The Officer's Convenient Proposal
highlight_author
Joanna Johnson
highlight_reads
18,9K
highlight_chapters
14
Chapter One
Looking down at the two graves in front of her, one much newer than the other, Frances Nettleford tightened her jaw.
The summer sun beat down on her head with unrelenting strength, bathing Marchfield’s churchyard in the same bright glare, but Frances barely felt the sticky heat beneath her gown. At least Uncle Robert was at peace now, even if his passing had left her completely alone in a world that didn’t want her.
To see such a strong man growing weaker by the day until he could barely lift a spoon had been a torture she never wanted to endure again and she’d watched helplessly as the one person who loved her, and she loved in return, had been laid out in his shroud. There hadn’t been many mourners for a bachelor who’d kept others at arm’s length since the death of his sister twenty years before, and fewer still who felt much sympathy for the scandal-ridden niece he’d left behind.
Frances bent to place a bunch of the wildflowers she carried at the base of each headstone. It was some small comfort to see her hand was steady as she straightened the twine-wrapped stems, and she nodded to herself with more resolve than she felt.
Mama and Uncle would want me to be strong. He didn’t raise me to turn away from a challenge—although I’m sure even he would think twice about running the farm entirely on his own.
A twinge of anxiety gnawed at her again but Frances braced herself against it. What good would worrying do? Barrow Farm was hers now and she had to step up, as she’d known she must one day ever since she’d been old enough to understand. As the owner of a prosperous farm she would be safe from ever needing a man to provide for her—and safe from the ruinous damage they could inflict on a woman if given half a chance.
Uncle Robert would have moved heaven and earth to spare his niece the fate that had befallen his barely eighteen-year-old sister. Frances knew it had haunted him until his very last hour, and her entire life had been shaped by his determination she would never fall into the same dangerous trap her hopelessly naïve mother had—the arms of an unworthy man.
‘Best to bide by yourself, Frances, and rely on no one else.’
She could almost hear Uncle Robert’s gruff voice now, repeating the same wisdom he had always imparted, and she closed her hazel eyes to better picture his weathered face.
‘No one can hurt you if they can’t reach you, nor break your trust if you never give it in the first place. Take heed of your mama’s mistakes.’
The memory sent a fresh skewer through Frances’s heart and she clenched her hands into tight fists. He’d been so insistent she learn that essential lesson—and just because he was no longer with her didn’t mean she would forget it.
The townspeople might think her unfriendly for keeping her distance, but when had they ever shown a moment of kindness that might have softened her guarded heart? All Frances had known since childhood were harsh whispers and disapproving glances, alongside the pain of rejection when none of the other little girls were allowed to play with her, and she’d lost count of the times her uncle had dried her tears before she’d learned to thicken her skin.
Her mere existence was an affront to some and as she’d grown older—and prettier—more than one wife feared her mother’s offence might repeat itself, as if Frances would have looked once, let alone twice, at any of their husbands. Trusting anyone was a risk, but to trust a man was out of the question entirely. They were fickle beasts, with their wandering hands and eyes that followed her slim figure across the market square, and Frances’s face remained stony as she turned away from them all.
It was better to be lonely than to cast her lot with a man who would turn from her the moment she needed him most. If a lifetime of shame and scorn had taught her nothing else, at least she knew that, how cruel people could be, something she reminded herself of fiercely whenever her solitary existence grew hardest to bear. It was a hundred times worse now Robert had passed, leaving her without a friend in the world and no hope of ever finding one among Marchfield’s narrow-minded inhabitants.
She sighed, a weary breath that came all the way up from her boots.
Confound them all. Every one of those men who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves, and every one of those women who forbade their husbands from continuing their employment at the farm once my uncle was no longer there as chaperone.
The fact that she was clearly uninterested in any kind of entanglement apparently counted for nothing. Blessed—or cursed—with a face that was fair even when clouded with wariness, every young man she’d taken on since Robert’s death had overstepped the line and been dismissed at once, their caressing fingers and lingering stares sending shivers of revulsion beneath Frances’s skin.
Her mother’s mistake in being seduced by a married man had put paid to her hopes of employing any of the local labourers who might have been useful. No wife trusted her with their husband, too frightened the inheritance of a scarlet woman might run in her veins. Suspicion bred more suspicion, and neither Frances nor the residents of Marchfield were much inclined to think well of the other...leaving her no choice but to carry on alone or admit defeat.
Which was not an option.
With one last long look down at the neat graves, Frances squared her shoulders. Grief still sat inside her like a stone, barely two months on from the funeral only a handful of people had attended, but she had to keep going. Her spine was iron now, tempered over the years by her uncle’s insistence on her learning the very independence that would keep her safe and see her through the dark days ahead, with nobody left to hold out a helping hand or tell her they were proud.
Tears gathered behind her eyes as another fleeting picture of that familiar face flashed before her, but she blinked them away at once, only one managing to trace a burning path down her cheek before she blotted it with a rough hand. She couldn’t waste time on crying, not while there was so much for her to do, and with a final tender glance at the stones that bore her mother’s and uncle’s names Frances turned for where her horse was tethered to the churchyard’s fence.
With ease born from years of practice she swung herself up onto Apollo’s broad back, settling into the worn old saddle that had belonged to her long-dead grandfather. She always rode astride. It was far more practical than side-saddle, and besides...
I’m already the town scandal. As people will talk whatever I do, I might as well please myself.
Frances shook the reins. ‘Come on, boy. Let’s go home.’
Barrow Farm stood barely half a mile outside the pretty town of Marchfield, nestled within the serene beauty of the Cotswolds countryside. Most of the families living nearby had been there for generations, few desiring to move away from a place considered as close to paradise on earth as it was possible to get—with one notable exception. Frances’s father had fled as soon as her mother’s condition became known, packing up his wife and legitimate children in the middle of the night and leaving Marina Nettleford to face the town’s contempt alone. Rose Cottage had been empty ever since, despite the passing of twenty years, a constant reminder to Frances—as if she needed it—of her disgraceful origins each time she went by the peeling front gate.
Her mind ventured there of its own accord as Apollo trotted towards the street on which the cottage stood, some disloyal part of her always hungry for the answers her uncle would never give.
Was it within those four walls Mama made the error that would cost both her life and good name? Did my father care even the smallest fraction what would happen once nature took its course, laying the taint of bastardy on me I can never wash clean?
Frances gritted her teeth as the same old questions muttered to her, their voices snide and sly. There were enough unfriendly whispers in the town already without her own mind joining in and she pushed them aside, feeling her spirits sink lower as she noticed two older women coming towards her on the opposite side of the street.
Oh, no. Not them. Just when I thought this day couldn’t get any worse...
She groaned inwardly as two sets of eyes snapped in her direction, bright and cold as a crow’s. Miss Fletcher and her widowed sister Mrs Campbell delighted in all things not of their concern, scandal and intrigue the only reasons they eased their rheumatic bones out of bed each morning. The sisters lived for malicious half-truths and spreading news—suitably embellished, naturally—and as they bore down upon her Frances raised her guard.
They would never speak to her usually, much preferring to talk about her instead, as they had all her life...which must mean they had something to tell so interesting it outweighed their normal scorn, and that could never be good.
‘Good morning, Miss Nettleford.’
Even their voices set Frances’s teeth on edge, but she kept her face expressionless as she offered a cool nod from high up on Apollo’s back. ‘Good morning, Miss Fletcher. Mrs Campbell.’
She felt their hungry gazes rake over her, taking in every detail and searching out ways she might be lacking.
‘I don’t suppose you will have heard...?’
‘Of course she won’t have. We only just saw it ourselves!’
With enormous effort Frances managed to stop herself from rolling her eyes. Doubtless she was supposed to ask what she hadn’t heard, but she refused to play along. She had too much to do and too little time in which to do it, and refused to waste even a moment on such an unpleasant pair.
‘I’m happy to confirm I’ve no idea what you’re referring to. Please excuse me.’
With another coldly polite nod she urged Apollo onwards, a flicker of satisfaction stirring at their visible annoyance. She might even have thought herself victorious if a cloyingly sweet voice hadn’t called at her back, the words bringing her up short once again.
‘Have you no interest that new tenants have taken your papa’s house?’
Frances turned in the saddle. Miss Fletcher and Mrs Campbell watched triumphantly and for a split-second Frances feared the sudden flare of surprise in her stomach had shown in her face.
Somebody has taken Rose Cottage? It isn’t empty any more, at long last?
Sensing their prey was caught off-balance, Miss Fletcher pounced. ‘We saw them only moments ago, a retired lieutenant and his sister, a Mrs Millard, along with two children. I don’t know what he can be thinking, moving into a house in such poor repair... It was always kept so nice when your papa lived there and now it’s almost a ruin. The rent must be cheap indeed!’
Mrs Campbell eyed Frances closely, as if looking for a reaction to her sister’s spite, and Frances swallowed hard. It was nothing to her if a hundred such families moved into that accursed cottage...and yet some part of her couldn’t help but wonder...
She cleared her throat. ‘How interesting.’ Her voice was carefully flat and she had to clamp down on a humourless smile at the sour purse of Mrs Campbell’s lips. ‘Thank you for bringing that to my attention. I’m sure you can be relied upon to inform everyone else.’
She turned around, about to tap Apollo into a trot when she hesitated, considered for a moment, and looked back.
‘One thing, Miss Fletcher. That man was not my papa. He may have been the one who imposed upon my mother, but it was my uncle who fed me, clothed me, raised me to be the woman I am today. If I ever had a papa...’ She broke off for a second, determined the emotion threatening to rise within her wouldn’t break through. The sisters didn’t deserve to know anything of her private pain, her grief nothing to them but more grist to their mill. ‘If I ever had a papa it was him and no one else.’
Malicious muttering echoed at Frances’s back but this time she didn’t look behind. Perhaps goading the two most vicious tongues in Marchfield hadn’t been her best idea, but what else could she have done? They’d wanted a reaction and although she’d refused to let them see it Frances couldn’t help the unease winding through her as she and Apollo approached the very house about which the whole town would soon be talking.
She saw immediately why the change in occupancy had caught the sisters’ all-seeing eyes. The cottage was enveloped in a hive of activity. A horse and cart stood at the leaning fence, stacked with furniture two men were busily unloading, while another hefted chairs and tables up to the open front door. Every window was flung wide and faded curtains fluttered in the warm breeze, the whinnies of the horse and grunts of the men floating likewise through the air. A little girl waded through uncut grass on one side of the cracked path, weeds reaching almost to her shoulder, but she scurried inside at Apollo’s approach, disappearing into the shadowy interior that both intrigued and revolted Frances in equal measure.
Pulling to a halt, she watched for a moment in silence, taking in the scene as the sun shone down to burn the back of her neck.
Why would a lieutenant take such a tumbledown house for his family?
Frances allowed her eyes to travel from the thatched roof—in dire need of repair—to the dirty whitewashed walls, a combination of reluctant curiosity and distaste rising within her. It was the longest she’d ever let herself gaze upon the place where her father had lived, although in that moment it was the present that occupied her thoughts more than the past.
I’d have thought an officer could afford something far better than this pitiful cottage. Of all places, why bring his family here?
Marchfield was so pretty it was small wonder someone might choose to move there, but there was no shortage of superior housing the higher ranks could take, houses with gleaming bay windows and pristine fronts, surely well within reach of a man of such generous means. For him to opt instead for an unkempt cottage made no sense at all.
Enough of that.
Mildly irritated with her momentary lapse, Frances frowned. It was none of her business what this person did and that was the end of it. She had more than enough on her own plate without thinking of anyone else, especially a strange man, and she shook her head.
Concerning myself with other people’s affairs? Perhaps I’m more like Miss Fletcher than I thought.
That was enough to send a shudder through her and she flicked the reins at once, quickly, as if trying to outrun the thought...which was also unfortunately so quick she didn’t notice the man walking in front of her until it was too late.
‘Steady there!’
Startled by the unexpected obstacle, Apollo lurched to the side, easily spooked as always and the whites of his eyes showing all around. With instinctive speed, Frances grabbed onto the pommel, only just stopping herself from flying backwards and instead sliding from the saddle to land clumsily—but far less painfully—on the ground.
A hand shot out immediately to steady her, wrapping around her wrist, and Frances found herself staring up into a pair of brown eyes.
‘Are you hurt?’
The voice was deep, with a hint of the north, and for the briefest of moments Frances felt her heart stop. It was a pleasant accent and sat well with those eyes—the colour of strong, sweet cocoa, she noticed vaguely, flecked with chips of gold—but then she snapped back to attention, caution flooding in at once, and she flicked the man’s hand away as if it had burned her.
‘What were you thinking, walking across my horse? He could have thrown me!’
Frances reached for Apollo’s trailing reins, horribly aware blood had rushed to her face as she calmed him with a gentle hand. The stranger watched evenly, evidently not in the least bit cowed by her scowl, and she couldn’t help but notice he’d have nothing to fear even if she’d been in a fury. His shoulders were broad and strong-looking beneath an expensive coat, shoulders not quite brushed by a thick mane of curling chestnut hair, and the face that sat below the brim of his hat...
Frances stiffened with instant distrust, her cheeks burning hotter. It was a handsome face, if serious and unsmiling, something she’d never thought she’d be vulnerable to noticing, and yet she could hardly deny the evidence of her own eyes. With straight dark brows and a chiselled jaw, he was far more comely than any other man in Marchfield, or indeed any Frances had ever seen before—and that was warning enough to hurry away from him as soon as she could, all Uncle Robert’s warnings of the dangers posed by good-looking young men ringing in her ears.
But she didn’t move quite fast enough, her attempt to swing back into the saddle cut off by an unexpected question.
‘Would you be Miss Nettleford?’
The man’s sober expression didn’t change, although Frances knew her own must have shown surprise—and then rapid suspicion.
How does he know that?
As if reading her mind, he gestured to Rose Cottage, extending a large hand she saw was scattered with old scars. ‘I’m taking this house. First the landlord and then two of my new neighbours told me the history of it and happened to mention you. I’m not a mystic—they gave me a description.’
Frances’s stomach executed an unpleasant flip. So that was it. Mrs Campbell and Miss Fletcher had sunk their claws into the newcomer already, never missing an opportunity to spread their poison. It was fortunate she cared not one iota for what this stranger thought of her, she reassured herself. There was no way he could be in any doubt as to her standing once the town harpies had poured their poison into his ear. But the only thing more vehement than their contempt for her was Frances’s own resolve to keep this mysterious newcomer safely at a distance.
‘I’m sure they did.’
‘Nothing untoward, I assure you.’
Frances’s stomach clenched.
A barefaced lie if ever I heard one.
‘I don’t believe that for a moment,’ she replied coolly, hearing the frost in her tone and pleased with it. ‘Especially if they told you the nature of my connection to your new home, which I can’t imagine they didn’t.’
The man shrugged negligently, the movement of his damnably impressive shoulders making Frances swiftly look away as another uncomfortable pinch of something worried at her insides.
‘Gossip doesn’t interest me. I prefer to make my own judgements. All I can say at present is the physical description was accurate.’
Her face must have expressed what she thought of that sentiment, as one stern eyebrow flickered upwards, having a corresponding—and deeply unwanted—effect on Frances’s pulse.
‘A dark-haired young woman dressed in mourning clothes, most likely with mud on her skirts. That was what they said.’
It was Frances’s turn to shrug as she glanced down at her hem, still tightly clutching Apollo’s reins as if ready to run at any moment. ‘I’ll admit that much to be true, at least.’
The man inclined his head and then Frances watched as he made a curious movement of his lips, a stiff stretch that seemed to cause him great discomfort. For a second she simply stared with bemusement, wondering if he was quite well—before realising it was supposed to be a smile, and the hairs instinctively stood up on the nape of her neck.
‘Uncommonly pretty too, I was told,’ the stranger continued, although so woodenly he might have been a marionette. ‘Something I see to be true, if you’ll allow me to say so.’
Frances took an immediate step back, drawing closer to the comforting presence of her horse.
And there it is. There’s the hollow flattery Uncle Robert always warned me about.
Her palms prickled with sudden sweat that had nothing to do with the summer heat. Just like the young men that came to work for her at Barrow Farm who thought they could win her with empty compliments, like the old married ones who tipped her a wink when their wives’ backs were turned. Another man looking for a way beneath her armour, her face and the lies told about her mother’s easy virtue a siren call for those wanting the same old thing. Probably Mrs Campbell’s venom had put the idea into his head already. Abruptly, Frances turned her back on that handsome, waiting face.
Yet another man to avoid. As if there weren’t enough already.
‘No. I will not.’
In Marchfield less than a day and already added to her list, another to treat with caution and swerve whenever he crossed her path? It was exhausting having to be on her guard all the time, but what else could she do when dangerous men circled like wolves around a lamb? Usually she brushed them off at once...but the strange squeezing of her chest at the first sight of the newcomer’s admittedly appealing eyes lingered uncomfortably, something unexplained and unwelcome that made Frances’s scowl increase as, without another word, she climbed up onto Apollo’s back and turned him about, the man having to step aside quickly to avoid the horse’s powerful back end.
Heart racing with aggravation, she tapped Apollo into a trot, leaving the stranger to watch her go. She was almost at the corner when she heard him call after her, the second person to do so that morning and no more welcome than the first.
‘Goodbye, Miss Nettleford. And, should it interest you, my name is Lieutenant Jonah Grant.’
Not slowing for so much as a moment, Frances called over one shoulder as coldly as if she were carved from ice. Her pulse still leapt and her cheeks still burned, although whether with temper or something else entirely she couldn’t quite tell.
‘Let me assure you, it doesn’t in the least.’
Jonah watched Frances ride away, making sure she was safely round the corner before allowing the last remnants of the painfully artificial smile to slide from his lips. It had taken every ounce of concentration to appear more agreeable than his usual grave self and an unpleasant taste lingered on his tongue to find he’d apparently misjudged the situation entirely.
Uncommonly pretty? Was that the best you could do?
Jonah grimaced, still standing where Frances had so decisively left him. He’d never spouted such nonsense to a woman in his life and irritation washed over him to think he’d reached thirty years of age without finding it necessary...until now.
Securing Frances Nettleford’s good opinion was vital and he had to find a way to win it, whether he wanted to or not.
And he really, truly did not.
He pressed his forehead, skin hot beneath the sun as he recalled what his new landlord had told him weeks ago on his first enquiry about the cottage, that one throwaway comment setting gears turning in Jonah’s mind. Those two busybodies who’d waylaid him that morning had only confirmed what he’d already been told about the notorious young woman in possession of a valuable farm, trying to run it all by herself and clearly struggling more by the day. The illegitimate daughter of the cottage’s former tenant, with a reputation that would make any respectable gentleman shy away from offering marriage...and quite alone in the world, her uncle buried these past two months and her scandalous mother dead after a labour no woman could possibly survive.
If that were the extent of the hurdles in front of him Jonah was confident he could have overcome them. With his rugged good looks and military bearing, female attention had always come easily, despite his doing nothing to encourage it, and Frances was surely as susceptible to a handsome face as any other woman. It was her personality that it seemed would present the biggest obstacle to his tentative plans—and what made Jonah grunt to himself as he retreated into the welcome shade of the cottage.
I was led to believe all women liked flattery. Evidently the other half of the description I received was true after all, sullen and spiky, and caring for nobody in this entire town. In truth, she sounds a lot like me.
‘Who was that lady, Uncle Jonah?’
His niece materialised at his elbow, gazing up at him with the clear blue eyes that marked her so plainly as his sister’s child. Margaret often reminded him of Jane as she’d been when they were young, although Margaret would never know the pain of an empty belly or nurse a bruise bestowed by a drunken hand—he would make damn certain of it. He would do whatever he needed to do to make sure his twin niece and nephew never experienced the grinding poverty and neglect he and Jane had endured, and as he laid an uncharacteristically gentle hand on Margaret’s head he felt his chest tighten at the thought of what lay before him.
‘Miss Nettleford. One of our new neighbours, Meg.’
Margaret traced the tip of one boot across the hall’s dusty tiles. ‘She was very pretty.’
‘Was she? I can’t say I noticed.’
Jonah’s chest tightened further, although this time for a very different reason. He didn’t like lying at the best of times, especially not to his niece’s face, but the truth was somehow worse.
It was uncomfortable to admit that, despite her terse ‘welcome’, his first impression of Miss Nettleford was...intriguing. He’d been told she was fair, but that seemed a poor description of the striking planes of her face, cheekbones sitting high and proud above full lips and hazel eyes flashing with unconcealed distrust, and something inside him twisted to recall the heat of her skin as he’d wrapped his fingers around her wrist. She’d knocked his hand away as easily as breathing, clearly possessing wiry strength beneath the deceptively slender lines of her figure, and he couldn’t deny the smallest flicker of respect had flared into life at the steely coldness of her gaze...
With the frown that had near permanent residence on his face, Jonah shook his head.
It didn’t matter if she was comely. Nothing could be less important than what this Frances looked like, the idea he’d settled on at first hearing of her remaining the same whether she’d turned out to be milk-faced or beautiful. He still intended to seek her hand, offering himself up as a sacrifice for a far greater cause than his own inclinations, and he had to do it as quickly as he could. The survival of his family depended on it and nothing so trivial as what she looked like—or the small detail that he had never wanted a wife—would make the slightest difference.
Sentiment had never been his strong point, after all.
Trying to ignore his building unease, Jonah smoothed Margaret’s untidy hair. ‘Where’s your mother? And your brother, for that matter.’
At the answering point towards the cottage’s open back door, Jonah made his way down the hall, tiny motes of dust dancing in the sunlight streaming through the windows. With a bit of work the house might begin to feel less like a hovel, although as he emerged outside he found himself hoping they wouldn’t be there long enough to find out.
‘Jane. Should you be doing that in this heat?’
His sister turned around at the sound of his voice, pausing in the act of knocking dirt from a worn rug. Her face was pale as always but two bright spots glowed on her cheeks and, stepping forward, Jonah took the carpet beater from her hand.
‘Sit down. You’ll wear yourself out, and it’s only the first day.’
She tried to grab it back, although the movement was so half-hearted he could tell his warning had come too late. Jane swayed slightly and Jonah’s worry increased as he noted the tremor in her fingers, a sure sign she had exerted herself too much.
‘It has to be done. If I don’t do it, who will?’ Her eyes slid away from his, settling on her six-year-old son, Matthew, diligently pulling up weeds from along the fence. ‘It’s not as though we can afford help...something I know is my fault entirely.’
Jonah felt a muscle harden in his jaw. ‘Not true. We have your husband to thank for this.’
‘And me to thank for bringing him into our lives in the first place.’
Jane’s lips twisted in a grim half smile and Jonah knew he had no retort. What she said was true, after all, even if he wished he could take away the heavy burden of shame and regret that weighed on his sister for her part in their ruin.
‘Perhaps you brought him in, but it was me that trusted him with every penny I had,’ he muttered, careful not to let his nephew hear but unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. ‘I thought myself so clever, leaving my affairs in his keeping in case I didn’t return from Waterloo, and see where my conceit left us.’
His moment of failure never grew weary of taunting him, and it came again now to jeer at his regrets.
Ever since childhood he’d known Jane was his responsibility to protect and just because decades had passed didn’t mean that had changed. Their drunken, violent parents had barely been able to care for themselves, let alone two children with nobody to turn to but each other, and perhaps it was inevitable that such a brutal existence had slowly turned Jonah to stone. Left filthy and neglected, he’d had no choice but to grow up far too fast, suffering wearing away whatever softness he might once have possessed until he’d realised such feelings were an indulgence he couldn’t afford.
Our dear papa never left me in any doubt about that. Jane was always my one weak point—and didn’t he know it.
Their father’s temper had grown worse with every bottle and Jonah could still remember the look in those bloodshot eyes whenever they fell on the ragged little girl sitting silently in a corner, desperately trying not to be seen. Jane had never put a foot out of line but somehow her meekness seemed to enrage him nonetheless, her defencelessness calling to the bully inside their father that enjoyed hurting those weaker than himself. Almost every day it was the same and without exception Jonah would throw himself in front of Jane to take the beating himself, each lash hammering home the lesson he’d been taught through misery and pain. He had to be strong because she couldn’t, but his love had painted a target on his back their father never hesitated to exploit.
Allowing somebody into his heart made him vulnerable, prising a gap in his defences through which someone might slide a knife, and at only seven years old Jonah had determined he would never let anybody but his sister expose him to that risk. Life was too harsh to allow any weakness and the fewer people he cared for, the fewer he’d have to defend against a world that was cold and hard and dark, just waiting for a chance to beat him as soundly and undeservedly as his father had with that cracked leather belt. In loving his sister he had tied his fate to hers and now he was bound by it, obliged to stand between her and hurt as best he could, just as he had ever since the day she was born.
She would have died if he hadn’t taken care of her, so ill and frail he’d often feared she might die in the early years, and the very first moment he could he had taken her away from the dirt and depravity that had so hardened his heart. Progressing through the ranks from private to lieutenant, he had finally been able to keep her in comfort, life at last growing easier after years of struggle—until she had met that wretch Thomas Millard, and everything Jonah had striven for had been torn from his grasp.
‘You weren’t to know he would run.’ Jane spoke softly, eyes never leaving her son although the pain in them was agonisingly clear. ‘Even as his wife, sharing his bed and bearing his children, I had no idea he would betray us all. To leave us with nothing, not even provision for the twins...’
Jonah’s throat contracted at the grief in his sister’s voice. It was a conversation they’d had many times since Thomas had stolen every scrap of Jonah’s savings, taking advantage of his absence fighting overseas to sell every holding and stock and then flee with the profits, although the rage Jonah felt each time they spoke of it never diminished.
‘We might take some comfort in imagining his ship sank on the way to the Americas. I know the thought brings a smile to my face when nothing else will.’
Jane tried to smile but managed little more than a grimace. ‘I’m in earnest. How are we going to manage? We were only able to get this cottage because it was so cheap, and apparently there’s no question of you joining the regiment, no matter how much I beg.’
She spread her hands in exhausted defeat and Jonah looked away, wishing he was better at offering comfort—and that their situation wasn’t every bit as bleak as she said.
How could he go back to the Army when Jane was alone, trying to raise two children when some days it was a struggle for her to even get out of bed? He couldn’t abandon her for months on end while he was away fighting and yet they desperately needed money, leaving him only the one stark choice he’d decided on in their landlord’s gaudy parlour.
I have to find a way to win over Miss Nettleford. She needs help and I need the income her neighbours seem to envy. Perhaps it isn’t the most romantic basis for a proposal but, from what I’ve heard, she isn’t the romantic type—which suits me exactly.
While his fellow officers had talked of the beauties they had waiting for them at home Jonah had barely listened. Pretty women had always flocked to him, his handsome outer shell hiding the decided indifference within. On a handful of occasions he had scratched the physical itch most men felt from time to time—but that was as far as it went. None of them even came close to touching his heart, sealed away behind that impenetrable wall built upon his childhood scars, and that was the way he wanted it. He already had one burden to carry, only enough shreds of compassion left for his sister and the children he had grown to love as an extension of her, and he had no desire for anybody else to attach themselves to him. Another woman would only be another weak point for him to guard, an additional Achilles’ heel, and he’d always thought a man must be mad to voluntarily lay himself bare to all the hurt it could bring for what seemed to him so little return.
Jonah glanced at Jane, taking in the new lines worry had etched on her thin face. Her husband’s deceit had aged her, unhappiness stealing the lightness from her step and the songs she used to sing without realising. Thomas Millard’s dishonesty was a poison that ate away at her more and more each day and, not for the first time, Jonah swore he would never follow his brother-in-law’s example of how a man should treat his wife.
I won’t pretend to love Miss Nettleford and I’ve no interest in making her love me. All I can offer is honesty and myself, my hands and willingness to help shoulder the work, something far more valuable than any meagre emotion. If she’s as hard-headed as I’ve been told she might just be willing to accept such an arrangement, given how she’s been struggling alone. Or so I hope.
The image of Frances’s tight face as she’d pulled away from him surfaced again but he pushed it aside, along with the unexpected gleam of interest at the determination in her eyes that had flared unbidden, confusing and unwanted yet there all the same. Despite the laughable impossibility of her stirring his jaded soul, he couldn’t help but admit something about her was intriguing, even if only her singular sharpness and refusal to allow him the slightest liberty...
It was a good thing he never shied away from a challenge. By the look of it, persuading Frances Nettleford to consider him might be the biggest one he’d faced so far.
