And every reason.
But she could not remain with the new family unless—the most outrageous idea popped into her head.
She couldn’t. Could she?
Mrs. Harmony cleared her throat and put a gentle hand on Sarah’s shoulder. “My lady, you need to get into that carriage. The butler expects Mr. Moulton to arrive at any moment.”
Sarah’s mind still whirled with possibility. “Is he married, Harmony?”
The housekeeper straightened her cap, but more curls escaped from it. “Not that I’ve heard. Just himself and his two younger sisters.”
Sarah shook her head and pulled her arm away from Mrs. Harmony’s touch. “Mr. Phipps, my deepest apologies, but would you please stable the horses?”
“Aye, Lady Sarah,” he said and tipped his hat to her again before flicking the reins to start the horses toward the stable.
Nelly stepped so close to Sarah that their dresses brushed each other. She grabbed Sarah’s arms in a tight grasp, her expressionstern, and said, “I love you, Sarah, but you cannot stay. This is no longer your house.”
“I wish to meet the new owner.”
“But, Your Ladyship—” Mrs. Harmony protested from behind Nelly.
“I only wish to welcome him to the neighborhood,” Sarah said with one of her bright smiles. “Prepare tea for us and have it served in the sitting room. I will await him there.”
“But—”
“No buts.”
Breaking out of Nelly’s hold, a sense of rightness settled over Sarah. She walked back into the house and entered the sitting room. All the original furniture remained; like the paintings, her father had sold them with the house. Sarah had already packed all the knickknacks, and without them, the room appeared barren. Her old harp stood in the corner, looking sad and neglected. She had decided to leave it at Manderfield. She had not played it since her mother’s d—she hadn’t played it in years, and it would have been cumbersome to move and store.
Sarah paced back and forth the length of the room, glancing out the window. When would the man arrive? She did not care what he looked like or how old he was. She was going to marry Mr. Moulton. Manderfield Hall would be hers, and no one could ever take her home away.
A few minutes later, the butler, Mr. Wigan, brought in the tea tray. He was a short man with a swarthy complexion and thick dark eyebrows. Sarah told him to put the silver service on the coffee table. He bowed low, a hint of a smile on his lips. Wigan had always been her ally.
She lowered her chin to him. “Thank you, Mr. Wigan. I do not know what I would do without you.”
The butler bowed again before leaving. Sarah turned back to the window.
Where was that dratted Mr. Moulton?
Her mouth felt dry, and her stomach was like an empty pit. Sarah fastened and unfastened the top button of her crimson pelisse. It was a fashionable piece of clothing with puffs at the tops of her sleeves. She had improved upon it by adding braided ribbon and matching tassels. Her fingers moved to the closest tassel, and she pulled on it nervously.
At last, she saw a man ride up on a brown mare. She had been expecting a post chaise, but still, if Mr. Moulton could afford to purchase Manderfield, he was no pauper. He wore a plain black coat and a black hat. She couldn’t discern any of his features from the angle of the window. Taking a deep breath, she released it slowly and sat on the sofa, tucking one foot behind the other. She folded her hands demurely in her lap and put on her best smile. She was going to need it.
Mama’s words repeated in her mind:A lady is only as beautiful as she believes herself to be.
Sarah had always thought it was a rather unfair phrase, for her mother was naturally beautiful and Sarah had to work very hard at it.
A few minutes later, Mr. Wigan opened the door and announced, “Mr. Moulton, Your Ladyship.”
Sarah stood gracefully, turning slightly to show her best side, her left.
Mr. Moulton strode into the room, a cane in his hand. He paused when he saw her and took off his hat. If the man had suffered from smallpox, his face was not pocked. In fact, he was the most ruggedly handsome man Sarah had ever beheld. His features looked as if they had been carved roughly from stone. He was tall with broad shoulders and a muscular chest. She was uncertain of his age but guessed him to be somewhere between twenty-five and thirty. He had thick blond hair that curled slightly at the ends, with sideburns that connected to a tidybeard that emphasized his strong jaw. His cold gray eyes peered at her penetratingly.
Other ladies might have quaked in their boots from such a stare, but not Sarah. The nervous tingles in her hands and toes stopped. Her mother had taught her that she was descended from royalty. She did not cower before anyone. Not even the new owner of Manderfield Hall.
“Thank you, Mr. Wigan,” she said to the butler. “I will pour the tea, and you may go.”
Mr. Wigan bowed and left the room, closing the door behind him.