Miss Elizabeth's Niece

You have scandalised your name and ours, and the only thing to do is to make the best of it, and teach Maisie at least the first principles of ladylike conduct. Trevor Stratheyre, from a wealthy and aristocratic English family, impulsively marries Maisie, a servant girl he meets while touring the Continent. Maisie's mother had died at an Italian inn, leaving three-year-old Maisie to be brought up by the landlord and his wife, and helps as a maid at the inn, and cares for the animals. Maisie is charming and affectionate, but when Trevor takes her back to Stratheyre in England as his bride, to the large estate he is expecting to inherit, it is clear that Maisie's ways are not those of the upper classes. When she tells titled guests at dinner that she was once herding some cows home in a thunder storm and one was struck by lightning, trouble is bound to follow.

Miss Elizabeth's Niece

Margaret S. Haycraft

1855-1936

White Tree Publishing

Abridged Edition

Original book first published 1898

This abridged edition ©Chris Wright 2018

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9957594-7-3

Published by

White Tree Publishing

Bristol

UNITED KINGDOM

wtpbristol@gmail.com

Full list of books and updates on

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Miss Elizabeth's Niece is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this abridged edition.

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Book

Author Biography

Note

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17j

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

About White Tree Publishing

More Books from White Tree Publishing

Christian non-fiction

Christian Fiction

Books for Younger Readers

Author Biography

Margaret Scott Haycraft was born Margaret Scott MacRitchie at Newport Pagnell, England in 1855. She married William Parnell Haycraft in 1883 and wrote mostly under her married name. In 1891 she was living in Brighton, on the south coast of England, and died in Bournemouth, also on the south coast, in 1936. She also wrote under her maiden name of Margaret MacRitchie. Margaret Haycraft is by far our most popular author of fiction.

Margaret was a contemporary of the much better-known Christian writer Mrs. O. F. Walton. Both ladies wrote Christian stories for children that were very much for the time in which they lived, with little children often preparing for an early death. Mrs. Walton wrote three romances for adults (with no suffering children, and now published by White Tree in abridged versions). Margaret Haycraft concentrated mainly on books for children. However, she wrote several romances for older readers. Unusually for Victorian writers, the majority of Margaret Haycraft's stories are told in the present tense, but not this one.

Both Mrs. Walton's and Margaret Haycraft's books for all ages can be over-sentimental, referring throughout, for example, to a mother as the dear, sweet mother, and a child as the darling little child. In our abridged editions overindulgent descriptions of people have been shortened to make a more robust story, but the characters and storyline are always unchanged.

A problem of Victorian writers is the tendency to insert intrusive comments concerning what is going to happen later in the story. Today we call them spoilers. They are usually along the lines of: Little did he/she know that.... I have removed these when appropriate.

£100 in 1898 may not sound much, but in income value it is worth £12,000 pounds today (about US$15,000). I mention this in case the sums of money in this book sound insignificant!

Chris Wright

Editor

NOTE

There are 30 chapters in this book. In the last third are advertisements for our other books, so the story may end earlier than expected! The last chapter is marked as such. We aim to make our eBooks free or for a nominal cost, and cannot invest in other forms of advertising. However, word of mouth by satisfied readers will also help get our books more widely known. When the story ends, please take a look at what we publish: Christian non-fiction, Christian fiction, and books for younger readers.

Chapter 1

Maisie

You are surely not in earnest, Signor? It is impossible. She is only a child, and besides----

I do not joke about such a subject, said the tall, serious young Englishman who faced the innkeeper. Maisie is not happy here, and since I owe my life to her when my horse bolted, the least I can do for her is to take care of her future. I wish you clearly to understand that I am asking the hand of your niece.

As to that, said the astonished Italian, rapidly and excitedly, I do not grudge Maisie her good fortune -- the saints forbid! -- but milord surely knows she is but seventeen or eighteen, and a little wild thing like a young child. She has had no bringing up -- no education, except what she gets for herself by reading the books the visitors here leave about.

I shall charge myself with her intellectual training, said Trevor Mulgrave, stiffly.

Well, Signor, I have nothing more to say, said the innkeeper, looking somewhat offended. Of course it will save us money if you choose to marry the girl, for we have kept her since her mother died here -- kept her out of pity, though my wife finds her tiresome enough. And it's only out of pity we call her our niece. She never had any folks of her own that we know of.

Do you mean to say you really know nothing of her parentage? asked Mulgrave, his composure suddenly shaken.

"Nothing whatever, Signor. She was three years old when her mother came here one evening, just as ill as she could be, and asked for lodging. The wife saw she was English, and we like the English, for, as milord has heard, we kept a shop for some years near Hyde Park in London.

"The wife saw, too, there was still a little money in the purse she opened, and we gave her a comfortable room and saw to her supper. But she scarcely ate or drank. The next morning she was so faint that we sent for a doctor who said she must have been getting ill for a long time, and she had only strength to last out a few weeks. Weeks, Signor! Three days afterwards she was cold and still, and the little one -- Maisie, as she called herself -- was crying about the place for her mamma.

All we could find after the mother's death was an old Bible, with some pages lost and the fly-leaf torn, and a bag containing nothing save a few bits of clothes for the child. We buried her in the strangers' quarter, and ever since then we have burdened ourselves with the child -- a fighting, quarrelsome creature. I beg your pardon, milord, I forgot the honour you mean to do her.

I am sorry I did not know the fact of this obscurity as to her parentage, said Trevor, rather hesitantly. I imagined she was at least connected with hardworking, respectable people. However, now I have pledged my word to Maisie, I shall not withdraw.

Noble, excellent Signor, murmured the innkeeper, removing the cloth in search of which he had entered the room, when Mulgrave electrified him by the curt proposal for the girl who had run wild about his inn and vineyard for so many years. At this juncture a carriage was heard driving up to the inn, and the good man departed hastily to welcome the coming guest. Mulgrave sat down by the window, kicked off his boots rather moodily, and gave himself up to thought.

It strikes me, he meditated, "that the prudence for which the Squire has often praised me has somehow deserted me of late. Many a time he has said, 'You have been too hot-headed and impulsive. Your young shoulders should carry a cool and cautious head.' What will he say when he hears of this marriage? And what will his sister, Miss Stratheyre, say to it? She is, after all, my guardian, and she has great plans for my marriage into society. I somehow wish I had not been quite so hasty. Surely the young woman is a witch! What made her take such a fancy to me? Simply, I suppose, because I treated her with ordinary civility. She is ordered here and ordered there, and scarcely received a kindly word, I do believe, till I praised her for stopping my horse.

"How her great eyes shone like dark, fiery gems as I handed her a gold coin, and how her pretty lips trembled as she said she wanted no money -- she loved to be serving me. Poor little woman! I found out she actually cleaned my boots and polished my floor. I did not know she was a maid-of-all-work in house and stable, and I begged her off some of the drudgery, for I wanted her as a model for my artist studies of heads. How quietly she has sat here hour after hour, to help me in my painting.

"I could scarcely believe her aunt's tale that she used to fight with the other boys and girls. When I questioned her, did she not look pretty that day as she flushed all over and said she only fought as a child, and that was because the others would not love her. She never shook them, she said, without kissing them first to see if they would not love her.

"I think the people here are jealous of her beauty. Madame, with her growing daughters, must dread such a rival as Maisie. There must be some good in her, for every animal in the place idolises her. It is fortunate for me that it is so, for when I lost control over my excitable horse Victor, Maisie dashed in front of him seizing the rein. Instead of trampling her as everyone expected, he stood quiet, trembling all over, willing to endure my unwelcome guidance rather than hurt a hair of her head. Yes, I was certainly bewitched yesterday evening.

I went to thank her, and I found her crying in the stables. I meant to speak a few cordial words. What made me take her hands and ask her if she were crying because of my approaching departure? And when I drew from her that she was crying because I might have been hurt, what prompted me to kiss her and call her fond names? I suppose people are right when they say love is madness. I never dreamt that I should ever make such an extraordinary alliance, but things may turn out better than I expect. Maisie will always be a splendid artist's model, and it will be interesting to watch her mind develop at Stratheyre Manor. Things must go forward towards the marriage, come what may. None of our race -- the race into which I have been adopted -- ever broke his word. We are loyal to our motto, 'Tenez la foy -- Keep the faith!'

Meanwhile an agitated scene was going on in the vine-wreathed parlour of the inn. Madame, as everyone called the wife of Lorghetti, was a vivacious Frenchwoman who had been a waitress once in his little restaurant at the West End of London. She was not an unkindly woman, but as Mulgrave suspected, jealousy for her daughters had aroused in her a real dislike for Maisie, and she refused to believe that the prince had really arrived, and had overlooked the ruddy charms of Marietta, Julia, and Delphine, choosing to share his good things with the dark-eyed Cinderella.

Loud was her wrath, and bitter was her sarcasm as she seized the dishes which the unfortunate bearer of the news was about to convey to the newly arrived travellers. Telling him it was all his fault for letting that sly Maisie be painted by the young Englishman, she bounced upstairs with supper herself, leaving Lorghetti perplexed and uncomfortable, yet cheered by the thought that his sons and daughters could expect generous gifts from the wealthy Englishman.

The girls, too, were greatly concerned as to the dresses they should wear at the wedding, for of course their Sunday gowns would never do on an occasion so resplendent as the marriage of their young companion with an English milord, as their father flatteringly termed Trevor Mulgrave, Esq., of Stratheyre Manor, Dorsetshire, England. It was a pity, they thought, that he had no real title, but he had come here from one of the best hotels in Rome, and he had lived at their house regardless of expense. Doubtless his was a great and wealthy family, and Maisie might yet prove the making of them all!

Maisie herself was in the garden at the back of the house, her hands filled with a great bunch of the cyclamen that grew everywhere, her eyes looking beyond the clustering flowers to the gorgeous sunset that was slowly unfolding its canopy of sapphire. She was a brown-tressed maiden with a clear, warm skin, through which every emotion showed some changing tint.

Her temperament seemed like an April day, varying from the dews of sorrow to the flash of sudden gladness. But her soft, dusky hair, her tender, shadowed eyes, and the tremulous beauty of her mouth reminded one more of the autumn time, wherein there is the speechless eloquence of suffering and endurance. She had tended the fowls, fastened the goats, and taken the grain to the manger. Her day's work was not done till the washing up of the supper things, and she was free to dream of the marvellous joy that heaven had granted to her heart -- the consciousness that Trevor Mulgrave, her hero, her idol, the embodiment to her heart of all the poetry she had read and learnt, found her fair and well-pleasing, and had chosen her to be his wife.

Sometimes it seemed as if she would awake and find the vision unreal, and the future filled only with hard words and monotonous employment, jealous sneers from Madame, and impatient orders from the guests. But no, he had held her in his arms, therein she had entered Eden. The merciful Lord had opened the glorious gates to her for ever.

"Brown-haired maid, with witching smile,

Full of love, and free from guile:

God be with thee, brown-haired maid,

In the sunshine or the shade!"

So sang a musical, well-trained voice down the garden, and a hand was gently laid upon her curling hair. Maisie, proud of her English origin, had spared no pains to acquaint herself with her mother's tongue, and spoke and understood English well. Lorghetti had afforded her a course of English lessons, finding his children averse to linguistic efforts, and wishing that one of the young people should be able to converse with his numerous British guests. But she scarcely caught the sense of Trevor's harmonious outburst. It was sufficient for her that his proud face had softened directly he saw her, and that a low, sweet love had been born upon his lips.

What castles in the air are you picturing, little one? asked Trevor, casting himself down on a flowery bank beside her. I fear your visions are too rose-coloured, Maisie. The Squire says I must settle down at the Stratheyre estate now, and you will find ours a very quiet existence. You will soon get tired of spending your time in the studio while I paint.

Will you let me be there? she asked, looking reverently up towards her fiancé who addressed her so kindly and graciously.

Of course. You may bring your lessons there, for I shall want you to study hard and carefully. A well-informed wife is always good company for a man.

I should like to learn to sing, she said hesitatingly.

You sing like a bird already, said Trevor, with a slight frown. I consider yours a wonderful voice, but I do not feel disposed to develop the gift. Such abilities are bad form in our society, except in professionals.

Maisie did not understand, but she crept nearer and nestled her two soft hands into his. "And yours is the gift of art, is it not, Signor? You will become a great painter, and famous like Raphael -- like Angelo."

I must not disappoint your dreams for me, said the young man, complacently. "I am very fond of using my brush, and I flatter myself my Continental tour has greatly improved my style. What a dear little creature you look, Maisie, in that green dress, with the red flower at your breast! I believe you will turn out a sweet little wife. You have grown out of the childish tempers and waywardness now, have you not, cara mia?" And he extended his arms to her.

Ah, I was wicked then, she said, shuddering. 1 used to hit Alexis and Delphine in my tempers; but I was so miserable, Signor. Nobody wanted me, and nobody liked me, except the horses and the dogs and the cattle.

But it is different now, said Trevor, holding her tightly, despite an inner whisper that the powers at Stratheyre would be considerably astonished could they see him now. You will henceforth be encircled by a husband's love, so let misery and passion be forever forgotten, Maisie. I must be present when the Squire's birthday is celebrated at home this day fortnight. It will suit my plans if we fix the wedding for Tuesday or Wednesday next. Let it be just as quiet as possible. None of Madame's fancy dresses, or Julia's remarkable bodices -- and then we can go on to Venice, as I am anxious to finish the interior of a church that I began when last I was there.

Chapter 2

A Letter from Venice

Miss Stratheyre came down to breakfast in high good humour. The guests for whom she had striven so long had consented at last to grace Stratheyre Manor, and the plans that she had mentally matured seemed already in visible blossom

Trevor's career had been the object of Miss Stratheyre's existence ever since his dying mother -- once her rival in love -- laid him trustfully within her arms. She was proud of the fact that the gentlemanly, well-behaved lad had never caused her a tear of sorrow or a pang of anxiety. He had passed satisfactorily through school and college, not brilliantly enough to be conspicuous, but sufficiently well to satisfy her as his guardian, and satisfy her brother, the good-natured Squire who had adopted Trevor.

It was acknowledged throughout their circle that Trevor had a decided taste for art. His etchings and designs were in great favour with their young lady friends, and Miss Stratheyre confidently expected that the Continental tour, to which she had reluctantly yielded, would result in universal recognition of real genius in her charge.

But one point yet remained to be settled -- the important question of Trevor's marriage. He refused to be satisfied with the pretty, pleasant girls who hovered about Miss Stratheyre, especially of late. The Squire's heir, as his adopted son was known to be, would have plenty of money. What Miss Stratheyre desired for him was social elevation. To this end she had long cultivated the friendship of Lady Granton, the widow of an earl, whose only daughter was decidedly the belle of that part of the county. Unfortunately, owing to circumstances, Trevor himself had not seen her for more than two years.

Lady Granton had many friends, but for some time she had promised a visit to Stratheyre Manor. Perhaps she had some idea of Miss Stratheyre's wishes, but she raised no inward objection, for the wealth of Stratheyre was well known. The family, though untitled, was an old one, and Trevor Mulgrave himself was well born, his father having died in active service as a military officer. Lady Granton's young daughter, Lady Cecily, was tired out with London society, and the doctors recommended purer air. So a dainty little missive found its way to Stratheyre, saying that mother and daughter would with pleasure avail themselves of the kind invitation so often repeated.

The mistress of the Manor was radiant with satisfaction as she descended to the breakfast room, and reflected how surely Lady Cecily's perfection of face and form would captivate Trevor's artist eye, and how, if the young people suited each other as well as she anticipated, a circle of the highest in the land would undoubtedly be drawn around Stratheyre Manor.

I have not lived in vain, she thought, reflecting on these things. A softer look came to her hard, proud face as she remembered the soldier's grave of her first love, to whose memory she had been true, and the trustfulness of his young wife, who on her deathbed knew she would cherish the boy as her own.

I have been faithful to my charge, she said to herself. With my brother Guy's large property, and Cecily's family connections and his own talents, Trevor will become a power in the county.

I hope the boy is coming home soon, said Squire Stratheyre, as he strode into the breakfast room and tossed, in his impetuous fashion, a letter across to his sister. The Squire prided himself on being of the old school -- a regular John Bull -- one of the fine old English gentleman species -- but everybody knew by this time that quiet Miss Stratheyre ruled at the Manor, and that the Squire held his sister in awe and reverence. She took his brusqueness calmly enough, knowing that of all the concerns of Stratheyre Manor she held the reins very firmly.

A letter from Trevor, she said smiling. Why did not Wheatland bring it up with the others to my room?

I don't know, said the Squire, attacking the sirloin, "unless the woman is short-sighted. I found