Sept 9th 1814
Suffocating warmth poured in through the orangery’s large windows, steaming the solitary inhabitant tucked away behind a large fern in the corner. Miss Priscilla Stanley hated both excessive heat and oranges, but she was desperate to remain hidden from her family and their ghastly house guest, the Earl of Warenne. She swore under her breath as her embroidery needle slipped in her wet fingers and plunged into the wrong part of the picture. Gingerly extracting the sliver of light, with pent up fury she stabbed the needle back into the correct place and squeaked in pain as her hand under the silk found the needle. The design sketched onto the white piece of silk, held firmly in the standing frame, shimmered as she bowed her head to hide her tears; no woman ever born had ever been so unlucky. She’d fallen in love at eighteen, and at nineteen the man of her dreams had asked her to marry him. Two weeks before the wedding, her sweetheart had fallen overboard during a battle and drowned at sea. Three months later she’d gone to Bath, chaperoned by her older sister, to recover her spirits. Five days after arriving, they’d received word that their parents and half their parent’s servants had died after eating wild mushroom soup. Bath abandoned, Priscilla had gone to live with her sister and brother in law. All seemed well, until her leering brother-in-law demanded she pay her room and board by allowing him certain intimacies in her bed after dark. After stabbing the man in the neck with her embroidery needle, Priscilla was blamed for inflaming the man’s lust, and sent packing by her sister to their aunt and uncle who’d never liked her. She’d inherited money from her parents, but it was all tied up in an annuity that wouldn’t begin until she married. As the years passed, her hope of finding love or a decent man to marry was similarly cursed with ill-luck. Her worst suitor turned out to be already married. One desperate man needed a wife, but didn’t want any more children; he already had thirteen under fifteen. She refused to give up the right to have children so she could slave over some other woman’s brats.
She found one promising suitor kissing the chamber maid; another she found kissing the footman. Her favourite suitor, Lord Llewellyn, had given every appearance of being in love with her. After being pursued by so many men scraped off the bottom of the matrimonial barrel, Llewellyn’s handsome cheerful person was difficult to resist. She’d accepted his proposal, and allowed him several liberties, before learning that he’d also asked her younger cousin Catherine to be his wife. He secretly protested to Priscilla that he was only marrying the plain young woman for her larger dowry, as if that justified his actions. Priscilla could only be relieved she hadn’t succumbed to the cad’s husky pleadings to be allowed a premarital sample of her charms.
Five years later and still unmarried, Priscilla was an unwanted emotional burden on her relatives. There’d been pressure on her cousin Donald to offer for her, but as the younger man couldn’t bear to even look at her, it was silly to think he’d offer for her. To clarify his feelings, Donald had sent along the awful Earl of Warenne with his blessing, as if Priscilla were some sort of unwanted gift to pass along to the next fool in need of her annuity. Her tears pooled, dropping onto her embroidery and clearing her vision. Looking up, the sight of her Aunt Ursula eyeing her with contempt through the greenery sent a chill down her spine.
“Hiding in the orangery will not save you from wedding Lord Warenne if he offers. You will go at once to the garden, and if his Lordship is unable to find you I will personally ensure you regret it. You have been warned. Come do your duty, and encourage that nice young man or else.”
“But Aunt Ursula, he smells like a tomcat in heat, and I don’t think he’s changed his smalls in weeks. If I see him pick nose and eat it one more time I’m going to be sick. Please don’t make me…”
“You will marry him if he asks you or else.”
“I can’t marry him; I have a nose!”
“Then I suggest you put some of that embroidery floss to good use, and shove it up your nostrils. If he asks, you will say yes. Your uncle and I have had enough of your morbid moping for that dead sailor. We’ve had nothing but bad luck since you landed on our doorstep, and I’ve had enough.”
“Jeremiah loved me, and he was a lieutenant in the Navy, not some pressed man.”
“Mr perfect Jeremiah…if I hear that sailor’s name one more time I’ll burn all your half finished embroidery cluttering up my house, and send you back to your sister. His Lordship is waiting for you near the wishing well. He desires to walk with you in the garden. I don’t care if he hasn’t bathed in a year, or picks his teeth after scratching his nether regions. You’re thirty-one, not thirteen. This is an opportunity not to be missed. The de Warenne family have been interbred with the crown since William the conqueror. Leave your silly embroidery and go be pleasant to the man at once.” Priscilla gave her embroidery one final stab with her needle as she imagined it to be the heart of the rank gentleman waiting for her. With clenched teeth she stood up. “And take off that hideous old maid’s cap.” Priscilla clutched the lace edged flaps hanging down onto her high necked dress and blinked in horror. How could she hide her feelings without her ugly cap? “Men like seeing a woman’s hair. Remove it.”
Priscilla reluctantly took off the cap, and dropped it on her embroidery. “I feel naked without it.”
“Not as naked as you’ll be in the man’s bed. Go be pleasant to the creature.” Priscilla made an obedient curtsey, as she mentally cursed her aunt to a hot place, and then cursed the vile smelling man to the same place for making her life hell. Holding her head high, she silently reminded herself that as a Stanley her family connections were no less impressive, not that blood meant anything in the end. Her Aunt Ursula’s threats would doubtless be followed through. Priscilla headed for the garden with hope that she’d arrive to find the awful smelling man had wandered off. If she was lucky for once, she might not have to smell him until luncheon. The thought made her smile until she reached the black iron gate.
Looking through elegant loops of painted iron, the Earl of Warenne could be seen leaning over the wishing well, looking into its depths. Priscilla shook herself as she was gripped by a murderous impulse; if she snuck up behind him she could push him in. She was losing her mind. Killing the man wouldn’t solve her problem; desperate fortune hunters would continue to appear on her uncle’s doorstep. She gripped the iron curls, and eyed the handsome figure in disgust. He’d be attractive if he bathed several times with a bar of soap, washed and combed his hair, and changed into clean clothes. He appeared to own only two suits, one shirt, and one pair of smalls. The thought of standing near the man threatened to bring up her breakfast. From a distance there wasn’t anything obviously wrong with him. If she’d been born without a nose, he’d have been a pleasant congenial soul whose upbringing had somehow neglected manners of any kind. Pushing open the creaking gate, the Earl of Warenne’s eyes lit with pleasure as he turned his head towards her. Praying she was up wind, she slowly crossed towards the well.
“Good morning Miss Priscilla, I’m relieved to see you’re in perfect health. When they said they couldn’t find you in the house I had visions of wife-hungry Vikings carrying you away.”
His obvious wink made her flush pink. “I was embroidering in the orangery.”
“The orangery? I didn’t think to look there…”
“I didn’t think anyone would.” The smiling man seemed oblivious to the implication that she hadn’t wanted him to find her.
“At least it occurred to me to look in the wishing well. I was relieved to see you hadn’t fallen in trying to wish for some other handsome man to drag you to the altar.” The Earl of Warenne’s eyebrows lifted simultaneously, causing her cheeks to flush again with horror.
“I don’t do wishing wells.”
“What? You’ve never thrown a penny into a well and made a wish?”
“I don’t believe in wishes my Lord.”
“Really?” The man looked taken aback. “Why not?”
“Why should I? What is the point of throwing a penny into a well to ensure something good happens? It’s senseless; I might as well spit three times on a stone. Wishing is cruel and pointless.”
“You’ve been reading too many morose novels, Miss Priscilla.”
“I don’t read novels my Lord. I read about real people whose miserable lives end in death.” The man pursed his lips as if suddenly concerned.
“It sounds like a few happy endings wouldn’t go amiss. Come over here; I want you to make a wish. I’ll give you a penny.”
“No thank you my Lord; that would be wasting your penny. You should save it and buy…” Half way to the well she slowed her steps, silently wishing the man would drop dead before she reached his side.
“What should I buy with my pennies Miss Priscilla; an engagement ring?” His eyebrows rose again as if to torment her with the prospect of marriage.
Reaching the well, Priscilla gagged as she was forced to breath in a lungful of air thoroughly polluted by several noxious odours. “Sometimes my Lord it’s most pleasing to spend one’s money on oneself. Why not save your pennies and buy a new suit of clothes?” The man smiled in amusement, displaying unbrushed teeth that emitted another foul stench.
“I wouldn’t waste a penny on just anyone; I insist you make a wish.” Fingers with nails harbouring an unknown brown substance dug a penny out of his breeches pocket, and slid it over the stones towards her. The brown eyes, peering from under a greasy curtain of straight brown hair, suddenly glinted with genuine concern. “Fate has a portion of happiness for everyone Miss Priscilla.”
“Not for me, my Lord.”
“Nonsense. I think fate may have something special stuffed up its sleeve for you. I’ve often found that one man’s ill-luck is another man’s good fortune. You’ve remained unwed a few years longer than a lady would like, but last week’s misfortune may be next week’s good fortune. As a discerning Lord, I think you’d make a charming little wife.”
“My Lord, I’m…” She audibly breathed in through her mouth before continuing. “…aware of the honour you do me…” Priscilla looked down at the penny, and drew another noisy breath.
“Are you developing a chest complaint? You aren’t tubercular?”
It was tempting to lie, but her Aunt Ursula would easily discount it. “No.”
“That’s a relief. Your breathing sounds strained.”
“The air is a bit unpleasant this morning.”
“I haven’t noticed anything irregular, but my lungs are like brick chimneys.” The dirty finger tapped the coin in front of her. “What will you wish for?” Priscilla momentarily forgot the man’s awful stench as she stared at the shiny copper penny. What would she wish for; his Lordship to disappear, or for death to end her suffering? What sort of small happiness did she dare wish for? “You look sad Miss Priscilla. You’re supposed to wish for something happy.”
“It’ll never happen…” She gingerly moved the soiled penny with the tip of her fingernail towards the edge of the well. “…but I wish to belong somewhere.” The penny bounced off the opposite side of the well, and after a long silence, plopped into the water at the bottom. “Are you satisfied?”
“You sound like a lost penny; that’s not a good wish. This is a good wish…” He took another penny from his trouser pocket. “…I wish Miss Priscilla found me irresistible.” He winked at her before shoving the penny over the edge into the abyss, where it plopped into the black water below. “Here make another wish, I insist.”
Priscilla inhaled another noisy breath as the dirty fingernail left another shiny penny in front of her. “How is wishing to belong somewhere not a good wish? I’d be thrilled to have a home where I was wanted…it would be good enough for me.”
“It’s too dull. Wishes can’t be dull, or they won’t come true.”
“Says who; the fairies in your garden?” Priscilla shivered as rank smelling fingers playfully tweaked her earlobe.
“Now you’re laughing at me Miss Priscilla. There’s no such thing as fairies. It’s my penny, and I insist you make a happy wish. Never fear, I shan’t put any pressure on you to wish for my affections, though feel free to be so bold if you wish.” She knew he was winking, even though her eyes swivelled upwards toward blue sky. Couldn’t God strike her with lighting just once? “What will you wish for?”
“If I must make a happy wish, I wish to be loved by a man I love.” The second penny followed the same trajectory as the first, and fell into the water with a satisfying plop.
“It’s rather cruel to wish for love, since I’d only make him miserable. I’m the unluckiest woman ever born. He’ll probably meet me at the altar and be shot dead by a drunken vicar.”
“Well, it was more cheerful than the first one…though you appear to have a morbid fear of losing your groom.”
“My first one died at sea, two weeks before the wedding.”
“Oh…terribly sorry, and the second?”
“The second will probably be some drunken cabinet maker who wishes to retire on my two thousand pounds annuity. Wishes don’t come true.”
“You are a lost penny.” The words were gentle as if he was genuinely concerned. “Well you’re in luck, because I collect lost pennies, and I’m not afraid of drunken vicars brandishing pistols either.”
“You can’t collect lost pennies; it’s an oxymoron.”
Her companion chuckled in amusement as he tweaked her ear again, causing her to blush with illogical pleasure. “Whenever I find a penny I pick it up, wash it, and then sort it into one of several giant glass jars that sit in my entrance hall, but I collect all kinds of coins. Have you ever seen a Roman coin?”
“No.”
“They’re tiny. It’s hard to believe they once had any value.”
“Why would anyone collect coins?”
“Haven’t you ever held an old coin in your hand, and wondered who else might have handled it? What it might have bought over the years?”
“No.”
“I do, I often spend my evenings looking at them using one of my magnifying glasses, just wondering what sort of stories they could tell. I admit my penny collecting is a little odd, but they do remind me not to lose my money every time I leave the house.
“My Lord, you really should take your pennies to your tailor and order a new suit.”
“I wouldn’t dare take a jar of pennies to the old codger; he’d boot me out the door. I always give him a bank note. That way I don’t have to count out the money. I’m a wealthy man Miss Priscilla. I don’t need your annuity, I need a pretty wife.”
“You? Wealthy?” Priscilla forgot to breathe through her mouth and choked on the stench of unwashed linen.
“You’re sure you’re not coming down with consumption?”
“I wish.”
“That’s a terrible thing to wish for; this cough is very disturbing. I think you should send for the doctor.”
“I’ll live…unfortunately.” She glanced at her companion, who was eyeing her with concern, and was struck by his natural grace. When he wasn’t picking his nose, belching, scratching his backside or lifting his leg to break wind, he appeared to be a different man. Was he a vile smelling pig, or a prince in disguise? It was a ridiculous thought. His brown eyes smiled at her open perusal of his person. As if to oblige her curiosity, he turned to face her, and put a hand on his hip. Visually speaking, he was quite pleasing. There was nothing wrong that a hot soapy bath and dentifrice wouldn’t fix. Her eyes came to rest on his handsome features in time to see him finish inspecting her charms. The dreaded heat consumed her cheeks as he looked her in the eyes and then winked his approval of her person. Her heart shuddered with insensible delight as she momentarily lost her sense of smell. An involuntary smile lit up her eyes as her companion mirrored her emotion.
Her hand, resting on the edge of the well, could feel dirty fingers approaching as if they possessed some strange electric charge. The masculine hand lightly hovered, testing for rejection, before relaxing its warmth over hers in a possessive caress. They stood smiling into each other’s eyes, until the sound of gunshot in the distance made Priscilla jump. Her heart continued pumping the pleasant new sensation through her body until she breathed in through her nose. Gagging, she backed away in search of fresh air. Concerned, the man eagerly followed with an outstretched hand. Had she lost her mind? Part of her was longing for that filthy hand to touch her, to feel his putrid kisses cooling her burning cheeks. As if hearing her thoughts the man stepped closer, but the unbearable stench made her retch. Priscilla’s heart threatened to fall out of her chest onto the remains of her breakfast decorating her suitor’s shoes. Bursting into tears, she ran blindly towards the house. He’d never want to touch her again. She wasn’t sure if that made her less or more unhappy. Locking herself in her room, she waited for word that her latest suitor had packed his bags and fled.
Go to chapter 3