Back Roads to Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #6): A Novel (2 page)

Below, in the great house called Middleton Grange, Letitia, in perfect morning fashion in her loose robe of fine cashmere
(never of silk, which was reserved for gowns), looked uneasily at her husband concealed behind his newspaper and set her teacup aside. Letitia rarely let business interfere with the pleasure of her morning tea. So important was it, and the proper brewing of it, that her household retained the old-fashioned system of blending its own tea, making it to her specifications. After considerable experimentation over the years, it was narrowed to China tea with a precise measure of Hyson and Congo leaves. The resulting blend was stored in a chest under lock and key. The staff—cook, personal maid, chambermaid, kitchenmaid, parlormaid, laundress, needlewoman, butler, valet, coachman, groom, two gardeners—who loved their tea and their teatimes, must settle for a brew made of the cheaper Common Bohea or Common Green leaves. And count themselves lucky to have it.

Letitia was reluctant to give up her morning tea while there was still some in the pot. But knowing Quincy well, she sensed a storm was brewing.

“It’s . . . it’s Allison, isn’t it?” she asked falteringly, having sat through her husband’s silence long enough.

Quincy, after a long moment, a moment designed to punish his wife for not attending to his mood earlier, peered around his newspaper. “You must admit, Tish, she acted most unacceptably last night when the guests were present. Especially toward young Flagle. Dash it all—when will she learn to behave properly, as a young female should!” His jowls quivered, and his mouth, under his mustache, was pinched in a mix of fury and frustration.

Letitia was reluctant to admit it, but Allison had indeed been too flip, too restless, too casual with the languid young man who might have, if handled properly, had his latent interest fanned to the point of romance. An alliance with the Flagle scion would give Quincy the “in” he coveted. For were not the Flagles third cousins to the Earl of Shrewton? Surely Allison had been unwise last night. But there! The child knew little about and cared less for social standing. Her father’s absorption
with it and her mother’s constant attempts on his behalf had made no impact on her.

“She still retains a little of her childish enthusiasms, I’m afraid, and her girlish fancies.” Letitia offered the only excuse she could come up with, which was no excuse at all and a very poor explanation. “And if they don’t include courtship . . . at the moment—”

“At seventeen,” Quincy said quenchingly—strong on Scripture, and as usual appropriating it incorrectly—“it’s time to put away childish things.”

“She
is
doing better, I think.” Letitia’s assurance wavered under the reproachful look in her husband’s eyes, a look Letitia guiltily identified as accusing her personally.
With your background and social standing
, it said,
you should be doing better
.

Letitia was not deceived concerning herself, and she fully understood why Quincy had been a suitor for her hand in marriage. That he had a chance to win her was due to the inability of one of her eyes to track with the other (commonly and crudely called being “cockeyed”) that had lessened her choices among the wellborn, perhaps finicky, young gentlemen of her acquaintance. It was not she who attracted him; he was drawn like a magnet to the fact that her father was a baronet and her family was of high social standing. Moreover, her dowry was considerable and had, when invested in the mill, assured its success.

Letitia had married Quincy, the mill owner, with her eyes wide open and had not regretted it. They lived well: Quincy, though careless and thoughtless, had provided generously for her; they were of some importance in the backwater that was Midbury; and she had two lovely daughters who would, one day, make advantageous marriages.

Quincy couldn’t complain! The marriage had elevated his status considerably. If only—Letitia mourned again silently—there had been a son. Her connections would have meant so much to a son, making it possible, through her relatives, to meet the best people, attend the best schools. But in this—she
was reminded occasionally—she had failed miserably; there had been only daughters.

Quincy considered himself a patient, forgiving man, making the best of a bad situation, such as two daughters who pleased him not all that much. Allison he considered hoydenish, Sarah too timid. Quincy—when he considered them at all—looked at his daughters with jaundiced eyes.

Allison
had
expressed interest at times in the mill and had an insight into business that, in a male, would have been gratifying. As it was, because Allison was a female and therefore unfit to participate in the business world, Quincy was frustrated because the child wasn’t a son. It was as if he said, “It’s all wasted—this cleverness, these brains, this ability.”

Secretly, it was a great comfort to Letitia that this same child showed all the feminine graces and wiles necessary to make a brilliant marriage one day, gaining a place in Midbury society, perhaps London society. Letitia took pride in her child’s beauty, her perfection of face and form. And her eyes were not flawed!

But, Letitia often sighed, the child was too outspoken, too much of an individualist, too impatient with protocol. She needed to curb her tongue, particularly when faced with standards and etiquette that she thought silly and pointless. The queen, for instance, who should be honored and revered, was
old-fashioned
according to this outspoken daughter. Who but an old person, she asked, would submit to the wearing of the heavy, clumsy Balmoral petticoat—so named for the queen’s favorite residence? Who, with a speck of pride in herself and her appearance, would submit to the Balmoral boot in place of Morocco slippers? Who would pull mohair stockings over slim legs, no matter if the weather were freezing? Allison flouted the tried and true, the wise, the sagacious, the sensible. “It’s time for the Edwardian era,” she declared. “Or for the queen to get herself out of Balmoral.”

Letitia, shocked and pale of countenance at such audacity, pled for silence on the subject. All in all, Allison’s
unpredictability kept her mother uneasy . . . what would she come up with next? It was important to instill adult values and viewpoints in the child as quickly as possible. Letitia was counting on the rigid protocol of afternoon calls to curb Allison’s impetuous nature, to restrain her heedless speech, to shape her into an acceptable Victorian mold, a mold Letitia adhered to and admired above all else.

While Letitia exhibited patience, Quincy, a man with an overweening desire for advancement, had no patience whatsoever.

“Norville Flagle,” Letitia said now, “will not be the only opportunity for Allison, by any means. She’s pretty enough, heaven knows—”

“But does she care a fig for that?” Quincy complained. “Young Norville has been making sheep’s eyes at her for ages, but she ignores him. Ignoring him in spite of the fact he’s from a prestigious family. His uncle’s an earl!”

“Third cousin,” Letitia added automatically, having worked out the connection, “twice removed.”

“Once . . . twice . . . three times—no matter, the connection is there! What’s the matter with the girl? Doesn’t she understand
anything?
”

Quincy was well familiar with Patrick Colquhoun’s
A Treatise on the Wealth, Power, and Resources of the British Empire
. Though the book was outdated, things had not changed all that much in British thinking, and rank and prestige still played a powerful part in British society. One legacy of the Victorian era would be the sharp contrast between High Society and what were clearly regarded as Lower Orders. You were one or the other, and you knew where you belonged. If Quincy had any doubt, he painfully located himself in Colquhoun’s
Treatise
as Third Class.

Third Class (Quincy knew it by heart) included clergy, doctors, bankers, merchants, and manufacturers of some importance.

Second Class was made up of the exalted and envied baronets, knights, and those having large incomes and estates.

Highest Orders included lords, great officers of state, peers above the degree of baronet, and, of course, the royals.

Blessed, favored Classes One and Two! Quincy was sometimes tempted to gnash his teeth and curse the strict codes that consigned one to a certain class and made it so difficult to get out of it. Might as well be in India’s caste system, he deplored, for all the good his money and toil did him. The aristocrats looked down their long noses, bought his factory’s goods willingly enough, and flouted his presence at their tables and in their clubs.

With Quincy’s money and flourishing factory, it might have been possible for a son to move into Class Two—if he were selective of his friends, emulated the aristocracy’s behavior, spent money lavishly (which Quincy would gladly provide), showed no inclination to soil himself with work, and chose a wife a little above him in class (if he had to settle for one with some blemish, such as being cockeyed, so be it).

It was useless to continue to bemoan the absence of a son; he had two daughters. And one, Sarah, Quincy thought sourly, had no ambition whatsoever. But Allison, with her considerable graces, her wit, and her beauty—and with the large dowry he would offer—would make a marriage that would, once and for all, lift the name of Middleton from the plebeian to the peerage.

Quincy, of a sudden, found hope springing up in his heart. Norville Flagle, with his thrice-removed connection with the aristocracy, was the key to Quincy’s ambitions. And Allison was of marriageable age.

“I think,” Quincy said before he returned to his paper, and striking his wife speechless, “I’d like you to plan a ball of spectacular dimensions for Allison’s eighteenth birthday.”

B
eggin’ yer pardon, Mum . . .”

“Yes, Becky,” Letitia said, turning her head to look at the little maid, “what is it?”

Becky, not long in service and only recently advanced from scullery duties to chambermaid, twisted her red and callused hands, directing her words to Letitia while casting anxious glances toward her lord and master. But Quincy, having delivered his startling request for a lavish birthday celebration for his oldest daughter, had retreated behind his newspaper, leaving Letitia to grapple with his surprising announcement. From being a most careless, unconcerned father, Quincy was now showing remarkable interest in Allison.

There had to be more to it than goodness of heart. Knowing her husband well, Letitia was aware of the reason: Quincy had come to the realization that Allison was a . . . well, a
pawn
in the game he played. With a father’s authority, he could command what her future should be; his whim could decide her destiny,
the destiny of all of them. His caprice could change the course of their lives.

Some small flicker of resentment, long thought to be dead, struggled to life momentarily. With a shrug of realism, Letitia snuffed it out; wasting time on what would never be was useless.

It seemed clear, from their conversation, that Quincy had only just realized what a treasure he had in his daughter. And to think she had been right here, available for his using, all along. The fact of the matter was that Allison’s marriage to the right man would work the miracle Quincy had dreamed of, connived for, and almost despaired of.

And it had taken the magic name of Norville Flagle to open his eyes. What possibilities! Quincy’s small eyes gleamed like burnished coins; the corners of his mouth twitched in a way Letitia knew meant satisfaction. Allison, like a goose ordered plucked and prepared for the table, was fated to be offered on the altar of Quincy’s ambition.

Still—Letitia comforted herself in her helplessness—Allison would love a sumptuous party given in her honor. Whether or not she bowed readily to the inevitable assignation with Norville Flagle remained to be seen. Perhaps if it were made attractive enough . . . a large settlement, perhaps. Letitia sighed, realizing it would take some sort of miracle to turn the spiritless, foppish Norville Flagle into a man who would appeal to her imperious daughter. Allison would never settle into marriage as compliantly as had her mother. Letitia automatically lowered her lashes over the offending eye that had shaped her own decision, and another small sigh escaped her lips, to be heard by Quincy.

His eyebrows raised. “A ball doesn’t meet with your approval?” he asked. “I thought you’d be delighted—a chance to invite all those relatives of yours, let them see that you live far better than most of them do. If you need help, you could hire Miss Hotchkiss—”

“That’s not necessary,” Letitia said stiffly. After all, she was fully capable of doing what was required to entertain so august an assemblage. Immediately names and faces of long-neglected relatives rose in her mind, only to be jarred into oblivion by the maid Becky’s hesitant interruption.

“Well, Mum, it’s Miss Allison.”

“What about Miss Allison?” Letitia asked, fearing the worst where this headstrong child was concerned.

“Her’s sick, Mum.”

“Sick? What do you mean, sick? And where is she? And how long has she been indisposed?”