A Pitiful Remnant Read Online Free PDF

to disgrace himself.
    * * * *
    "We should be there within the hour," Mr. Whitsomeworth
said, breaking a long, uncomfortable silence.
    In a way Lisanor was glad he had spoken. Her thoughts had
become less and less coherent as the miles passed under the carriage
wheels. Although Guillemot was scarce fifteen miles from Ackerslea
Farm as a crow might fly, by road it was nearly twice that. They had
set out after an early breakfast, and only made two short comfort
stops. She imagined the horses were tiring, for they had slowed in
the last half-hour.
    I am certainly weary, for all of that. Grandfather's
carriage was an old-fashioned one, although kept in repair, and the
squabs had lost any softness they might once have had. Perhaps it
had been the height of comfort when he brought Grandmother to
Ackerslea for the first time, but that was nearly half a century past. "I
wonder if my father brought my mother home in this same
vehicle."
    "I beg your pardon?"
    "Nothing. I did not mean to speak aloud." She nudged
Pammy, who had once again slumped against her. The maid gave a
little snore and bobbed upright, but her head soon came to rest
against Lisanor's shoulder again. With a sigh, she resigned herself to
discomfort and turned to the window to watch the hedgerows and
fields slide slowly past.
    In a way she wished the horses would slow even more,
would delay their arrival forever. Having been brought up to believe
that Ackerslea was her responsibility, Lisanor had never seriously
dreamed youthful dreams of a romantic knight in shining armor
coming to carry her off. Women of the yeoman class did not marry
knights, however much those knights might dally with comely
peasant lasses. When young and naÏve, she had believed she
would marry a man who accepted that she was mistress of Ackerslea
Farm, one who would make no claims on the manor, other than a
place to reside. She knew now that the two men she'd been
betrothed to had each demanded financial concessions in exchange
for allowing her to remain in charge of the farm. Grandfather had
complained bitterly, but had agreed.
    Secretly she had held both Gregory Sealand and Dryden
Foxworth in some contempt for their avarice, although she had
thought Gregory handsome enough and otherwise amiable. Captain
Foxworth she'd hardly known, but she had found his military
manners arrogant. Clarence Lamberton, Marquess of Guillemot, was
another matter entirely. She had no idea what his appearance, no
inkling of his manner. Worse yet, she wondered if he knew he would
not become master of Ackerslea upon their marriage, no matter what
the law said. He was a nobleman; their notions of property were
surely very different from her family's.
    "His father signed the contract," she muttered, but not loud
enough for Mr. Whitsomeworth to hear. What would happen if the
son was not inclined to honor it? Would she have any recourse?
Opening her mouth, she was about to ask that very question of the
solicitor when a loud Halloo resulted in a rattle of harness
and a slowing of the carriage.
    Mr. Whitsomeworth leaned out of the window. She could
not hear his words, only that he spoke to someone who answered in
a gruff voice.
    When the solicitor reseated himself, he said, "We have
arrived, at least at the estate boundary. They sent someone to show
us the rear entrance, which will save us several miles."
    She wanted to ask if they could not go on to the front
entrance. She was in no hurry.
    Tomorrow is my wedding day. Perhaps if the queasy
sensation in her middle were to develop into biliousness, she would
have an excuse to postpone it.
    The carriage made a sharp turn onto a drive with a surface
much smoother than the road they'd been traveling. We are
here.
    She wanted to vomit. Instead her rebellious stomach settled
and a strange calm came over her.
    * * * *
    Nettles supported him through the wide doorway opening
onto the entrance hall. Clarence took a single step sideways and set
the flat of his hand upon the table that