His Impassioned Proposal (The Bridgethorpe Brides) Read online

  Still, the years spent watching men die, and worse, being responsible for so many of those deaths, left him drained of emotion. And he had only four months to refill his capacity to feel or lose his chance at having Jane for a wife.

  Stephen’s chest tightened when he reached the final turn in the lane leading to his home. Dread filled him, belying his inability to feel emotion. The burned-out shells of homes he’d seen in France and Spain had been casualties of war and their appearance easily put aside, but Larkspur Cottage was his home. How much still stood?

  The trees broke and he got his first glimpse. From the front, nothing had changed. The white casings of the six-over-six windows were stark against the muted red bricks. The two chimneys stood guard on each side of the manor. The roof, where he could see it, was sound.

  At his approach, his father’s man-of-all-work came around the far side of the house, his clothing and hands darkened by ash. Simmons’ features were hidden in the shadow of his hat, but Stephen noticed the man didn’t smile, even as he drew near.

  Dismounting, Stephen handed the reins to the man. “It is good to see a familiar face, Simmons. Have you been working on the house?”

  Simmons took the reins in one hand while doffing his hat with the other. “Aye, that I have, sir. And allow me to say I am sorry for your loss. Mr. Lumley was the best of employers, and a good man in general. He and Mrs. Lumley will be missed by all who knew them.”

  “Thank you. And thank you for not waiting for my arrival to begin the repairs. How bad is it?”

  The worker motioned for Stephen to precede him around the building. “The west wing, the old timber section, is gone. Or it will be, when we finish the cleanup. The bricks of the newer addition saved the rest. Gave us time to get water on it. It’s lucky the east wing didn’t catch, so there’s only a bit of damage to one wall. We’ve already replaced the boards there.”

  Around the corner, two young men and an older boy hauled away burnt timbers in a cart. Simmons called to one of them. “Timmy, see to Mr. Lumley’s horse.”

  The boy trotted over to take the reins and lead the animal toward the stables.

  Stephen stopped dead at the sight of his home. Most of the carnage had been cleared, and only the blackened framework of the ground floor remained to be cut down and removed. Charred posts leaned precariously in spots, and timbers crossed the space nearest the undamaged portion of the dwelling. Huge canvas tarpaulins covered the open area of the remaining wall.

  “We’ve sifted through the char and collected much of the metal that survived. Mostly candlesticks, and some bits and bobs of Mrs. Lumley’s jewelry.” Simmons tugged his hat back in place, and ran the back of his hand over his mouth as if wiping away the bad taste of the scene.

  “Thank you for that. I am certain I’ll be glad of it, some day. Right now this is all such a shock.”

  “Yes, sir. I wake each morning expecting to come to the house and see what yer father wishes me to do.”

  Stephen nodded. He still expected to see the canvas tent over his head upon waking and hear the murmur of the camp around him, the volleys of mortars in the distance. The breeze kicked up the acrid scent of smoke and ash, and he turned his head. Questions began to rise in his thoughts. “My parents…was their burial seen to?”

  “Yes, sir. With as warm as it’s been, and us not knowing you were returning so soon, we thought it best to do so right away. I had the honor of building their caskets, myself.”

  Nodding again, Stephen thanked Simmons.

  “The vicar spoke the words over them, and he said we could have a proper service in the church when you came home.”

  “I’d like that.” Stephen was surprised at how thick his voice sounded. He cleared his throat. “Do you know how the fire started?”

  “All we know is that it began in your parents’ bedchamber. The dog’s barking woke Mrs. Loughty and she sent her son to see what the matter was. By the time they’d roused me, I couldn’t get halfway down the hallway on the first floor. We tried to get a ladder to their window, too, but…”

  “I understand, Simmons. I am grateful to you all for your efforts. I’m also grateful none of you were hurt.”

  Simmons folded his arms across his barrel chest and studied the building once more. “We’ll board up the wall when we get the rest of this cleared, until you decide how you want to rebuild.”

  At this point, Stephen wasn’t certain he wanted to rebuild the wing. The ground floor had held his father’s study and a small parlor where his mother liked to sit in the afternoon during the winter, when the sun warmed that wing, along with a few other small rooms. The first floor had contained his bedchamber as well as his parents’, with the nursery on the floor above.

  The surviving east wing held guest rooms, made up of three bedchambers and a sitting room, with a storage attic above, and the formal parlors and library on the ground floor. Not one for parties, he was unlikely to require many guest bedchambers, so he could easily make that the family wing. If Jane wished, they could build a guest wing in the future. The attic could be converted into a nursery when the time came.

  Stephen paused at that notion. The idea of a nursery should have registered some reaction in his body. Panic…cheer…sadness at the thought his parents wouldn’t be there to see the children…something. He took a deep breath and quit looking for reactions he just didn’t feel.

  “I find I am rather tired, Simmons. Bridgethorpe is sending over a carriage with clothing and necessities for me, until I can replace my own. Will you see that it’s brought to the blue chamber when it arrives?”

  Simmons tugged at the brim of his hat. “Yes, sir.”

  Circling around the large blackened rectangle on the ground, Stephen headed for the door to the library. He could no longer delay facing the emptiness of his home.

  Chapter Five

  Jane and Hannah stood below a hillside near Darley Hall, easels propped before them, enjoying the warmth of the afternoon. Soon it would be too cold to spend much time outdoors. Jane studied her watercolor painting and frowned. She couldn’t get the coloring right where the beech trees had begun to change. Not orange, not yellow, but definitely not the fading green of the heath around them. She didn’t realize she’d sighed aloud until Hannah spoke.

  “What’s wrong? Are you missing Stephen already?”

  “What? Oh, why no, I wasn’t thinking about him. He’s only been gone a few days.”

  But now she could think of nothing else but the man in question. “It’s all so sad.”

  “Your painting is sad?” Hannah asked.

  “No, silly. Stephen. He’s had so much put upon him in such short order. And then I add to it by not accepting his offer.”

  Hannah snickered. “That was not an offer any respectable woman could accept. Do not trouble yourself about it. He will offer again, sober this time, and you may accept then.”

  “Do you really think I should?”

  Lowering her paintbrush, Hannah squinted at her. “It is what we’ve always planned. We will be like sisters.”

  Jane refrained from rolling her eyes. There were times when she felt eons older than Hannah, despite there being only three years between them, and this was certainly one of those times. “We are like sisters now. And I could marry one of your many brothers to accomplish it in fact. That isn’t a good reason to choose Stephen.”

  “I only have four brothers, and it will be some years before Samuel and Hugh are looking to marry. Knightwick has yet to even begin to court any lady, to my knowledge, and he is nine-and-twenty.”

  “Will you be serious for a moment and stick to the subject? I am confused enough as it is.”

  Hannah set her brush on the small table by the paints and took Jane’s hand, leading her to the blanket where the servants had set out their picnic. “Whatever has happened? Tell me all.”

  Jane sought to organize her thoughts, but they spun too fast to arrange them. “Nothing more has happened. But his return from the Conti
nent has led me to question whether I truly love Stephen, or simply love the idea of being in love with him.”

  “I don’t understand. You have loved him as long as I can remember. That doesn’t go away, does it?”

  “No, but do I love him any differently than I do you, or David or Knightwick? He is such a good man, he deserves only the best wife. I don’t know if I am that lady.”

  Patting Jane’s hand where it rested on her skirt, Hannah said, “Of course you are. You are only having nerves. Mother says many brides have a spell of nerves before their weddings.”

  “I don’t believe that’s the case. Stephen seems so changed; he is like a stranger to me. Even he is questioning whether we should marry. I am certainly not the girl I was at fourteen, so I cannot expect him to be the same man he was six years ago. Will the people we’ve become suit each other?”

  “Mother says people change in small ways as they grow older, but never in who they truly are. He will be more like himself when he recovers from the loss of his parents. When he’s had some time to heal, you will recognize the man you know and love. I’m certain of it.”

  “I am troubled that the time to marry is so near. Having Stephen in the back of my thoughts while I was in London these past two Seasons, it was easy to ignore the silly flirtations of the young men I met. Mama says we can carry on with our plan to return to Town next spring, so I might be certain of my affections for him.”

  Hannah shook her mousy blonde curls, then fidgeted with her hat. “This is so odd, Jane. I feel as though I have set down one novel and picked up another by mistake. You aren’t still blaming him for getting drunk on his return home, are you? The news he received, the loss of his parents together, was too much for anyone to bear.”

  “No, I bear him no ill will over it, even though I wish it hadn’t happened. But perhaps it is better it happened that way, so I will question my feelings before it’s too late.”

  They sat silently for a short time, the only sound coming from the birds in the trees beyond the hedgerow that divided their fathers’ lands. Jane looked about her and realized this could be her last fall and winter in her parents’ home. Quite possibly, her last in Cheshire. She shivered and buttoned her pelisse.

  Whether she chose Stephen or some other gentleman, it was quite likely she would marry in the summer or fall of next year. “I must ask the gardener to set aside some of Mama’s bulbs when he divides them this winter. I can take them with me to my new home.”

  “Do you think you’ll marry soon, then?”

  “There is no reason to delay, once I’m betrothed. If I choose Stephen, we could marry next summer. He’ll have had more than six months’ mourning, and one would believe he’d want to begin setting up his nursery right away. If one of the gentlemen who’ve called upon me in London in the past were to offer for my hand, and I accepted, I might convince Mama to wait a year, but I don’t see any point in doing so. I would gain a better acquaintance with the man by marrying him than by exchanging letters and an occasional visit over the winter.”

  She tried to imagine spending a lifetime with any of the men she’d met. Mr. Stokes was so soft-spoken it was difficult to know if he was shy or simply unenthusiastic about the idea of marrying. Sir Edgar Rhimes droned on so much about his ponies, she expected him to inspect her teeth before making her an offer. Jane shuddered at the thought.

  But Mr. Tunney was kind enough, and had an income comparable to her father’s. He didn’t overuse perfumes, nor were the points of his collars too high. He preferred the country life, he claimed, so by marrying him she might find her life quite unchanged.

  A lump rose in her throat and she stood up to pace in the grass. “Oh, Hannah, this won’t do. I find myself comparing future husbands by which would least disrupt my lifestyle.”

  Hannah giggled, but broke off sharply as if realizing it wasn’t appropriate. “You see, you do wish to marry Stephen. You would remain nearby and we could see each other nearly every day.”

  “And when you marry? Do you intend to choose a man from the village so you may also remain nearby? I understand Squire Wilburt is in need of a mother for his brood.”

  “Do not say it,” Hannah said with a gasp. “I could never marry a man so old. He must be all of thirty! And he has altogether too many children.”

  “It is not the squire’s fault they all arrived in pairs. And six is not nearly as many as your family.”

  “But there are sixteen years between the first and the last of my mother’s babies. I fear in that time I could bear the squire an entire country.” Hannah laughed. “No, he will never suit me. I shall find a husband in London and convince him to buy a country house near Larkspur Cottage.”

  Jane returned to the blanket and sat, grasping Hannah’s hand in hers. “I do hope our husbands will be friends. I can’t imagine not being able to see you often and tell you all my fears and joys.”

  Squeezing her hand in return, Hannah said, “Then once you are married, we must ask Stephen to invite his fellow soldiers to visit. I do love a man in regimentals.”

  “Now there is a perfectly unsound reason to marry a gentleman.” Jane smiled. “Will you require him to wear his uniform after he resigns his regiment?”

  Hannah’s lips tightened and she stared off in the distance. “Hmmm, I hadn’t considered that. Perhaps I will marry an officer and travel with him. I would enjoy seeing more of our fair country.”

  “And if his orders send him to the Continent? You cannot wish to be so close to the battle, especially once there are children to consider.”

  “No, I suppose I wouldn’t. And I wouldn’t wish to be away from you or my sisters. I wonder if Stephen has any friends who aren’t in the regiment.”

  Jane laughed. “Once you have attended your first ball in Town, all thoughts of your cousin’s, or your brothers’, friends will be dismissed. I fear you will have so many beaux, you will never choose between them.”

  “As you will also be in London, we can split their numbers between us and find a pair who will suit us both. The most important thing is that we can still see each other once we are married.”

  Distracted by a loose thread on her painting apron, Jane fidgeted with the fabric instead of responding. She had been filled with joyful dreams of a loving marriage for too long to put anything else as more important. Surely, she could come to love the man Stephen had become.

  The only life she had ever imagined was one with Stephen at her side. As she grew older, she’d come to realize their days would not all be spent riding on horses through the meadows and jumping hedgerows. Certainly not once children came into the picture. Stephen had always loved reading as much as she, though. Their parents were good friends, their upbringings so similar, all of which must bode well for a happy marriage.

  And she and Stephen had been such good friends. That had to be the most important thing to consider. She wanted a husband who was also her friend. She couldn’t bear the thought of spending her days hiding in fear of the man she married.

  Chapter Six

  Stephen allowed himself a week to get initial repairs firmly underway before leaving for London to see his father’s solicitor. He took an indirect, winding route that led him to Newcastle, first. He spent the night there at Knightwick’s estate, Fernleigh Stables, where Sir Bedivere was stabled.

  Seeing his horse, and his horse’s reaction to Stephen’s return, was the first time he felt like himself again. Bedivere demanded no apologies for being gone so long, and had no hesitation in greeting for fear of upsetting Stephen over the loss of his parents. Bedivere raced across the paddock toward him and slowed just in time, tossing his head and nuzzling his owner’s coat sleeve.

  Scratching his horse on the blaze beneath his forelock, Stephen said, “It’s good to see you, too, old boy. I have missed you.”

  Going in search of a groom, Stephen inhaled the familiar scent of fresh straw and horse sweat. Such an oddly comforting fragrance. It rang of normalcy and peacefulness. Seei
ng a groom, he asked to have his horse saddled, and told the lad to inform the steward he was taking Bedivere home.

  The ride to London passed more quickly than he would have imagined, once he was astride his familiar mount. Since he had no lodgings of his own in Town, Stephen had arranged to stay at Knightwick’s rooms in Eaton Place. He rode first to Bridgethorpe House in Montagu Square, so he could stable Bedivere in the mews there.

  London was busier than he expected to find it in late October. With Parliament not yet in session, and the Upper Ten Thousand off at their winter lodgings, the streets should have been empty, he’d assumed. Or nearly so. He knew logically that was not the case, but the number of people strolling Park Lane near Hyde Park gave him an excuse to grumble, so he could pretend he was not in physical and spiritual pain.

  And he was becoming quite adept at pretending.

  Eaton Place was quieter, its row of white townhouses standing like troops awaiting inspection. The uniformity of design, from the porticos to the six-paned windows, appealed to him. If he were to have rooms in London, this would be the type of place he’d enjoy living in. Knightwick’s rooms were neat and orderly, as expected. Very conducive to the work Stephen needed to accomplish. Aside from the business of his father’s estate, he needed to replace his wardrobe, the thought of which made him shudder. But first he sent off a note to the solicitor to request an appointment.

  Mr. Needham’s quick response said he’d been expecting the call and would be pleased to receive him at eleven o’clock the next morning. Stephen spent the remainder of the afternoon in Jermyn Street, allowing himself to be measured and fitted and dressed from the skin out. The garments David had loaned him were finely made, but years of camp food and endless days of battle had left Stephen quite lean. Observing the fit of new tan breeches, white waistcoat and dark green cutaway coat, he was surprised to see his reflection wasn’t that of a horrid monster, even when he faced the glass head on. His facial scars were still ruddy, but his complexion was closer to normal, not the stark white of a man near death.