Page 2 of The Chef and the Countess

The doctor entered the room, stood by the bed, and felt for his pulse. “He’s dead.”

He was gone. It happened so swiftly. And with it, her life as she knew it—swept away with a raspy, rattled final breath. She felt another twinge of sadness at Carlton’s death. But it was mixed with uncertainty and resentment.

“Mr. Frankin Gardiner is waiting to see you in the library, my lady.”

Celia whirled around to find Patrick, the footman, standing in the doorway.

Well, the second cousin didn’t waste any time. He’d traveled here to claim the title and everything that came with it. Standing, Celia smoothed her gown and headed downstairs with as much dignity as she could muster. When she entered the library, a tall, thin man turned to greet her.

Franklin Gardiner looked to be in his thirties. He was not homely as such but certainly not handsome—much like Carlton. His expression remained neutral and guarded. “Countess, I am Franklin Gardiner. How is the earl doing?”

“Dead. Not five minutes ago,” Celia replied flatly.

“My condolences,” he said, giving her a slight bow. “I did not know the earl. I was born and raised in Nova Scotia, Canada, but my late father remembers him from when they were younger.”

He acted polite enough, though somewhat distant. She would do the same. Celia motioned toward the leather chairs by the fire. “I had no idea Carlton had an heir. To say I am shocked is an understatement.”

“I would imagine so, my lady,” he murmured as he sat across from her. “I have met with the late earl’s solicitor, Mr. George Sanderson, since my arrival here last week. He found me a room across the Scottish border at the inn in Lamberton. It is only a few miles from here, but a difficult journey overall.”

Celia did not reply, as she could not participate in polite conversation. She was still in shock.

Gardiner cleared his throat. “Well, then. I will get straight to the point. The will is over twenty years old, but Mr. Sanderson says it is valid. I am to inherit the entailed country estate.” He paused. “And I’m to inherit this cottage.”

Yet another shocking blow. Where could she go? They rented a modest town house during their first five years in London when Parliament was in session. After that, they stayed exclusively in Marshall Meadows. Celia’s mouth quirked. “Which leaves me homeless. Carlton said you would look after me. He made you promise. Correct?”

“That is so, my lady. I met with the earl three days ago in his sick room. He said you were not to be disturbed.”

More secrets. No one told her of the visit. What did they do? Smuggle Franklin Gardiner through the servants’ entrance?

“How convenient that you arrived a week before his death and met with the solicitor. Did it occur to any of you to update his will before he died? To inform me of your arrival?” Celia’s voice remained steady, but the intensity of her emotions was palpable, threatening to break her resolve.

Mr. Gardiner bristled. “My lady, I tried to reason with my cousin during my visit. I told Mr. Sanderson I would do so. The solicitor himself tried many times in the past few years to convince the earl to update his will, but he would have none of it. Two months ago, Mr. Sanderson sent me a cablegram stating I should come at once to get the estate in order before the earl died. Mr. Sanderson has copies of our trans-Atlantic correspondence if you wish to see them.”

Celia sighed. “I did not mean to cast aspersions on your character, Mr. Gardiner, but surely you can understand my frustration at being left out of these discussions. However, I am at fault, too. I should have insisted that my future was secured years ago. So, where does this leave us?”

“Alas, my lady, there is not much wealth attached to the earldom,” Mr. Gardiner continued solemnly. “There hasn’t been for many years. As it is, I must sell this cottage and the land. It is not entailed, you see. I will need that money to support my wife and two sons. The move here alone will cost a pretty penny.” His financial burden was evident in his grave tone.

Wife? Which meant Celia—

“I believe that makes you the dowager countess. ‘Celia, the Dowager Countess of Winterwood,’ the solicitor told me. I am unfamiliar with all the rules regarding the aristocracy, although Mr. Sanderson mentioned that you’re entitled to an income from your dowry.”

The news of her new title left Celia momentarily speechless. “There was no dowry.” Her blasted uncle never offered one, the skinflint.

Mr. Gardiner tsked. “Oh, my. The solicitor said there was no record of one. I had hoped that was a mistake in bookkeeping. You see, there are no tenants to collect rents from, and because of the primogeniture, entailed properties and the goods therein are now mine as the heir. And the late earl left me his investments, which, I am told, are barely enough to live on.”

It took a moment for this shocking information to digest. “So I am to have nothing, then.”

“I promised the late earl and intend to keep it, my lady,” the new earl replied firmly. “There will be a yearly payment of forty pounds a year. The first payment will not be until next year on this date, but I am prepared to give you ten pounds now so you can comfortably travel to London. It is all I can spare at this moment. My travel here cost more than I thought, and I have yet to make arrangements to sell my home and possessions in Nova Scotia and pay for travel for my wife and sons. But you do not want to hear of my travails. Mr. Sanderson tells me you have an uncle and aunt, the Earl and Countess of Darrington. Surely, you can stay with them until the estate is sorted.”

Celia’s mouth dropped open. “You cannot be serious. Forty pounds a year?” It was a good income, and most people would kill to have it. But after all she had endured, this was all she would receive?

Mr. Gardiner stiffened. “I can show you the books, my lady. There is no spare money. As it is, I will have to cut back on the staff and sell some of the earl’s belongings. And I am told the country estate requires extensive repairs.”

He wasn’t wrong on that fact. Celia had only been there twice, and it was a decrepit and drafty manor house situated on a desolate hill in Sussex. Oh, she was in a pickle. To wind up back at her aunt and uncle’s place?

Blast Carlton! Celia immediately felt terrible for cursing a man not even in the grave, but he had left her with nothing. Not even her dignity. But she must keep her head and act rationally.

“I would like to see the books and meet with Mr. Sanderson. I cannot believe I am not entitled to more than that. I am—was—the countess. We were married close to eleven years.”

“The late earl should have made provisions for you, my lady. It was not well done of him. Your husband came from a generation where wives were not a factor in wills and other documents regarding inheritance. It is why he would not brook any argument concerning updating the will.” Mr. Gardiner paused and met her gaze. “Societally speaking, I am not under any obligation to give you anything at all. We are not blood-related. But a promise is a promise. We will do this legitimately, draw up papers, and the like. I will even include a provision that if the investments improve, I shall raise the yearly stipend to reflect that.”

Celia eyed the new earl. She did not appreciate the blood-related comment. It sounded as if it were Mr. Sanderson speaking. Could he cut her loose with no support? She didn’t know much about the ins and outs of inheritance but was aware that the laws favored men in all ways. Celia started laughing--she couldn’t stop. It was either that or cry. To live as a widowed dowager in reduced circumstances, depending on the whims of her estranged aunt and uncle—and a stranger from Canada—was too much to bear.

At the age of thirty, her life was over.