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Authors: Linda Berdoll
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dark patch of dirt set aside for the servants’ graveyard. He remained at school and was believed to be bereft. He was not. His pitiable mother and the inhospitable place he had called home was nothing to him but a reminder that he was ignored by his rightful father.
After taking his degree, Freddy Dumpstitch was anxious to escape to London. There he could put his many new skills to work. His visit to Howgrave Manor was perfunctory, born of the faint hope that his success in school might earn him some sort of financial consideration. It was a fortuitous decision.
Unbeknownst to Freddy, he had been cast in a drama not of his making—but one in which he was quite happy to have a part.
As it happened, the Howgrave estate was to be entailed to the male line. Due to past misdeeds, Freddy’s father had been removed from the line of succession. If a male progeny was not produced ere the eldest Howgrave died, Howgrave Manor would go to a cousin in Aberdeen. Mr. and Mrs. Howgrave would then be tossed out on their tuffet. Freddy had been sent off to school as a precautionary measure. He had been held in escrow—a spare heir—should plump (and seemingly fertile) Mrs. Howgrave not produce a legitimate one. It eventually fell apparent that her womb was as inhospitable as her heart.
Post-haste, the matter of a child born of his housekeeper was suddenly not the indignity that it had once seemed. Mrs. Howgrave still despised Freddy, but she liked her situation well enough to overlook the personification of her husband’s adultery. Freddy, being the sole natural son of the Master of Howgrave Manor was suddenly in a most happy position. He owned an adoring father, a boatload of servants, and with little fanfare, an admirable new surname (Dumpstitch not being a particularly melodious appellation to adorn his future campaign signs). No longer was he the bastard child of a scullery maid. He was a gentleman.
Young Henry Howgrave was presented thusly to society.
Regrettably, to society he was still the Son of the Left Hand.
He wanted more—much more.
Refusing to be turned away, young Howgrave polished his manners and attended every party, f ê te, and bull-bating to which he was admitted. Having been slighted all his life, his rise was not with undue humility. (Granted, his ascent was not with any more sense of entitlement than other young bucks in the county.) He refused to be satisfied with what society deemed within his grasp. A modest country estate and marriage to the daughter of a hapless squire would not suit him.
His ambition was keen, so much so that he overstepped all sensible boundaries. Making a bid for the hand of Miss Darcy was societal (and very nearly literal) auto-da-fé. With what Freddy saw as unnecessary peremptoriness, Darcy rebuffed his overtures to Georgiana. Freddy was humiliated, causing him to believe that Miss Darcy may have fifty thousand, but she was a mouse. He sniffed derisively, vowing to find a wife worthy of his ambitions.
Deep within his breast, however, Freddy was cut, not just publicly, but to the core. His dislike of Darcy was not because of his haughtiness and station. It was for the same reason the schoolmaster administered the whippings—on general principal.
It was just as well, Henry told himself then and ever after. When opportunity struck, he took advantage of the war. It was a gamble that paid off magnificently through a knighthood and wild acclaim. When he did finally marry, he secured the most desirable woman in England.
Yes, one day the Prime Ministership would be his.
He vowed that his son would not have to bear squalid surroundings and the sniggering degradation of his lessers.
Fictional Freddy was no more.
Chapter 13
At Your Service
Lord Humphrey Orloff was quite a man of town.
He had foul breath, inelegant habits, and a protruding tooth. He had also obtained a fortune (and an indelicate disease) whilst settling his father’s affairs in the West Indies. Now a
After taking his degree, Freddy Dumpstitch was anxious to escape to London. There he could put his many new skills to work. His visit to Howgrave Manor was perfunctory, born of the faint hope that his success in school might earn him some sort of financial consideration. It was a fortuitous decision.
Unbeknownst to Freddy, he had been cast in a drama not of his making—but one in which he was quite happy to have a part.
As it happened, the Howgrave estate was to be entailed to the male line. Due to past misdeeds, Freddy’s father had been removed from the line of succession. If a male progeny was not produced ere the eldest Howgrave died, Howgrave Manor would go to a cousin in Aberdeen. Mr. and Mrs. Howgrave would then be tossed out on their tuffet. Freddy had been sent off to school as a precautionary measure. He had been held in escrow—a spare heir—should plump (and seemingly fertile) Mrs. Howgrave not produce a legitimate one. It eventually fell apparent that her womb was as inhospitable as her heart.
Post-haste, the matter of a child born of his housekeeper was suddenly not the indignity that it had once seemed. Mrs. Howgrave still despised Freddy, but she liked her situation well enough to overlook the personification of her husband’s adultery. Freddy, being the sole natural son of the Master of Howgrave Manor was suddenly in a most happy position. He owned an adoring father, a boatload of servants, and with little fanfare, an admirable new surname (Dumpstitch not being a particularly melodious appellation to adorn his future campaign signs). No longer was he the bastard child of a scullery maid. He was a gentleman.
Young Henry Howgrave was presented thusly to society.
Regrettably, to society he was still the Son of the Left Hand.
He wanted more—much more.
Refusing to be turned away, young Howgrave polished his manners and attended every party, f ê te, and bull-bating to which he was admitted. Having been slighted all his life, his rise was not with undue humility. (Granted, his ascent was not with any more sense of entitlement than other young bucks in the county.) He refused to be satisfied with what society deemed within his grasp. A modest country estate and marriage to the daughter of a hapless squire would not suit him.
His ambition was keen, so much so that he overstepped all sensible boundaries. Making a bid for the hand of Miss Darcy was societal (and very nearly literal) auto-da-fé. With what Freddy saw as unnecessary peremptoriness, Darcy rebuffed his overtures to Georgiana. Freddy was humiliated, causing him to believe that Miss Darcy may have fifty thousand, but she was a mouse. He sniffed derisively, vowing to find a wife worthy of his ambitions.
Deep within his breast, however, Freddy was cut, not just publicly, but to the core. His dislike of Darcy was not because of his haughtiness and station. It was for the same reason the schoolmaster administered the whippings—on general principal.
It was just as well, Henry told himself then and ever after. When opportunity struck, he took advantage of the war. It was a gamble that paid off magnificently through a knighthood and wild acclaim. When he did finally marry, he secured the most desirable woman in England.
Yes, one day the Prime Ministership would be his.
He vowed that his son would not have to bear squalid surroundings and the sniggering degradation of his lessers.
Fictional Freddy was no more.
Chapter 13
At Your Service
Lord Humphrey Orloff was quite a man of town.
He had foul breath, inelegant habits, and a protruding tooth. He had also obtained a fortune (and an indelicate disease) whilst settling his father’s affairs in the West Indies. Now a
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