A Divided Inheritance by Deborah Swift Page A

was all at once
on fire. For he was surely the finest-looking man she had ever seen. And fashionable. She felt instantly the faded shabbiness of the room, and of her home-sewn gown.
    ‘At last. Your father has told me so much about you.’ Mr Bradstone smiled and bowed elegantly, removing his feather-trimmed hat and showing a crop of glossy brown hair.
    ‘Has he?’ she stammered, staring up at him like a fool. He was much taller than she.
    Why had not Father told her? But of course, he would not notice. He’d said he was fine-looking, but Hugh Bradstone was not just attractive, he was impossibly handsome. She felt caught,
like a goose in a pen, with all the men staring at her discomfiture. She managed to stumble out a greeting and a curtsey.
    ‘So it’s finished, is it, Cousin Elspet?’ Zachary said, nodding at the gown.
    ‘Yes,’ she said, with embarrassment, wishing her cousin would not draw attention to it.
    ‘Well, it took long enough. But it is a fetching colour on you,’ he said. His tone made her feel as if it certainly was not.
    ‘Thank you, cousin.’ She twisted her hands together, unable to move, for now everyone was appraising her gown. She hoped to goodness the unpicking marks did not show.
    ‘Elspet always fills a gown well,’ said Father. ‘She has fashioned the gown herself from an old one of my wife’s.’
    She cringed inwardly. Oh Father, she thought, for heaven’s sake do not tell him it is a second-hand gown; what will he think of us? As it was, she was sure Mr Bradstone already thought
them quite behind the times with their chilly chambers and lack of wall-hangings. And she was surely not pretty enough for a man such as he. She could think of nothing to say; she was shrinking
with shame.
    ‘A seamstress, then? It is very well done,’ Hugh Bradstone said politely to break the silence.
    She was of course well aware that he had no option but to say this. Zachary sat down in his chair, looking amused, as if they were putting on a show just for his entertainment. She cast him a
cold look.
    Mr Bradstone, however, continued, ‘And is the trim Leviston’s lace?’
    Father nodded, and puffed out his chest. ‘Finest anywhere, that. Elspet, come here so Mr Bradstone can see.’
    Obediently she approached Mr Bradstone and held out her sleeve.
    ‘May I?’ He lifted her arm and turned it this way and that. She was aware he must be looking down on the top of her head and the hastily pinned cap. ‘Very fine,’ he said,
and caught her eye. To her surprise, the look contained a twinkle of amusement and plainly said, ‘We must be indulgent to your father.’ When she withdrew her arm the heat of his fingers
still lingered on her skin.
    The talk turned to ships and colonies and where the imported fur originated. The men seemed to have forgotten she was there. She fanned herself with the lace ends of her cap to cool her face. It
seemed hours until they all sat down.
    At last the maidservants bustled in with the platters and the board was soon filled with dishes of meats and fowl. She was seated opposite Mr Bradstone. He was just as striking close up, with a
small, neat beard above his white ruff. He spoke in a cultured voice, his eyes were very pale blue and she noticed that the irises were almost white at the centre.
    When he saw her looking, he smiled and her stomach lurched before she ventured what she hoped was a demure smile back. This might be the man she would marry. It sharpened her senses. She took in
everything about him. Her hand strayed up to pat her hair. Why had she not heeded Martha and let her dress it properly?
    ‘We cull mostly beaver,’ he was saying. ‘I employ about two hundred trappers out there.’
    ‘Two hundred?’ Father sucked on his lips. He was impressed.
    ‘I think most of the London milliners have beaverskin from Bradstone’s now. And coney, and musquash. The New World gives us access to more plentiful skins than we could ever obtain
in England. I just