A Suitable Heir

By Elsie King

Secrets and lies can destroy a marriage.

Eleanor Finch loves to paint, and she loves babies. Her six siblings are all married with babies, lots of babies, and she is desperate to escape her lonely existence and have a family of her own.

Viscount Julian Heyer, a childless widower, is looking for a wife who can provide him with an heir. Rich, charming and an art lover, he finds Eleanor, with her large family and wide hips, a perfect candidate.

Love blossoms.

Five childless years later Eleanor is blamed and Julian becomes cruel in his disappointment. He needs an heir and refuses to accept he may be infertile.

Divorce looms.

Robert Heyer, Julian's evil twin is dying and hell bent on wreaking Julian's life before he goes. Robert sends Eleanor on a quest to expose the dark family history of infertility, infidelity, insanity, murder and suicide.

But will Robert's dying words prompt Eleanor to do the unthinkable and find the courage to achieve her dreams?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Indie Scriptorium SPC
• Release date: Jul 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9780645868104

Elsie King

I was born in England and always loved history and the beautiful English countryside. Moving to South Australia as a teenager, I grew to love the desert and magnificent wildflowers. Painting has been a lifelong passion. The roses on the front cover of A Suitable Heir came from one of my paintings. My career as a Social Worker and Behavioural Therapist allowed me the priviledge of helping people with all sorts of problems. Listening, empathy and problem solving were well-honed skills underlined with the principals of social justice, equality and feminism. Combining my love of history, observations as an artist and my insights into how people tick, led to my writing career. As a fan of Jane Austen and Georgette Heyer, I was inspired to write my novels in the Regency Era. A time of transformation for women in society, high principals and heady romance. I am a member of the Romance Writers of Australia, Australian Society of Authors, Create/Write critique group and Indie Scriptorium, a Self Publishing Collective A Suitable Heir was short listed in the RWA Emerald Competition for aspiring writers in 2021.  My first novel A Suitable Bride (to be released later this year) was also short listed in 2022. I have a story called the The Houdini Lollipop   to be released in the RWA Sweet Treats Anthology in August 2023

Book preview

In Loving Memory of Isla

Chapter One

May 13th 1818

Eleanor, Eleanor Finch. What are you still doing up here? You should have changed and be ready for dinner by now. Your mama is beside herself.

Eleanor stood back from the canvas that had taken all of her attention for most of the afternoon, and giggled. It was tempting to throw a towel over the portrait, but it was a wonderful likeness and she always enjoyed Bertha’s acerbic critiques of her work. Footsteps thumped up the stairs, signalling her governess’ displeasure. She lifted a small dab of red from her palette and struck down at the corner of her mama’s mouth, making her expression even more sour than justified.

Goodness, Eleanor, Bertha snapped, then stopped as she saw the portrait of Mrs Winifred Finch. She gasped, uttered an unintelligible grunt, and then laughed. Oh Eleanor, that’s terrible.

Do you like it?

Bertha stood immobile and silent as she examined the painting. She moved to get a better light on the work, then stepped forward and looked at the detail. Humph, you’ve captured her face and posture perfectly, and her colouring, and the dress is finely wrought, but, Eleanor Finch, it’s a cruel likeness. Are you still so angry with your poor mother?

Yes, of course I am. I should be in London, enjoying balls and musical evenings. I should be going to the theatre and visiting galleries. Mr Turner has a new exhibition at the Royal Gallery and I wanted to see it, Bertha, I really did, but I’m stuck here. It’s not fair.

The governess put her hand on Eleanor’s shoulder and gave a small shake. Eleanor, I know you’re disappointed, but you’re making much of a slight inconvenience. Your mother has tried, but she cannot travel with her lumbago, and Gillian wasn’t to know she’d be expecting again. You’re only seventeen and I’m sure one of your sisters will accommodate your coming out next year. And perhaps your mother’s health will have improved by then, and she’ll be able to go to London too.

Eleanor glanced back at the portrait; her shoulders slumped. I can only pray she will, Bertha, but sometimes I think she’d prefer me as a spinster. I’m the youngest and she’s needing a companion and carer now that Papa’s passed away. She doesn’t seem to fret about my chances of a suitable match, not like she did for Isabel, Lily, or Gillian. It will mean I’m trapped here, and I’ll go mad if I can’t escape.

Bertha shook her head and her lips stiffened into a straight line. Eleanor, don’t act like a coddled child. Now, your mother has guests and you smell of turpentine and have black paint on your cheek and hands. You need to hurry to be ready for dinner. These are just silly fears which we’ll talk about later, but for now you can act the pleasant young lady, even if you are in a temper about your poor mother’s ill health.

It’s only the Andersons coming over. They wouldn’t notice if I turned up with purple spots on my face. Eleanor picked up her brushes and dumped them into a jar of foul-smelling turps. They’d need a proper cleaning in the morning, but she knew better than to tarry when Bertha was being the strict governess. As Eleanor removed her paint-splattered overdress, she glanced again at the spiteful portrait of her mama. She’d alter it tomorrow, make the expression more benign and the posture straighter. She did love her mama, most of the time.

The attic stairs were dark and steep. Eleanor was a little afraid of the dark, but Bertha clumping ahead made the descent somewhat easier. Bertha’s voice echoed backwards in the small, bare-walled space. Mr. and Mrs. Anderson are bringing visitors. Your mother said you should wear your new pink evening gown, and she wants Jane to do your hair. But you need a bath, Eleanor; you smell something fierce of turpentine.

The pink dress. A favourite new gown, never worn and meant for her coming out in London. It was palest pink with hints of lavender. Eleanor had picked out the silk herself and loved it. It was lower cut than any of her other dresses and the little capped sleeves showed off her shoulders and arms. It was beautiful and flattering, designed to gain the attention of young men in search of a wife. A frisson of excitement disrupted her ill humour.

Visitors. Who are they? Mama never said we had company!

If you didn’t busy yourself in the attic all day you would have known. Bertha had reached the landing of the manor house and opened the door of the servant’s stairs. The hall beyond was wide and panelled in dark wood. A richly patterned runner of green leaves and roses covered the gleaming floorboards. The last of the day’s light streamed through the large, mullioned windows, lighting up the portraits of ancestors and the small tables holding blue-and-white China vases filled with displays of white garden flowers. The air smelt of roses and jasmine. Like the rest of the house, the hall reflected the good taste and unique style of Mrs Winifred Finch, who, thanks to her late husband, had the wherewithal to devote to her passion for interior decoration.

But who are they? Eleanor persisted.

Lady Heyer, a cousin of Mrs Anderson, I believe, and her son, Viscount Heyer, Bertha replied succinctly.

Eleanor tried to recall her mother’s interminable lists of local aristocratic families. It was her mama’s fondest desire to marry her daughters well, and her preparations had included having her daughters memorise all the titled families in the county. It had only worked for Isabel. She had won the attention of Baron Radcliff, a rather dull, ugly gentleman who had provided Isabel with a title, much to Mama’s satisfaction.

They can’t be local, Eleanor concluded. I’ve never heard of them.

Bertha paused at Eleanor’s bedroom door and turned. If you kept your mother company, instead of spending all your time painting, I’m sure she would’ve appraised you as to the particulars of Mrs Anderson’s relatives. I’m not privy to such information and I won’t speculate. I suggest you hurry with your ablutions and discuss this with your mother before the guests arrive.

Yes, Bertha. Sorry, Bertha. Eleanor gave a small curtsey and grinned at her peeved governess. Bertha knew full well that Jane, her mother’s maid, would impart all she needed to know. Bertha might not condone gossip from the servant’s hall, but Jane had no such qualms.

Ring for me when you’re dressed. Bertha barely contained her own smile. I’ll need to ensure you’re presentable, — and this time she did smile — and that Jane has missed none of the black paint or important information.

Eleanor watched as Bertha marched noisily down the hall, her footsteps loud, her posture rigid and her head held high. But Bertha, while her only real friend and confidante, was getting old. Her hips were wide, she puffed loudly climbing stairs, and complained about her aching knees. She also had a tendency to doze if reading a novel in the late afternoon.

It was difficult being the last of seven children. As a baby, all Eleanor’s older siblings had cosseted and played with her. Even her eldest brother, Godfrey, who had already turned eighteen at the time of her birth, had played hide and seek with her and tossed her in the air to make her giggle. The house had been full of laughter and arguments, scolding and fun. Then gradually her sisters, Isabel, Lily, and finally Gillian, had gone to London, married and moved away and had babies, lots of babies, so they rarely visited anymore. Godfrey, Henry and Bevan had married a little later than the girls, but they had left early to study, travel, or just be rich young men enjoying London and visiting their peers at country estates. But even they were all married now and had busy lives and families of their own. Gillian, the second youngest, had departed five years ago. Now, already blessed with two children in three years, she was expecting again. Brampton Manor had become a silent, empty shell. Her papa had died, and her mama had gone into decline, and Eleanor feared that she’d never escape the manor’s creeping decay.

Eleanor gave herself a small shake. Yes, she was disappointed, but Bertha was right. Next year, one of her sisters could sponsor her for the Season. She would escape, she would, next year. But tonight, they had visitors, and that was an unusual diversion, and she’d look pretty and grown up in her new pink gown. She opened her bedroom door to be met with the aroma of lilies and the sight of a steaming tub set before the fire. Jane hovered by the bath holding a jug.

Ah, there you are Miss Eleanor, and goodness look at the state of you. Jane sniffed as Eleanor approached. And the smell of you. That hair will need washing, so we’d best be quick or it won’t be dry enough to curl.

Jane was a small, brisk Welsh woman who had tended her mother’s dressing and toilette for the past ten years. She consistently presented in a sensible black dress and tiny polished half boots. She had lovely skin and hair that was immaculately drawn into the tightest chignon Eleanor had ever seen. Eleanor often wondered if the severely pulled bun contributed to Jane’s flawless, wrinkle-free complexion.

Two hours later, Eleanor looked in the mirror and gasped. Jane had turned her into a young lady she barely recognised. Her brown hair was still damp underneath, but the curls and tendrils were dry and shone in the candlelight as they softly framed her face and bounced deliciously on her neck. The pink gown fitted to perfection. It enhanced her pale skin and was just low enough to capture the shadow between her small breasts. It flattered her small waist yet covered her rather wide hips. Wide hips were a family trait, so her mama said, and contributed to the well-known fact that the Finch women were uncommonly good at breeding. Eleanor inhaled deeply to capture the applied scent of Lily of the Valley, a favourite perfume of Jane’s.

There, Miss, you look a treat, even if I say so myself. You will impress the Viscount and his mother. Shall I ring for Miss Smith now?

Eleanor smiled at her reflection and nodded. As well as working wonders with her appearance, Jane had also imparted important information about their titled visitors. And Jane had the information on good authority, having heard the report from Mrs Penn, the housekeeper herself. Mrs Penn rarely condoned gossip in the servant’s hall and it was therefore unusual that she’d visited the neighbouring estate specifically to clarify information from Mrs Watson, the Anderson’s housekeeper.

It was all Polly’s fault, Miss, Jane disclosed with her singsong voice. She’s the new laundry maid, and she’s only young. Well, she got the news about the Anderson’s visitors from her sister, who’s the scullery maid over at Paladin Court. Well, Polly being Polly, and not the brightest bunny in the burrow, had it all wrong. Jane giggled deliciously. Polly made out the visitors were very grand, close to royalty as she would have it. Mrs Penn wasn’t averse to putting the record straight. She gave young Polly a clip ’round the ear for her impertinence, then took a stroll over to visit Mrs Watson and got the true account.

Jane passed on the true account with alacrity to Eleanor as she scrubbed away paint and washed out the smell of turps. Viscount Heyer was a man in his prime, according to Mrs Penn. He had a large estate in Devon and another somewhere in Scotland, as well as a manor in Surrey, where his mother resided. He also had a grand townhouse in Mayfair. The Viscount was a widower and still in mourning for his good lady wife who’d died in childbirth a year ago. The Viscount and his mother were returning to London for the Season after spending the winter grieving and shooting deer in Scotland. Mrs Penn had not furnished herself with information about the Viscount’s age or appearance, much to the disappointment of all in the servant’s hall. Though Polly said she’d heard ‘he was fabulously rich and handsome’. No-one believed this was the case, given Polly’s propensity to exaggeration. Polly also implied that the Viscount had no offspring and was looking for a wife. A more acceptable premise, as this was the usual way of the gentry.

Lady Caroline Heyer was, in fact, The Dowager Viscountess Heyer and had been a widow for many years. Mrs Watson said she had married young and had three boys, the eldest two being twins and a third son five years younger. She was a cousin of Mrs Anderson on her mother’s side, and the two corresponded several times a year, but Lady Heyer hadn’t visited Derbyshire before. They usually only met in person at weddings, christenings, and funerals.

As Lady Heyer was of an age where travel was onerous, she had written to Mrs Anderson, expressing a wish to break the journey from Scotland by enjoying the pleasure of her cousin’s hospitality in Derbyshire for an entire week. Mrs Anderson had been delighted, while Mr Anderson had expressed a desire to show the Viscount the pleasures of the district, allow him to shoot his pheasants, and introduce their titled guests to their friends and neighbours.

It wasn’t much information, but Eleanor gleaned enough to extrapolate that Viscount Heyer was a rich widower who was on his way to enjoy a London season and to start his search for a suitable bride after the customary year of grieving. She thought it likely he was well past his prime, fat, ugly and seeking a brood mare to ensure his line continued unabated. But, no matter how ugly and disagreeable he might prove to be, he and his mother were visitors, and that was an uncommon occurrence at Brampton Manor.

If nothing else, it’ll allow me some practice with the boring conversation topics Mama believes are acceptable, Eleanor thought. And it would be exciting to converse with someone other than Mama, the Andersons, and Bertha.

A knock on the door indicated Bertha had arrived to escort Eleanor to her mother in the parlour. Will I do? Eleanor curtseyed prettily to Bertha as she turned from the mirror.

Bertha was not a person to gush or give away unnecessary compliments. She walked closer, sniffed, and then twirled her fingers, suggesting her charge should make a pirouette for inspection. Bertha nodded, then gave a rare laugh. Yes, of course you’ll do. But appearance gives only a fleeting impression, Eleanor. If you wish to be considered an attractive young lady, it’ll require much more.

I know, I know. I must listen attentively, think before I speak, and always respond with thoughtfulness and kindness. It was a mantra Eleanor had learned from her mama and her sisters most of her life.

Bertha’s amusement dissolved. Eleanor Finch, that’s excellent advice, but you’ll also need to be yourself, child. Your mother may want a compliant daughter, but I’d prefer that you reveal you have some intelligence, are well educated, and have ideas and opinions that deserve consideration by others. Is that understood?

Eleanor nodded and suppressed her amusement. Her mother’s ideas about a correct education for girls were certainly very different from the schooling she’d received from Miss Bertha Smith. Her governess was a devotee of the late Mary Wollstonecraft, the philosopher and author of two radical texts about the rights of daughters to education and women to equality. Eleanor had instinctively learned to keep the breadth and range of her scholastic accomplishments from her mama. In her view, Mama didn’t need to know she spoke both Latin and French, read William Goodwin as well as Jane Austen, or that she was a regular correspondent with Sir Thomas Lawrence, the recently knighted artist famous for his portraits of royalty. Sometimes Eleanor walked a fine line between what her mama considered acceptable behaviour and that demanded by her governess.

Yes, of course, Bertha. I’ll be myself, and try not to give Mama hysterics.

A nod of acknowledgement was all that was needed. At the bottom of the stairs Eleanor straightened her spine, gave Bertha’s hand a last squeeze, took a breath, and walked with what she hoped was grace and dignity to meet her mother’s guests.

It was encouraging to see several of the maids, including Jane, peering out from behind the door leading to the kitchens and obviously making much of her inclusion in the entertainment of titled guests. A year ago, Eleanor would’ve been enthralled to be a spectator rather than a participant. She gave a discreet wave and was cheered to see pride in Jane’s face. John, the footman, opened the parlour door with panache, but spoilt the grandeur of the occasion by giving a straight-faced wink as she murmured her thanks.

The parlour was Eleanor’s favourite room in the entirety of Brampton Manor. It was light and airy, and had large windows offering a delightful view out to the terrace, which could be accessed by French doors. Tubs of roses, jasmine, and all manner of dwarf trees in pots, including lemons and oranges, filled the outdoor space. The parlour itself was well appointed and of pleasing proportions, with walls painted in soft gold with a white trim. There was a display of comfortable sofas and chairs in all shades of gold, cream, and pale green. The centrepiece of the parlour was the fireplace surrounded by white marble, which was intricately carved with oak leaves and birds. It was a masterpiece and designed to draw a visitor’s attention to the large bevelled mirror that reflected the light from silver candelabras around the room. The room was a consummate combination of textures, colours, and design, and it reflected Winifred Finch’s passion for elegant décor. It was a room that revealed her mama’s artistic talent, as well as her refined taste.

Ah, there you are, Eleanor. About time. Mrs Winifred Finch was standing, actually standing, beside the fire, albeit leaning heavily on her cane. She looked magnificent. Her gown was dark blue, a shade lighter than indigo, her gloves were silver, and her neck swathed in lace and pearls. Mama’s hair was mostly grey and her face lined more by pain than age, but when not slumped in despair, she could still be a commanding presence.

Eleanor dropped a low curtsey and approached with arms open. Mama, you look wonderful. She gave her mother a rare hug and received a warm smile in response.

So do you, my darling girl, so do you!

Eleanor felt a flutter of guilt. She would definitely change her portrait of her mother tomorrow.

Now, Eleanor, I’m sure Jane has brought you up to date regarding our visitors. Make sure you address them as Lord Heyer and Lady Heyer when you do your curtsey and my lord and my lady after that. You can, of course, use ma’am and sir too, but only if the conversation is informal. I also want you to acknowledge the Viscount’s loss of his dear wife. He’s still in mourning, so it’s appropriate. A quietly spoken ‘My condolences, My Lord’ when introduced will be sufficient, with a curtsey and downcast eyes, of course. And if the subject comes up again, please leave it to the adults to respond. It is a delicate matter.

Eleanor nodded. Yes, Mama. She hadn’t thought of the consequences of meeting, and entertaining, a visitor recently bereaved. Correct behaviour in all situations was the mark of a well-brought-up young woman, and her mother was an expert on correct behaviour.

Good. Winifred Finch sniffed. I’m sure you’ll do well, child. Now, straighten up. I believe I heard the carriage. We’ll receive our guests in here. I don’t think I can walk as far as the hall, and I’ll need to be seated as soon as possible. If you see me wobble, you may need to bring a chair over, but I hope it won’t come to that.

Mrs Winifred Finch was made of stern stuff indeed. She managed to stand as her guests arrived, and while a curtsey was impossible, she managed a bow of her head when introduced to Lady Heyer and the Viscount by Mr Anderson.

Eleanor kept her eyes downcast as instructed, managed her message of condolence without a flaw, and curtseyed low with every introduction. She also watched her mother for signs of fatigue, but it impressed her that her mother hid her pain with skilled ease and stayed robustly on her feet. Fleeting impressions of rich dark dresses, well-fitted gloves, dainty slippers, tightly fitting breeches, and