“Amen.”
Their right hands were joined together. “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.” Reverend Poole turned to the congregation. “Forasmuch as Erasmus Gideon Kirby Carstairs and Caroline Elizabeth Hatherleigh have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to the other, and have declared the same by the giving and receiving of a ring, and by the joining of hands, I pronounce that they be man and wife together, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
They were married! Her heart swelled with happiness until it seemed she might burst.
The minister pronounced a blessing. “God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Ghost, preserve and keep you; the Lord mercifully with his favor look upon you, and so fill you with all spiritual benediction and grace, that ye may so live together in this life, that in the world to come ye may have life everlasting. Amen.”
Communion followed, and the reading of Psalm 67, and prayers for children, then they signed the register.
They turned to face the congregation as the minister cleared his throat. “I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Erasmus Gideon Kirby Carstairs.”
Moisture gathered in her eyes and she held on to Gideon’s arm almost blindly as they made slow progress down the aisle, stopped as they were many times by well-wishers. Eventually they gained outside and shook the minister’s hand before they were showered with rose petals and herbs to signify new life.
“Congratulations,” Cecy said, encasing her in a hug, the first of many such embraces that demonstrated warm affection rather than the cold propriety Caroline had once thought fitting.
Verity drew near, offering her congratulations, her pale, strained features drawing Caroline’s enquiry of concern.
“’Tis nothing but a fall,” her sister stated, though Caroline wondered if that was all. “Look, Caro, your husband is ready to take you away.”
Gideon helped her into the flower-bedecked carriage then drew out a bag of coins with which to shower their well-wishers.
As he tossed the coins by the handful, small children scrambled to collect them. “You are so generous,” she murmured.
“I feel as rich as Croesus today.” The children waved their thanks, and Gideon waved in response. “And no,” he continued, turning back to her, “it has nothing to do with marriage settlements.”
The warm, intent look in his eyes drew a delighted shiver. She knew he meant her.
“Have I mentioned how beautiful you look today?”
“No.”
The carriage jerked into motion, the driver encouraging the horses to Aynsley where the wedding breakfast would be held.
“Then allow me to rectify that immediately. You, my dearest Caroline, are the loveliest creature my eyes have ever had the good fortune to behold.”
More of such sentiments punctuated the journey, as did his warm lips against her hand, her wrist, and once—scandalous though it be, in public as they were—on the lips.
The long stretch of Aynsley’s façade drew near. Inside Caroline knew the servants had been bustling all morning preparing for the feast, those ranked higher who had attended services would have sped back here in order to ensure everything was ready on time. Aynsley had certainly entertained well over the years, but it wasn’t every day so many noble connections would fill its rooms.
The carriage neared and servants scurried out to help them inside.
The wedding breakfast consisted of delicious flavors and champagne, but what Caroline remembered most were the faces. The still slightly stunned expressions of her mother and father, as if they couldn’t quite believe they’d agreed for their daughter to marry the mere heir to a marquess.
Her grandmother’s pleased countenance, as she nodded during the speeches.
The love suffusing the faces of Emma and Lord Kenmore as they exchanged looks of adoration.
James and Elizabeth, as they smiled at each other, and then at their tiny daughter.
The joy filling Serena’s features, their earlier conversation leading to mutual professions of faith and renewed warmth between them.
The pain suffusing Ned Amherst’s face.
Cecilia gazing mournfully after Ned.
Verity’s look of impatience as she scratched at her dress, her leg bound and propped on a chair.
And her wonderful, wonderful Gideon—it would take more time to grow used to the other name—whose eyes and lips told her again and again that he thought her to be truly the most beautiful young lady in all of the world.
Later, after handing her into the coach that would take them to his estate in Lancashire, he said, “I love you, you know,” before pressing his lips once more to hers.
“I know,” she said, when she could finally draw breath. “And I love you, Gideon.”
She smiled. Her wonderful Gideon. Wonderfully brave, wonderfully clever, wonderfully kind. Her hero.
And she waved farewell to Aynsley, and set her face to her future.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I’VE LONG BEEN fascinated by Mary Anning, the nineteenth-century “miracle child” and finder of some of the most remarkable fossils in England, on whom it is reputed the tongue twister “She sells sea-shells by the seashore” is based. But I didn’t want to write her story; Tracy Chevalier has already done that in the excellent Remarkable Creatures. So I wanted to write a story that referenced her and something of the fossil-hunting mania in early 1800s England. With two sons, I suppose it was inevitable that I would eventually succumb to the world of dinosaurs.
For this I used a number of reference books, including Rocks, Fossils and Dinosaurs (edited by Busby & Coenraads), Fossil Revolution (Douglas Palmer), and Bones of Contention (Paul Chambers), and I was extremely blessed to borrow a copy of The Observer’s Book of British Geology from my lovely church friend Joan Freere. Together these resources helped shape this story, but as it’s fictional, some of the elements were changed to suit my purposes. The ichthyosaurus Gideon discovered is loosely based on discoveries made around that time. While most ichthyosaurii have been discovered in Jurassic-era formations, it is interesting that in 2017 an ichthyosaurus considered to be the largest found in the UK was found directly north of Sidmouth in Triassic-era cliffs—which lends weight to the idea that such things could be found around the Sidmouth area also. (Regardless, I’m not a scientist, and this is fiction!)
The descriptions of Sidmouth were based on the 1810 pictorial guide referenced in The Beauties of Sidmouth Displayed by Edmund Butcher, published by J. Wallis—a fabulous account of Sidmouth from two hundred years ago.
Another book referenced in this novel is the 1809 reprint of The Truth of the Christian Religion by Hugo Grotius and John Clarke, which listed ancient writers’ accounts of biblical and early church history, including the truth of Jesus Christ as a real person, whose life, death, and resurrection were noted by those ancient writers of Greek, Jewish, and other traditions.
It is not my intention to discuss evolution or get into lengthy arguments about the creation story; I do believe God created the world, and I wanted to show how a scientific Christian man might approach such things in Regency times, before the scientific world became heavily skewed to evolutionary theory.
On a different note, Emma’s mysterious medical condition I imagine as something not unlike lupus, or an autoimmune disease the likes of which would have been especially hard to diagnose let alone treat with Regency-era medical knowledge. My understanding is that this disease presents with days when it flares, and days when it can be in remission, which can account for the varying levels of energy and wellness Emma portrays, and the great concern physicians held for her life with the complications pregnancy presents.
Domestic violence is an all-too-prevalent issue touched on in this book. Studies have reported that in Australia, one woman a week is murdered by her current or former partner; in the US, reports from
the Bureau of Justice indicate two or more women are murdered every day by current or former romantic partners. In Regency times, women had little recourse when faced with an abusive husband; as far as the law was concerned, wives were regarded much like their husband’s property. In today’s world, women are still sometimes blamed for being victims. Monica McLaughlin, deputy director of public policy at the US National Network to End Domestic Violence suggests victim-blaming should be replaced by simply offering to help. So instead of asking, “Why don’t you just leave?” ask how you can help. Say: “I feel scared for you and can see these threats are real.”
In other words, loving others enough to be honest, and to keep asking until you see those who are bound set free.
On a happier note, I’d like to thank my friend Vicky Smalko, whose suggestion it was to include a Regency wedding in one of my books. The service depicted is from the Anglican Book of Common Prayer, the “Form of Solemnisation of Matrimony.” It’s fascinating to see the similarities and differences to wedding services today—I hope you enjoy that, too.
For behind-the-book details and a discussion guide, and to sign up for my newsletter, please visit www.carolynmillerauthor.com.
If you have enjoyed reading this or any of the other books in the Regency Brides series, please consider leaving a review at Goodreads, Amazon, or wherever you purchase.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THANK YOU, GOD, for giving this gift of creativity, and the amazing opportunity to express it. Thank You for patiently loving us, and offering us hope through Jesus Christ.
Thank you, Joshua, for your love and encouragement. I appreciate your willingness to read my stories and all the support you give in so many ways. I love you!
Thank you, Caitlin, Jackson, Asher, and Tim—I love you, I’m so proud of you, and I’m so grateful you understand why I spend so much time in imaginary worlds.
To my family, church family, and friends whose support, encouragement, and prayers I value and have needed—thank you. Big thanks to Roslyn, Jacqueline, and Brooke for being patient in reading through so many of my manuscripts, and for offering suggestions to make my stories sing. Big thanks also to Joan Freere and Vicky Smalko for assistance in loaning materials and ideas to help ground this story in greater authenticity.
Thank you, Tamela Hancock Murray, my agent, for helping this little Australian negotiate the big wide American market.
Thank you to the authors and bloggers who have endorsed and encouraged and opened doors along the way: you are a blessing! Thanks to my Aussie writer friends—I appreciate you.
To the Ladies of Influence—your support and encouragement are gold!
To the fabulous team at Kregel: thank you for believing in me, and for making A Hero for Miss Hatherleigh shine.
Finally, thank you to my readers. Thank you for buying my books and for spreading the love for these Regency romances. I treasure your kind messages of support and lovely reviews.
I hope you enjoyed Caroline’s story.
God bless you.
CHAPTER ONE
Aynsley Manor, Somerset
June 1819
IT WAS, PERHAPS, the greatest torment to love someone who barely seemed to notice one’s existence. Cecilia Hatherleigh glanced across the ballroom as Edward Amherst, second son of the Earl of Rovingham, danced with her sister. Her newly married sister. Her newly married sister who even now was laughing with him in that way that suggested friendly understanding of the sort Cecy could never hope to share.
She swallowed, studying the sparkly embellishments trimming her pale green satin slippers, wishing, not for the first time, that she had been born with but a tenth of the confidence her elder sister possessed. It was not as if Caroline was that much more attractive; they shared the same fair skin, blue eyes, and chestnut curls, though Caro’s curls be a shade darker. It was not as if Caro was kinder or more thoughtful. Indeed, up until recently, Cecy was fairly sure most people would have given such plaudits to herself, not the eldest daughter of Lord Aynsley, whose confidence tended to brusque abrasiveness. But Caro’s newfound happiness seemed to have led to a contentment that infused her previously hard features with softness, her words and actions indicative of a kindly consideration Cecy welcomed. Gone was the flinty-eyed sister whose pronouncements used to make her squirm. Was that the effect of love, or some deeper change?
Love. She swallowed. Peeked up. Watched the fair head of Ned Amherst whirl away. How could he remain blind to her? Was she that unappealing? Granted, she rarely knew what to say to gentlemen, but at least she did not complain or gossip about others like some young ladies were wont to do. Why couldn’t young gentlemen assign greater importance to things like that rather than the shape of one’s face or form?
Sophia Heathcote whirled by—much too young to be out, Mama had said—and cast Cecy a look that could be construed as pitying. She writhed internally again. Sophia was but Verity’s age, but one would hardly think so, judging from the way Verity carried on with her hoydenish behavior, as indifferent to balls and her future as if she were a changeling child, and not—as the third daughter of the Viscount Aynsley—destined for great things on the marriage mart. Such actions had led to an accident this morning that had nearly caused the wedding to be postponed, an accident Verity still refused to speak on, but which had damaged her leg and caused her to miss tonight’s proceedings. Not that Verity seemed to mind, save for the disappointment of missing out on the food.
Cecy glanced across at her mother who sat with the other older ladies with an air of benevolent complacency. Benevolent to her guests, perhaps, but her words this morning to her youngest daughter seemed strained of any kindness. “How could you? On your sister’s wedding day, no less?”
Verity had lifted her chin. “It was not as if I planned to fall.”
“Because you never take heed for anyone’s interests but your own, you thoughtless, thoughtless child!”
Cecy had intervened at this point, calling her mother’s attention to a matter concerning her gown, a distraction for which Verity had given a small but grateful smile as Cecy hurried Mama away. Verity could appear heedless, but her impetuous nature flowed from a generosity of heart that had seen her fall into more than a few scrapes over the years, and Cecy had long known her role to be one of peacemaker between the two personalities who held such divergent opinions on the value and worth of ladylike activities.
Mama took Verity’s decided disinterest in all things deemed necessary for young ladies as a personal affront; fortunately, she could not lay the same charges against Cecy. “Such a well-behaved gel” had always been the report of her teachers at Miss Haverstock’s Seminary, a moniker she had overheard not a few times from elderly relatives and those neighbors of a kindly disposition. And Cecilia had tried to do all that Mama had asked—practicing her music, her needlepoint, her conversation with said neighbors. She had even held her tongue when forced to succumb to Mama’s embarrassing, steely-eyed focus after Cecy’s unfortunate, unguarded reaction to learning the news about Ned’s accident late last year.
So, whilst Caro had been staying at Grandmama’s having a marvelous time meeting the man she would marry, Cecy had been enduring Mama’s concentrated efforts to assure the world her second daughter was most definitely not enamored of a certain neighboring earl’s second son. It had proved a relief to have Mama’s energies turn from Cecy’s presentation in London to Caro’s wedding, events Mama seemed hopeful would throw Cecy in the path of far more eligible gentlemen.
But Mama’s efforts were insufficient to drive this cruel fascination away.
Ned’s features lit as he laughed at something Caro said, and Cecy pressed her lips together as the terrible envy roared again. Why did he have to dance with her sister? Why couldn’t he—for once!—notice Cecy instead? How unfair that her sister should get all the attention and Cecy none.
“Cecilia,” her mother’s voice hissed.
She dredged up a smile and affixed it to her face, willing he
rself not to give any reason for the speculation so many people here were eager to engage in. She might feel despair, but there was no reason to let anyone titter over her suffering.
The music finished, leaving Cecy to look about and wonder whether any young gentlemen would be so bold as to approach her. It was strange her mother had not ensured that more young gentlemen would be present here tonight. She had felt certain Mama would want the extra numbers in order to distract Cecy from thinking about a certain ineligible young gentleman, though he be an earl’s son. Her lips twisted. Perhaps Mama had been too busy hastening arrangements for the future of her favored eldest daughter to give much thought to the futures of her less-loved younger daughters. “Miss Cecilia.”
The voice of that particular earl’s son caused her to quickly turn, his smile eliciting a painful throb in her heart and her cheeks to heat. “Hello, Ned.”
His features might not be to every girl’s taste, but, oh, how handsome he seemed to her. Green eyes that held golden glints; fair hair that needed no tongs to curl; a smile that dug twin dimples in his cheeks and tugged delicious warmth within her chest. And then there was his scent, oh, so delectable, with its spicy mix of bergamot, sandalwood, and musk, a scent she dreamed about, the slightest whiff quickening a powerful yearning inside.
But more than this was his kindness, his good humor, the way he was so quick to oblige—save in offering her the attention she longed for. And now that she was a praying woman, and knew him to be a praying man, she had the oddest sense that God had destined him to be hers. The thought made his ignorance of her so much the harder. For as long as she had known him, Ned Amherst had pulled at her heartstrings.
“Would you do me the honor of this dance?” He held out a hand.
Her heart began a rapid tattoo. Oh! Finally—finally!—she would dance with him. He wanted her to dance with him—he wanted her—not her sister, not some prettier young lady, not someone else. She accepted his hand, the touch shivering all the way to her spine, the glow in her heart sure to be suffusing her features as they moved to join the dance formations. Not that she cared what others might think. It was enough that he had noticed her, and wanted her, and perhaps she could finally persuade him to consider her as a potential love—
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