Trapped in Their Manor, Twin Dukes Keep Me Captive

Chapter 5:An Audience With His Lordship

Until a reply arrived bearing the count’s seal, he promised to set aside a clean, dignified private cabin for my lodging, along with one male and one female enslaved attendant to see to my daily needs.

I resolved to write the letter at once. After all, I was no English noblewoman—my origins lay far across the sea, in Württemberg, and I owed no loyalty to Britain’s crown.

Those Who Have Tasted Starvation and Despair

Any soul who has endured crushing hunger and utter hopelessness falls into one of two paths: they either turn into a miser hoarding every scrap of grain and coin they can grasp, or sink into debauchery, indulging every greedy craving without restraint. Unfortunately for me, Viscountess Edmond, I could afford neither fate.

My sole desire was to return to Europe, which meant I had no choice but to seek aid from the colonial landed gentry. Nobility reserved their favour only for others of noble birth—there was an old saying among lords: “Baronets and all beneath them are scarcely human.” My life hung entirely on the whims of strangers, and no living soul could vouch for my lineage besides myself. If I hoped to convince the plantation master I was merely a luckless peeress fallen on ruin, rather than an imposter with malicious designs—and my surreal ordeal over these past months sounded utterly far-fetched to any listener—I had no option but to uphold every grace and bearing befitting a viscountess. I dared not commit a single act unworthy of my station.

Trapped on this remote plantation with no gentlefolk of equal rank to keep me company, I had little to occupy my time until my broken body fully mended. To a woman of noble blood, quiet repose was the highest mark of status; it proved one need not toil with her hands to live a life of ease. Yet here there were none of the luxuries I held dear: glittering balls thronged with elegant society, grand opera houses boasting radiant leading ladies, palace kitchens staffed by master chefs capable of rousing any appetite, and dazzling fireworks painting the night sky. Stripped of every pleasure and spectacle I had once taken for granted, the quiet monotony threatened to drive me mad.

I could not fathom how colonial lords endured such a barren, tedious existence day after day.

Humans are creatures of fleeting memory. When disaster bears down, we beg only for the simple mercy of staying alive. Yet once safety is secured, greed stirs within us, and we hunger for endless more blessings.

The longer I lingered in Georgia, the fiercer my longing for Europe burned. I ached for the delicate black truffles and Lake Leman fish smothered in Geneva sauce crafted by the master chefs at Slatga’s Inn; for the frosty fruit sorbets and chilled fruit cordials sold at Conrad’s shop. I missed Chrisleina, whose voice echoed with heavenly melody inside the Grand Opera House, and Coralie, whose lithe beauty rivalled the moon goddess Selene. I yearned for First Street, lined with silk emporiums, milliners’ stores, cane shops and lavish inns, thrumming with chatter. I missed the woodlands on the town’s outskirts each afternoon at three, crammed with fine carriages carrying refined ladies and young misses. Every scrap of opulence and delight I had once owned haunted my thoughts.

I believed the Almighty Lord’s trial for me must surely have reached its end. I penned a letter to Count Ian to deliver my respectful greetings, laying out every detail of my catastrophic journey over the prior five months with complete sincerity and pleading for his assistance. I reasoned that offering ten years’ worth of my annual manor revenue in exchange for passage back to Europe would bring no dishonour to either the House of Haggers or the House of Edmond; both lineages would retain their dignity and standing.

The messenger returned to Colek Manor bearing no reply from Count Ian. Word spread that the count had departed on a lengthy hunt with his retinue of male and female attendants, and would not return for upwards of a month.

Colek Manor was constructed in a triangular layout. The steward had lodged me in a crisp white two-storey wing at the far right edge of the estate. A narrow brook wound directly beneath my windows, and beyond the water stretched the scrub-covered low hills where I had stumbled from the river days prior. The brook fed into a man-made lake at the manor’s front, its waters a brilliant, vivid blue teeming with ornamental fish. Gentle rolling meadows bordered the lake, where the previous earl had hosted grand open-air balls attended by over a hundred guests.

The cotton fields were ripening fast, leaving the steward swamped overseeing the harvest preparations and little time to tend to my trivial concerns. Having worn the pages of three tattered travel narratives thin from endless rereading, boredom drove me to wander frequently. I would climb to the highest crest of those scrub hills to gaze out over the ripening cotton fields and scan the road for any rider bearing dispatches from Frigley. At dusk, I lingered beside the lake, scattering crumbled bread crumbs across the water to watch shoals of vibrantly coloured fish writhe and jostle for the scraps.

The steward turned a blind eye to my aimless wanderings, yet a manservant shadowed my every step without exception. As for the maids—credit where it was due; the steward understood noble customs far too well. Every female servant who crossed my line of sight was plain-featured, of a sort that would never stir a lord’s impulse to claim the old feudal rights of the master over household women.

One evening, low thunderous hoofbeats rumbled across the land. The ground trembled faintly beneath my feet. A white-cloaked cavalcade emerged along the horizon’s twilight glow, surging down the wide dirt roads cutting through the cotton plantations. Leading the procession were dozens of attendants lined six abreast, dressed in French-style livery of sky blue and ivory. Carrying no baggage whatsoever, they shouted sharp calls as they galloped straight for the manor’s open gates. Leaping from their snorting stallions, they tossed the reins to waiting underlings and marched directly into the main house.

Behind them followed hunting attendants bearing loaded fowling pieces, far fewer in number than the first cohort. They wore French-cut linen blouses and riding breeches, their uniforms a deep solid blue.

At the heart of the cavalcade rode the manor’s lord, encircled by personal bodyguards in white French livery stitched with gilded trim. I caught only a flash of the white satin ribbon tied at the thoroughbred stallion’s ear before the entire retinue swept past my vantage point.

The first wave of blue-and-white attendants had already scattered throughout the manor grounds, leaving a mere dozen stable hands to hold the horses for the lord’s personal guard. The bodyguards ushered their master into a vast marble entrance hall, and they vanished from sight. Candles blazed to life in every chamber of the sprawling white stone mansion, filling it with clamour and bustling movement as though a slumbering leviathan had woken from its long rest.

Straggling attendants, private coaches and enslaved labourers continued pouring through the gates, yet I resolved to return to my wing to tidy myself. I had never anticipated the count would arrive this evening; I wore only a simple white linen shift and loose riding trousers, my boots caked thick with mud from climbing the hills that afternoon. To present myself before a peer in such disarray would be an unforgivable breach of etiquette.

Before I could reach my quarters in the side wing, an attendant in blue-and-white livery blocked my path. “The master requests your presence, the stranger from England.” She spoke formal French in an over-the-top, exaggerated rolling drawl, drawing out each syllable with deliberate pomp. To my surprise, the messenger was a woman.

“Grant me leave to change my garments,” I replied in matching refined French. “I wish to attend his lordship properly attired.”

She offered no response. After a beat of awkward silence, the realisation dawned on me—she barely grasped the polished dialect favoured by European nobility. A suffocating hush hung between us as we stared one another down. Her expression curdled into unmasked irritation, and she switched sharply to rough colonial English. “How insolent! Fetch her before the master at once!”

Two manservants flanking her stepped forward, ready to seize me by force. My heart sank within my chest. If Count Ian William Haggers intended to treat me as a fellow peeress, his household staff would never dare address me with such blatant disrespect.

Stitching together the broken fragments of my limited English, I bit out a sharp retort. “Mind your station and your tongue. I demand audience with the count.”

I would walk of my own accord, clinging to the last shred of noble dignity, rather than be dragged roughly before his lordship.

I trailed behind the female attendant down a long tapestry-lined corridor, my mind racing as I walked. I could not recall a single historical feud between the House of Edmond, or the Duchy of Württemberg, and the English-born House of Haggers. Nor could I fathom why the count would spurn a trivial favour that would win him widespread acclaim among European nobility alongside substantial financial gain. Only one explanation lingered in my thoughts: my unwanted rank as a Lieutenant Colonel in a British mercenary regiment stirred far deeper revulsion within Count Haggers than I had imagined.

This title had been thrust upon me against every wish of my heart. I could only pray the lord would lend an ear to my full explanation.

The maid led me winding through endless hallways until we neared an ornate flower salon. Boisterous laughter echoed from within long before we reached the doors. She halted mid-corridor, her tone dripping with haughty disdain. “Await the master’s command here. Do not cross this threshold until you are summoned.”

The spite of a slighted woman is a terrible thing. A tall window stood beside my waiting spot, cool night wind cutting through the glass to chill my skin. I stood shivering in that draft for over an hour before the raucous merriment inside the salon slowly faded. A quarter-hour more passed before a servant emerged to summon me inside.

The flower salon sweltered with warmth. Even in this season, vibrant crimson and white roses bloomed in full lush bloom. The sweet perfume of daffodils, firethorn and croton tangled thick in the air. Gilded mirrors nestled between the floral arrangements caught the glow of hundreds of lit tapers, flooding the chamber with brightness as vivid as midday sun.

The cloying scent of blooms, warm candle wax and ladies’ perfumes swirled together, and I lost control, letting out a loud sneeze. Muffled snickers rippled through the line of attendants lining the walls.

Scattered whist cards and glinting piles of gold coin littered a table draped in rich crimson velvet. The manor’s lord tore his gaze away from a chattering female attendant leaning coquettishly against the back of his armchair, her sinuous frame coiled like a white serpent.

The first detail that struck me about Ian William Haggers was his eyes, as deep and brilliant as open ocean water—only then did I register his sun-kissed golden hair glinting beneath candlelight. He was strikingly young and handsome, a born pleasure-seeker with an effortless charm that captivated every woman in his orbit; precisely the kind of rival I had loathed most amid Ludwigsburg’s courtly society.

Mud smudges from my soiled boot soles marred the intricate patterns of an imported Indian silk carpet. The true master of this vast estate lifted his eyelids and deigned to cast me a dismissive glance. “Is this the woman who trespassed upon my lands?”