Her parents didn't tell her much about their lives before Ashworthy. All she knew was that her father was English, and her mother Irish. Her mother had mentioned Cork a few times but nothing more. What Victoria did know, was that her mother had an Irish temper. Red haired and fiery, the villagers preferred to keep out of her way.
You'll be coming to church tomorrow, won't you? Lizzie asked as she and Victoria were leaving the mill on Saturday evening after fifteen hours. It was April and almost dark.
Of course. Since my father became ill, I've never missed a Sunday service. I just hope the good Lord hears my prayers. It's not nice for him lying in bed every day waiting for me to come home.
The two girls walked together down the hill and into the village. They parted company where they always did at the village green.
Victoria, can I walk with you? It was Jack, the son of the mill foreman. Just eighteen and already six feet tall he looked like a walking coat hanger. He was one of those boys that first shot up in height, and some years later filled out. The filling out hadn't yet taken place.
I've only got a couple of yards to go, she replied, thankful that he'd only caught up with her so close to home.
Perhaps on another occasion, he hung his head and walked across the green, scattering a group of grazing sheep.
Their cottage was on the west side of the green, opposite Lizzie's house. All the cottages were the same on the outside. A front door in the middle, with a window on the left and right. Upstairs two bedroom windows. All had a thatched roof and a small garden at the front.
Victoria looked at her reflection in the window as she walked up the path to the door. She was a tall woman with strawberry blonde hair, a mix of her father's blonde and her mother's ginger. Her feet were aching, and she badly wanted to sit down with a cup of tea. She opened the door and, as usual, took off her bonnet before shouting to her father. Only on this day, there was no reply. He had died in bed twenty minutes before Lizzie got home.
The Duke of Haslemere had more land than any other member of the aristocracy except the King himself. His Dukedom was made up of three estates, two had been in the family since Magna Carta, and the third was a more recent acquisition. His residence was Easingborough Hall. A twenty-five bedroom mansion set in three hundred acres of parkland. His Spanish wife had only been able to bear him one child, Edward, now twenty. Edward was a handsome man. Tall and slender, he had his mother's hair color, black, and his father's green eyes.
In all, the Dukedom had around five hundred tenants. Not many of them had much respect for the Duke. Extortionate rent increases and regular evictions were commonplace, ample explanation why there were so few mourners at his funeral.
Edward held onto his mother's arm as they followed the coffin into the church. He had just inherited a massive fortune and a lot of responsibility. More sensitive than his father, the tenants were hoping for an upturn in their fortunes. Edward counted thirty-two people in the church, including the vicar, the organist, his mother and himself. Just twenty-eight out of five hundred, he hoped more would turn up when it was his turn.
Edward didn't have an easy first few weeks. The old Duke, his father, had surrounded himself with men as unscrupulous as himself. The official title for each of these gentlemen was 'Estate Manager.' Edward likened them to crooks when he discussed the estate with his mother.
Anyone over the age of sixty may live in our houses free of rent until death, he'd announced at their first meeting, to wails of anguish and cries of no.
I believe it is my property now, is it not? he'd added. He waited for each of them had to nod before continuing. In that case, I will do as I see fit, not as you see fit. Things are going to change around here, starting today. His eyes narrowed, and he pointed at each of them in turn. Thank you for serving my father so faithfully over the years but the time has come for us to part. The estate managers looked at each other in disbelief.
You mean you don't want us to work for you anymore? one of the wanted to know.
That is correct, he smiled. I have arranged an alternative job for each of you at Manor Farm under Mr. Jespon. Mr. Jepson was six feet five and a former bare knuckle fighter. He was a good farmer, and he'd taught Edward a lot about the workings of the land. He'd often told Edward that once he was Duke, he should do things differently and get rid of his father's team of crooks.
If you want, send them to me, and I'll make sure they find out what real work is, Jepson had told him. When Jepson was informed that Edward was indeed going to carry out his suggestion, he'd danced around a milk churn until he became dizzy. That day Edward made three enemies and gained five hundred admirers.
When he returned to Easingborough Hall after that meeting, he'd found his mother was making preparations to move into the dowager house.