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A Lady’s Reward – A Regency Romance

The Village of Ashworthy was large by English standards. Most of it was owned by Mr. Daniel Pickford, the owner of the mill where a high percentage of the population worked. Mr. Pickford demanded much of his employees. He was one of the new rich, part of the an elite group of industrialists whose wealth had multiplied incalculably during the industrial revolution. For those unfortunate enough to work for him, it was a living hell. Fifteen-hour shifts for little pay, six days a week.

Victoria was just eighteen, but she had already been working in the mill for three years. She was by far the most beautiful woman at the mill, and Mr. Pickford had earmarked her for a job as one of his assistants. Mr. Pickford's assistants didn't work in the traditional sense of the word. They waited. It was not their job to turn up at the mill and do a shift with the others; it was their job to go to Mr. Pickord's special cottage and make sure they looked pretty, in case he came to see them. As Mr. Pickford liked to have plenty of choice, he had four assistants. He always chose young unmarried women; he didn't care for husbands. They caused him to look over his shoulder too much. Victoria was next on the list as soon as one of the current incumbents decided to marry.

''You ain't like us,'' Mary had told Victoria when she'd first come to the mill from the village school. ''You're posh.'' Mary was the forewoman and not to be quarreled with. Victoria had been terrified on her fist day, indeed the first week, and the greeting Mary had given her, had done nothing to improve her state of mind. She'd taken comfort in the fact that almost the whole of her school class had come to work there with her. They all thought she was posh too, but they were used to her ways.

''You're far too intelligent to go to the mill,'' Mr. Jameson, her teacher, had told her. ''You should school yourself some more, and be a teacher, or at the very least a governess.''

''But sir, we have very little money, and I'm afraid if I don't work, we may want for food,'' she'd replied. ''My father is not well, and as you know, my mother passed away three years ago.''

Victoria lived with her father in a small cottage for which they paid rent to Mr. Pickford. Her father also worked at the mill and had done so since before Victoria was born. He was well spoken and gentle. The village had been rife with speculation when he'd arrived to live there with his well-to-do wife, for it was obvious that they didn't belong in a small cottage or at the mill. The rumor that held most credit among the villagers was that he'd been disinherited for marrying an Irish woman.

Her parents didn't tell her much about their lives before Ashworthy. All she knew was that her father was English, and her mother Irish. Her mother had mentioned Cork a few times but nothing more. What Victoria did know, was that her mother had an Irish temper. Red haired and fiery, the villagers preferred to keep out of her way.

''You'll be coming to church tomorrow, won't you?'' Lizzie asked as she and Victoria were leaving the mill on Saturday evening after fifteen hours. It was April and almost dark.

''Of course. Since my father became ill, I've never missed a Sunday service. I just hope the good Lord hears my prayers. It's not nice for him lying in bed every day waiting for me to come home.''

The two girls walked together down the hill and into the village. They parted company where they always did at the village green.

''Victoria, can I walk with you?'' It was Jack, the son of the mill foreman. Just eighteen and already six feet tall he looked like a walking coat hanger. He was one of those boys that first shot up in height, and some years later filled out. The filling out hadn't yet taken place.

''I've only got a couple of yards to go,'' she replied, thankful that he'd only caught up with her so close to home.

''Perhaps on another occasion,'' he hung his head and walked across the green, scattering a group of grazing sheep.

Their cottage was on the west side of the green, opposite Lizzie's house. All the cottages were the same on the outside. A front door in the middle, with a window on the left and right. Upstairs two bedroom windows. All had a thatched roof and a small garden at the front.

Victoria looked at her reflection in the window as she walked up the path to the door. She was a tall woman with strawberry blonde hair, a mix of her father's blonde and her mother's ginger. Her feet were aching, and she badly wanted to sit down with a cup of tea. She opened the door and, as usual, took off her bonnet before shouting to her father. Only on this day, there was no reply. He had died in bed twenty minutes before Lizzie got home.

*****

The Duke of Haslemere had more land than any other member of the aristocracy except the King himself. His Dukedom was made up of three estates, two had been in the family since Magna Carta, and the third was a more recent acquisition. His residence was Easingborough Hall. A twenty-five bedroom mansion set in three hundred acres of parkland. His Spanish wife had only been able to bear him one child, Edward, now twenty. Edward was a handsome man. Tall and slender, he had his mother's hair color, black, and his father's green eyes.

In all, the Dukedom had around five hundred tenants. Not many of them had much respect for the Duke. Extortionate rent increases and regular evictions were commonplace, ample explanation why there were so few mourners at his funeral.

Edward held onto his mother's arm as they followed the coffin into the church. He had just inherited a massive fortune and a lot of responsibility. More sensitive than his father, the tenants were hoping for an upturn in their fortunes. Edward counted thirty-two people in the church, including the vicar, the organist, his mother and himself. Just twenty-eight out of five hundred, he hoped more would turn up when it was his turn.

Edward didn't have an easy first few weeks. The old Duke, his father, had surrounded himself with men as unscrupulous as himself. The official title for each of these gentlemen was 'Estate Manager.' Edward likened them to crooks when he discussed the estate with his mother.

''Anyone over the age of sixty may live in our houses free of rent until death,'' he'd announced at their first meeting, to wails of anguish and cries of no.

''I believe it is my property now, is it not?'' he'd added. He waited for each of them had to nod before continuing. ''In that case, I will do as I see fit, not as you see fit. Things are going to change around here, starting today.'' His eyes narrowed, and he pointed at each of them in turn. ''Thank you for serving my father so faithfully over the years but the time has come for us to part.'' The estate managers looked at each other in disbelief.

''You mean you don't want us to work for you anymore?'' one of the wanted to know.

''That is correct,'' he smiled. ''I have arranged an alternative job for each of you at Manor Farm under Mr. Jespon.'' Mr. Jepson was six feet five and a former bare knuckle fighter. He was a good farmer, and he'd taught Edward a lot about the workings of the land. He'd often told Edward that once he was Duke, he should do things differently and get rid of his father's team of crooks.

''If you want, send them to me, and I'll make sure they find out what real work is,'' Jepson had told him. When Jepson was informed that Edward was indeed going to carry out his suggestion, he'd danced around a milk churn until he became dizzy. That day Edward made three enemies and gained five hundred admirers.

When he returned to Easingborough Hall after that meeting, he'd found his mother was making preparations to move into the dowager house.

''Mother you look tired. You should let the servants do more,'' he told her. The English climate had made her skin paler over the years. When she'd arrive from Spain, she was very dark. Now much paler, Edward could see dark rings under her eyes. ''You don't have to move into the dowager house. What on earth will I do here in this enormous house alone?''

''One day you will find yourself a wife, and fill some of those bedrooms with children. You won't want your mother around when that happens,'' she replied.

He had feared his father, but he loved his mother. She had been kind to him and regularly defended him against her husband when he'd reached for the cane. The Spanish were more pleasant to children than the English; they didn't beat them or send them away to boarding schools.

''Would you help me sort some of your father's things? There are boxes and boxes of papers and documents. I have no idea where to begin,'' she asked. ''They're in his bedroom.''

Later Edward went into his father's room and began to do what his mother had asked him. There were six boxes placed in a row at the end of the bed. The room was large and had a fantastic view over the garden. Edward hadn't realized that his parents didn't share the same bed until he was thirteen. His mother had removed herself when he was five, no longer able to bear the whiskey fumes and incessant snoring.

It took Edward three evenings to reach the last box. At first, he'd wondered why the boxes weren't in his father's study but soon came to realize that he'd kept these letters under the bed for a reason. He'd had mistresses. Lots of them, and it appeared he had tried wherever possible to keep in touch with them, even when they were no longer sharing his bed. Edward read a lot of letters at first but soon tired of the same amorous language. As far as he could see, they were just love letters and of no real importance and certainly not to be seen by his mother. He'd get Roberts to burn them.

On the third evening, he pulled the last box to him and opened it. More scented letters and fancy ribbons. He was grateful that the tedious task was almost over. He was just about to give up, fearing all the letters in the box were love letters when he spotted an unopened envelope.

The letter was in a white envelope. It was a letter his father had written to someone but never sent. Edward read the address:
Captain Landsborough, Landsborough Hall, Landsborough Estate.
Why had his father not sent the letter? His father was dead and couldn't object, so Edward opened it.

D
ear Captain Landsborough,

It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance the other evening.

I must say it was foolhardy of you to risk your ownership of the Landsborough Estate in a simple game of cards. Of course, I mustn't complain at having won it from you, but it was nonetheless foolhardy.

The reason for my letter is thus: I have heard that you are under investigation by the Army. It seems they have an objection to one of their captains gambling in the manner to which you seem to have become accustomed.

I understand the hearing is Tuesday next, and the possible punishment is a dishonorable discharge.

Under the circumstances, I feel it would be inappropriate of me to see you penniless. I, therefore, propose to return your estate to you and your wife. It was after all just a game of cards which unfortunately became unseemly.

I will instruct my lawyers to issue the paperwork forthwith.

Yours

John

Duke of Haslemere

A card game? Who puts up a whole estate as collateral in a card game, Edward thought? Father is obviously writing about the Landsborough Estate. But we still own it, so he didn't give it back. Why didn't he send this letter?

Over the course of the next few days, he asked as many people about the Landsborough Estate as possible. The Duke had acquired it a year before Edward was born, twenty-one years ago. Some older tenants told him that it used to belong to a family called Landsborough. Apparently they moved away, but none of them knew why. All of them just assumed they had sold it to the Duke for the money. Even Jepson didn't know, and he ran the largest farm on the Landsborough Estate.

''Mother, what do you know about the Landsborough Estate?'' Edward asked at dinner.

''It's three thousand acres, that much I know, and not much more.''

''Three thousand acres is large. We've only owned it for twenty-one years, do you know how father acquired it?''

Roberts, the butler, looked at Edward as he placed the salmon on the table. He was relieved the young man had his mother's character, not his father's. ''You're father bought it from the Landsboroughs.''

No, he won it in a ridiculous game of cards, but didn't dare tell you, because you are kind and wouldn't have allowed him to keep it, Edward thought. ''Thank you mother, I just wondered, that's all.''

*****

Victoria was allowed one day off to bury her father. Few people came to the funeral. Lizzie came to comfort Victoria, and there were a couple of direct neighbors from the village. The vicar, seeing so few people, decided to do away with any singing, and the said service lasted just ten minutes. When the pallbearers lowered the coffin into the grave, Victoria collapsed into Lizzie's arms and wept.

Victoria's father had left some money for his funeral. She had hated him talking about it, but he'd told her they had to be practical. Now she was grateful to him. On her wages, it would have taken her whole lifetime to pay the undertaker.

''How are you bearing up?'' Mr. Pickford asked. He'd told Mary to bring her to his office on the day after the funeral. Victoria was standing in the middle of the room as he walked around her.