Dear Readers,
Your correspondent has been assured that there is absolutely nothing remarkable about the amount of time Lady Eliza Thornhaven has lately spent in the company of Mr. Thomas Grey, estate manager at Hartleigh Hall.
Nothing whatsoever.
Mr. Grey manages the estate.
Lady Eliza has considerable experience managing one herself.
They therefore have any number of perfectly sensible reasons to walk the grounds together, consult over drainage, discuss tenants, examine accounts, and occasionally disappear down a country lane where one’s boots may suffer considerably.
We are relieved to have settled the matter.
Society, unfortunately, has not.
Those familiar with Lady Eliza will know that she has never required a gentleman to explain an estate ledger to her. Since the death of her husband, the late Marquess of Thornhaven, she has managed Thornhaven with a competence that has disappointed several gentlemen who might otherwise have enjoyed advising her.
Mr. Grey, for his part, appears entirely untroubled by this.
A curious quality in a man.
He listens when Lady Eliza speaks.
He answers when she asks a question.
And, most alarming of all, he appears to believe that when she has made a decision, the matter may actually be decided.
One hardly knows what society is coming to.
Of course, those eager to make something of the friendship will be disappointed to learn that Lady Eliza and Mr. Grey have known one another for years. Mr. Grey grew up at Hartleigh alongside her late husband and Nathaniel Draycott, now acting Duke of Hartleigh.
They were young together.
They are not young now.
Time has an inconvenient habit of altering one’s perspective.
So, apparently, do rolled sleeves.
Your correspondent would never suggest that Lady Eliza has taken particular notice of Mr. Grey while he attends to the more physical requirements of estate management.
We report only that drainage near the lower pasture has recently received an extraordinary amount of attention.
Readers may draw their own conclusions.
There are, however, more serious matters occupying Hartleigh Hall.
The question of the Hartleigh inheritance, which has already provided this column with more entertainment than any respectable family ought to supply, remains unsettled. New claims have emerged. Old stories have acquired inconvenient details. A signet has attracted considerable interest, and persons previously unknown to society have found themselves suddenly very much discussed by it.
One would think a disputed inheritance sufficient trouble for a single household.
Hartleigh, as longtime readers will know, has never been a house inclined toward sufficiency.
Yet amid questions of bloodlines, legitimacy, family records, and who may, or may not, possess a rightful claim to the Hartleigh name, another question has begun circulating through certain drawing rooms.
What, precisely, is Lady Eliza Thornhaven doing with an estate manager?
We confess ourselves puzzled by the question.
Walking with him, apparently.
Talking with him.
Working beside him.
Trusting his judgment.
Occasionally disagreeing with him.
And, if reports are accurate, defending him when others mistake the absence of a title for the absence of worth.
Perhaps society’s confusion arises because it understands titles rather better than it understands people.
A marchioness is expected to know where she stands.
An estate manager is expected to do the same.
It becomes terribly inconvenient when two people from different worlds meet and discover that neither considers the other beneath consideration.
Still, your correspondent advises caution.
There is, after all, no evidence of scandal.
No secret assignation has been reported.
No compromising embrace has been witnessed.
No kiss has been observed.
Yet.
We include that final word only in the interest of grammatical completeness.
Until then, dear readers, should you find yourself near Hartleigh Hall, we recommend keeping your observations discreet, your boots out of the mud, and your attention firmly upon the estate’s continuing inheritance difficulties.
Under no circumstances should you watch Lady Eliza Thornhaven and Mr. Thomas Grey.
Everyone else is already doing so.
— The Teatime Tattler
❧ ❦ ❧
The Hartleigh Inheritance
When a priceless jewel vanishes during the grand Masked Ball at Ravenshade, it triggers a series of events that unearth scandal, betrayal, and secrets long buried within the walls of Hartleigh Hall. Known for its ghost stories and fractured legacy, the estate becomes the backdrop for six emotionally charged romances. Each couple must navigate the estate’s tangled history to find justice, healing, and lasting love. Gothic in atmosphere and deeply romantic, The Hartleigh Inheritance explores love in the face of legacy, loss, and the power of reclaiming one’s name.
~~~~~
The newspaper remained open beside Eleanor’s teacup.
Eliza stood at the window, reading the same paragraph for the second time.
“This is absurd.”
“Entirely,” Eleanor agreed.
Eliza turned. Her mother-in-law appeared deeply interested in buttering a piece of toast.
“I have walked the estate with Thomas hundreds of times.”
“I am certain you have.”
“We discuss estate business.”
“Of course.”
“And the drainage genuinely required attention.”
At that, Eleanor looked up.
Eliza narrowed her eyes. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You are smiling.”
“I am eating toast.”
“You can do both.”
“One of the privileges of age.”
Eliza folded the newspaper with rather more precision than necessary. “And that business about his sleeves is ridiculous.”
Eleanor’s attention returned to her toast.
A moment passed.
Then another.
“Eliza?”
“Yes?”
“Were they?”
Eliza stared at her.
Eleanor took a perfectly composed sip of tea.
“Were what?”
“The sleeves.”
There was a dangerous silence.
From somewhere near the sideboard came a sound suspiciously like a cough.
Eliza turned.
“Mr. Greaves.”
The butler’s expression was immaculate. “Your Ladyship?”
“Have you been standing there this entire time?”
“I could not say, my lady.”
“You could not say.”
“No, my lady.”
Eliza looked from Greaves to Eleanor.
Eleanor lifted her teacup.
“I believe,” the Dowager Duchess said, “the Tattler has done rather well with this one.”
Mr. Greaves inclined his head. “Remarkably perceptive, Your Grace.”
Eliza closed her eyes.
Hartleigh Hall, regrettably, offered nowhere to hide from either of them.
❧══════════ ❦ ══════════❧
Late one night, a day or so before the Eve of All Hallows, Lady Dorothy Scholfield crept into the nursery of her London townhouse. Moonlight poured down from the north window on an odd shaped object. Coverlets, she suspected had been hung over chairs to create a shelter of some sort. Soft whispers came from the tent, and the faint glow from inside gave it an eerie light. She prayed it wasn’t a candle. She crept closer on silent feet until she hovered over it. “Moonlight Madness” she wailed softly in a spooky voice eliciting shrieks from under the coverlets exactly as she intended.
“So what are these stories?” the grandmother asked.
Dear Readers,
A Rose at Dawn – Book Three of Roses of Longbourn
Dearest Readers,
About True Love’s Kiss: Searching for the same villains, hunters Hugh and Rikki clash over how to carry on and even why, while stubbornly refusing to recognize their growing love. Not until one hunter’s life hangs in the balance can True Love’s Kiss resolve their differences.