1. Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Weymouth, Dorset March 1811
Cassandra Vincent had run out of time. She hoped the terse note clutched in her hand held the answer to her prayers. Otherwise, she would be forced to rely on the charity of others to keep a roof over her head—and that thought did not sit well with her.
With a thick cloak around her shoulders, she walked down St Mary Street, past the church where her late father had been rector, and along by the harbour until she reached Devonshire Buildings.
She stopped at the first house in the row—an attractive double-fronted dwelling facing the sea, which lapped at the quayside just a stone’s throw away from the large bow windows which jutted out over the pavement.
Cassandra glanced at the letter in her hand to check she had the correct house, tucked it into her reticule, and rang the bell.
A footman opened the door, and he smiled at her when she handed him her card. That was a good start.
“Please come in. Mr Hunt is expecting you.”
She was shown into a study which was as austere as the man who sat behind the desk. The only exception was a writing bureau on one side of the room, decorated with intricate marquetry. It seemed out of place with the stark masculinity of the rest of the furnishings.
Mr Hunt stood as she entered and bowed, and she dipped a curtsey in response.
“Thank you for coming, Miss Vincent. Please, sit down.”
His voice was not unpleasant, but devoid of feeling.
As soon as they were seated, he continued in the same tone. “I need a companion.”
How direct of him. No small talk. No pleasantries. Not even an expression of sympathy for her loss. Just straight down to business. It lacked warmth, but it was a quality she could admire, and she answered him in the same vein.
“I supposed as much, seeing as you replied to my advertisement.”
He was the only person who had. She had almost given up hope of being offered a position when Mr Hunt’s unexpected note had arrived.
“May I ask you a few questions?”
Cassandra nodded. It was to be expected. She hardly knew the man. Although he had lived in her father’s parish for years, she knew little more of the wealthy merchant than his reputation as an honest and upright gentleman.
She couldn’t remember ever having a conversation with him. Nor did she recall seeing him at the social events she had attended before her father’s last illness.
In fact, she knew so little of him she had not realised he even had a female relative who might require her companionship.
Mr Hunt paused before he spoke again, leaving her to wonder what he would say next. What was it he wanted to know? His face gave nothing away. What a dreadful man to play cards with—you wouldn’t be able to tell whether he held aces or twos.
“As the late rector’s daughter, I know you are a woman of good standing in the community. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you have not hitherto had to earn your living. Why now?”
Cassandra took a sharp intake of breath. It was humiliating enough to apply for a position as a companion, without having to explain the reasons, but she supposed her prospective employer had the right to know.
“I have no independent means. My livelihood died with my father. The new rector is letting out the rectory, and when his tenant arrives on Monday, I will have nowhere to live.”
“Did your father make no provision for you? ”
There was a distinct note of disapproval in Mr Hunt’s voice. Cassandra wished she had some defence for her father, but she had none. Papa had never been good with money and had been forced to make drastic economies to pay for her late stepmother’s extravagance.
“Alas, no. What little he had put aside was devoured by doctors’ fees. My stepsister and I must make our own way in the world. Julia has taken a position at Miss Seymour’s School, but I am yet to secure a suitable role.”
“Have you no relatives to turn to?”
“My brother is at sea. There is no one else.”
If Xander was even still alive. She had written to inform him of their father’s death three months earlier, but he had failed to reply to her desperate plea for help. Perhaps the letter had never reached him.
“Didn’t he anticipate your father might die whilst he was away and provide for you?”
Cassandra flinched at the implied criticism and hurried to defend her brother. “He believed he had made provision for us—to stay with the lady to whom he was betrothed when he sailed.”
“Then you have a place of refuge?”
Cassandra’s stomach soured at the thought. “I would rather earn my keep than reside with her. She decided she couldn’t wait for my brother’s return and married another.”
“Despicable!”
She was surprised at his vehemence. “Indeed it is, and I fear my brother must be heartbroken—but I do not see how this is relevant.”
“I wish to know what has driven you to the extremity of seeking employment.”
Hmm. That sounded reasonable.
He paused for a moment before speaking again. “Did you keep house for your father?”
That question was unexpected, and somewhat discouraging. To lower herself to be a companion was bad enough, but to be a housekeeper? She resolved to know the worst at once.
“Did I not make myself clear in my advertisement? Do you require a lady’s companion or a housekeeper?”
He ignored her, pursuing his own line of questioning. “Did you act as hostess for your father?”
“After my stepmother’s death—yes, I did.”
“And did you have a season? ”
“This sounds like an interrogation, Mr Hunt.”
“Please, humour me.”
Had she been less desperate, she would have walked out. As it was, she swallowed her bile and answered, trying to ignore the chagrin that accompanied the recollection. “I had a single season in Bath, but received no offers.”
“You sound disappointed.”
Of course she was disappointed. She longed for a home like her own had been before her mother had died. Full of love and kindness. She yearned for a child of her own. But her marriage prospects had never been high—a woman with no dowry and few pretensions to beauty. Soon, they would be non-existent.
If she had received no offers as the daughter of a respectable clergyman, what chance was there of marriage after lowering herself to serve as a lady’s companion? Very little. If she became a housekeeper? None at all.
“There is not much a gentlewoman can do apart from marry, unless she loses all pretension to gentility. If I became your housekeeper, it would reduce me to such a level.”
“I don’t need a housekeeper. It is a companion I require.”
Cassandra exhaled slowly. Her situation was so desperate she would have accepted the role if that was all on offer, but it was a relief to know she would not have to stoop that low.
“And who would I be a companion to? Your mother?”
Mr Hunt frowned. “My mother died years ago.”
“Then your sister?”
“I don’t have a sister.”
Rather than getting Mr Hunt to list all the female relatives he hadn’t got, Cassandra decided it would be best just to ask. “Then, who is it that needs a companion?”
“Me.”
Heat rushed to her face at the import of his words, and she leaped up from her chair as if she had been burned. She had assumed the plainness of her features would protect her from improper advances, but perhaps she had underestimated the attraction of an unprotected woman.
The shock of receiving such a proposition from a man of good standing propelled her to the door like a rocket. With her fingers curled over the handle, ready to escape, she turned to address Mr Hunt.
“My circumstances may be dire, but I did not come here to be insulted. I would rather go to the poorhouse than be party to anything improper—”
Mr Hunt stood, holding up his palm to her. “Please don’t leave, Miss Vincent. Not until you’ve listened to what I have to say. I am a God-fearing man and assure you I’m not suggesting anything dishonourable.”
Cassandra heard the sincerity in his tone and relented. It could not hurt to hear him out. She released her grip on the door handle, raising her chin a little as she retook her chair.
“Perhaps I have misunderstood you. Please continue.”
Mr Hunt sat and waited until her eyes met his, before he spoke in a firm voice devoid of emotion.
“Miss Vincent, would you consent to be my wife?”
Cassandra stared at the man sitting across the desk from her, struggling to make sense of his words. Was he serious? Had this man whom she barely knew really just asked her to marry him?
“I see I have shocked you with my proposal, but I trust it will not stop you from considering my offer. I believe we can help one another. View it as a business proposition.”
She swallowed hard. To think of marriage as a union of convenience—a mutually beneficial contract—seemed cold, impersonal. Not a joining of two people committing to love and support each other for the rest of their lives. She had longed for marriage and a family, but not like this.
“I have no need of romance,” he continued, “but I desire what you can give me. You’re just the sort of woman I’m looking for in a wife. Religious in character with a sound head on your shoulders, you tell me of the tragedy in your life without falling into a fit of the vapours, and you have the social graces I lack. I need a gentlewoman at my side who knows the niceties of how to behave, who could smooth my path into polite society, talk to other women, and be an influence in my favour. Are you willing to be that lady?”
Cassandra didn’t know what to say. She had prayed to God to rescue her. Was this his answer? Could she marry this stranger, with no pretence of love, to bring security back into her life? To have a chance to have a family of her own? Was it too high a price to pay?
“Your situation is grave,” Mr Hunt said, “or I would not have dared suggest it, but marriage to me would give you a home, and maintain your position as a gentlewoman.”
He was right. She could not easily dismiss such advantages, and this would doubtless be her only chance to marry. Still, that didn’t mean she had to say yes. Marriage was not some temporary arrangement. It was for life.
Was it too great a risk? She could always… What else could she do? Throw herself on the mercy of the new rector? Become a burden to one of her friends? Beg Eugenia to give her the home she had promised, before she had broken off her engagement to Xander? No—she would rather go to the workhouse!
Marriage to Mr Hunt seemed a far pleasanter option—if only she could guarantee he would be kind to her, and faithful.
“If I married you, would you keep your wedding vows?” she blurted out.
Mr Hunt folded his hands in his lap. “I would. Till death us do part. And you, Miss Vincent? If you were to marry me, would you be true to your wedding vows? Because if you would not, I’ll end this conversation now. I will not tolerate disloyalty, especially not from one joined to me in marriage.”
What a strange contradiction the man was. “You offer me a business arrangement and yet you would require me to love you?”
“I would. Love is a choice, not a sentimental feeling.”
His idea of love sounded cold—not the love she’d dreamed of as a girl. But he was an upright man, and surely it must include kindness. Cassandra squashed down any hope for more and made her choice. She could live with kindness.
“Then we are in agreement. Marriage is a commitment to each other. Till death us do part.”
“Yes, a commitment. And will you vow to love, cherish, and obey me, Miss Vincent?”
Peace settled in her heart as she gave him her answer.
“I will.”