No Choice But Surrender Read online

  But now as she sat on the cold stone bench and looked at the house, she found it much more powerful now in contrast to the neglected landscape. There were no hills or stately elms to soften its effect. Rather, it sat on an immense flat plain by a long finger lake and completely overwhelmed even the largest of the trees nearby, a tall spindly oak.

  She eyed the withering tree. The harsh winter was taking its toll on it. She had started on a melancholy walk about the grounds for the comfort found in the desolate landscape. Its very bleakness offered the respite she needed from the opu­lence of the house.

  From the marble bench near the pebbled carriage drive, she allowed the house to take over her thoughts. She watched the pair of white griffons, noting the stance of their lifted paws and thinking that they looked as if they had been raised a bit since the day before. The Elizabethan turrets on all four cor­ners were incongruous with the neoclassical facade. Brienne wondered if long ago there had been a comfortable, happy house where the portentous one now stood.

  But she only had a few memories of Osterley at an earlier time, because she'd moved from it as a child of five. She re­membered the coldness of the gallery, in which the great Venetian windows at each end had never seemed to break the drafts. Now the windows were bricked up. And she remem­bered her mother's room, which had been the exact color of sunshine and had always smelled of orange blossom. Brienne had an unpleasant memory of that room. She had had a night­mare and had run to find her mother, but her mother hadn't been in her room. The maid had come to put Brienne to bed again, but the servant's explanation that her mother had duties in another room had left her feeling even more frightened and alone.

  Brienne looked down at her mended brown mitts and shook her head. Despite her memories and her mother's accounts of Osterley, she had still been unprepared for its greatness. She had been overwhelmed by the magnificent house as soon as she entered its gates. The very fact that she was its only resi­dent, aside from the servants, gave it that much more com­mand over her. Day after day, she walked through the elabo­rate rooms, more as a servant than as the daughter of Lord Oliver, the eighth Earl of Laborde. She found it ironic that she, small and shabby, was his only claim to manhood and the only bearer of his name.

  Her mother's stories hadn't always been truthful. She twisted uncomfortably on the cold marble bench. Her thoughts turned to a miniature stowed in a secret panel of her bedroom chest of drawers. She had found the miniature in a trunk at "an old merchant's house in Tenby right after her mother had died. It was a picture of a man's angelic profile, painted neatly on a thin sheet of ivory. He was young and very handsome, but his beauty had not made her gasp. Rather, what the miniature had seemed to imply was a greater shock.

  It was something Brienne had wondered about for years. Had her mother ever been in love? She knew her mother had never loved the earl. Brienne's father had proven himself un­worthy of love. So who was this beautiful man in the minia­ture? she had asked herself. Was he a distant cousin who even now pined for her mother? Or was he a sea captain who kept Grace Morrow in his thoughts even though he might be clear on the other side of the world?

  Holding the miniature to her breast, Brienne had clung to her romantic fancies. There was comfort in believing her mother had known love after all. That she hadn't gone through her short life having known only one man, Oliver Morrow, who had treated her more as an ornament for his precious Osterley than as a woman who could be hurt by harsh words and rough hands. Though Brienne knew there would have been consequences had her mother had a relationship with another man, she chose not to dwell on those. In the distant corners of her mind, she thought she herself bore a likeness to the gentleman in the picture. But then, she told herself sternly, perhaps she was reading more into the picture than was warranted. The only thing she knew for sure was that the miniature had meant a lot to her mother. It had been important enough to keep all these years, and for that reason it had been a precious find.

  That search for valuables had been necessary for more than just personal reasons. The creditors had come to call. A tup­pence pending for a long-ago-worn-out bolt of cloth and a shilling owed for a long-ago-eaten side of pork had added up. Not long after that, she realized she would have to leave Wales.

  There had been long sleepless nights when she'd been over­whelmed with doubts and fears. She'd lain awake in the top room and stared at the arched rafters, holding the precious miniature in her cold palm. Now and then she'd risen, only to find small relief in opening the leaden mullioned windows to the night air. Finally she'd made a decision. There would be no joy in her new home. She had shuddered at the thought of a chance meeting with the man she knew as her father. But she really had no choice. She had nowhere else to go.

  Being forced to move, she had had to part with many of their treasured belongings—several of her mother's pearl pins, all her mother's gowns and most of her own, and all their wonderful books, including volumes of Shakespeare and Chaucer. But there had been two things Brienne had refused to part with, no matter how urgent her need for money. One was a gold and amethyst comb that she'd found with the tiny portrait. It was a bittersweet reminder of her mother's kind eyes, the same shade of blue-violet as her own. And the other precious possession was the miniature.

  Brienne sat very still on the bench. Her mind was flooded with memories. They left a bad taste in her mouth and gave her a deep, lonely ache inside her belly. But she'd enjoyed one bit of good fortune in the recent past: Her father had been blessedly absent from Osterley in the month she'd been there. And from what she could gather from the servants' gossip, he was not expected back anytime soon.

  So absorbed was she in her thoughts that she didn't notice a fashionable coach-and-four enter the grounds until it was al­most in front of the house. Before she could rise from her bench, the familiar figure of her father's solicitor sprang from the vehicle and made his way toward her. His gait was impa­tient.

  "Good day," Brienne said from her position on the bench. Warily, she wondered what had inspired this unwelcome visit.

  "Good day, Lady Brienne. No, please do not rise. I won't be staying long." The dour man stood over her and continued in an arrogant manner. "I have come to inform you that I am no longer your father's solicitor. He hasn't the funds for my services." He looked as if he expected a reaction of some son from her, but she disappointed him by not giving him one.

  "Excuse me for my candor," she finally spoke up, "but I don't see the necessity to inform me of that. I have never had any need of your services."

  "There is something else. Your father has been in America for some time now. He has been found to have gambled ex­cessively." The solicitor eyed her; this time he was hoping to provoke a reaction from her. "He has had heavy losses."

  "Yes?" Brienne looked up at him. Her eyes held no appre­hension whatsoever.

  "In fact, he has lost everything. He gambled and lost Os­terley entirely."

  "I see." She thought about this bit of news for a second or two and then brushed it aside. "I shall inform the servants. Is there anything in particular they need to be told?"

  "Excuse me, Lady Brienne. I don't know if you heard me correctly. I said the earl has lost Osterley. You are in effect homeless."

  "Yes, I heard you correctly the first time. And I'm not sur­prised. How very like my father—by the mere draw of a card, to lose such a magnificent home, not caring whose livelihood he has ruined."

  "The new master has requested the servants to remain here. In his letter he asked me to inform them that he will choose who is to go once he has arrived."

  "And when do you expect that will be?" She was noncha­lant, reasoning that she would be far away from Osterley by that time.

  "It's hard to say, but my guess would be the end of the week at the latest, perhaps even tomorrow, according to the dates he stated in the letter."

  Finally the solicitor got the reaction he'd been waiting for. Gasping out loud, she stared at him in disbelief. "Surely you are jesting! Why was I not given notice?"

  "Letters from the Colonies more often than not arrive with the senders, my lady. This was the best I could do. I myself just received notice of your father's impoverished state." The bony solicitor couldn't hide his look of distaste. "He has re­lieved me of my services and informed me of his difficulty in returning to England. I fear that the war and his lack of funds for passage have found him in dire straits."

  "Well, at least that is good news," she murmured under her breath.

  The solicitor cleared his throat. "Though I have not yet been paid for my past services for the earl, I nonetheless did find it my duty to drive here and offer you my assistance. If I may make one suggestion, my lady, the place in Bath is still in your father's possession, I believe. And I know he still has a small, modest town house in London. I expect that when he returns to England, he will arrive there. I'm certain, as he is your father, that he would not find it objectionable if you were to take up residence there in the meantime."

  "Perhaps he would not find it objectionable, but I would. I've come to Osterley only for a short time while I find a more suitable place to live. My stay here will just have to be cut."

  "The new master seems very charitable. I'm certain he would not be disagreeable if you remained here until further arrangements were made. Of course, anyone would under­stand your humiliation at accepting such an indecent offer."

  "Humiliation? Why should I feel humiliated by accepting the kindness of a stranger? The true humiliation is living un­der my father's "kindness." My mother could have told you about that." She mumbled these last words, not willing to elaborate on the subject.

  "Well, if it does not bother you, Lady Brienne, I'm sure Master Avenel Slane would bid you to stay until it is comfort­able for you to leave. The situation's lack of propriety is shock­ing, but if you are not bothered by it, then I shall offer no further advice."

  "You can tell my father, if by chance you see him, that not only will I accept the kind Master Slane's offer, should he extend it, but to avoid the earl's company, I would even con­sider taking up a position permanently in the new master's household." She laughed and then added, "Yes, do inform him of that. Tell him I would prefer being a scullery maid at Osterley than living with him in London. You will tell him, won't you?" She looked up at the man; her beautiful eyes were alive with merriment.

  "Yes, my lady. If that is what you wish." He looked at her as if she were crazed. Then, perhaps because he thought her daft­ness made her vulnerable to him, his eyes wandered over her rich auburn hair. It was so dark it could pass for magenta. Her figure was petite and young, and its only fullness was found in her chest and her hips. There was an invitation in his small, squinty eyes, but Brienne dealt with it by staring at him with a stony expression until he realized his flirtation was hopeless. She had told him she was willing to stay on in a stranger's house rather than live "respectably" with her father, but she would never take a lover, not one of her choosing or anyone else's. She watched determinedly as the solicitor swiftly took his leave without offering her pity or solace.

  She knew she had to inform the army of servants and make her own plans before Avenel Slane showed up. Brienne de­jectedly got off the bench. Making her way through the grand portico and across the uncovered courtyard, she noticed that all was eerily silent—too silent for such an immense and well- furbished house. It was a testament to the fact that there was no owner in residence—yet.

  CHAPTER TWO

  "She's been sitting there for days." The footman eyed the scroll end stool, covered in dark blue leather, on which Brienne sat quietly. The fireplaces crackled with warmth in the two opposite apses. Their fires contrasted with the cold marble hall that was filled with Ro­man statues, now white from age. With no more hospitable place to go, she sat watching the flames, waiting for the new owner perhaps more anxiously than the two footmen who watched her.

  She'd had little luck in trying to leave. No coach would be hired for the amount she was able to pay. She had yet even to figure out where to go. London held little appeal for her; it was too big and she knew not a soul there. At her father's town house she would encounter him should he return from the Colonies, so she had ruled that out right away. Then there was Bath. She knew there were bound to be old friends of her mother's there, taking the waters and enjoying the social whirl. But how would she get there? She had come to a grand stumbling block. And then she had run out of time.

  She got up, wrapped her cloak around her, and smiled at the two elderly footmen as she went out the door. The sting of freezing rain met her face, and she wrapped the cloak even more tightly around her. She ran across the courtyard to the great portico and stood there watching the drive. Leaning on one of the smooth Ionic columns that loomed over her, she felt as if the house watched her even more closely than the two griffons as she made her way under their pediment.

  Then she caught an observing eye. Suddenly she laughed as she saw the upstairs maid, Annie, whip the yellow taffeta cur­tains closed from a bedroom on the second floor.

  They all think I'm daft, she said to herself and smiled bitterly. And why shouldn't they? They've had the pleasure of living with my father. They must think madness runs in the family. With that she let out a low laugh and wiped some of the rain from her face.

  She stood very quietly, too agitated to wait in her room. Despite her ladylike manners, she sought the rain and the cold as a buffer from the house. Soon she spied a large coach mak­ing its way through the gates. Her stomach spinned and then tightened as she watched the elaborately japanned, sleek green vehicle move closer. Its gold and red crest shone brilliantly, despite the dark, dismal day.

  "So he's here!" she exclaimed in a small voice.

  Nervously she ran into the great hall, which was now bus­tling in anticipation of the new owner. Up in her bedroom she shed her wet cloak and grabbed some hairpins from her dress­ing table. She haphazardly placed these into her damp auburn hair while contemplating which of her gowns would be best for such a situation. She took little time to decide; she remem­bered one of her favorites, a pink polonaise that was rather out of style but still in good condition. She went to the tall satin- wood wardrobe to get it, but to her surprise she saw an edge of glowing pink silk moving just around the corner to her dressing room.

  "Annie, whatever are you doing?" she asked. Arriving in the dressing room, she saw the maid prancing about in front of the looking glass with the pink polonaise half on and half off. Brienne wasn't sure if this was because Annie had not pulled the dress on fully or because the dress was too small in the waistline.

  Annie jerked around, caught off guard. She mumbled some­thing, but Brienne could not make out what she was saying.

  "Do speak up, Annie! I would like to know the meaning of this," she said sternly.

  "I won't be waitin' on you anymore, milady."

  "That's fine," Brienne answered, wondering what had got­ten into the girl. It was unusual to see such insubordination in a servant, and she worried about its meaning. "You know I have not grown up with servants, Annie. I have not asked much of you during my stay here. Still, it is reproachable for you to try one of my dresses on. Whatever is going on?"

  "You aren't the master's daughter anymore."

  "Perhaps not." A few delicate lines appeared on Brienne's brow. The consternation she felt was all too clear. "But that still doesn't explain why you're wearing my dress." She watched Annie's stomach. Her stays were so tightly laced that she knew the gown would be torn before too long. "Please take it off."

  "Oh, my lady, it's just that I've heard that the new owner is something of a man. And I'll be wantin' to show him that I can be useful," the maid whined, trying to play on her pity.

  "You mean to let him trifle with you?" Brienne asked naively.

  "It'd be better than the stableboy. And with this dress he'll be thinkin' I'm a lady."

  "But you haven't my permission." Brienne looked at An­nie, not trusting her. It had been clear to Brienne from the day she'd arrived at Osterley that Annie had begrudged her her appearance, even as shabby as it was.

  "There's no harm done!" the maid exclaimed with mock recrimination. "There!" she said as she placed the gown back in the yellow taffeta room. Then she pulled her own dress back over her linen shift and stays. " Twill not happen again, milady. At least I can promise you that!" Annie abruptly left the room without apologizing. She wore a smug smile on her lips, which she was sure Brienne had not noticed. But Brienne had noticed, and she stared after the maid in disbelief, know­ing there was something afoot—and that she was somehow going to get the worst of it.

  Musing over the reasons for Annie's strange performance, she walked over to her inlaid wardrobe, which was exquisite with marquetry and cross-banded with rosewood. She studied its diminished contents; her dresses were far outnumbered by the pegs fitted in its interior. The polonaise was now too wrin­kled to be of any use to her, so she took out a dark violet wool and placed it on the bedstead. She combed her long hair at the pierglass of carved and gilded ribbons, husks, and bellflowers, then she set its length once again within the confines of the amethyst comb. She pulled the violet dress over her linen shift and stays, noting wryly that her own ladies' maid had had finer stays than she.

  Hoping she presented a plain but not impoverished appear­ance, she nervously ventured from her room. She wasn't sure how to go about approaching the new owner in this awkward situation. She knew that the best she could hope for would be extra time to find a new place to live. She prayed the new owner would be charitable enough to allow that.

  She left her yellow bedroom and was making her way down the hall when she heard voices coming from another bed­room. Unconcerned by servants' gossip, she continued down the hall, but then she stopped when she heard one of the women mention her name.

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