!”
“It’s passable,” Lillian said grudgingly, though she had to admit privately that in this full-flowered early autumn, there could hardly be a more beautiful part of England than this.
Hopping onto a log that had been pushed to the side of the path, Daisy walked carefully along it. “It would almost be worth marrying Lord Westcliff, don’t you think, to be mistress of Stony Cross Park?”
Lillian arched her brows. “And then have to endure all his pompous pronouncements, and be expected to obey his every command?” She pulled a face, wrinkling her nose in distaste.
“Annabelle says that Lord Westcliff is actually much nicer than she originally thought.”
“She wouldhave to say that, after what happened a few weeks ago.”
The sisters fell silent, both reflecting on the dramatic events that had occurred recently. As Annabelle and her husband, Simon Hunt, had been touring the locomotive works that they owned along with Lord Westcliff, a horrific explosion had nearly claimed their lives. Lord West-cliff had dashed into the building on a near-suicidal mission to save them, and had brought them both out alive. Understandably, Annabelle now viewed Westcliff in a heroic light, and had actually said recently that she thought his arrogance was rather endearing. Lillian had replied sourly that Annabelle must still be suffering the aftereffects of smoke inhalation.
“I think we owe Lord Westcliff our gratitude,” Daisy remarked, hopping off the log. “After all, he did save Annabelle’s life, and it’s not as if we have a terribly large array of friends to begin with.”
“Saving Annabelle was incidental,” Lillian said grumpily. “The only reason that Westcliff risked his life was so he wouldn’t lose a profitable business partner.”
“Lillian!” Daisy, who was a few steps ahead, turned to view her with surprise. “It’s not like you to be so un-charitable. For heaven’s sake, the earl went into a burning building to rescue our friend and her husband… what more does the man have to do to impress you?”
“I’m sure Westcliff couldn’t care less about impressing me,” Lillian said. Hearing the sullen note in her own voice, she winced, even as she continued. “The reason I dislike him so, Daisy, is that he so obviously dislikesme. He considers himself to be my superior in every possible way; morally and socially and intellectually… oh, how I long for a way to set him back on his heels!”
They walked along in silence for a minute, and then Daisy paused to pluck some violets that were growing in thick clusters on the side of the path. “Have you ever considered trying to be nice to Lord Westcliff?” she murmured. Reaching up to tuck the violets into the pinned-up garlands of her hair, she added, “He might surprise you by responding in kind.”
Lillian shook her head grimly. “No, he would probably say something cutting, and then look very smug and pleased with himself.”
“I think you’re being too…” Daisy began, and then paused with an absorbed expression. “I hear a sloshing sound. The wishing well must be near!”
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“Oh, glory,” Lillian said, smiling reluctantly as she followed her younger sister, who was scampering along a sunken lane that was sided by a wet meadow. The swampy meadow was thick with blue and purple asters, and sedge with its bottlebrush flowers, and rustling spikes of goldenrod. Close to the road, there was a heavy thicket of St. John’s wort, with clusters of yellow blossoms that looked like drops of sunlight. Luxuriating in the balmy atmosphere, Lillian slowed her pace and breathed deeply. As she approached the churning wishing well, which was a spring-fed hole in the ground, the air became soft and humid.
At the beginning of summer, when the wallflowers had visited the wishing well, they had each thrown a pin into its frothing depths, in keeping with local tradition. And Daisy had made some mysterious wish for Annabelle that had later come true.
“Here it is,” Daisy said, producing a needle-thin metallic shard from her pocket. It was the metal filing that Annabelle had pulled from Westcliff’s shoulder when exploding debris had sent bits of iron flying through the air like grapeshot. Even Lillian, who was hardly disposed to have any sympathy for Westcliff, winced at the sight of the wicked-looking shard. “Annabelle told me to throw this into the well and make the same wish for Lord West-cliff that I did for her.”
“What was the wish?” Lillian demanded. “You never told me.”
Daisy regarded her with a quizzical smile. “Isn’t it obvious, dear? I wished that Annabelle would marry someone who truly loved her.”
“Oh.” Contemplating what she knew of Annabelle’s marriage, and the obvious devotion between the pair, Lillian supposed the wish must have worked. Giving Daisy a fondly exasperated glance, she stood back to watch the proceedings.
“Lillian,” her sister protested, “you must stand here with me. The well spirit will be far more likely to grant the wish if we’re both concentrating on it.”
A low laugh escaped Lillian’s throat. “You don’t really believe there’s a well spirit, do you? Good God, how did you ever become so superstitious?”
“Coming from one who recently purchased a bottle of magic perfume—”
“I never thought it was magic. I only liked the smell!”
“Lillian,” Daisy chided playfully, “what’s the harm in allowing for the possibility? I refuse to believe that we’re going to go through life withoutsomething magical happening. Now, come make a wish for Lord Westcliff. It’s the least we can do, after he saved dear Annabelle from the fire.”
“Oh, all right. I’ll stand next to you—but only to keep you from falling in.” Coming even with her sister, Lillian hooked an arm around her sister’s slim shoulders and stared into the muddy, rustling water.
Daisy closed her eyes tightly and wrapped her fingers around the metal shard. “I’m wishing very hard,”
she whispered. “Are you, Lillian?”
“Yes,” Lillian murmured, though she wasn’t precisely hoping for Lord Westcliff to find true love. Her wish was more along the lines of,I hope that Lord Westcliff will meet a woman who will bring him to his knees. The thought caused a satisfied smile to curve her lips, and she continued to smile as Daisy tossed the sharp bit of metal into the well, where it sank into the endless depths below.
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Dusting her hands together, Daisy turned away from the well with satisfaction. “There, all done,” she said, beaming. “I can hardly wait to see whom Westcliff ends up with.”
“I pity the poor girl,” Lillian replied, “whoever she is.”
Daisy tilted her head back in the direction of the manor. “Back to the house?”
The conversation quickly turned into a strategy-planning session, as they discussed an idea that Annabelle had mentioned the last time they had talked. The Bowmans desperately needed a social sponsor to introduce them into the higher tiers of British society …and not just any sponsor. It had to be someone who was powerful and influential, and widely renowned. Someone whose endorsement would have to be accepted by the rest of the peerage. According to Annabelle, there was no one who fit the bill more than the Countess of Westcliff, the earl’s mother.
The countess, who seemed fond of traveling the continent, was rarely seen. Even when in residence at Stony Cross Manor, she chose to mix very little with the guests, decrying her son’s habit of befriending professional men and other nonaristocrats. Neither of the Bowman sisters had ever actually met the countess, but they had heard plenty. If the rumors were to be believed, the countess was a crusty old dragon who despised foreigners. Especially American foreigners.
“Why Annabelle thinks there is any chance of getting the countess to be our sponsor is beyond my comprehension,” Daisy said, kicking a small rock repeatedly before them as they walked along the path.
“She’ll never do so willingly, that’s for certain.”
“She will if Westcliff tells her to,” Lillian replied. Picking up a large stick, she swung it absently.
“Apparently the countess can be made to do something if West-cliff demands it. Annabelle told me that the countess didn’t approve of Lady Olivia marrying Mr. Shaw, and she had no intention of attending the wedding. But Westcliff knew that it would hurt his sister’s feelings terribly, and so he forced his mother to stay, and furthermore, he made her put on a civil face about it.”
“Really?” Daisy glanced at her with a curious half smile. “I wonder how he did that?”
“By being the master of the house. Back in America the woman is the ruler of the home, but in England everything revolves around the man.”
“Hmm. I don’t like that much.”
“Yes, I know.” Lillian paused before adding darkly, “According to Annabelle, the English husband has to give his approval of the menus, the furniture arrangement, the color of the window hangings…
everything.”
Daisy looked surprised and appalled. “Does Mr. Hunt bother with such things?”
“Well, no—he’s not a peer. He’s a professional man. And men of business don’t usually have time for such trivialities. But your average peer has much time in which to examine every little thing that goes on in the house.”
Leaving off her rock kicking, Daisy regarded Lillian with a frown. “I’ve been wondering… why are we so determined to marry into the peerage, and live in a huge crumbly old house and eat slimy English food, and try to give instructions to a bunch of servants who have absolutely no respect for us?”
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“Because it’s what Mother wants,” Lillian replied dryly. “And because no one in New York will have either of us.” It was an unfortunate fact that in the highly striated New York society, men with newly earned fortunes found it quite easy to marry well. But heiresses with common bloodlines were desired neither by the established blue bloods nor by the nouveau riche men who wanted to better themselves socially. Therefore, husband hunting in Europe, where upper-class men needed rich wives, was the only solution.
Daisy’s frown twisted into an ironic grin. “What if no one will have us here either?”
“Then we’ll become a pair of wicked old spinsters, romping back and forth across Europe.”
Daisy laughed at the notion and flipped a long braid over her back. It was improper for young women of their age to walk about hatless, much less with their hair hanging down. However, both of the Bowman sisters had such a wealth of heavy dark locks that it was an ordeal to pin it all up in the intricate coiffures that were so fashionable. It required at least three racks of pins for each of them, and Lillian’s sensitive scalp literally ached after all the tugging and twisting required to make her hair presentable for a formal evening. More than once she had envied Annabelle Hunt, who had light, silky locks that always seemed to behave exactly as she wished them to. At the moment Lillian had tied her hair at the nape of the neck and allowed it to fall down her back in a style that never would have been allowed in company.
“How are we going to persuade Westcliff to make his mother act as our sponsor?” Daisy asked. “It seems very unlikely that he would ever agree to do such a thing.”
Drawing back her arm, Lillian flung the stick far into the woods, and brushed the flecks of bark from her palms. “I have no idea,” she admitted. “Annabelle has tried to get Mr. Hunt to ask him on our behalf, but he refuses on the grounds that it would be an abuse of their friendship.”