Abby Grahame - Wentworth Hall

Although she had a mature frame, one that had produced three children, it was not the body of a woman who had just brought a newborn into the world. He had seen his wife post-child—her hips appearing wider, breasts plump with milk, and face fuller from nine months of providing food to her baby within. Besides a few extra wrinkles upon her face, Lady Darlington possessed none of these postpartum traits.

Pursing his lips, he spoke out, “Tell me the truth.”

Surprised, Lady Darlington jumped, and in doing so, snipped a rose too short and caught her finger in the process. “Ouch!” she exclaimed, brows furrowing as she turned quickly to see who had spoken. Putting her damaged finger to her lip, blood seeping down the side, she mumbled back to her husband, “About what?”

“The baby,” he replied flatly, looking stiffer than ever. His hands stuck to his hips and his face exuded irritation.

“What about James?” she asked, moving to find a bandage for her finger.

“Who is his mother?” Lord Darlington responded, not moving, flinching, or hesitating.

Lady Darlington stopped searching for the bandage, her back to her husband. Pausing, trying to think of the best words, she stammered out her answer, “What… whatever do you mean?”

Lord Darlington stepped forward. With wide, meaningful strides, he walked up in front of his wife. Fear entered her eyes as she watched him forcefully grab her wrists and hold them up beside her face. His body quivered with rage, his face turning a deep red. Lady Darlington’s eyes widened, her husband’s face not inches from hers. She glanced up to see a vein in his temple throbbing. She had not seen him this angry in years, and possibly ever.

“Don’t play coy with me!” he snarled, enraged spit flying from his lips. “Who. Is. The. Baby’s. Mother?” he said, punctuating each word, his voice reaching a crescendo of rage.

Trying to wriggle out of her husband’s grip, Lady Darlington winced at the pain coming from her wrists. “Unhand me!” she cried, twisting her face away from him.

“No! Not until you tell me the truth!” he spat, his grip tightening over his wife’s petite wrists.

Lady Darlington stared at him, pupils dilating out of fear. She took a quivering breath, trying to regain her composure. She looked her husband square in the eye. “You’re hurting me.”

He paused and gave her wrists one last meaningful squeeze before tossing her aside. “Well, you’ve hurt me. How could you lie? Why would you lie?” he asked, turning his back to her.

Lady Darlington massaged her wrists, brows knit together in pain, her finger still bleeding. Blood gently seeped down her hand and onto the floor. Realizing Lord Darlington had already come to the conclusion in his own mind, she fought back tears of fright, anger, and humiliation.

“To save the family name and Maggie’s future. You know just as well as I do that if she had a child out of wedlock, the papers would run our name through the mud. She’d never be able to find a suitable husband, and maybe even little Lila would be adversely affected,” she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking.

“Who is the father?” Lord Darlington asked, hands balling into fists.

“I don’t know,” she replied, her back still to him.

“Who is the father?” he asked once more, wheeling on his heel and facing his wife.

“I. Don’t. Know,” she responded, watching as Lord Darlington walked back over, quickly closing his proximity to her.

“Who is the father? Stop covering for her!” he shouted into her face, so close that she could smell his breath.

Palm out, she pulled back and with a quick smack, slapped Lord Darlington across the cheek. Eyes boring into each other, they waited for the other to make a move. Afraid, Lady Darlington wondered if she had made a dreadful mistake.

With a voice barely above a whisper, she said, “I told you. I don’t know. Maggie refused to tell me who the father is.”

A handprint was slowly beginning to form in red over Lord Darlington’s already crimson face. “And this is the truth?” he asked, his voice a husky whisper.

Lady Darlington nodded and recommenced massaging her bruised wrists. “I wish I knew who the father of my first grandchild was as well, but Maggie absolutely will not speak of him.”

Lord Darlington nodded slowly. “I see. Well, I am sure I can find a way to make her speak the truth.”

“She’s liked a locked safe. You’re not going to get anything from her. Believe me, I’ve tried,” replied Lady Darlington.

Lord Darlington shifted and began to walk from the room, his voice thick with emotion. “You haven’t tried like I will. Oh, she’ll speak. She’ll speak if it’s the last thing she does.…”

Lila jogged across the expansive green lawn toward Wentworth Hall. This plan was going to work. It had to work. It was the last chance for Maggie, Michael, and baby James to be together, to be a happy family with a new start.

She stopped and considered what she was about to do. It was such a bold move. And it would cost her. Her parents would probably be furious. They might never even forgive her. But Wes would be onboard. She could count on him, and even if they never forgave her, Lila knew Wes wouldn’t turn his back on her. He’d make sure she’d never be left penniless.

It had to be done. It was the right thing to do.

It was the only thing to do.

Wiping the sweat from her brow, Lila took a deep breath as she pushed open one of the heavy doors leading into Wentworth Hall. The last piece of the puzzle to her plan lay inside. Before going to Maggie, she had to convince one last person of this plan. She had to find Ian, and she had to find him fast. Time was of the essence—if she didn’t move quickly, all could be lost in a matter of moments. Hopefully, Ian and his motorcar would be willing to be of help.

Something significant had happened. Every instinct for gossip that Nora possessed told her so. She’d seen Therese earlier rushing back to the servants quarters and the girl wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Wesley was brooding on a long walk in the fields, and had opted not to take Ian. Lord Darlington’s face was scrunched into a permanent scowl and someone had quite obviously slapped him across the face. Lila had come in and darted up the stairs, seemingly in a frantic search for something or someone. Lady Darlington was lost in thought and kept rubbing her wrists. Maggie was nowhere to be seen at all.

The result was that Nora found herself squirming in a torment of curiosity. She had to get the facts on this situation. That all this activity was swirling around her and that she hadn’t a clue to what was going on was completely unacceptable.

She would speak to Therese. Nora sensed that somehow she was at the heart of this. She checked in the nursery and found the baby fast asleep. During those breaks, Therese often went to read or write letters in her bedroom. Climbing the stairs to the servants’ quarters, Nora resolved to demand the truth from the girl.

She entered their room to find the drawers of every dresser had been pulled open and emptied, and the top of Therese’s dresser had been cleared of everything that had been there except for several sheets of paper folded together. Therese must have left behind one of those letters home that she was always writing.

Moving to the closet, Nora saw that it, too, had been emptied. “She sure cleared out fast,” Nora muttered. What had sent her running away like this?

Nora lifted the folded papers from the dresser. Curious as ever, she opened the papers and began to read the top page:

Dear Nora,

If you are reading this, then you are already snooping in my things. It is all right. I had counted on it. Forgive me for departing with no parting farewell, but it was at Lord Darlington’s insistence. I thank you for your friendliness to me and would like to do something for you in return. My mother was able to afford her flower shop because of the Darlington family, and I think that the least the Darlington family can do is make it possible for you to have your tearoom. At the rate you are going, sewing when you are able, you will be an elderly woman by the time you can afford to achieve your dream. But this satire I have written will help your dream come true much faster.

Yes, your suspicions were correct, I am the author of the satires. But it was not greed that led me to betray the Darlingtons. The satire enclosed here will be my last. And it is my parting gift to you. I believe its contents will explain why I have done what I have. If you take it to them, the Sussex Courier will pay fifty pounds for it. The series has become so popular that if you insist on sixty pounds there is an excellent chance you will get your price.

Good luck to you, my friend. I hope that someday I might return to London and enjoy a cup of tea and a scone at your lovely teahouse.

Therese

So Therese was the author of those scathing satires all the while! Why did she do it? What could possibly have made her despise the Darlingtons so much that she would want to hurt them like that?

It had to have been for the money. But for that, she could have twisted Wesley around her little finger; he was clearly so enamored of her. Yet she hadn’t given him the least encouragement. Strange.

Filing the front page to the back, Nora began to read Therese’s last satire. As she scanned the handwritten piece, her eyes widened and her jaw went slack with surprise.

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF…
THE WORTHLESS SAGA
The Last Rib-Tickling Installment of our Popular New Series “What Does Another Heir Matter When There’s Nothing Left to Inherit?”

Anyone who has visited Faded Glory Manor lately has seen the depths to which the Worthless family has tumbled.

Just recently Lady Worthless was seen with her hair disheveled, her collar torn, rocking a bawling baby in her arms. “I’m too old for this!” she shouted as a door fell off its hinges. “I thought I could raise this baby as my own, but I’m simply too antiquated.” She pointed to a gilt-framed portrait of one of the Worthless ancestors—a soldier in a doublet and velvet tights—on the wall, dating back to the 1600s. “I’m almost as old as he is,” she said with a sigh. “At least I feel that way since this baby came along.”

Snobby came running in. “How is my little cutesie-bootsie today?” she asks, tickling the baby under the chin.

Lady Worthless shooed Snobby away. “Don’t even look at this baby. Someone might notice his resemblance to you and to a certain someone.”

Snobby looked away from her mother. “I can’t imagine what you might mean by that, Mother,” she said with mock sincerity.

“You understand full well what I mean,” Lady Worthless insisted.

“I assure you, I do not,” Snobby replied.

“Can I remind you of a few months back when your belly looked as if you’d swallowed a melon whole,” Lady Worthless retorted.

Snobby stuck a finger in either ear. “I can’t hear you!” she sung out.