It hadn’t seemed quite so terrible at first, becoming an earl out of the blue. He realized almost immediately he’d have to give up his plan of a career in the military: An earl, even a poor one, was too valuable for the front line. The blow, although harsh, was far from fatal. He’d chosen the military for the demands it would place on him. Returning an estate from the brink of ruin was just as demanding and honorable an occupation. And he did not think Isabelle would at all mind becoming a ladyship: She would cut a dashing figure in Society.
But as he stepped into Henley Park, his new seat, his blood began to congeal. At nineteen, he had not become a poor earl, but a desperately destitute one.
The manor’s decline was frightful. The oriental carpets were moth-eaten, the velvet curtains similarly so. Many of the flues drew not at all; walls and paintings were grimy with soot. And in every last upper-story room, the ceiling was green and grey with growth of mold, spreading like the contours of a distorted map.
Such a large house demanded fifty indoor servants and could limp by with thirty. But at Henley Park, the indoor staff had been reduced to fifteen, roughly divided between the too young—several of the maids were barely twelve—and the too old, retainers who had been with the family for their entire lives and had nowhere else to go.
Everything in his room creaked: the floor, the bed, the doors of the wardrobe. The plumbing was medieval—the long decline of the family’s fortune had precluded any meaningful modernization of the interior. And for the three nights of his stay, he’d gone to sleep shivering with cold, listening to the congregation of rats in the walls.
It was a step above outright dilapidation, but only a very small step.
Isabelle’s family was thoroughly respectable. The Pelhams, like the Fitzhughs, were related to several noble lineages and in general considered just the sort of solid, upstanding, God-fearing country gentry that did the squirearchy proud. But neither the Fitzhughs nor the Pelhams were wealthy; what funds they could scrape together would not keep Henley Park’s roof from leaking, or her foundation from rotting.
But if it were only the house, they might still have somehow managed with various economies. Unfortunately, Fitz also inherited eighty thousand pounds in debt. And from that, there was no escape.
Were he ten years younger, he could bury his head in the sand and let Colonel Clements worry about his problems. But he was only two years short of majority, a man nearly grown. He could not run away from his troubles, which assuredly would only worsen during any period of inattention.
The only viable solution was the sale of his person, to exchange his cursed title for an heiress with a fortune large enough to pay his debts and repair his house.
But to do that, he would have to give up Isabelle.
“Please, let’s not speak of it,” he said, his teeth clenched.
He didn’t want much in life. The path he’d delineated for himself had been simple and straightforward: officer training at Sandhurst, a commission to follow, and when he’d received his first promotion, Isabelle’s hand in marriage. She was not only beautiful, but intelligent, hardy, and adventurous. They would have been deliriously happy together.
Tears rolled down her face. “But whether we speak of it or not, it’s going to happen, isn’t it?”
She raised her shotgun and blasted the last remaining clay pigeon to pieces. His heart was similarly shattered.
“No matter what happens…”
He could not continue. He was no longer in a position to declare his love for her. Whatever he said would only make things worse.
“Don’t marry her,” she implored, her voice hoarse, her eyes fervent. “Forget Henley Park. Let’s run away together.”
If only they could. “Neither of us is of age. Our marriage wouldn’t be valid without the consent of your father and my guardian. I don’t know about your father, but Colonel Clements is dead set on my doing my duty. He’d rather see you ruined than allow our marriage to stand.”
Overhead thunder rolled. “Isabelle, Lord Fitzhugh,” cried her mother’s voice from inside the house, “better come back. It’s going to rain soon!”
Neither of them moved.
Drops of rain fell on his head, each as heavy as a pebble.
Isabelle gazed at him. “Do you remember the first time you came to visit?”
“Of course.”
He’d been sixteen, she fifteen. It had been at the end of Michaelmas Half. And he’d arrived with Pelham, Hastings, and two other mates from Eton. She’d sprinted down the stairs to hug Pelham. Fitz had met her before, when she’d come to see Pelham at Eton. But on that day, suddenly, she was no longer the little girl she’d been, but a lovely young lady, full of life and verve. The afternoon sun, slanting into the hall, had lit her like a flame. And when she’d turned around and said, “Ah, Mr. Fitzhugh, I remember you,” he was already in love.
“Do you remember the fight scene from Romeo and Juliet?” she asked softly.