The Making of His Marchioness
Auteur
Lauri Robinson
Lezers
19,5K
Hoofdstukken
18
Chapter One
It took nearly all her strength for Clara Walton to walk up the sloped bank at the wharf from where they’d just disembarked the ship that had brought them from America to England. She held on tighter to her daughter in her arms and focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Annabelle would be there to meet them. It would be wonderful to see her lifelong friend. To thank her for sending someone to find them and bring them here to stay with her until the war ended.
A safe place, where Abigail, who was only a year and a half old, could sleep in a real bed and have plenty to eat.
All of that should make Clara happy, but she couldn’t find it. Happiness. How could she? She’d left her home, the last tangible bits that held memories of her family. Of her husband and the life that they’d made together.
Other than her daughter. Abigail was her everything. All she had, and that was the reason she was here. In England, along with Suzanne and Sammy, the dog who had been walking beside her but paused to wait while she stopped to catch her breath.
Suzanne, her dearest friend who had agreed that coming here was what they had to do, paused, too.
‘Here,’ Suzanne said, holding out her arms. ‘Let me carry Abigail for a little while.’
Because her arms were trembling, making her fearful that they might give out at any moment, Clara released her daughter to her friend. ‘Thank you.’ She didn’t have the energy to say more, but thought about all they’d been through, and how walking up this small hill should be easy, not taxing.
Taxing had been the death of her husband, immediately followed by the death of her father and in-laws the night that the entire town she’d gown up in had been burned to the ground. Taxing had been trying to live through a war, scrounging for food every day and having to keep Abigail and Sammy quiet inside the root cellar whenever soldiers had been nearby. Taxing had been having to climb up the rope ladder hanging over the side of the large ship that had brought them to England. The Lady of the Sea hadn’t been able to cross the Union blockade, therefore it had been a smaller, blockade runner steamship that had sailed them from the shore out to the large ship.
Taxing had been the long sea voyage in a rocking, rolling ship.
Clara would never have considered leaving with Captain Harris and his sailors, if not for the letter he’d given her. From Annabelle. Stating that she’d heard about the burning of Hampton, their home town, and asking that Clara please send a return note with the sea captain, letting her know how they were all doing.
She’d been prepared to write that note, but the captain had explained that he’d been commissioned to return them all to England if he felt they were in danger. The closeness of the cannon fire, their living conditions, their appearances, had all been more than Clara could deny. She’d had nothing to justify remaining on the farm. Even to herself. Therefore, she’d conceded and left her home. Her country.
She still questioned if she’d done the right thing, however, she was extremely grateful to be off the ship. The constant rocking and moving had sapped her of her last bits of resolve.
‘That’s the coach,’ Suzanne said. ‘And there’s Captain Harris.’
Clara saw the elegant black coach at the top of the hill and the tall, older man standing beside it, and pushed herself to start walking again. She’d rest tonight, once they were reunited with Annabelle. Rest and eat. Now that their trip was over, she’d be able to eat and keep the food down.
By the time she reached the top of the hill, she was so winded, so weak, she didn’t dare take Abigail from Suzanne. The short distance to the coach felt like miles, and once they arrived on the road near the coach, she willed herself to not wobble as Captain Harris introduced them to a man standing next to him.
A tall, smartly dressed man with bright green eyes.
‘Mrs Walton, Miss Bishop, allow me to introduce you to—’
‘Where’s Annabelle?’ she asked, looking past both men, but not seeing her friend. Or any other woman. Just men and wagons and traffic and buildings.
‘Roger Hardgroves, at your service,’ the green-eyed man said. ‘It’s my pleasure to meet both of you. I hope your voyage to England was uneventful.’
The voyage was little more than a blur to Clara. She shook her head at the man and asked Captain Harris, ‘Is Annabelle here?’
The captain looked towards the other man.
‘I am prepared to oversee your travels—’
‘Oversee our travels?’ Clara asked, interrupting the green-eyed man while trying to gather her mind. Everything was so foggy. She just wanted this trip to be over. It had to be over. Her head was throbbing and she couldn’t blink away the flashes of light in her eyes.
‘Yes.’ The man waved at a coachman who moved towards the coach door. ‘We can leave immediately.’
‘Leave for Annabelle’s home?’ she asked hopefully.
‘No—’
‘That’s where we need to go,’ she said. ‘To Annabelle’s home.’
‘My apologies, but that’s not possible at the moment. I have—’
‘Not possible?’ Despite her exhaustion, or perhaps due to it, Clara felt a surge of anger. All she wanted was a bit of normalcy. To know where she was going to sleep each and every night. To know that Abigail would have enough to eat each and every day. ‘We have travelled halfway around the world under the impression that we’d be united with Annabelle upon arrival.’
‘I understand that, but—’
‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ Clara interrupted, ‘but we will not be going anywhere with you.’ She would not be obliged to another stranger. Couldn’t be right now. She just didn’t have it in her. ‘We will wait right here until it is possible to go to Annabelle’s home.’ Hoping for an ally, she looked at the captain. ‘Perhaps you could help us with that, Captain Harris?’
Roger’s patience was wearing as thin as a morning fog before it gives away to the sun, and the smile on his face was slipping. He’d become known as the most eligible bachelor in London—though personally, he didn’t appreciate the infamy since he had no plans of changing his bachelorhood—because Roger Hardgroves, the fourth Marquess of Clairmount, had a way with women. He could have them eating out of his hand within minutes. That, however, was English women. American women were apparently different.
Very different.
He’d seen that via his best friend, Drew, Andrew Charles Barkly, the Duke of Mansfield, who had married an American—Annabelle, the friend that Clara Walton was intent upon being reunited with.
Their reunion would happen as soon as possible, and he would tell her that, if she’d let him. With the wind tugging at the brown and gold hair she had pulled back into a loose knot, her dark brown eyes narrowed into slits and her lips pursed into a pucker, she’d interrupted him every time he’d opened his mouth.
The dog beside her was just as obstinate. Solid black, of good size, and hunched, Roger had the distinct feeling any wrong move and the dog would launch forward and sink inch-long canine teeth into his thigh.
‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ Tristan Harris said, looking apologetic, ‘but it was the—It was Mr Hardgroves who commissioned me to bring you to England. I assure you that you are in good hands with him.’
Roger was glad that the ship captain had noticed that he’d avoided using his title during introductions. Annabelle had been against titles and he assumed her friends would be, too.
Tristan’s answer did not impress Clara. ‘Good hands?’ she asked.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Tristan replied.
The heavy fog that had settled over the saltwater of the harbour during the night had completely dissipated, giving way for the sun to warm the air and make the scents of the harbour stronger. The sun also brought life to the seashore. Gulls now crowed and called out, signalling others as if a feast lined the shore rather than a morsel or two, and traffic, freight wagons, flat beds, and carriages, full and empty, were beginning to roll up and down the roadway.
Unabashed that traffic had to swerve around her, Clara stood there, glaring at him, with both hands on her hips. ‘Why did he want us brought here?’ she asked the captain, rather than him.
If he hadn’t already been steadfast in his reasons for remaining a bachelor, Clara Walton would have done the trick. Everything about her reminded him of exactly why he’d chosen the life he had. Women simply were not worth the trouble. And they were trouble. From the cradle to the grave, they did little more than make a man’s life far more complicated than it needed to be. ‘Because Annabelle requested that you be found,’ Roger said, ‘and I agreed to commission Tristan—Captain Harris—to find you and bring you to England if necessary.’
‘Why?’
He understood that the Civil War was tearing her country apart, and that she’d just sailed across the ocean, arrived in England upon one of his ships, but couldn’t she understand he was simply trying to help?
That wouldn’t be so difficult. Not nearly as difficult as she was being. Furthermore, she had to comprehend that she couldn’t go on living the way she had been back in America.
Early this morning, Tristan had told him that she’d been found, along with her young daughter, dog, and friend, living in small earth cellar. A literal hole in the ground, because her farm had been ravished by soldiers. The captain had also said that her husband and other family members had all perished, leaving no one to look after them.
‘As a favour for a friend,’ Roger replied. ‘Annabelle was afraid that you and Miss Bishop were in dire circumstances. From what Captain Harris told me, she was correct. Therefore, he followed my request and brought you here, and I will now provide transportation and housing until all of you can be reunited.’
Roger watched the expressions cross her face. How she blinked and glanced from him to her friend and Captain Harris. Even wearing mended and worn clothes, her attractiveness could turn heads. The Good Lord had a sense of humour in creating women the way he had. Giving them all sorts of things to attract men and then giving them hearts of stone.
His mother had shown him how hard a woman’s heart could be years ago, when she’d cared more about what she wanted than what he’d needed.
Done trying to convince Clara, because they all could get run over if they didn’t move out of the street, Roger turned his attention to her friend. ‘Miss Bishop.’ The blonde woman standing near the edge of the street where his coach was waiting and holding the child in her arms had given out silent looks of compassion while Clara had been interrupting his every word. Therefore, he hoped she had more sense than Clara. ‘The coachman will assist you and the child into the coach.’
‘No!’ Clara lurched forward to stop the other woman from moving, but lost her footing and stumbled.
Acting fast, Roger closed the space between them and caught her around the waist before she fell to the ground.
She gasped and attempted to right herself, but couldn’t seem to get her feet beneath her.
He held her firmly, giving her time to find her footing. She was trembling and little more than skin and bones. He could feel her rib bones through the threadbare material of her dress. ‘Easy,’ he said.
She blew out a breath. ‘I’m fine. Fine.’
Though she had straightened herself, she was still trembling, and he didn’t release her. ‘We need to get out of the street before we get run over.’
She let out a little moan sound, but nodded.
Slowly, he guided her towards the coach. ‘The sooner we start our journey, the sooner you’ll be reunited with Annabelle.’ That was a lie. Drew and Annabelle had been called to Scotland last week due to the illness of one of Drew’s aunts, and he hadn’t heard when they’d return.
At the coach door, she turned weary, dark brown eyes up at him. ‘How do we know you’re really Annabelle’s friend?’
He could tell her that if by some unrealistic cause he was ever in the mind to kidnap someone—if that’s what she thought he was attempting to do—it wouldn’t be the odd bevy of misfits filling his coach. However, he could understand her concern, and though he didn’t want to bring up sad memories it was the only way he knew to convince her. ‘Annabelle assisted your father at his livery for years.’ He knew that from how Annabelle had helped Drew’s old horse. ‘That is true, is it not?’
Clara stared at him, but said nothing.
‘That is true, is it not?’ he repeated.
Placing a foot onto the coach step, she said, ‘Yes.’
She was still unsteady, and he kept a hold of her waist until she was inside the coach. He then turned, bid a farewell to Tristan, and climbed inside the coach himself.
Roger took a seat on the empty bench and nodded to Jacob, his groom, to close the door. No one said a word, and he figured that Clara was still processing the fact that he did know Annabelle and wasn’t trying to kidnap them.
A moment later, the coach lurched forward, then soon settled into a smooth ride—as smoothly as the wheels could move over the cobblestone road that led them away from the wharf—and Roger imagined this could very well become the longest journey of his life.
Running a hand through his hair, he glanced out the window at the sun-filled blue sky. In that, he should be thankful. April was a finicky month for weather and it could be raining, which would elongate the trip. His best guess was that the trip would take five, maybe six days.
He could have chosen to take these companions that he was saddled with to his family’s home here in Southampton, but that would have meant staying with his grandfather and possibly his mother. They—mainly his mother—were the reason why he maintained a small townhouse to stay at when he had business to conduct in town. The townhouse was too small for hosting guests, which was how he liked it. He’d never likened to the idea of being a host to any manner of guests.
He not only lived alone and liked it, he normally travelled alone. On horseback. Smokey, his grey gelding, was tied to the back of the coach. Later, after they stopped for a midday meal, he’d ride, which would give the women more room.
As well as the dog.
The black dog sat on his haunches between the women, and even though they were all skinny enough that there was plenty of room, Roger felt sorry for the dog and patted the seat beside him.
Evidently the dog understood the command, because he jumped off the seat between the women and leaped up beside him.
Clara’s brown eyes still held apprehension as she reached over and took the sleeping child from Miss Bishop.
Roger had an eye for beautiful women, and Clara was striking. Several long strands of brown and gold hair had come loose from her bun, and her features were dainty, elegant. So were her lips. A unique glow, that he couldn’t ascertain came from the sun shining in through the coach window or not, overtook her features as she looked down at the child in her arms. Carefully, she repositioned the sleeping child so that the little head was resting in the crook of her arm.
‘Captain Harris had mentioned that you would take us to Annabelle,’ Miss Bishop said softly. ‘Clara may have been taking care of Abigail when he said that.’
Suzanne Bishop was as thin as Clara, but she didn’t look quite as worn out. She had more colour in her face, which made him frown slightly as he turned his attention to Clara again.
She avoided his gaze by turning to look out the window.
Roger had yet to explain why he was their escort, mainly because he hadn’t had a chance. ‘Annabelle is currently in Scotland.’
Clara’s head snapped back in his direction. ‘Scotland? Then why aren’t we in Scotland?’
‘Because Annabelle is merely visiting family in Scotland.’
‘Family?’
He nodded. ‘Her husband’s family.’
‘Husband?’ Suzanne asked, eyes wide with surprise and hosting a grin.
‘Annabelle is married?’ Clara asked. ‘To whom?’ Her eyes widened even more. ‘You?’
A shiver rippled his entire torso at the mere idea of marriage. That was an agreement that he’d never enter. He liked his carefree life. It was simple, and that was the one thing that women weren’t. Furthermore, the one thing that his mother wanted from him was for him to get married, therefore, he wouldn’t. His mother claimed marriage was one way he could honour his father, by having an heir to carry on the family name, title, and legacy. To him, that was ironic, considering the way she’d given up the family name and her title of marchioness by remarrying shortly after his father had died.
‘No, not me,’ Roger replied. ‘Annabelle is married to my very good friend, Drew. Andrew Barkly.’
‘When did she get married?’ Suzanne asked, clearly not as sceptical of the news as Clara.
‘Last year,’ he replied, watching as the women glanced at each other. ‘A few months after she arrived in England.’ At one time, Drew had sworn off marriage too, but had changed his mind upon meeting Annabelle. Roger vowed that would not happen to him. Nothing would change his mind about marriage, because nothing would change his mind about giving his mother what she wanted.
‘Where are you taking us?’ Clara asked.
The sigh in his chest was so heavy it was painful. Still, he held it in. If there was any other option, he’d have taken it, but there wasn’t, therefore he admitted, ‘To my home.’
‘Your home?’ Clara shook her head. ‘No. Absolutely not.’
‘Do you have an address that you’d prefer I took you to? Someone you know here in England who would welcome you to stay with them?’ he asked. ‘I’ll take you there instead.’ Gladly, he added only for himself.
She glared at him.
‘No, Mr Hardgroves,’ Miss Bishop said. ‘We have nowhere else to go.’
He knew that and gave her a nod. ‘My given name is Roger. Feel free to use it.’
‘Thank you. I am Suzanne. This is Clara and little Abigail.’ She then pointed to the dog who had lain down beside him, taking up a fair share of the seat space. ‘That is Sammy.’
Roger had known their names from Annabelle’s list and months of searching, except for the dog. Notwithstanding his not so sterling reputation when it came to the ladies, he wasn’t heartless, and his stomach clenched at the sadness on Clara’s face as she looked out the window again.
‘I promise you will all be safe in my company,’ he said. ‘It will take a few days to get to my home, and I assure you that I’ll make the journey as comfortable as possible.’
Clara let out a humph sound.
‘Thank you,’ Suzanne said, with a somewhat apologetic glance towards Clara. ‘It will be good to be done travelling, and wonderful to see Annabelle. Is she well?’
‘Yes. I saw her and her husband three weeks ago, and they were both doing well.’
He and Drew had been best friends since they’d been small boys and were as close as brothers. In fact, Roger felt as if Drew was his only family, and therefore, he’d used every resource at his disposal, including the ships, captains, and sailors in his employ, to gain information about the people on the list Annabelle had created of people from her home town in Virginia. He’d crossed names off that list, one by one, and had delivered sad news to Drew with each one. The final three names on the list were Clara and Abigail Walton and Suzanne Bishop. The two women and child had seemed to have disappeared. Last month, he’d informed Drew and Annabelle that he’d commissioned Tristan to not return to Southampton until he either had the women with him, or had proof of their whereabouts, or gravesites, which is what Roger had expected, considering the outcomes of the other names on the list.
It appeared as if Lady Luck was still his friend. Annabelle was sure to be ecstatic. Drew would be, too.
In time, he was sure that Clara would be thankful, too. She just needed time to adjust to all the changes. He held a great sense of compassion for all she’d been through, and Suzanne, and even if Drew hadn’t been his best friend, he would have been compelled to assist them.
Looking at Clara, he said, ‘Champion is one of Drew’s horses—an old horse, who had been ailing. Annabelle helped him with a mint ointment that she’d learned from your father. He must have been very knowledgeable.’
‘He was,’ she replied.
‘You have my condolences for all you have lost,’ he said. ‘You both do.’
‘Thank you,’ Suzanne replied.
Clara didn’t want condolences. She closed her eyes, tried to block out the tall man wearing his fancy frock-coat and ruffled white shirt sitting across from her. Block out the fact that her home was thousands of miles away, on the other side of the world. Not only the home she’d once shared with her father, but also the one she and Mark had lived in since their marriage three years ago. Sometimes, if she tried hard enough, she could remember being happy. Remember eating regularly and wearing clothes that didn’t have holes in them. Remember crawling into bed at night and snuggling up next to the warmth and comfort of her husband.
All she’d ever wanted had been her own home and a family. To be a wife and mother. Mark had given her that and they had been happy. He wouldn’t recognise their farm now. None of it. Soldiers had ransacked it, taken everything worth taking and even things that weren’t. There had been so many nights when she’d been certain that the house would be set afire, like the barn had been months ago.
Destroyed or not, it had been her home and she dreamed of the day when the war would be over. Then she would find a way to rebuild the barn and fix the house, so Abigail would have a home again.
The ache and pain inside Clara grew. The war had taken everything.
Mark, her father, her town, her home, the very country where she’d been born and raised.
Swallowing the bitter taste in her mouth, Clara opened her eyes and looked down at her sleeping daughter. She was still so dizzy that everything was blurred. Even Abigail, but Clara knew how beautiful her daughter was, and how precious. Abigail had only been three months old when Mark had left to fight for the Union. That was almost a year ago now. Eight months since they’d received word that Mark had died in battle. That very night, the town of Hampton had been marched upon by the Confederacy and burned.
‘How old is your daughter?’ Mr Hardgroves asked.
Clara didn’t want to answer him. Didn’t want to be sitting across from him in a coach travelling across England. Yet, she was here and the ugly truth was that they’d had nowhere else to go. They’d had nothing left to eat, nothing left to hunt or scrounge. The constant regiments camped near the farm had cleared the area of game and the ongoing cannon fire had kept them all inside for days on end, eating the last bits of the food she’d put up before... She shoved aside the haunting memories. ‘She’s fifteen months old.’
‘We’ll stop at a coach inn and eat in a couple of hours, but if she needs something in the meantime, Jacob put a basket of foodstuff in the box beneath your seat.’
Clara kept her gaze on Abigail, who was sound asleep. A great wave of embarrassment over how she’d lost her temper, lost her very last bits of composure in front of this man, who truly was being kind, washed over her. What sort of example had she set for her daughter with that behaviour? Not a very high one, and she’d always prided herself on her behaviour, her manners. The fact that she didn’t want kindness right now was an excuse and not a very good one.
He’d proven that he knew Annabelle, but the ultimate truth was that she had to accept his kindness for Abigail’s sake. And she had to mind her own temperament, set a better example for her daughter. Even though it was hard to be so far away from all she’d ever known.
‘Thank you,’ Clara replied. It had been a hellish thing, not having enough food to feed her daughter. ‘She might be hungry when she wakes up.’
‘Then we’ll get her something out from under the seat,’ he said. ‘And we’ll get something for this guy, too.’
Clara’s heart clenched, knowing without looking that he was referring to the dog. Sammy was nothing like the roly-poly pup that Mark had brought home before he’d left for the war so she and Abigail wouldn’t be alone while he’d been gone. Her eyes burned, but it was as if she’d cried out all her tears, because only one formed and trickled down her cheek. Sammy was so skinny, yet so devoted to them. Especially Abigail. The two were inseparable.
‘I sent a messenger to Mansfield,’ Mr Hardgroves said, ‘this morning, as soon as I’d learned of your arrival. That is Drew and Annabelle’s home. Upon their return, she’ll know where you are, and I assure you, she’ll be very happy to learn to news.’
Clara nodded. The three of them had been friends for years, and she and Suzanne had missed Annabelle greatly since Arlo Smith, Annabelle’s father, had sent her to England when the war had broken out.
Hearing that Annabelle was married had left Clara with mixed emotions. She’d hoped that Annabelle had planned on returning to Virginia. That they all could return together.
‘Excuse me, Mr Hardgroves,’ Suzanne said. ‘Captain Harris said that you’d been looking for other people that Annabelle knew.’
Clara turned her gaze to the window again, watched as they rolled past cobblestone cottages with stone wall fences and iron gates glimmering in the bright sunshine. She couldn’t remember much of anything that Captain Harris had said. The ship ride had made her too sick. The rocking of the coach was making her feel ill all over again.
‘That is correct,’ he answered Suzanne.
‘Did you learn anything about her father? His name was Arlo Smith.’
‘Yes, I did.’
Clara turned her attention to him. ‘We heard he’d been burned while fighting the fire, but nothing more.’
He nodded. ‘He had, but has made a full recovery.’
‘How do you know that?’ Clara asked.
‘Because he has moved here, to England, and lives not far from Drew and Annabelle.’
Happiness and hope sprang forth inside Clara. ‘We can go there. We can stay with him.’
‘Unfortunately, no,’ Roger said, ‘He and his wife travelled to Scotland with Drew and Annabelle.’
‘His wife?’
‘Yes, Cecilia, she came from America with him.’
‘Oh, Clara,’ Suzanne said, laying a hand on her arm. ‘They are both alive. And married, isn’t that wonderful?’
It was, but she was still focused on something else. ‘Do you know for sure that Arlo isn’t home? That any of them aren’t home?’
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, but yes, I know none of them are home,’ Roger answered.
Clara tried to find appreciation in all this man had done and was doing for them, but she was disappointed. She wanted to see a familiar face. Wanted a place to rest. She was tired of being sick. Tired of everything.
The anger she’d had inside her for months, mixed with a great amount of sadness, twisted her stomach. It was all so unfair. So egregious. And wrong. So wrong that so much had been taken away from so many, leaving people helpless. Completely helpless. That’s what she felt, helpless, and hated it.
It angered her, too. Her daughter needed things. Food and clothes and a safe place to live. If Roger Hardgroves could provide that, she’d accept it and appreciate it, until Annabelle returned.
Because she had no other choice.
Clara sucked in air, told herself to breathe, but it was impossible. The lump in her throat blocked the air. Smothering a sob as much as she could, she set her gaze on the window again, but whatever was rolling past was nothing but a blur.
She had no choice, but she didn’t want to live anywhere but on the farm that she and Mark had turned into a home for their family. Together, they had dreamed of doing so many things as they grew old together.
What if she forgot all that while she was here? All their dreams and plans. What if she couldn’t hold on to her dream of rebuilding the farm?
She couldn’t give that up, too.
Just couldn’t.
That was something that Abigail needed, too. A place to remember her father.
Her head throbbed harder and hurt. Hurt as badly as her heart. She leaned against the side of the coach and closed her eyes. Tried not to think about the man sitting across from her. The one with thick black hair and sideburns, and eyes as green as a hayfield before it turns golden brown. The one who was petting Sammy, letting the dog sleep with his head on his thigh.
