The Sullen Seamstress of Horenwall Manor: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Emma Linfield

  Her son climbed down from the coach and landed his heavy leather boots on the one bit of dry cobblestone within miles.

  “Good evening, Μother.” he remarked, tipping his hat.

  “Kenneth, what is this about a woman?” Juliet asked, but her question was answered the moment Kenneth helped the woman down from the coach. She was bruised, her eye black and swollen, her clothing torn and bloody.

  Juliet was taken aback by the sight, overwhelmed and unsure how to proceed. Juliet hated not knowing the proper thing to do.

  “Mother, this is Miss Leah Benson.” Kenneth grunted while shifting the woman's weight onto his shoulders, holding her arm around his. “We must get her inside.”

  “Yes, yes of course.” Juliet scrambled to ensure the door was open and called forward a few servants to assist in the process of loading the woman into the house.

  “I'm fine, really.” the woman protested, but she was not fine, and the servants took her up in their arms.

  “Take her to one of the guest rooms.” Juliet fussed. “Hurry now, come on.”

  They all limped her down the hall to the nearest guest room, where the bed was hurriedly made up. Juliet had a moment of horror when she realized how filthy this woman was, and that she had brought so much dirt and dampness into her home. The Duchess managed to push this feeling aside after looking again upon the terrible bruises and realized that this woman was horribly hurt; it went far beyond what she had initially assumed. In truth, she was not certain what she had assumed when she had seen Miss Benson emerge from the carriage, but now she knew the extent of the situation.

  Upon being certain that the problem was contained to a single room, and that the woman was in good tender hands, Juliet located her son to berate him. He was not hard to find. He was in his father's office, sipping contemplatively on a glass of expensive liquor as he was apt to do, imagining himself the slyest and brightest person in all the land.

  “What have you done?” Juliet broke his stare out of the moonlit window, lighting one of the oil lamps to shatter Kenneth's ambiance.

  “Nothing! I did not do that!” Kenneth was clearly surprised by her appearance and took to the defense immediately.

  “Of course not.” Juliet scolded. “I mean, who is she and why have you brought her here? I assume you must have encountered her on the road, no? She had to be traveling to be so dirty. Was she alone? What of her traveling companions?”

  “One question at a time, Mother.” Kenneth held his hands up openly. “As I have said, her name is Miss Leah Benson. She is of London.”

  “But where did you find her?”

  “Why, London.” Kenneth admitted, seemingly puzzled by her line of questioning.

  “Why on God's green earth did you not leave her in London? There are hundreds of thousands of people in that city, a few of which must be related to her. If she is of London, then why did you remove her from London? I am sure her family is worried sick. I would be in a fuss, I will tell you that, should you not return a night you were meant to. I nearly had a panic attack when I saw you returning early!”

  “Mother…” Kenneth took a deep breath. “I fear you misunderstand.”

  “What am I misunderstanding?” Juliet challenged across the desk.

  “I brought her here because she has no family in London. She is not of our class. She is of the lowest class. I saw her in trouble, and I had to do something, I could not just sit by. When I put her in the coach, I did not expect her to wake so soon; I thought she might recover peaceably here.”

  “You saved her?” Juliet blinked, dumbstruck. “From what?”

  “Street thugs, they were beating her.”

  “You saved a street urchin from street thugs and escorted her back to our estate?”

  “Well, I suppose that is the sum in shorthand,” Kenneth blundered. “But the term urchin is a foul one, and I think too strong – ”

  “You are not Sir Lancelot, my son,” Juliet said sadly. “You cannot behave as if you were. You are the Duke of Worthington, a member of the House of Lords, an important business man, and you need to be married. You know this. Already, some of your other gallant actions have cost you two courtships in the past. Now this, I fear, will impede you even further. While the hero may attract the daughter, it shall push away the father, and that is the one you must enchant. We have spoken of this at length.”

  “Yes, yes.” Kenneth sighed. “I know it. But I could not do nothing, Mother, they were beating her. They would have continued until her death, I fear, if I had not intervened. What else could I do?”

  “My son.” Juliet went to him and put her hand on his arm. “You have done the right thing. I only chastise you for doing it so publicly.” Kenneth laughed out, seemingly relieved at his lecture. “Well, I can drink to that.” He poured another and put it down, letting out a crisp puff of air afterwards. “So, you have no objection to her recovering here?”

  “I cannot with good conscience, can I?” Juliet said. “How long will it take?”

  “I fear she has broken ribs. Perhaps two weeks, perhaps a month.”

  “Very well,” Juliet accepted. “But if she is well before that, she should be off. It is not our place to take commoners into our home.”

  “We have servants,” Kenneth protested.

  “And I know each and every one of them.” Juliet countered. “This Leah Benson, I do not know.” She turned to leave the room, shaking her head at her son's spontaneity. It was always something new with him, although this was by far the most ridiculous, interesting, and horrific thing he had ever brought home.

  Kenneth watched his mother leave, and as soon as she was clear from sight, he poured another drink. What a day it has been!

  He had begun the day with every intention of attending and loathing a late luncheon by invitation of the Marquess for drinks and discussion regarding the criminal element of London. He enjoyed actual, intelligent conversation on the subject of criminality, as it was an area of interest for him, but it seemed these events inevitably turned to ranting festivals against the lower classes, and not a true academic discussion at all.

  But something truly out of the ordinary had happened. It seemed fate had stepped in, just before he was to enter that building. He remembered looking up at the Marquess before he felt the impact of Leah colliding with him. How that collision had altered everything.

  Instead of a late luncheon, he found himself in a street fight, however brief, and then the heroic rescuer of a damsel in distress.

  Sir Lancelot, my mother jested. Kenneth rather liked the sound of that.

  Kenneth slumped into the grand desk chair and kicked it round with his feet so that he could stare through the great window, lit up in all of the moon's brightness.

  It seemed the storm has passed, or at least remained over London. Here, on the Worthington estate, the moon shone fiercely over the rolling hills and clusters of trees. It was serene, he thought, and he was glad to be here rather than the hustle of London at this hour.

  It was not that he disliked the city, rather that he just thoroughly enjoyed the country. Kenneth would appear happy in either situation, but he would be happiest atop a horse riding through a glen.

  He thought about what that crook Nash had spat at him. “There'll be lots more pain coming her way because of you. Might as well just gut her now.”

  It was those words he replayed over and over. Those were the words that stood out to him and bore great significance. They meant that the crime was not random; they meant that she had been targeted by those thugs for a reason other than convenience or drunken rage. There was a conspiracy afoot, and he wanted to know the truth of it.

  He began to imagine a multitude of possibilities, ranging from the far side of ridiculous to fairly plausible. Still, none of them seemed to fit this strangely-charismatic character he had conversed within the coach. She had real style and wit about her, a true sense of self that he could not find in the ladies of his society, and indeed was a bit envio
us of.

  It was sometimes jested about Kenneth that he had invented himself as an adventurer, for before he went to the army, he had been a timid boy about town. When he had returned from the battle of Paris, he had been a changed man, and when he returned from America, where he took part in the burning of the White House, he had grown even bolder. Then after Waterloo, he had truly realized his own adventurous spirit.

  With this Leah Benson, there was no detectable falsehood about her. She was a vividly-clear person, and from their limited exchange he had grown fascinated by her. Her piercing green eyes floated in and out of his mind's eye, and he shook his head as he took another drink.

  In the end, although he could manufacture countless rambling theories on the reason for her attack, he realized the only way he would uncover the truth was to ask her. It was a frustrating epiphany, for he craved the truth so intensely, yet he could not go to her chambers. Not only was she sleeping, but it would be wildly inappropriate.

  The more he thought on it, the more it wracked at him, driving deeper and deeper into his brain so that he was forced to take drink after drink, dizzying himself into a whirlwind of drunken thought. The who, what and why bounced off of each other, slamming between the walls of his skull; driving down another drink he let out a growl, tossing spittle from his lips.

  He felt like a caged beast, so full of pent-up interest that it turned him physically hot. This was what people talked about when they referred to issues with his temper, and talk they loved to.

  There was an animalistic rage that dwelt within that shell of liquor. It was not a violent one in nature; Kenneth would not get foxed and beat on poor souls. Instead he would grow so alive, so hot in the head, and so ready to spring out into the world, that he would often do something ridiculous.

  In the army this had kept him alive several times, but now it was a thing he had to mind. The loss of control in public had, indeed, cost him a courtship.

  But here in his own home, he cared not, and so he embraced his own wild nature. He tore at the upper buttons on his shirt, freeing his neck, and downed another drink. He laughed out for the world to hear, although the sound was trapped in the large, empty room.

  He flung open the glass doors leading outside. Embracing the nipping air, he flung up his arms and took the breeze with gladness. He let out a wild yip, like an excited wolf pup, and laughed at himself before calming down a touch, and turning back inside. He was glowing, and he felt alive.

  This is what life is.

  Leah had never been in a bed so comfortable. It is a common misconception that upon laying in the most comfortable bed in one's life, that one will receive the best night of sleep in one's life.

  This could not be further from the truth for those such as Leah, whom all their lives have bounced between floor, moldy hammock, a penny house, or beneath a bench.

  At first, after she had been settled in the room, she had basked in the comfort of the feather pillows. She had laughed to herself about her turn of fortune, winced at the pain in her ribs, and fallen promptly asleep.

  That sleep had not lasted, however. Instead she began to wake regularly in ten-minute intervals, unable to become comfortable because of both the unbelievable softness of the bed and the many bruises she sported.

  Normally when one cannot fall asleep, one will adjust the way that they are sleeping incrementally until sleep can be achieved. In Leah's case, this proved monstrously difficult because three of her ribs had sustained fractures, her left eye was black and blue, and her ankle had been badly sprained.

  She weathered the pain and discomfort with each slight adjustment, trying to find the right way to lay in the bed that seemed to suck her down into it like demonic quicksand.

  She struggled on and on, sweating with the effort, grunting against the feather pillows as they flopped across her.

  Why is this so hard?

  She began to despair, clawing at the blankets she felt like she could not control, sinking further into the fluffy bed, trying to sit upwards but recoiling from the pain in her ribs.

  She thrust her legs out angrily, and her ankle struck one of the bedposts, sending a shock of hurt through that leg.

  Leah cried, submitting to the bed's impossible frame. She lay there, defeated, alone, in a strange place, and she could not even manage a blanket. Never had she felt so beaten, so passed over by the world. Leah cried and cried into the pillows, letting all her rage and frustration with Riphook and Nash and Teller seep into the sheets.

  She cried until it felt as if she had spent every tear she had, and she found that she suddenly felt a slight better.

  How long has it been since I allowed myself to cry? I cannot remember the last time.

  Leah grunted and rolled to the other side, accepting that everything she did would hurt, and that she would have to cope. She could manage. It was by no means the first time she had taken a beating, but she meant for it to be the last. She touched her breast gingerly, discovering further bruising all across her torso.

  “Bastards bruised my tit.” she chuckled softly with herself, cradling the tear-soaked pillow for comfort. At least there, in that moment, she was safe. She had gambled that they wouldn't follow her through St. James’s Square, and she had lost that bet. Some would say it is foolish to double down, and place trust again in the security of aristocracy, but the manor house of a Duke was far safer than an array of street shops.

  As she contemplated how bold Riphook might be in retrieving her, she glanced out of the second-story window. The grounds were brilliantly lit by the moon, and she could feel the radiance of the silver disk.

  She caught sight of something then that caused her to look twice. It was the Duke – the man who had saved her – and he was running out into the grass, arms above him.

  She heard him make a yip of a noise, and he ran back into the house, swinging his arms widely around him.

  Leah smiled to see such a youthful expression of exuberance from the Duke, who was clearly on the other side of five and twenty.

  She wondered if he had a wife, and what she made of all this. Likely not, she decided, for that woman before had been his mother.

  What does she think of me? What do I think of her, for that matter?

  Leah was uncertain of how she should proceed. On the one hand, she realized that she was too hurt to travel on her own. The Duke was right about her ribs; they would take time and rest to heal. The same could be said of her ankle.

  On the other hand, there was an absurd amount of wealth in this house from what Leah had seen so far.

  In the city, she knew who had the richest houses, and how much to take at a time to not arouse suspicion. Here, there seemed to not be any rules. She doubted anybody had ever stolen a thing from this place, as it was so removed in the country.

  Just how far is it? Leah realized she truly had no clue of her whereabouts besides the name Worthington. Where the devil is Worthington?

  Much information, she knew, would come in time. For now, at least, the sun had to rise before she had answers. In the meantime, she constructed an initial plan. It had two routes and was fairly simple.

  She would rest here, recover her strength, and then, if by chance she could enchant the Duke accordingly, garner passage to France. That was a long shot, but it did not seem impossible since he had come so gallantly to her rescue. Perhaps passage over the channel was not too much to ask. She deserved a decent rest, after all, and a Duke's mansion was quite the place to stay.

  If anything were to occur beforehand, anything that should make her feel threatened, or if Riphook caught wind of her, she would plunder the home for its wealthiest possessions, and she would be gone.

  Want to know how the story ends? Tap on the link below to read the rest of the story.

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  Thank you very much!

  Also by Emma Linfield

  Thank you for reading The Sullen Seamstress of Horenwall Manor!

  I hope you enjoyed it!
If you did, may I ask you to please write a review HERE? It would mean very much to me. Reviews are very important and allow me to keep writing the books that you love to read!

  Some other stories of mine:

  The Ambiguous Enigma of the Hunted Lady

  The Extraordinary Tale of the Rebellious Governess

  The Perilous Quest of the Rejected Duchess

  The Odd Riddle of the Lost Duchess

  The Unusual Story of the Silent Duchess

  Also, if you liked this book, you can also check out my full Amazon Book Catalogue HERE.

  Thank you for allowing me to keep doing what I love!

  Emma Linfield

  About the Author

  Emma Linfield has always been passionate about historical romances. Ever fascinated with the world of Regency England and being utmost inspired by Jane Austen and Georgette Heyer’s work, she decided she wanted to write her own stories. Stories of love and tradition being mixed in the most appealing way for every hopeless romantic, much like herself.

  Born and raised in Southern California, Emma Linfield has a degree in Creative Writing and English Literature, and she has been working as a freelance writer for the past 10 years. When she isn’t writing, Emma loves spending her time with her own prince charming and two beautiful children, all the while enjoying the famous Californian sun and ocean.

  So, hop on to this exciting journey of Dukes, Earls and true love with Emma and find pleasure in the old fashioned world of Regency - an Era of pure romance, elegance and high fashion!