Mark laughed knowing full well what his young daughter was up to. “Your father had been orphaned as a babe, just as you were, but his parentage was unknown. It was common practice in those days when in need of a surname, yet deprived of one for one reason or another, to adopt the name of the town in which you were born. ‘Twas in this custom that they christened your father Jacob Alexander Buxton. When he was about the age you are now, he was adopted by a local clergyman and his wife. They had a daughter, Elizabeth…”
“My mother,” Regina interrupted.
“Yes, your mother. Mark smiled tousling Regina’s chestnut curls. “They fell in love, and after your father returned from seminary, they were married. Your father accepted a ministry position here in our parish not long after you were born. Your parents were elated at your arrival. A more loved babe I have yet to see. Jacob once told me about the night you were born. You were not like other babes entering the world with clouded eyes and blind need, but came to them clear and alert observing all around you like a queen surveying her realm.”
“That is how I came to bear the name Regina.” Regina’s face lit up.
“Yes, you were the queen of their hearts and mine.” Mark paused his work, staring into the hot coals as vivid memory overtook him. “You were but six months old at the time of the fire. I was walking past the church on my way home when I smelled the smoke. The clergy was ablaze, and I could hear your screams through the acrid smog. I could think of naught else to do but find you amidst the inferno. ‘Tis but by God’s grace that your nursery was at the back of the house, and I was able to break the window and pull you out.”
“But it was too late for my parents,” Regina whispered, shoulders sagging with the weight of her parents’ demise.
“Before I could do aught else, the roof collapsed cutting off any further means of rescue,” Mark confirmed. “It was decided amongst the good people of the parish that my wife and I, being childless, would take you in and raise you as our own.”
“And that is how I came to be your daughter,” Regina concluded the tale.
“Yes, that is how you came to be my daughter,” Mark agreed, retrieving the metal from the flames and carrying it over to the anvil. He smiled at her with a twinkle of love and pride in his eye. “Now, Daughter, Come help me finish this piece.”
Climbing down from the bench, Regina obeyed, following her father’s instruction as she hammered the metal rod into submission. It was unorthodox at best for a girl to practice the art of blacksmithing, but it was a source of great pride for Mark. His family had been blacksmiths since the time of William the Conqueror, and without sons to carry on the legacy, he had taken his young adopted daughter as an apprentice. She had flourished under his strict, but loving tutelage and at twelve was already showing signs of becoming an able craftswoman.
Regina knew that Mark’s wife, Catherine, resented the time he and Regina spent together, bitter over the fact that they could not have children of their own. Catherine had grown more spiteful with every year that passed, resulting in a very unhappy home life for Mark and Regina. The time they spent together in the shop was like an oasis of peace, essential to survival in the barren wasteland that was Catherine’s ire.
Regina had suffered greatly over the years from Catherine’s sharp tongue. She believed Regina’s mismatched eyes, one amber, one green, to be the sign of Satan and had no qualms about telling her so on a daily basis. She insisted Regina call her Mistress Smith, not mother, and Regina was all too happy to comply. When she thought of what a mother should be, Catherine Smith was not it.
Mark was the exact opposite of his wife. He had been a wonderful father. He had taught Regina to read, write, do arithmetic, and the trade of his forbearer’s. Due to Catherine’s distaste for her, Regina had never learned the usual skills a young lady would learn from her mother, such as sewing, cooking, music, painting, or any other aspects of the more dainty arts.
Mark had taught her many songs that they would sing together in time to the hammer striking the anvil. He praised her voice, saying that the angels in heaven had no choice but to pause and listen when she sang for its beauty. They were not allowed to sing in the house; Catherine forbade it.
Mark struck up a chord as Regina hammered the metal upon the anvil, his deep barrel chest allowing his voice to carry above the din. His rich baritone reverberated through the shop’s rafters and floated out into the street where an impromptu audience would gather to listen at the shop’s open doorway. Regina loved to watch the facial expressions of passersby peeking around the door casing.
Regina’s voice was quieter, more feminine, but when raised together their voices produced a harmony that transcended time and space. She had never met another person who could sing with her like her father, and it pleased her that they shared such a special gift. A small dark part of her was also pleased that it caused immeasurable discomfort to Mistress Smith, who sounded like a dying cockerel when she sang hymns each Sunday at the local parish church.
Shaking such unkind thoughts from her head, Regina continued to fashion the metal before her. If done right, it would produce a fine blade for any gentleman of discerning taste and means. Of all the pieces they produced together, Regina’s favorites were the knives and swords. Mark had even allowed her to make a set for her own personal use.
When a weapon was completed, her father would test them to ensure durability by giving Regina sword fighting and knife throwing lessons. Over time she had become quite skilled. It was yet another masculine nail in the coffin of her femininity, but Regina didn’t care. She would not have traded a single moment of it for all the porcelain from China.
As they closed up the shop for the day and began their diurnal trek homeward, Regina felt a heavy weight descend upon her soul knowing the greeting that awaited them. Together they trudged the short distance through the evening’s fading light—her hand in his for reassurance—to where Mistress Smith awaited them.
“‘Tis long past time that you should have been home,” Catherine greeted them no sooner had their feet crossed the threshold. “Supper has grown cold, and there will be no complaints from either one of you about it.”
“Yes, dear,” Mark answered as he and Regina removed the grime of the day’s work at the washbasin beside the door.
Regina was so tired she could barely keep her eyes open as they sat down to eat. All throughout the meal, Catherine complained about every aspect of their lives, as was her usual habit; however, today, the level of vehemence with which she punctuated each word hinted that something had angered her even more than usual.
Mark and Regina ate in silence only responding to her tirade when absolutely necessary. At one particularly unpleasant moment in the conversation, Catherine’s voice actually shrieked and broke under the strain. Regina giggled before she could stop herself. Catherine, further infuriated, reached across the table and struck her across the face.
“Enough!” roared Mark, rising from his seat to glare at his wife. Opening his mouth to expound further upon his displeasure at Catherine’s abuse of Regina, Mark went suddenly pale, clutched his chest, and collapsed upon the floor.
“Father!” Regina cried in distress, scrambling from her seat to fall at his side. “Mistress?” she petitioned Catherine with a wholehearted plea for the woman to do something, anything. Instead, Catherine simply stood over them and stared in silence. “Please,” Regina pleaded again, but her petition fell on deaf ears.
“Father,” she whimpered laying her head upon his chest. His strong muscled hand came up to caress her cheek.
“I love you, Daughter,” he whispered.
She felt his palm slipping away from her cheek and watched him take his final breath; her soul shattered beneath the weight.
“Father…”
Chapter 1
Seven Years Later
“Regina? Regina!” Like a mythical banshee, Mistress Smith’s voice shrieked from below the stairs. “Come down here this instant!”
&
nbsp; “Yes, Mistress,” Regina mumbled, rolled out of bed, and descended the stairs. “How can I be of service?” she inquired, dropping a quick curtsy as she reached the bottom.
“It is about time, you lazy girl,” Catherine grumbled.
Regina bit her tongue. She was many things, but lazy was not one of them. She had worked well into the night to produce enough customer orders to meet Catherine’s ever-increasing financial demands.
“I have arranged a rather advantageous marriage,” she informed Regina with smug satisfaction.
“I wish you every happiness. Who is the lucky gentleman?” Regina inquired, just barely succeeding in masking her insincerity.
“Not for myself, you dolt,” Catherine chirped with condescending scorn. “I have arranged a marriage for you, though why anyone would take you escapes me.”
“I beg your pardon, Mistress?” Regina replied in a state of shock.
“The local merchant, Miles Hughes, has agreed to take you and that despicable blacksmith shop off my hands. He has agreed to compensate me a tidy sum for the lot,” Catherine gloated.
“Mr. Hughes? But, he is…” words escaped her. Her thoughts whirled with a myriad of negative adjectives that befit the man.
“Foolish for taking you on,” Catherine interjected.
“Ancient, decrepit, I have witnessed pigsties with better hygienic habits!” Regina answered, her emotions flowing forth in a stream of consternation. “I simply will not do it!”
“You will marry him and you will do so with alacrity!” Catherine ordered.
“No, I will not,” Regina firmly refused gritting her teeth in frustration.
“Yes, you will, and until you agree,” Catherine grabbed Regina by the arm and flung her into a nearby broom closet under the stairs, “you will stay in here.”
Regina cringed as she heard the key turn in the lock and every thud of Catherine’s footsteps as she walked away. “Father would never have allowed this,” she screamed, beating on the door with such fury that she nearly broke her hand in the onslaught.
Trying to calm the emotional storm within, she pressed her hands to her heaving chest. She could feel her heart racing beneath her palms. Regina leaned her back against the door, slid down the roughhewn wooden surface, and plopped on the floor.
She tangled her fingers in her hair, fighting the urge to scream again; knowing such action would only exacerbate Catherine’s wrath. Try as she may, she could not help but hate the woman. What Catherine was proposing was tantamount to slavery. She had sold Regina off to the local merchant like a piece of horseflesh.
Catherine had never kept her contempt a secret, but she had been forced to limit her abusive behavior toward Regina while Mark was alive. Since his passing, all such regulations had ceased. Regina was not a fool. She knew Catherine had only been counting the days until she could get rid of her. It had always been just a matter of time and now that time had come.
Clenching her fists, Regina dug her nails into the calloused flesh of her palms drawing blood. She felt the hot liquid encircle her fingertips as it flowed forth to drip upon the floor. Lowering her head, chin trembling, she erupted into a broken sob. She was alone, completely alone in the world, without a champion to stave off the darkness.
Oh, Father, why did you leave me?
As the minutes ticked away, she began to calm down and found her rational mind once more. Plucking the pins from her hair, Regina picked the lock. Listening carefully for any sign of Catherine’s return, she eased the door open and peered around the doorframe. The room was empty. She emerged from the closet, listened for the sounds of approaching doom, and heard nothing.
Quietly, Regina tiptoed to her bedroom and closed the door. She quickly gathered what few belongings she possessed, disguised herself in one of her father’s old hats, and dressed in some masculine clothing she sometimes wore during her work at the shop.She climbed out of her bedroom window, down the tree just outside it, and disappeared into the night.
* * *
As swiftly as her feet would carry her, Regina put as much distance as she could between herself and the woman who had made her life an absolute purgatory. Unable to afford proper lodgings, Regina slept outdoors while just eating enough to maintain strength. What little funds she had managed to flee with did not last long, and within a few days’ time, hunger became a real problem.
She had fled on foot with little more than the clothes on her back, she had nothing of value to trade.A job was out of the question given her current circumstances. She knew her masculine costume would not hold up under close inspection, and no one was willing to hire a woman as a blacksmith. In desperation, Regina turned to theft.
She started out small at first, taking the eggs from a hen house, milking a cow before the farmer had awoke, snagging pastries that had been placed on a windowsill to cool, but winter would be upon her before long and lodgings would have to be sought. Accommodations required money and it was for this purpose that Regina turned to robbery. She was ashamed of her actions, but could think of no other way.
Regina became a pickpocket to survive. She couldn’t afford a pistol, but she had her knives for protection. She slipped in and out of crowds quietly without notice cutting purse strings and taking watches. Having been raised an honest girl, she was not skilled enough for anything more advanced than that.
Weeks passed as she moved from town to town, never staying in any one place for very long. Regina knew that the more she stole, her chances of being caught increased with each passing day. She began to wonder if living the life of a highwayman would be more profitable and allow her to steal less frequently.
With this idea in mind, Regina set herself along the road between the villages of Lyndon and Dutton. The woods were alive with the colors of autumn, providing Regina with adequate cover as she waited in the forest next to a stream for her prey. She felt an overwhelming sense of excitement mingled with fear. It was both exhilarating and shaming in equal measure.
A few hours into her vigil, she heard a solitary rider approaching. The rider rode up to the stream and dismounted, allowing his horse to drink, then walked upstream to rest beneath the shade of a tree.
Regina, seeing her opportunity, snuck up behind him knife in hand. Disguising her voice as best she could, she demanded he remain still, “Halt, sir, or prepare to meet your end.” The gentleman did as she asked allowing Regina to reach around to take the watch from his vest pocket.
Without warning, Regina went flying through the air into the stream. She sputtered toward the bank, was hauled out of the water, and the knife wrenched from her hand was placed to her throat.
She felt blood trickle down her neck and prayed for her execution to be quick. I will be with you soon, Father.
Chapter 2
Benjamin Allen, the Duke of Lyndon, urged his horse forward as he made his way home from visiting his childhood friend, Anthony Turton, Duke of Dutton. He had spent three days in Anthony’s convivial company hunting and riding in an attempt to escape his ever pressing and wholly undesired responsibilities.
Duke of Lyndon... the thought echoed through his mind. It still doesn’t seem possible.His father’s untimely demise left him ill-suited to assume the responsibilities of the position.Wouldn’t serving as an officer in the military be a better fit for him?
He reasoned his uncle, Lord Gilbert Allen, would be the better choice as successor. As a former General of the Battle of Salamanca, Lord Allen was a far more qualified leader, but his father would never have suffered it. Benjamin was the heir and that was that. The Duke had silenced Benjamin’s youthful protestations, and to this day, the proclamation continued its ill haunt.
As the only surviving son, Benjamin had known from a young age that fulfilling all his father’s hopes and dreams for the future lay with him. He had spent his childhood being carefully tutored in the ways of running a noble estate. So much so, that when the time came for him to don the mantle of Duke, he had grown to despise everything about the
occupation. However, he had loved his father and would never have dishonored him by abdicating the title.
Growing up, he saw his uncle as his hero, and every chance he had gotten, he had escaped to play soldiers with the other children of the estate. Since his father’s death, Benjamin saw Gilbert Allen as a second father.He would have been lost in the first days after the funeral if not for his uncle’s guiding hand and sage advice.
Stopping at a nearby stream, Benjamin dismounted to stretch his limbs and water his horse. He walked a pace then lowered himself to rest beneath the shade of a spruce. Closing his eyes, he conjured an image of his father’s face. So like his own in coloring and form, he mentally examined the sharp masculine lines, auburn-grey hair, and piercing blue eyes. How could such a force of nature ever be felled?
He heard a twig snap behind him.He was not quick enough to turn and see the cause, when a raspy voice near his ear demanded he remain still.
“Halt, sir, or prepare to meet your end,” the voice commanded, punctuated by a knife point at the back of his neck. A gloved hand came around to snatch his father’s watch from its usual place in his vest pocket.
Feeling emotional attachment to the item, coupled with many hours of faux combat with his fellows, Benjamin grasped the arm and launched his assailant into the nearby stream. Gasping and sputtering, the culprit floundered his way to the bank. Benjamin hauled the man out of the water, wrenched the knife from his attacker’s hands, and raised the knife to the scoundrel’s throat.He demanded to know the thief’s identity.
He knocked the hat from the pickpocket’s head to get a better view of his face and demanded, “Your name, sir.” Benjamin’s surprise brought him up short by the sight that greeted him. “A woman…!”
“Yes, a woman,” she snapped, attempting to free her wrists from Benjamin’s manacle-like grasp. “Release me this instant,” she demanded but to no avail.
The Extraordinary Tale of the Rebellious Governess: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 30