Delia Fitzwallace watched the sumptuous traveling carriage, accompanied by liveried footmen and outriders and festooned with a ducal crest, pull up to Seascape, her brother’s elegant manor. She stood in one of the landward windows. Hurrying to the hall she informed Clifford, Jeffrey’s butler, that she would receive her guest in the Shoreward Room. “And tea outside, please.” The room opened onto a terrace that commanded spectacular views of the Bristol Channel as it opened to the sea.
Delia peered into a massive mirror, one with an ornate bronze frame that her father had brought from India on one of his voyages. Her gown, lavender silk from the Graham warehouses softened by touches of grey lace, didn’t particularly flatter her coloring, but it was attractive enough and perfectly appropriate for the end stages of mourning. Still, her nerves were frayed. The visitor was expected, but Delia had not quite recovered from the surprise that shook her when word came that the duchess would call.
What is the woman doing in Bristol?
Approaching footsteps paused by the door and Delia heard hushed conversation taking place, the duchess no doubt requesting courtesy to her entourage. The door opened on silent hinges and Clifford intoned, “The Duchess of Winshire.”
Delia dropped to a deep curtsey. “Your Grace, how kind of you to call.”
“A condolence call is simple courtesy my dear, and mine, I’m afraid, is tardy. Unless I’m mistaken, your formal mourning is almost over.” Her Grace took Delia’s hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. “How are you bearing up?”
“Well, Your Grace. You are so kind to check in on me,” Delia said.
“Lady Fitzwallace, your Vincent called me ‘Aunt Eleanor.’ Can’t you do the same?”
Delia couldn’t resist the woman’s genuine warmth. “It would be an honor. Could you call me Delia as well? Shall we visit on the terrace?”
“I would be disappointed if we didn’t. Seascape is famous for its panoramic views,” The duchess said linking arms and letting Delia lead her out.
Soon enough tea arrived and they sipped while her visitor exclaimed over the view of shipping in the channel and the hills of Wales across the way. This house is a wonder!”
“It is indeed. My brother likes to use this room to entertain Graham Shipping business partners. It never fails to impress,” Delia said.
“Why, then, do you plan to leave?” Aunt Eleanor raise an enquiring eyebrow.
It was almost an ambush. How on earth did she know? Vincent, Delia’s late husband, always said the Duchess of Haverford—now Winshire—was a witch or at very least that she had the sight.
“As magnificent as this place is, it is a museum and not a home for children,” Delia replied.
“Does it not have a nursery?” The duchess appeared puzzled.
“Of course! But they aren’t able to roam freely. The house is meant to impress, not to entertain busy boys and a curious girl. There is no real garden, and, perched as it is on a cliff, it isn’t safe to let them wander on their own. As beautiful as it is, it just isn’t a comfortable family home.”
“What happened to your townhouse in London?” the duchess asked. Delia paused to formulate a diplomatic reply, and the duchess eyed her shrewdly. “Let me guess. It belongs to Awbury.”
The Duke of Awbury was Delia’s father-in-law. Vincent, Delia’s late husband, and been Awbury’s fourth son. She bit her lip and nodded. “He… That is, he has been quite generous about urging us to stay there but—”
“On his terms and under his watchful eye, am I correct?”
Delia nodded. “The truth is, I long for a place of my own. I have the funds. My personal fortune is substantial, and I plan to get what I want.” She raised a stubborn chin. Let the woman make of that what she wished.
If the duchess wondered how Delia’s fortune had been protected from that scapegrace Lord Vincent Fitzwallace, she was too polite to ask. She could probably guess that a shrewd merchant like Peter Graham would protect his daughter’s funds in the marriage settlements. Her next words surprised Delia. Surprised and pleased.
“Good for you, my dear!” she said. “I applaud your decision. Where do you plan to go?”
“I have an agent looking for a place. Somewhere quiet. In the country, where children are free to ramble. With flowers. I particularly want flowers,” Delia sighed. “A cottage of my own, is it too much to ask?”
“I may know of one. It isn’t a thatched cottage, mind. It is a dower house on a large estate—solid, substantial, and I’ve been given to understand, surrounded by flowers. The last I heard they were looking to rent it not sell it.”
Delia’s heart sped up. It sounded ideal, but rent? “I suppose renting first might be wise. It would give me a chance to find my way.”
“It would indeed.” The duchess pulled a small notebook and pencil from her reticule. “Contact this man,” she said. “Eli Benson. He is the land steward for the Earl of Clarion.”
Delia stared at the name. “I will write to him today. Where is this house located?”
“On the coaching road from Nottingham to Shrewsbury. It is called Ashmead.”
Soon enough the time for a polite condolence call passed the Aunt Eleanor took her leave. Delia glanced at the name and the man’s direction and sat down to write.
About The Upright Son
Book 4 of The Ashmead Heirs
A notorious will left David, the very proper Earl of Clarion, with a crippled estate and dependents. He’s the one left to pick up the pieces while caring for others—his children, his tenants, and the people of Ashmead. He cares for England, too. Now that the estate has been put to right, he is free to pursue his political ambitions. His family even encourages him to host a house party. But loneliness weighs him down. Then he meets his new neighbor.
Her uninhibited behavior shocks him. Why can’t he get her out of his mind?
Happily widowed Lady Delia Fitzwallace revels in her newly rented cottage, surrounded by flowers and the wonder of nature, thrilled to free her three rambunctious children from the city of Bristol and let them enjoy the countryside to the fullest. If only she can avoid offending her very proper neighbor, the earl, when their children keep pulling her into scrapes.
She has none of the qualities he needs in a countess. Is she exactly what he needs as a man?
Released 28 June: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0B4FCXDX2/
An excerpt
“Stop it, Percy! You’re roiling up the water and chasing away the frogs,” Alf said.
Delia reached for Percy. She managed to grab one arm when Penny piped up. “There are riders coming, Mama.”
Delia glanced back over her shoulder to see a man and a boy approach. She and the children rented the Clarion dower house. In the four months since they took up residence, she had never seen the earl, having been told he preferred London, particularly when Parliament was in session. The rider’s haughty expression, distinguished bearing, and thick auburn hair left her in little doubt that she saw him now.
Caught at her least dignified, embarrassment distracted her. She wasn’t prepared when Percival yanked on her arm and overturned her balance. Flail her arms though she did, she could do nothing to prevent her tumble into the water.
“Hogswallop!” she grumbled and immediately prayed the earl didn’t hear her. She rose, striving for as much grace as she could muster, with weeds clinging to her sodden gown and a squirming toddler pulling on her arm.
Man and boy pulled to a stop. “Good afternoon,” she chirped before they could speak.
Clarion—for it must be he—blinked. The boy looked up at his father as if to ask how to behave.
“I don’t believe I know you,” the earl said, staring at her muddy hems.
“Do you know everyone?” she asked intrigued. She stepped up onto the bank and pulled Percy with her.
“Everyone who would freely do whatever it is you’re doing on the Clarion estate.” He waved a hand as if to encompass the entire scene. “May I ask your identity and your purpose here?”
“Of course. We haven’t been properly introduced. I am Lady Delia Fitzwallace. We have the privilege of renting the Clarion dower house. We have a five-year lease.” She wasn’t sure why she added that last, except perhaps a fear this stern man might turn them out.
He appeared startled by her title, and Delia suspected he may have taken her for a tavern trollop of some sort, though the children might have given him a clue if he cared to consider it. As it was, she had failed to use her proper form of address as Lady Vincent Fitzwallace, stubbornly refusing to go by her late husband’s name.
He didn’t dismount. “I am Clarion,” he pronounced with a slight inclination of his head. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
He didn’t look pleased. Delia gave a proper curtsy, somewhat hindered by the state of her gown.
Does one introduce children by name to an earl? She couldn’t remember and rather thought not. “Children, make your obeisance to the earl, if you please.” They did. Alf and Penny had fine manners under normal circumstances. They managed. Even Percy produced a damp and rather dramatic bow. He returned to staring gape mouthed at the horses.
Clarion cleared his throat. “This is my son, Viscount Ashmead.”
The unsmiling boy, his expression uncannily like his father’s, inclined his head with all the hauteur of a prince of the realm. He looked to be Alf’s age, and yet he had the mien of an old man.
The silence stretched until Delia broke it. “As to what we are about, we are hunting frogs’ eggs. We thought to observe the transition from egg to tadpole to frog.”
“It is a scientific endeavor,” Alf added.
That broke through the little viscount’s stern expression. He gazed at Alf with interest.
The earl’s silence unleashed an imp in Delia. She made her eyes wide with faux innocence. “Oh dear. I hope the harvesting of frogs’ eggs isn’t some sort of poaching. I would hate to run afoul of the law so soon in our tenancy.”
“Of course, it isn’t!” the earl snapped. “The Clarion estate can spare a few frogs. I— I’ll leave you to it.” He moved his reins as if to turn, but thought better of it and looked back at her. “Do you generally allow your children to run free across the estate?” he asked.
“Do they appear to be unsupervised?” she retorted. Given her appearance she wouldn’t have blamed him if he said yes, but she was prepared to defend her mothering if she needed to.
His bewildered expression rewarded her. “Of course not,” he said.
“They have been instructed to stay clear of the main house. Their greater temptations are your stables and vicinity, but they have accepted the need to respect that area as well. They know not to touch the property of others. They know better than to ramble through plowed fields or growing crops. They—”
“Enough! I take your point. Good day, madam.” With an inclination of his head, he and his son turned, and Delia’s children watched them ride away.
“He’s not a happy man,” Penny said.
Understatement, that. One of her father’s dictates gave Delia a twinge of regret. He always said, “You never have a second chance to make a good first impression.”
You’ll never live this one down, Delia, and more’s the pity. For all his stern reserve the earl was an attractive man, and one who appeared to care for his son. She admired that in a man.
With a sigh she locked this regret away with the others she’d endured. She refused to let life’s disappointments weigh her down.
“Alf, there! I see an egg mass,” Penny crowed behind her. And so she had. Delia turned to share her children’s delight.
She put her stern landlord out of her thoughts.
Award winning author Caroline Warfield has been many things: traveler, librarian, poet, raiser of children, bird watcher, Internet and Web services manager, conference speaker, indexer, tech writer, genealogist—even a nun. She reckons she is on at least her third act, happily working in an office surrounded by windows where she lets her characters lead her to adventures in England and the far-flung corners of the British Empire. She nudges them to explore the riskiest territory of all, the human heart.
