The Perfect Bride. Brenda Joyce

academy before ever gaining admission into the service.

      Now, she felt some trepidation. The highway had been rutted, but this road had severe holes and was strewn with rocks, some of such significance her coachman began to weave amongst them. Blanche wondered at the lack of upkeep, glancing now at the moors. She saw not a single grazing cow or sheep.

      She glanced toward Sir Rex, who rode abreast of the carriage. His crutch had been folded in on hinges, and hung from a hook on his saddle. He rode with extreme ease, his mount a huge, magnificent beast. It was obvious he was a master horseman; she remained very impressed. Worse, that odd flutter remained in her chest.

      He glanced her way, his expression somber. Blanche knew he did not care for the maintenance of the road.

      Now, however, she saw some buildings on the right. As her coach came closer, she saw that they were mere stone shells, having been gutted long ago, but whether by fire or the elements and lack of care, she did not know.

      It was beginning to appear that Sir Rex was right and Penthwaithe might be in a state of severe disrepair. The plan had been for her to holiday at the estate. But her plans might well be in jeopardy—and she was not ready to go back to London and face her horde of suitors. Blanche hesitated, aware that she could not impose upon her host for much longer, especially after the tryst she had witnessed.

      “The manor lies ahead,” he called to her.

      Blanche poked her head entirely out of the carriage window to glimpse it. She saw a square stucco building, plain and unimpressive in appearance, unadorned by trees, hedges or ivy. A small water fountain graced the courtyard, but it was not functioning. A small stone building was in the distance, probably serving as a stable. Now she saw some sheep grazing behind the barn, and two very thin cows appeared, wandering into the front yard. Blanche suddenly saw a pair of young boys, one hauling a bucket, the other carrying a basket. They were barefoot, their pants too short, and they went into the house.

      Penthwaithe was not a thriving estate. The contrast to Land’s End was glaring. Worse, she did not have to step inside the manor house to know she was not going to stay there.

      Her coach halted. Blanche waited for her footman and alighted, joining Sir Rex, who had dismounted and was glancing around. From the front courtyard, she could see piles of animal droppings everywhere and a cart left almost in the path leading to the front door. Scum adorned the water in the fountain. Not only was it stagnant, the statue of a fish from which the fountain should have run was seriously broken. She saw a sparse vegetable garden on her left. She grimaced. How had Father left the estate in such a condition? Her father was meticulous when it came to attending to his property. She couldn’t believe he would allow tenants to stay on if they cared so little for the manor.

      Sir Rex swung over. “You will not be staying here.” He was firm.

      Blanche continued to grimace. “Obviously not.” She hesitated. “I had no idea…this is terrible.”

      “It is slovenly,” he said abruptly. “The estate is not my affair, but had I tenants such as these, I would terminate the lease.”

      Blanche hesitated. She thought about the two small barefoot boys.

      His stare was unwavering. “You have had a long journey from town. You may stay on at Land’s End as long as it suits you.”

      She was very surprised. “I can hardly impose upon you.”

      “Why not?”

      And before she could react, he swung rapidly to the front door. As he knocked, Blanche followed and paused beside him.

      A nursing woman opened the door. Her eyes widened.

      “This is Lady Harrington,” Sir Rex said firmly. He didn’t look at the suckling infant. “I am Sir Rex de Warenne of Land’s End and Bodenick. Where is your husband?”

      Terribly surprised, the woman removed the infant, closing up her dress. “He may be in the stable, or out in the fields, plowing.”

      “Summon him, please. We wish a word.”

      The woman turned. “James! Go get your father, now! Tell him a lord and lady are here. Hurry!”

      Blanche was peering past Rex. She had seen such squalor in London. While working with the sisters of St. Anne’s, she had attended some very impoverished and ill women in their homes. But the manor looked as if it hadn’t been repaired or even cleaned in years. The wood floor in the entry and hall was coming up in sections, or missing entirely, there was very little furniture, and paint was peeling from the walls, which were blackened in some places. Blanche now saw two young girls and one of the boys she had seen earlier. The boy who had gone off to fetch his father was probably eleven or twelve years old. The three children facing her from behind their mother were between the ages of two and eight. She saw wide eyes and pinched faces.

      This poor family was in dire need. She reached out, instinctively touching Sir Rex’s hand. He started, looking at her.

      Blanche dropped her hand but held his gaze. Something had to be done.

      “My lord, my lady!” a man cried, huffing and out of breath, coming up behind them.

      Blanche turned, as did Sir Rex. A tall, thin man approached, eyes wide and fearful. Instantly he bowed.

      “You are?” Sir Rex asked.

      “I am Jack Johnson, my lord.”

      “Sir Rex de Warenne, and this is Lady Blanche Harrington.”

      He blinked. “Please, come in. Bess, boil up some tea.”

      His wife rushed to obey.

      “Please, we are not in need of tea or anything else,” Blanche said firmly. She would not deprive them of their spare provisions. “I have merely come to inspect the estate.”

      He plucked nervously at his collar. “Are ye buying it? Is that why you’ve come to inspect it?”

      Blanche started. “My father passed, Mr. Johnson, and the fact that this manor is a part of my inheritance just recently came to my attention.”

      Johnson shifted uneasily. “We’re good people, my lady. But…” He stopped.

      Sir Rex was staring at the man, clearly thinking there was no excuse for the squalor. “But what?”

      He inhaled. “I mean no disrespect, but I am confused. Lord Bury has owned the manor for years. I didn’t know he was dead—or that there are heirs! He was so young and a bachelor himself!”

      Blanche tensed and glanced at Sir Rex. “I do not know any Lord Bury, Mr. Johnson. Now I am confused. Are you saying that Lord Bury owns the manor? For my solicitor recently found a document indicating that the manor is a part of the Harrington fortune.”

      “Lord Bury inherited Penthwaithe from his father, perhaps six or seven years ago. In fact, he was here three months ago to inspect it and collect his rents. I thought you might be his agents, come to see if I have improved it as I swore I would do! But he sold the estate to you? I didn’t know.”

      Blanche froze.

      Rex faced her. “Blanche, are you certain about the title you saw?”

      Blanche shook her head. My God, there had been a monumental mix-up. For it no longer appeared that her father had owned the estate for years. But if Lord Bury had been out to collect the rents three months ago, how could her father have purchased the estate from him? Her father had been dead.

      She began to have an inkling, and she tensed, thinking, Bess?

      And she quickly thought about the events leading to the title’s discovery. The solicitor who had told her of the title had been surprised by its existence. He had been very frank: he hadn’t heard of Penthwaithe in all the years he’d been employed by Harrington. But Harrington hadn’t owned Penthwaithe for years, Bury had. And Bess had been with them and she’d remarked that this kind of mix-up happened all the time. Oh, how casual