Marchioness Divine | A Regency Romance

Chapter One: Dowager

**Warning: This story does contain characters of colour and therefore includes outdated terms. I did not make this decision lightly - I have done it for historical accuracy. Outdated language exists but I have limited its usage as much as possible. I take full responsibility for any offence caused. Apologies.

As the first sprinkles of dirt fell from her hand onto the elm coffin in the empty cemetery, it was settled. Now she was Lady Amelia Warstone, The Most Honourable Dowager Marchioness of Bedgebury.

The narrow cemetery of the church closest to Denmead Hall was overwhelmed by the majestic Warstone tomb – everyone buried here was a Warstone or had served them in some capacity. The grey speckled gargoyles leered over the grand headstones. All were perfectly maintained, under the orders of God-knows-who from God-knows-when. Someone had ordered that no weeds were allowed to grow and the headstones were to be polished until they were pristine, and to this day the graveyard remained spotless.

She felt the nothingness keenly. No weeds. No dirt. No people. Nothing.

Only Amelia, a reverend whom Lord Warstone had never met, and a couple of gravediggers hunched over the black soil were here this afternoon. Lord Thomas would have liked it this way. Empty and alone, nobody pushing tears out of their eyes in the hopes of a small concession in the will. He lived with the bare necessities and he died with the bare necessities.

But the new Amelia – she didn't have to live that way anymore. Not as he ordered. After the marquess bequeathed her everything apart from his title, which was to go to a distant cousin, she could live as she liked.

The gravediggers finished. The earth was now flat, as though nothing had been overturned to begin with. The respect and, dare she say, affection she had held for the elderly marquess would always remain, but she would not. She thanked the gravediggers and gave them a few shillings each, offered the reverend a contribution to the church, and whispered her last goodbye to Thomas Warstone.

"Thank you," she gasped, not quite able to speak. It felt illegal to speak here, in the dead quiet. Warstones never wasted words, she would have to choose hers carefully. "For everything. For my home. Thank you."

Amelia began her long walk home. She supposed she could buy her own carriage and horses now. Lord Thomas had been so determined to walk everywhere, and that if it wasn't within walking distance it wasn't worth going. He was nearly thirty years her senior but he managed to take himself to and from the village several times a week. The Marchioness only went to the village every few months, but now she might have to run Lord Thomas' weekly errands.

Yes, she could get a carriage, but she did rather like her walks. And she would need someone to look after the carriage and the horses and the stables. Her household was run by two people – Judy and Paul Howell, the housekeeper and the butler. It might be a much smaller household than most marquesses enjoyed, but it had always been those two, at least since...

Charity Burns.

There was a small grave in the corner of the cemetery, completely inconspicuous, which Amelia would never be able to walk past. Charity Burns, the lady's maid. The young, bright girl who had worked so hard since the moment she entered Denmead Hall nine years ago. She had been the marchioness' companion every moment of the day for years. She had accompanied her on the long walks, sat by her sickbed, and rushed to her in the night whenever summoned. No task was too big or too small – each one was just as important as the last, no matter how tired or sick or angry she might be. Right to the very end.

Amelia could find herself another lady's maid – there were always women looking for the work. But Amelia knew she would never completely bury the wonderful young woman, so why bother?