The Earl’s Imperfect Countess (Preview)

Chapter One

A tender shoot grows strong with hope,

Lest you bind its potential with tightened rope.

~Miss Margaret Whitmore

 

1816

Hampshire, England

A full-chested sneeze escaped Margaret’s mouth, forcing her to briefly close her eyes. As a little girl, she had tried to keep her eyes open when sneezing, but it was impossible.

“Dusty attic,” she muttered, wrinkling her itchy nose.

She rubbed it and paused with a heavy groan. Those very fingers were smudged with charcoal—evidence of working on a picturesque landscape. It was a non-existent piece of land that she had imagined lay just beyond the sparse woods of her aunt and uncle’s humble estate. Margaret could almost hear the bubbling brook where she might dip her feet on a warm summer’s day, or see the winding pathway of hedgerows leading to the cheerful body of water in her mind’s eye. It was unfortunate that her guardians’ estate lacked such features. Feeling a little cheeky, she considered how the estate’s lack of charming nature spots represented her aunt’s lack of warmth and her uncle’s rather simple mind.

“Miss Whitmore.”

Margaret’s head snapped up to find her old nanny, Mary, enter the room, her back bowed with age and labor. She set her sketchpad aside and quickly wiped her smudged fingers and nose with a dark blue handkerchief that had seen better days.

“I told you not to trouble yourself, Mary,” she gently admonished, taking the tray from her. “Climbing all those steps is not good for your bad knee and back.”

Mary pursed her lips as she massaged her left knee. “It’s my duty to take care of you,” she pointed out.

“I’m twenty-one,” Margaret argued. “Not ten.”

She placed the rattling tray of tea, bread, cheese, sliced roast beef, and fruit on a small table nearby, grunting slightly from the weight.

“You could be forty-one and I’d still care,” Mary claimed in that raspy voice Margaret loved. “That pair certainly wouldn’t care about you the way I do.”

Mary meant Aunt Beatrice and Uncle Edmund. She wasn’t wrong. Margaret was more of a bother to them and wisely kept out of their way unless she had no other choice. 

Sighing, Margaret pointed at a stool. “Sit and rest for a moment,” she insisted. “You shouldn’t have come all the way up to the attic just to sneak food to me. You know Aunt Beatrice dislikes meals eaten outside of the specified times.”

Mary dismissed the mild scolding with a wave of her thin, slightly bony hands. “A little exercise does this body good,” she said. “And you eat like a bird. You need to eat small meals throughout the day, rather than two large ones. I tried to make your aunt understand this years ago, but she refused to listen.”

Mary curled her lips in disgust as she poured tea into a cup, added three cubes of sugar, and a generous amount of cream. She stirred it swiftly and handed it to Margaret.

“Thank you, Mary,” she said. Margaret took a grateful sip and released a satisfied sigh. “Sweet and creamy—just the way I like it.”

“Of course,” said Mary. “Now, eat up. You need more fat on your frame if you mean to birth children one day. Good, sturdy hips and a large bust.” She looked at Margaret’s body with a sigh. “Although, that may be impossible. You have a small, delicate frame just like your mother.”

“I’m happy with my small frame,” Margaret told her. “Better to be content with what God has given you than to pine after unrealistic wishes and wants.”

She broke off a piece of bread and dipped it in her tea. She didn’t let it get too soggy—just a brief dip to moisten it. It was an old habit she had picked up from Mary, but she didn’t dare reveal it in front of others, especially her aunt.

“Eat more meat,” Mary urged. “I picked pieces with good fat marbled throughout. It should melt in your mouth. Pair it with the cheese and fruit.”

Margaret smiled. “Are you going to watch me eat?”

“Just for a moment,” said Mary. “I promised Mrs. Hilton that I’d discuss the week’s meals with Cook. They’re still not talking to each other.”

“Still?” said Margaret. “I thought they realized the matter with Mr. Jenkins was just a misunderstanding. He wasn’t flirting with either of them. He was just being friendly.”

Mary shrugged. “When women are starved for love, even friendliness is enough to bring hope to a despairing heart. Mrs. Hilton has been a widow for five years, and Cook never married.” She tilted her head with a sad smile. “You’re not a stranger to such feelings.”

Margaret blushed almost immediately. “That certainly isn’t something I like to think about.”

Falling for a scoundrel was never high on any woman’s list of priorities, but at least she had gained experience and was less naive. The next time infatuation threatened to overtake her common sense, she would remind herself about her folly and remain grounded.

Mary slowly rose, wincing as she straightened her back. “No, best not think about Mr. William Drake,” she agreed. “I must leave, but give me your word you will not spend too much time here. It’s dusty and needs to be cleaned.”

“Just another hour while Aunt Beatrice has her tea,” said Margaret. “I rarely have the chance to pursue art under her close observation.”

Which was why she was hiding in a section of the attic. Her aunt had a visitor—an old friend, Mrs. Harriet Bowler, who always had the latest news—so Margaret had more uninterrupted time than usual. Aunt Beatrice often had her friend for tea to hear the latest gossip, under the pretense of concern for others. After all, ladies did not gossip, but strategic conversations were most beneficial.  

Mary left the attic soon after, but not without lovingly warning Margaret that she needed to eat most of the food and to leave the tray on the table, as she would collect it later. Smiling, Margaret sampled a slice of sun-ripened peach, a luxury for her because her aunt was rather stingy when it came to the best fruits, vegetables, and meat. Aunt Beatrice wasn’t overt about it, but it was an unspoken rule that Margaret could not freely eat certain foods, and if she was allowed some, it was sparingly. Apparently, becoming an orphan many years ago had been a blight on their lives, and they were still suffering despite her being of marriageable age.

Margaret’s smile dropped slightly. No one had ever wished to lose their parents and become an orphan. No one wanted to become a burden on their relatives, living every day with the reminder that they were unwanted. Margaret had gone from being loved and cherished by her parents to being neglected by her guardians. She received just enough care to not raise eyebrows—dresses, food, and a questionable governess to provide necessary education, but not once had she received an embrace, kind words, or affection. Only Mary had held her close in secret, stroking her hair and soothing her during her darkest hours.

Thinking about her maid made her smile again. Life wasn’t entirely terrible. Frankly, it could have been worse. At the end of the day, Margaret had a warm bed, nourishing food, and her love of poetry and art. Together with a stern but affectionate maid, she had a good life. As long as she didn’t upset Aunt Beatrice, her days could pass by peacefully with only mild cold looks of indifference or disapproval thrown in her direction, usually over meals. Uncle Edmund was too weak and spineless to cause a ripple in Margaret’s life. Aunt Beatrice made all the decisions, and he merely went along with them. While he wasn’t unkind, he was often too absorbed in his world to care about his niece.  

Margaret shrugged slightly. There was no use dwelling on the situation. Instead, focusing on her artwork, something she couldn’t partake in as much as she wished, was a better activity.

After wrapping a piece of cheese in cold meat, Margaret popped it into her mouth, picked up her sketchbook, and returned to her landscape drawing. The image in her head continued to come alive under her fingers, each swipe of the charcoal and intentional smudge of a fingertip forming shadows and highlights. This was where her heart lay—creating pieces of art that held the imprint of her soul; her hopes and dreams. Poetry was a close second. It was her voice on paper, but like her current reality, it was silenced mainly by her cold and judgmental environment.

Margaret’s eyes drifted to the pile of sketchbooks and poetry journals on a nearby stool. Some of the books were frayed and falling apart from age, their yellowed edges a stark contrast against the newer pages. The pile looked like it had been shifted, likely by Mary while cleaning the space. The old maid insisted on taking care of the small section of the attic herself, always keeping it as clean as possible. Unfortunately, her failing eyesight meant that she didn’t quite manage to clean everything, often leaving layers of dust on the sparse furniture. Margaret didn’t mind, though.

She suddenly paused. Sticking out of one of the sketchbooks was a velvet ribbon she recognized immediately. The once pretty pink hue bore the evidence of a terrible fire, with nearly half of the fabric almost completely scorched. Billows of smoke flashed in her mind, followed by flames that traveled toward her as though they meant to devour her. It was an old memory; one she quickly repressed before it progressed any further.  

It took a moment, but she was able to focus on the drawing once again and continue nibbling from the tray. The tea had grown cold, but she continued to drink it. She didn’t mind cold tea. She had grown used to it after her aunt’s numerous moments of necessary discipline. Margaret snorted. If one could call it discipline when an adult chose to withhold food from a child for a mere slight, like a little stain on an old, ill-fitting dress.  

A sharp, piercing voice unexpectedly cut through the silence in the attic, startling her. Margaret hurriedly gripped her sketchbook as it began to slide off her lap and grew still. She barely breathed as she cocked her head to hear more.

“It needs a little renovation, Harriet,” Aunt Beatrice said. “But I believe it would be perfect as my private parlor. I do not know why I never considered this before.”

Aunt Beatrice and her friend were right below the attic. It seemed they were inspecting one of the rarely used rooms. It was initially a guest room, but over time, it evolved into a storage area for any items that overflowed from the attic.

“It has lovely potential,” said Mrs. Bowler. “Although one might question where your priorities lie these days. Surely, your niece deserves just as much attention—does she not have any suitors? Lady Munster’s daughter was recently engaged, and she’s younger than Miss Whitmore.”

Margaret closed her eyes and inwardly groaned. She could already imagine her aunt’s spine stiffening and her long, thin face taking on that pinched look. Mentioning her lack of suitors was one of the worst things one could do when Aunt Beatrice was present. The woman took it personally, as though Margaret had deliberately chosen not to get married.

“Well, funny that you should mention that,” her aunt said, not sounding annoyed at all. “I have the perfect suitor for my niece. In fact, he has already agreed to the match. He asked for it himself.”

Margaret’s body grew slack, and her sketchbook clattered to the floor with a resounding thud. She had not heard anything about a suitor. Her aunt had to be lying to save face. 

“What was that?” she heard Mrs. Bowler ask.

“I do not know,” Aunt Beatrice replied. “I’ll have one of the servants investigate the matter. I certainly hope it’s not rats. I despise the filthy little rodents.”

Wincing, Margaret slowly slid off the stool and picked up the sketchbook, placing it on her seat. There was no use returning to her sketch. Far greater matters were at stake.

“Is the attic directly above us?” said Mrs. Bowler. “Perhaps they have a nest.”

“It is the attic,” Aunt Beatrice confirmed. “I’ll have a servant inspect it. One area is used for storage, while the other is for the servants’ rooms. It seems to be coming from the storage area, which should be regularly cleaned. Perhaps I should inspect it myself.”

Margaret shook her head, praying her aunt wouldn’t come to the attic. She would see the art supplies, easels, and everything else she preferred to keep from prying eyes. It wasn’t that her aunt or uncle had forbidden her from pursuing such pastimes, but they often mocked her interests, called them a waste of time, and had pointed out that she had no true talent. It was simply easier to keep them to herself.

“Doing it yourself is best,” said Mrs. Bowler. “It ensures the servants never grow lazy. Now, tell me more about this suitor. Do you know him well?”

Margaret found herself tiptoeing to the door. She also wanted to know about the so-called suitor. If there were such a man. She was willing to brave being caught by the women just to find out. She had already come up with an excuse in case her aunt saw her. Margaret would say she had been in the attic searching for an old toy to add to the local church’s growing collection of gifts for orphaned children. It wasn’t entirely a lie. She had needed to find the toy—one of the few that survived the fire unscathed—but she had already seen it a few days ago. However, her aunt didn’t know that. Since she was a prominent member of the church and part of the committee that had voted to accept old toys rather than purchase new ones, her reprimand would be softer than usual.

A little shuffling below her momentarily muffled her aunt’s response, but she clearly heard the name Thornfield. It sounded familiar, but no immediate information came to mind.

“The Earl of Thornfield?” Mrs. Bowler all but screeched. “How did you manage that? Your niece, while attractive in her own way, wouldn’t quite be a wealthy and handsome earl’s first choice.”

Margaret rubbed her chest, soothing the little pang of pain. The comment stung a little. Her aunt had often bemoaned her lack of vibrancy and beauty to catch a man’s eye. Margaret was a wallflower through and through, a painfully shy woman who preferred to cling to corners rather than partake in large group conversations. She always found crowds so overwhelming, like an incessant buzz of voices, smells, expressions, and hidden motives. She much preferred an intellectual conversation with one person or her own company… while surrounded by nature. That was true bliss.

“…quiet, obedient girl,” Margaret heard her aunt say as she crept toward the staircase. “That is what a man like him needs. I suppose the other young women were too prideful about their beauty, and their behavior didn’t translate into what he believes would make a good wife.”

Margaret gripped the balustrade tightly, her heart pounding so loudly that her ears felt a little deaf. Aunt Beatrice sounded sincere and not at all as if she were coming up with an elaborate lie.

“Men like him do appreciate obedience and submission more than beauty,” Mrs. Bowler agreed. “Although it would be better if she were an obedient and submissive beauty. Still, she is comely enough to satisfy a man.”

“Precisely,” said Aunt Beatrice. “Also, Margaret isn’t the demanding type, although I wish she had a little more common sense to rub together. She’s just so bland. Even I was surprised when the earl expressed interest. Naturally, I assumed my husband was lying when he first mentioned it to me.”

“Well, it is just your luck,” said Mrs. Bowler. “You gain a powerful family member through this marriage. What does your niece say about the engagement? I’m assuming they are engaged?”

“Yes, it is an engagement,” Aunt Beatrice confirmed.

Margaret’s knees gave way, forcing her to clutch the balustrade to keep herself from falling, but she still slid and landed with a soft plop on the top step. She was engaged to a man she didn’t even know. No wonder her aunt and uncle had seemed happier than usual lately. They had even exchanged smug looks during meals, but Margaret had not paid them much attention. Getting through the meal without bringing attention to herself was her first priority. It made her life more peaceful.

As she sat there, she turned the earl’s name over in her mind repeatedly, her eyes narrowing as bits of information filtered through the confusion. Her eyes soon snapped wide open. She knew who he was!

“Heavens,” she softly cried, pressing her palm to her forehead.

The man was the definition of an iceberg in human form. His cold demeanor, indifference, and lack of warmth made him a formidable man whom no one wanted to cross. Some women found him increasingly handsome because of this, but Margaret had only felt mild discomfort whenever she had been anywhere near him. Considering he had never once glanced in her direction, she couldn’t understand why he would suddenly wish to marry her. It made no sense, which worried her even more.

Dread had knotted in her belly so painfully that the food she had eaten churned like soured milk. She burped a little, grimacing at the acrid taste in her mouth. However, it wasn’t as bitter as the knowledge that her aunt and uncle had sealed her fate without her consent. It was wrong and unfair. At twenty-one, she didn’t need their approval, and they had no right to force anything upon her.

Anger coursed through her, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come. If she refused the marriage, her guardians would likely withdraw their financial support. Margaret didn’t have the means to take care of herself, not even an inheritance or dowry to speak of. Apparently, everything that had belonged to her parents was used to pay their debts, leaving her aunt and uncle to support her financially. That story still didn’t sit well with her, but she could do nothing about a gut feeling.

“…generous in-law,” said Mrs. Bowler.

“That was precisely my thinking,” Aunt Beatrice said. “A man like him understands familial ties, and my niece will undoubtedly influence him in our favor. After all, we took her in when she had nothing.”

“You’re such a saint, Beatrice,” Mrs. Bowler claimed. “It couldn’t have been easy raising someone else’s child. I must say you’ve done a splendid job given what you had to work with. Getting her married to Lord Thornfield is nothing short of incredible.”

Aunt Beatrice chuckled, sounding pleased. “Well, I admit that I poured a lot of time and attention into my niece,” she lied. “Also, the Whitmore name still bears some weight. Being the daughter of a viscount also added to the favorable combination.”

Margaret snorted. Mary had raised her, and they had provided the bare minimum to avoid questioning eyes—that was it. Still, at least she had had a home.

“Your niece must be pleased with the engagement,” said Mrs. Bowler.

Margaret shifted closer to the other side of the balustrade to hear what her aunt would say.

“Of course, she is pleased,” said Aunt Beatrice. “She is to be married soon. What girl is not excited about her wedding day? The earl is preparing everything, so I do not even need to lift a finger. My husband and I simply need to take her to the church when the time comes.”

The tightness that had entered Margaret’s chest earlier grew more constricted. She had once seen a watercolor of a golden-skinned, exotic man being encircled by a large python, his eyes bulging and face turning blue and purple from lack of oxygen. That was precisely how she felt at that moment. Panic surged through her, giving room for a single rebellious thought: run away. If she ran away, perhaps she could find someone willing to help her. Someone had to realize that what her aunt and uncle wished to do was wrong, but even as those thoughts filled her mind, others chased them off with common sense. Margaret was all alone. She had no other family she knew of enough to help, and she didn’t even have friends she could rely on. She was isolated and vulnerable.

The weight of that truth sat on her like a boulder, crushing her beneath its imposing size. She shifted, trying to throw off some of the heaviness. The movement caused a brief, but very loud creak as her foot pressed down on a floorboard. Margaret stilled as the conversation inside the room nearby halted.

“That sounds like it came from the staircase,” her aunt said, her voice sounding closer than before.

Margaret didn’t think twice. She turned and fled toward the attic, keeping on her toes and only running on the carpeted area to soften her footsteps. She entered the dusty room and gently closed the door behind her, walking backward a few steps before she stopped. Her chest heaved with emotion more than physical exertion. She bent over to catch her breath, her hand leaning on the pile of sketchbooks and journals. Margaret snatched the velvet ribbon hanging within reach, the sudden need for the familiarity of her past filling her mind and heart. She clutched it to her chest, straightened, and stared out of the window. She wasn’t really staring at anything in particular. The chaos of her thoughts prevented her from seeing with clarity.

Margaret didn’t know how long she had stood there, but it must have been a while because the room had grown a little darker. She was startled when a hand touched her side, making her yelp softly and step away.

“It’s only me, miss,” said Mary. “Is something wrong? I called out to you several times, but you didn’t respond. Why do you look so pale? Did something happen?”

Mary’s sincere concern was Margaret’s undoing. “Oh, Mary,” she sobbed, walking toward her maid and leaning her brow on the woman’s shoulder.

Mary’s hands instantly rose to comfort her, patting her back rhythmically. “There, there, now,” she said. “Tell me what happened. Tell me why you seem so distraught.”

Margaret raised her head; her eyes filled with unshed tears. “I just heard some terrible news,” she revealed. “Aunt Beatrice and Uncle Edmund mean to marry me off to that horrid man, the Earl of Thornfield.”

Mary frowned. “Where did you hear this?”

“Just now,” said Margaret. “I overheard Aunt Beatrice talking to Mrs. Barlow about it. It’s already settled, Mary! They’re going to make me marry him. I cannot even reject the marriage because I haven’t a penny to my name.”

She released a broken sob and tucked her head into the crook of her maid’s neck. The familiar scent of lavender—stolen from the neighbor’s garden—soothed her slightly, but it wasn’t enough to remove the fear of the unknown.

“I understand how you feel, miss,” said Mary, stroking her hair. “But to be honest, I have only heard good things about the earl. Yes, he is rather stern and cold, but he is also respectful. I haven’t heard a single scandal about him, which is no small feat. This could be good. You could get out from under your aunt and uncle’s rule.”

  “But at what expense?” said Margaret, her words slightly muffled. “I still will not have freedom.”

“There is freedom in security,” said Mary. “The earl can give you that security by giving you the title of wife and countess. Not to mention access to his wealth and bearing him an heir. If you’re smart, which I believe you are, you can make the most of the situation. Just think about it.”

Margaret frowned and pulled away, turning her back on her maid. She expected Mary to be a little more sympathetic toward her, but instead, she seemed pleased with the news.

“Do not be angry, miss,” Mary coaxed, touching her back. “I am merely giving you food for thought. Think of the possibilities. Still, I will support you no matter the path you choose.”

Margaret scoffed miserably. “What path? What choice do I have? Poverty or marriage are hardly choices.”

Life had taken away her parents, and now it wished to permanently steal her future happiness. She certainly felt forsaken by the Almighty her mother had loved, or perhaps He had simply forgotten about her existence. Whichever it might be, it still meant only one thing for Margaret: misery.