The Dutiful Daughter. Jo Ann Brown
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all it contained.
Including the previous lord’s older daughter.
Not that she was property, but it was assumed by her mother and sister and by the residents of the nearby village that Sophia Meriweather would do her final, most important duty to her father and marry the new baron and give him a male heir to keep an unbroken line at the estate.
Sophia slowly rose from the rosewood desk in the book-room. If she did not marry the new lord, she and her mother and sister would be relegated to the dower cottage where nobody had lived for more than thirty years. Her fingers curled on the edge of the desk. Papa had assured her that once the war was over, they would travel to the places on the Continent that he had visited on his grand tour before the French Revolution and Napoleon’s wars.
But her father was dead, and she was expected to marry a man she had never met.
Sophia raised her chin. She had promised Papa before he died that she would take care of Mama, her sister, Catherine, and Meriweather Hall. That was a promise she must keep. Therefore she would present Meriweather Hall in its best light and at its most welcoming. It did not matter that the new baron had not had the forethought to send a messenger ahead to alert them to his arrival so early in the day. Learning to live with how the new Lord Meriweather handled his household was something they must do.
Affixing a smile, she said, “Thank you, Ogden. I trust you had him escorted to the formal parlor.”
The barons of Meriweather Hall had received guests in that room since the manor house was built in the 16th century. But the new Lord Meriweather is no guest. She silenced that perfidious thought. She had known this day was coming, and she had prayed to be prepared for it. Now she must trust God would help her be.
“They are waiting for you there, Miss Meriweather.” Ogden’s voice was calm.
Hers was not, because it squeaked when she asked, “They?”
“Lord Meriweather has not traveled here alone.” The butler’s face was placid. Only that faint tremble in his fingers revealed that he was as on edge as she was.
Sophia squared her shoulders. Greeting the baron and his traveling companions was her duty. Mother still was not receiving because she remained in mourning.
“Where is Catherine?” she asked, for she had not seen her younger sister that morning.
“Miss Catherine is in her private chambers. Shall I let her know of Lord Meriweather’s arrival?”
“Do so, and have rooms aired for the baron and his guests.” She added as the butler turned to obey, “Ogden, my mother need not be bothered now. I will inform her of Lord Meriweather’s arrival after I have greeted him and his companions.”
“As you wish, Miss Meriweather. But if she asks...”
“Tell her the truth that I have made arrangements for the baron and our—his other guests.” She hoped she would not speak unwisely in the presence of the new baron. Meriweather Hall was no longer her home. It belonged to a man who was setting foot in it for the very first time today.
Sophia took a steadying breath as she walked into the corridor that lead to the front of the house and the formal parlor. A few lamps had been lit to fight back the gray dreariness of the rainy September morning. She did not need light to wind her way past tables and cabinets and the pictures that were lost in the shadows. She knew each inch of the house, because except for a single visit to London for the Season, she had spent every night beneath its roof.
She heard the men’s voices before she reached the formal parlor. The sound, deep and resonant, seemed out of place in the house. One man chuckled, and she wondered if she had heard a male laugh in Meriweather Hall since her father took ill.
Taking a deep breath as she paused by the wide staircase that led to the gallery above, Sophia murmured a quick prayer that God would put the right words on her lips. If it were only her future, she might find this easier, but she had to think of her duty to her family.
Beside the doorway stood Jessup, one of the footmen, who must have escorted the guests there. She smiled a greeting, but he looked hastily away. He probably wished to keep her from seeing how upset he was by the abrupt change in the house.
Her eyes widened when she saw three men in the chamber. All wore rain-drenched brown greatcoats and mud-splattered boots. Their tall hats perched on the circular window seat in the bow window. She was glad they had not thrown their coats on the yellow settee or the marble-topped tables. But mostly, she was pleased to see they were of above-average height. Her one Season in London had been humiliating, because she had not been able to ignore the whispers about how tall she was and who would marry such a Long Meg when there were many petite dolls to choose from?
If her distant cousin shared that belief, it could be disastrous for her family. So, which of the three men was Edmund Herriott?
Was he the redhead who stood with his hands clasped behind his back by the window that offered the best view of Sanctuary Bay? Or was he the light-haired man examining a painting on the chimneypiece? That man was at least five inches shorter than the man by the window, which meant he probably would stand eye to eye with her.
Surely the new Lord Meriweather must be the third man. He was also not as tall as the gangly ginger-haired man, but was well over six feet tall with broad shoulders. He stood in profile to her, so she had an excellent view of rugged features beneath his black hair. Well-shaped mouth, aristocratic nose, firm jaw. His greatcoat was whipped back on one side to reveal an unadorned black waistcoat with silver buttons. Dark brown breeches ended in his mud-stained boots, which he wore with the ease of a man used to a rough life of overseeing his estate and tenants.
Her gaze was caught by his eyes that were as dark as his hair. Heat scored her face when she realized he had been watching her appraise him with candid curiosity. In return he regarded her with cool detachment before looking away as if she were unworthy of his time.
If he is the baron, give me patience, dear God, she prayed. She had seen men with an expression like his in London. Men so certain of their place in the world that they disdained anyone else’s. If she were to marry him... She shivered at the very thought.
“Good morning,” Sophia said as she stepped into the room. She hoped her fingers did not shake visibly as Ogden’s had. “I am Sophia Meriweather, and I welcome you to Meriweather Hall. I trust your journey here was uneventful. North Yorkshire autumns can be beautiful, even though today’s rain and chill winds off the sea are dismal.” She was babbling, but she could not halt herself as the three men focused on her. Wishing the new baron would identify himself, she decided she must guess. She turned to the dark-haired man. “We hope you soon will feel at home here as we do, Lord Meriweather.”
His eyes narrowed, but she saw something flicker within them. She was unsure what the strong emotion was. “I am not your cousin,” he said, then gestured to the light-haired man by the hearth. “Herriott, come forward and greet your cousin.”
Heat scored Sophia’s face. She wished she could leave and come back in again so she could avoid such a faux pas. Why had she assumed the man with the most powerful aura was the new baron? Her distant cousin had held no title before, and the dark-haired man exhibited the air of someone accustomed to deference.
Shrugging off his greatcoat, the new Lord Meriweather hurried to greet her. He was well-favored, but his face did not hold her gaze as the dark-haired man’s had. Who was the other man?
She could not ask that now. She must greet her cousin—the new Lord Meriweather—prettily. He had an uneasy smile as his gaze swept over her. Was he shocked at her height as other men had been? He was, now that he stood in front of her, a bare inch taller than she was. She resisted the urge to pat her blond hair to be sure it had not loosened from its chignon. She realized she should have changed before greeting the gentlemen, because she wore a simple light blue gown that had no lace or ruffles on its hem. What must Lord Meriweather think of her receiving them in such a simple gown?
“Forgive me,” he said. “I was captivated by the elegant