A Provision For Love (Entangled Inheritance Book 1) Read online

  “Have you made peace then, truly?” Grandmother snickered and turned to Henry.

  Henry’s shoulders lifted. “I had not realized there was peace to be made.”

  I laughed. For all his pleasantries, he was rather daft to overlook my inevitable resentment. “You imagine I wish to abandon Bridgestone forever?”

  “I…” He crinkled his brows, and I could not help admiring the set of his jaw. “I am not taking anything away from you. You are always welcome to visit, whenever you like.”

  Grandmother straightened in her chair. “Or, perhaps you two could just marry and all the problems would be solved.”

  My mouth dropped. She had no decency.

  “Lady Barrington…” Henry raked his hands through his hair, seeming to deliberate his words carefully. My alarm mirrored in Henry’s features.

  “I am beginning to think you are turning senile, Grandmother,” I said, hoping to save Henry the trouble of refusing her outrageous suggestion. I recovered from my shock and took the third seat around the desk. “I appreciate your invitation, Mr. Thorne, but I doubt my presence would be deemed proper after Grandmother’s passing. We are not related in the slightest.”

  Grandmother scowled. “I’ve never known a set of more stubborn children.”

  I sighed and folded my arms. “That sounds like a compliment, coming from you, Grandmother.”

  She laughed, and her wrinkly jowls jiggled in rhythm with her exults. Her mouth settled in a firm line, her pale lips almost completely disappearing at her efforts to appear serious. “I imagine you think me quite senile then, my dear. I am the first to admit I admire your pluck, but sometimes you can be ever so difficult.”

  I was sorely tempted to glare. I forced a smile instead, hoping Henry did not notice the heat rising in my cheeks. Grandmother had no thought for my humiliation.

  “If ‘difficult’ constitutes my refusal to marry a man I hardly know in order to obtain Bridgestone, I am in agreement—I am most difficult. But, Grandmother, how can you speak so freely in front of Percival’s heir? Mr. Thorne seems like just the type to be bound by honor.” I turned to him, sure my cheeks had darkened to crimson. “Please, do not feel the slightest bit of anxiety on my account. I fully intend to ensnare another in my first season—one that is not commanded by my grandmother.”

  He dipped his chin, averting his eyes from my gaze. “I see.”

  “Well, now that marriage is off the table,” Grandmother started, “I regret that both of you will not be permitted to roam these halls forever. I do hate to deprive either of you, but very well.”

  I flinched. Either of us? Perhaps her wits were altogether leaving her; I would be the one to bid farewell to Bridgestone. Henry would have no reason for disappointment.

  A knock at the study door sounded.

  Grandmother stood, motioning for me to do the same. “I assume the solicitor has arrived.” She pressed a finger to each of her temples and looked at the door. “Do come in.”

  The footman opened the door, ushering in the man at his rear. “A Mr. John Tuttle-Kirk, my lady, all the way from London.”

  The man, dressed in dark trousers and a long overcoat, bowed. His cheeks pulled, and his lips tucked beneath a bristly, white mustache in what seemed to be a smile. “Always a pleasure, Lady Barrington. However, under the circumstances…I hope you will accept my condolences.”

  Grandmother extended her hand to him, fanning herself with the other. “Dear Mr. Tuttle-Kirk, I appreciate your traveling all the way to Bridgestone. Percival often spoke about your friendship. He truly thought you the best of men. Now, I recognize your difficulty—why with your firm in London, and no sons to hold your place—”

  “Let us not speak of my difficulty, Lady Barrington,” he said, taking her hand in his. His voice was warm and, yet, possessed a nasal quality. Mr. Tuttle-Kirk peered down at my grandmother through a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. “Are you well?”

  “Quite,” she said, but her voice cracked. “You must have heard Percival speak of my granddaughter, Miss Ivy Linfield?”

  I curtsied and extended my hand. “How do you do?”

  His eyes seemed to twinkle. “Yes, I have heard all about Percival’s pride. Miss Linfield, you look about the age of my youngest daughter—a pleasure, I assure you.”

  The heaviness in my stomach lifted. I was not surprised Percival spoke of me with affection, but I was surprised the estate solicitor had remembered. “Thank you.”

  “And Percival’s grand-nephew, Mr. Henry Thorne,” Grandmother said, motioning across the desk.

  Henry, who had not uttered a single word other than his cryptic “I see” since Grandmother’s suggestion of marriage, stepped forward. His features were drawn together in a concentrated expression. “Mr. Tuttle-Kirk.”

  “Ah, Mr. Thorne.” Mr. Tuttle-Kirk gave a slight bow. His lips, once again, disappeared beneath his mustache. “I am glad to see you have come. I worried I would have to hunt you down in London in the coming months.”

  “I came at Lady Barrington’s request, as did Miss Linfield,” Henry said before moving his glance toward me.

  I stepped toward the window. Despite my best attempts to appear unaffected, my humiliation from moments earlier—at Grandmother’s suggestion of marriage—continued. A suffocating sensation began to fall over me. I opened the window and returned to my grandmother’s side.

  “Warm already, Ivy?” Grandmother’s lips puckered in a half-smile. She motioned to the chairs. “The reading has not even begun. Shall we?”

  My mouth went dry, nearly as dry as my grandmother’s poorly timed attempts at humor.

  All of us took a seat, Mr. Tuttle-Kirk at the front of the desk. He pulled a file from his leather pouch and began fingering through the different documents. “Now, the will…I particularly remember placing it…”

  I swallowed. Surely he had not lost it…had he?

  “Ah, here we are.” Mr. Tuttle-Kirk straightened in his chair and readjusted his spectacles lower along the rim of his prominent nose. “Very well. Shall I?”

  “Please.” Grandmother did not look the least amused.

  The solicitor dipped his chin. “I, Lord Percival Theodore Barrington, on this day, January thirteenth, 1807, bequeath my lands and title of baron to my great-nephew, Mr. Henry Robert Thorne, whom I request allows my wife, Lady Margaret Ann Barrington, residence and an annuity of £1000 until her death. For my granddaughter, Miss Ivy Estelle Linfield, I leave my pianoforte—to be collected at the time of her marriage—along with a marriage portion of £15,000. I also leave her the pick of any rosebush on Bridgestone’s grounds, so long as she ensures the safe transport and planting of it elsewhere.”

  I inhaled sharply. Percival had been generous. £15,000 was a large sum to add to my father’s marriage portion of £10,000. And, the pianoforte—tears pooled in my eyes. I tried to blink them away. I had spent many restless afternoons on the seat beside Percival as he sang and I played. The pianoforte would forever remind me of my dear grandfather.

  Grandmother’s eyes flooded over me. Her brows knit into an uncharacteristically high arch. “And what of the amendment, Mr. Tuttle-Kirk?”

  Henry flinched. “Amendment?”

  Mr. Tuttle-Kirk cleared his throat. He removed his spectacles and rubbed at his eyes. “Yes, I was just about to get there, Lady Barrington.” His lips disappeared beneath his mustache, but this time there was no hint of a smile. His voice grew deeper. “Six months before Percival’s death, he visited me in London, hoping to make a small adjustment—or large, depending upon how you look at it.”

  My pulse raced, and perspiration gathered near my temples. “Go on,” I said much too quickly.

  “Percival added a provision.” The solicitor replaced his spectacles and dug in the file until he located another sheet of paper. “In reviewing my will, I, Lord Percival Theodore Barrington, have decided to make an allowance for my granddaughter, Miss Ivy Estelle Linfield, to have a chance at inheriting Bridgestone.”
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  “Inheriting—” I moved to my feet, sure my dotted perspiration was on the verge of transforming into a drenching sweat. My breaths grew shallow, and I turned to Grandmother. “Did you know any of this?”

  She snickered. “Percival hid nothing from me, but I suggest you sit. Such amendments come with contingencies, especially ones that I urged him to make.”

  My lips parted, but no words came. I could not fathom Percival being so cruel as to put me through a test of some sort, but Grandmother…she was just the type to do such a thing.

  “Carry on, Mr. Tuttle-Kirk,” she said, tapping her fingers against the desk.

  I stole a glance at Henry. The color had drained from his face, and his normal assuredness had disappeared in the shadow he had become. He sunk into his chair, and his waves hung over his eyes.

  For a short moment, compassion flared inside. I knew what losing Bridgestone meant, and despite Henry’s other inheritances and properties, I knew nothing could compare with this place. How could Grandmother propose such an amendment and then request Henry’s presence? She could not possibly be so oblivious to the pain he would surely feel at such a punch.

  “The contingent clause, yes…” Mr. Tuttle-Kirk pulled at his necktie. “This allowance will be made based on conditions. Miss Linfield must select and attach herself to a gentleman within her first season.”

  I exhaled. Marriage—I had been raised to that responsibility. In fact, Miss Worthington’s tutelage and Lady Sefton’s acceptance into the ton and the £25,000 to my name nearly guaranteed my success in the marriage market.

  The solicitor took a deep breath and handed me a letter. “You must select a husband that meets the criteria listed in this letter, Miss Linfield.”

  Nausea crept up my throat. I recognized Grandmother’s slanted writing. Her requirements would be nothing short of ridiculous. “And who, may I ask, will be the judge of my success in matching the outlined criteria?”

  Mr. Tuttle-Kirk swallowed, pulling out a second letter and handing it to Henry. “Whereas Mr. Thorne is the default heir, Percival has asked me to assign that duty to him. I apologize, Miss Linfield. The situation is altogether highly unusual.”

  I gripped the edge of my chair, horrified. I squinted. “Pardon?”

  “I think you heard well enough,” Grandmother said. She stood and placed a hand on my back. “Unusual circumstances do bring about the best results.”

  “Unusual?” A lump formed in my throat. Henry was already reading through the letter, and his handsome eyes seemed to brighten with each word he scanned. Without reading a single word, instinct warned me of the seemingly impossible task of earning Bridgestone.

  I shook my head. “No, unusual refers to a broken teacup being served to a guest. Unusual refers to the way the sky looks after systematic field burning. Unusual is the way I feel after I eat spoilt meat—”

  “Ivy.” Grandmother squeezed my shoulder. “Tread carefully, my dear. Ingratitude is the mark of a spoilt girl.”

  Heat rose to my cheeks and burned at the back of my neck. Percival was kind to have allowed me a chance at Bridgestone; that was true, but fulfilling Grandmother’s requirements for a husband, and in only a span of months, was sure to be difficult. I gritted my teeth. I questioned if I should attempt the feat when the result might end in humiliation.

  Henry cleared his throat. “I do believe you should read the letter before you make any rash decisions, Miss Linfield.”

  We locked eyes. His lips trembled in humor, and his arched brows sparked a challenge. Fire ignited in my chest. I had thought Henry a decent person in our recent acquaintance. His amusement at my predicament was the only proof I needed; I had been sorely deceived. With the dawning of that realization came another—my own stubborn resolve. My compassion fled and was replaced with unmatched determination.

  I exhaled and commanded my lips to smile. “Oh, Mr. Thorne. I would never consider relinquishing my right to Bridgestone, no matter the requirements. After all, where is the fun in that?”

  His lips fell flat.

  “Now, if you will excuse me. I have matters to attend to.” I stood, pulling away from Grandmother’s grip. I curtsied. “I thank you for your trouble in coming, Mr. Tuttle-Kirk, and bid you farewell.”

  The solicitor’s mouth fell open, and his spectacles dropped from his nose. He recovered them and stood. “I am happy to have met you, Miss Linfield, and wish you all my best in your endeavor. Percival hoped you would rise to the occasion.”

  I turned my attention to Henry, hoping to sound infinitely more confident than I felt. “Do you doubt I will?”

  “Not at all.” Mr. Tuttle-Kirk’s voice cracked. “Not at all, my dear. It has been my honor to have met you.”

  Terror knocked against my chest, but I would not answer to it—not when Bridgestone was on the line. Whatever my grandmother required, I would find a way to accomplish. “Thank you, Mr. Tuttle-Kirk. I wish you safe travels.”

  I startled when I turned around. Grandmother’s eyes gleamed with emotion—perhaps pride? I could not be sure, but I did not hesitate to contemplate. I ran, instead, to my garden, where I would read the contents of the letter.

  Chapter 6

  In my hurry to the garden, I imagined the contents of the letter to include an array of strict suggestions—specified wealth, titles, connections, perhaps even family pedigree requirements. Grandmother was so very particular about so many things, and often, her ideas contradicted one another.

  She wished for me to be spirited yet mannered; She liked fresh tea but detested if it was too hot; she enjoyed stories but hated reading; she craved conversation yet insisted on controlling it. She was a woman of contradictions—even her insistence that Percival allow me a chance at inheriting Bridgestone came with contradictions for my happiness.

  Love was a luxury, reserved for those without family obligation or ambition. In Grandmother’s efforts to prepare me for my first season, she had repeatedly spoken to me about the importance of marrying well. What did marrying well mean to her?

  I clasped the letter, wrinkling the pages. I had a sneaking suspicion that the letter answered my question. I tore it open and read.

  Requirements for a Husband:

  Seek a man who has mountains in his eyes, and be sure his glance can sweep across the plains. Look for one who laughs in a hearty manner and has a twist of kindness at the edge of strong and even lips. His hair should be neat but not too much so; there must always be one unruly lock that defies the comb and falls like a rebel on a handy forehead.

  Beware of men who fawn too much in the company of peers. This man is seeking status and, in time, will barter part of his soul—and also yours—for a nod from a well-born knave.

  Does he clink his coins with relish and with glee? Pass him by. Misers make unholy lovers. Does he welcome competition with manly zest, and rally to the challenge of a chase? This is good. He will never be a doltish bystander.

  Guns he should feel at home with, and he must have a way with dogs. The sight of a horse with breed lines should bring a glint of heaven to his eyes.

  Does he preen in front of mirrors? Forget him. Harsh is the life of a wife condemned to live her days in the company of a vain peacock. Does he speak well of his companions? Is he quick to praise their deeds? If this is so, it is to his favor for it indicates he has security of person. Men who deal in petty prattle and deride the feats of others with snide remarks and sneers are unsure in their bones and in time will feed upon the spirit of a faithful wife to bolster a waning ego. Does he keep his carriage spotless and in good hue? This could be a minus sign. A man who expends much energy and pride on an inanimate possession may in time deploy his wife to second place.

  He should like the feel of leather and the smell of new hay in a field, and he should look well standing near a tree.

  Let him walk solid, but always with an animal grace.

  Look long in search for a man who brings a gift when there is no occasion. Many men celebrate the s
tandard holidays with traditional presents, but a man has true spirit when he gives a woman a pretty bauble just to see her eyes bubble with surprise.

  Look for a man who loves his mother, but be cautious of the one who worships her. He, indeed, may turn out to be a chronic son who whimpers all his days at his mother’s knee.

  Neatness is a prize in a male, of course, but prissy males make finicky life companions. Nervous is life with a man who makes a fetish seeking dust on high cupboards and complaining about tables in slight disarray.

  It is popular for a woman to think of a man as marriage material if he likes young children. But a word of caution here. Many a man can be a pretender when he waxes eloquent about a child. Rather, look for a man whom children like instinctively. If he has this secret gift, children will gravitate to him in a crowded room.

  A husband, of course, should a kisser be, but he must command a repertoire. A man’s kisses should have fire and passion, yes, but he must have the art of kissing kindly and gently too.

  If he is quick to anger, look again, but beware of a man who sulks in too much silence.

  These are the qualities to look for in a man. It would be well, also, if he is tall. It is not so much that short men are bad. They are merely inconvenient. A wife must learn to shrink herself when beside him. It is also nice to have a man around the residence who can reach things on high shelves.

  The paper rattled in my trembling hands. I dropped it to the rock ledge beside my garden window. Laughter climbed my throat, escaping in a maddening way. What on earth was all this nonsense about? Not once had she mentioned title or wealth. She had made no requirements of family connection, though I knew her very fond of the ton.

  I was set for failure. So much of the list was subjective; how would I gain Henry’s agreement that a man had mountains in his eyes or that he looked good standing near a tree or that he moved with animal grace? And what did ‘animal grace’ consist of—was it a strength or an awareness or something else altogether?