Chapter 7

“YOU HAVE MADE A MISTAKE ,” William said to the stranger.

The man rifled in his black velvet coat, finally producing a small slip of paper. “This is Ravenscroft Manor?” he asked, looking around the dingy hallway.

William nodded. “But—”

“And you are Mr William Blackwater, are you not?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“And you did send a letter to Aunt áine?”

“What?” William unconsciously scratched his head. “I most certainly did not!”

The stranger looked quizzically at William. “You must have, Mr Blackwater. Otherwise, your name and address wouldn’t be on this slip of paper.”

“I think I would remember ...” William trailed off. He had a vague recollection of waking up a couple of weeks ago covered in ink splotches.

Martin cleared his throat. “Ahem, sir. You did indeed write a letter with just that name on it. I hadn’t realised until I took it to the post office. Said to the clerk, I did, that you must have made a mistake, ’cos there were no address on it ... but the clerk took it off me and said he’d make sure it found its way to where it was supposed to go.”

William felt his stomach hollow. “Apologies,” he said to the stranger. “It was a drunken mistake. I didn’t mean to ... I didn’t think she was real.”

“She was most impressed with your letter, sir,” the stranger said. “She is very excited to meet you.”

William scoffed. He couldn’t recall any of the content of his letter, but if drunken ramblings were enough to impress the fabled Aunt áine, he reckoned she must have incredibly low standards for her matchmaking.

Not that it mattered. He wouldn’t be going.

“Please pass on my sincerest apologies. I believe I have wasted your time.”

“Sir ... you’re not going?” the stranger asked, perplexed. “Aunt áine doesn’t offer this opportunity to just anyone, sir.”

Martha’s clip-clopping echoed down the stone steps. She bustled into the hallway, his never-used travel bag hanging off her arm.

“Martha,” William huffed, “why on earth have you packed my bag?”

Martha dropped the bag in front of the stranger. “William,” she said, spinning to face him. “Do you know what I thought when Martin mentioned you’d written that letter?” Before William could answer, she continued, “I was disappointed. I never pegged you as a fortune hunter.”

William felt like shrinking in on himself. A fortune hunter was the last thing he wanted to be. And – curse it! – it had just taken a feed of drink for his true colours to shine through.

“That said,” Martha continued, “I have a good feeling about this. I saw it in the tea leaves this morning. I think you should go.”

William eyed her. “I can’t just drop everything and go gallivanting off in search of a wife. Besides, look at this place.” He made a swooping gesture. “It would be an unkindness to bring a woman home to this.”

“Sir, perhaps just give it a chance?” Martin said. “You may find a woman who truly steals your heart, and if she just so happens to come with a sizable dowry attached to her, it might be just what we need to save this place. And if you don’t find a suitable match, then you can just come along home. We’ll still be here keeping things ticking over – you haven’t got anything to lose.”

William looked between Martin and Martha. He really didn’t have much else to lose at this point.

“Fine,” he said, reluctantly.

THE JOURNEY TO AUNT áine was a laborious one. The carriage had no windows, and within thirty minutes, William had lost all sense of direction but thought they must be travelling north.

The journey took five days.

Five long days where William only left the carriage to relieve himself, and then only when there were no landmarks about that could identify what part of the country he was in. Sleeping in the carriage was, perhaps, the worst part. On four separate occasions, the carriage jolted over a hole in the ground, causing William to wake up in a disorientated heap at the other side of the carriage. The footmen had a supply of food and water, which they would pass through a little hatch to him. Once a day they would stop to change horses – though William wasn’t allowed out of the carriage – and purchase some fresh, hot food for dinner.

The footmen appeared to work on a rota, for they never made camp and travelled through the night. Occasionally, William could hear loud reverberating snores from outside the carriage and could only pray to God that it wasn’t the driver who had fallen asleep at the reins.

As the sun was setting on the fifth day, they reached their destination. When the door finally opened, William’s eyes burned as he took in the dusk sun setting over a heathered valley. Sprigs of gorse bushes, their floral scent heady in the air, caught the last of the rays and cast an odd golden hue over the glen.

He reckoned he had to be somewhere in the Highlands.

William grasped hold of the handlebar and took a tentative step out. His knees buckled beneath him, unused to the solid ground, and he would have been eating gravel had it not been for one of the footmen reaching out and grabbing his arm.

“Happens almost every time,” the footman said, a bright smile on his face.

“Thank you,” William muttered.

When he’d finally regained his posture, he let his eyes land on his home for the foreseeable future. The manor was a reasonable size and not dissimilar to his own. It was made of thick cut grey stone and had the air of regality about it, though he had a suspicion that, given the weathering of the stone, it was probably deceptively older than his Tudor home. William noted that the only other residence in the area was perhaps half a mile along the valley. It looked like it was made of the same grey stone as this one, though the glint of setting sun off the many, many windows in the other house told him it was much bigger than his new abode.

“That’s Gaol Manor, where the ladies stay,” a footman said. “You will stay here at Gaol Lodge.” The footman gestured back to the lodge, the door of which was now open. A severe looking butler with a long face and longer whiskers waited for him. William shakily made his way over and let out a sigh of relief when he finally managed to steady himself on the small stone wall of the porch. He feigned interest in the bare wisteria branches that criss-crossed around the ancient porch while he waited for his knees to solidify.

The butler, who was evidently used to newcomers with jittery knees, waited patiently for William to finally find the strength to make his way through the threshold. The hallway was clad in dark oak panels from floor to ceiling, the walls lined with suits of armour, taxidermy animals, ancient paintings and intricate tapestries. William tried his best not to gawk in awe – he was supposed to be a gentleman and used to the finer things in life – but he wanted nothing more in that moment than to spend an afternoon in the hallway so that he could study every piece. The noise of jovial chatter caught William’s attention, and he followed the silent butler into the depths of the candle-lit hallway. Deep bellows of laughter could be heard from further down, and William took a steadying breath. The last time he’d subjected himself to more than a handful of people in a room had been almost a decade ago, back when the misery of his life hadn’t yet trodden him down and he would attend the odd ball. He had the sudden urge to spin on his heel and jolt for the carriage.

They stopped outside a room and William automatically reached for the door handle. He managed to catch himself just in the nick of time and passed the gesture off as him fixing the sleeves of his frayed jacket. No one had ever gone out of their way to open a door for him before. The servants in his father’s house had been petrified to make the mistake of treating William as a master of the house, and Martin and Martha were normally far too busy doing important work to worry if “sir” could make his way from one room to another unimpeded.

The silent butler opened the door and gestured for William to go in.

William was met by a wall of smoke, and his eyes immediately began to water. Through the haze, William counted at least two dozen men, though there were probably more in the dark shadows of the room.

Of the men that William could see, each was well-dressed, sipping amber spirits, sniffing snuff or puffing on their clay pipes. A handful of eyes turned to meet William’s stare. A few grinned in greeting, while most looked him up and down before turning back towards their conversations, sneers on their faces .

William self-consciously fingered his frayed sleeve. While he wore his best suit, compared to the other gentlemen, he looked more like a tattered old groom than the son of a viscount. Though he guessed he was only the latter strictly in the legal sense. William had often wondered why his father hadn’t just disowned him outright. His skin had been on the cusp of being a light enough tone that his father could make the excuse of “too much sun” to explain it away – much darker these days on account of him literally having had too much exposure to the sun. The naturally thick, black, curled hair, however, his father had no explanation for. William could only surmise that it was simply down to his father not wanting to be branded a cuckhold that he hadn’t been sent to an orphanage.

From the jeers of his brother in his teen years, William, unworldly though he might be, had surmised that his true father was of Latin origin. Most likely either Italian or perhaps Spanish. If nothing else, he was proven to have a Latin passion in more ways than one.

William made his way over to the drinks cart and poured himself a large whisky. He took a deep gulp before turning back to the gaggle of men. William had never been any good at social events. He tended to be relatively fine when he was conversing one-on-one, as it was easier to steer the conversation away from topics that his lack of education meant he was unfamiliar with, such as politics and philosophy, which somehow large groups of men, especially when there was alcohol involved, tended to discuss at length.

William scanned the crowd, hoping to find a person on their own to talk to. It didn’t take him long, for the young man was waving frantically to catch William’s attention. As William walked towards the young lad, he couldn’t help but acknowledge just how handsome the chap was. It looked as if his features had been carved from marble, even his fair hair – slicked back on his head – looked sculpted. He wagered the young lad must be close to the same height as him and just as broad. William couldn’t help but think there must be something terribly wrong if a young man as handsome as this needed help finding a bride.

William took the seat beside the young chap, who turned excitedly to him.

“This is very exciting, is it not?” the lad said.

Before William had the chance to reply, the door creaked open, and a hush fell over the room as a man, dripping in plaid, walked in. The newcomer was a couple of inches shorter than William, though just as broad, with a warrior’s posture that made most of the room hold their breath. William thought he must have been in his early fifties, with a speckling of white in his strawberry-blond mop of hair.

The newcomer settled his gaze on William. “Ah!” he said. “I see our last guest has arrived.” The man turned to the rest of the room and said, “Thank ye all for showin’ yer interest in our matchmakin’ service, gentlemen. Ma name is Angus. Shortly, ye’ll be joined by my beguiling wife, áine. In the meantime, please enjoy yerselves.”