Heir to Edenbrooke
A Prequel Novelette
Julianne Donaldson
© 2015 Julianne Clawson Donaldson.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Shadow Mountain®. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of Shadow Mountain.
All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover images: Serge_Vero/iStock and carsthets/shutterstock.com
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Heir to Edenbrooke
More by the Author
Acknowledgments
A big thank you to The Writing Group of Joy and Awesomeness, especially my beta readers Ruth Josse, Donna Nolan, Christene Houston, and Jeigh Meredith for their invaluable feedback and advice.
Heir to Edenbrooke
SPAIN 1811
“Major Wyndham?”
I looked up from the map spread across the table. We had just finished debriefing and were in the middle of strategizing the next day’s campaign. I rubbed the back of my neck, sore from bending over the map, and felt the tiredness in my feet as I shifted my weight to turn to the sound of the voice. A soldier stood at the door of the tent and raised his hand in a sharp salute.
“A letter, sir,” he said, holding it out in one gloved hand.
I took a brief moment to assure myself that it was, indeed, my mother’s handwriting. Relief trumpeted within me—alive and well! She is alive and well—a soldier’s response when too much time elapses between letters. I reluctantly slipped the letter into the pocket of my coat rather than tearing it open on the spot as I wanted to. A soldier, even an officer, makes dozens of sacrifices every day. Some of them I was hardly aware of anymore. But I was very aware of this sacrifice.
“Letter from home?” Major Colton asked, watching my hand hover over the pocket holding this unexpected treasure.
I nodded, then put the matter out of my mind entirely, like shutting the door on a long-awaited dawn. Our own literal dawn would come soon enough, and we had to have a strategy in place. I turned my attention to the map before me, and candles flickered as a hot breeze blew through the tent, doing nothing to alleviate the sweat that had been rolling down my back all day. Spain had its beauties, but a temperate climate at the end of summer was not one of them.
As soon as I entered my tent an hour later, I took the letter out of my pocket and carefully laid it on my cot. Then I unbuttoned my coat, tossed it aside, and stripped off my sweat-soaked shirt. These hard days of heavy combat made the old wound in my shoulder sting with pain, reminding me that every good thing comes with a price. It was not too high a price, though. The mission that had earned me this scar had also earned me the distinction of becoming the youngest major in His Majesty’s army.
I rolled my shoulders to try to work out some of the stiffness, and for a moment I dreamed of a cool English countryside, of wet winds and chilled air and cold, pelting rain.
Pulling myself away from my dream of home, I leaned over my washbasin, splashed water over my face, and let it drip down my chest. I ran wet fingers through my hair, which curled much more in this country than it did in England. I sighed with relief when a small breeze entered the open door of my tent. Finally I eased my boots off and settled down on my cot.
I picked up the letter and held it close to the candle. It was full dark out, and the sounds of the camp had settled down into distant snores and the steady, quiet march of the night patrol.
I could readily guess that her letter would contain, first and foremost, her maternal worries about my overindulged, arrogant, insufferable older brother, Charles, who had inherited everything upon my father’s death and was living the flagrantly useless life of a wealthy titled gentleman. I had very little sympathy for his so-called troubles. If I was lucky, my mother would tell me something interesting about my younger brother, William, who was studying at Oxford. Louisa would make an appearance in the role of headstrong youngest child growing too beautiful for her own good. There might be news about the estate, or the tenants, or Mother’s extended relatives. In short, this letter would take me home and set me beside my mother, a place that as her favorite child I had missed these years in the army. (My siblings would argue about my favorite-child status, but my confidence had yet to be shaken.)
I cracked open the seal and unfolded the paper, smiling in anticipation. My eyes skimmed its length, and I sat up abruptly. It was much too short, and short letters contained only bad news.
I could not read fast enough, but at the same time I did not want to read at all. It was like gulping down poison.
My dear Philip,
It is with a heavy heart that I pen this letter to you. I had hoped not to worry you, and so I did not tell you in my last letter that Charles was ill. It was a disease of the lungs, and the doctors were hopeful. No, that is not true. I was hopeful. But my hope was in vain, and my dear, dear boy is gone from this world. Please make haste and come home as soon as you can. We are all devastated.
***
As I sat on my cot, a thousand miles from home, countless memories streamed through my mind, but the one that caught and settled over me was what I always thought of as the last horse race.
We had met early in the morning at the stables and soon had our horses ready. I was fourteen, William thirteen, and Charles almost seventeen. William was mad about horseracing and had been for long enough that our father had finally taken him to pick out his own horse. It was a beautiful grey gelding that William decided had the best potential in the price range my father had agreed to. Will named him Eclipse after the famous French racehorse and trained that horse every day during the summer, rain or shine, for hours longer every day than either Charles or I spent on our horses.
And all of that training paid off. On the morning of the last horse race, William’s horse threw himself over every hedge and dry-stone wall as if he were all heart and courage and winged hooves. He ran through the woods with such nimbleness that it seemed the trees and roots and plants moved out of the way for him. And when William asked him for more on the final stretch, that horse gave it to him with a burst of speed that left Charles and me furlongs behind. William raised both arms in the air and shouted, “The great racehorse Eclipse, expertly trained and ridden by William Wyndham, has vanquished all others! Proving once again that Charles cannot pick a good horse to save his life.”
I laughed, pulling my horse close to William’s and clapping him on the back in congratulations. I had no problem being bested by my younger brother; it was losing to my elder brother I took issue with.
Charles scowled as he reined in his horse. He was dark by nature. His hair was almost black, his eyes a dark brown. He was wiry and strong and had a fierce arrogance to his face that he had perfected over a lifetime of knowing how special and entitled he was, having been born the eldest and heir to a title, a great estate, and a tremendous fortune.
“That was luck,” Charles said, flicking a speck of mud off his breeches. “But I will prove you wrong, little brother. I can choose a good horse.” He flicked his cold gaze over William’s horse and said, “I choose that horse.”
William scoffed. “He’s mine. You will just have to settle for your own cow-hearted horse and be beaten by me every time.”
Charles brushed his dark hair off his brow. “All I need do is ask Father for that horse, and he will give it to me.” The smile he turned on William was cold and brittle. “Then you can have the cow-hearted one, and I will have the winner, as it should be.”
Rage fill
ed William’s eyes, and his hands tightened into fists. I grabbed his arm, in case he decided to lunge off his horse and attack Charles.
“Charles,” I said, my voice full of warning. “Don’t even think it.”
Charles lifted his head, tilted to the most arrogant angle he was capable of—the angle that, over fourteen years of seeing it, gave me an almost overwhelming urge to break my brother’s nose.
“But it would be so easy,” Charles said, his voice maddeningly calm. “Because everything here will be mine the day Father dies. The house. The estate. The art. The library and everything in it. The stables. And that horse and that horse and this horse.” He pointed to the house behind us, the orchard, the stables, the gardens, saying in an infuriating voice, “Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.” He smiled. “Father is not young anymore. It could happen any day. They will all be mine, and none of it will be yours. So, if you think about it, it already all belongs to me. And I think I want . . .” He pointed his finger at our horses, first at mine, then at his, and then at William’s, “ . . . that horse.”
William’s face was livid, his eyes full of fury and impotence. “I will hate you until the day I die if you dare take this horse from me.”
“Oh, what a punishment!” Charles said, his voice mocking.
I let go of William and moved my horse between the two of them, putting a hand on Charles’s chest.
“William outrode you today,” I said, pushing him. “So take it like a man or go cry to Father.”
Charles turned his cold gaze on me and knocked my hand off his chest. “I have a better idea. I’ll race you two back to the stables, and the winning horse will be mine.”
William’s lip curled in a sneer. “I will never race you again.”
“Then I am the winner by default.” Charles turned his horse abruptly and kicked him into a gallop, yelling over his shoulder, “He will be mine one day, William.”
As I watched him race away from us, his only brothers in the world and at this moment his enemies, I made myself a promise. I would never be like Charles, and I would never, ever want what he had.
William swore quietly and with great creativity. “I hate him.”
“I know.”
I walked my horse in a circle, looking at everything Charles had pointed to and declared his. He was right about it, which was all the more infuriating. Edenbrooke was beautiful. It was home. It was everything I loved most in my childhood. And yet I would one day be a foreigner here. I would one day have no more claim to walk through these doors than a stranger would. And so I looked around at the beloved house and orchard and stables and gardens and river and trees and thought, “Not mine. Not mine. Not mine.” It felt like shaving off little pieces of my heart.
“We will always lose to him, won’t we?” William said.
“Oh, no. I have no plans to lose to him again.”
William scoffed. “Oh, that’s rich. He will always be the eldest and the heir to everything, and he will lord it over us and use his position of power against us. How can we not lose to him?”
I looked at the bridge spanning the river and thought, “Not mine,” and another piece of flesh fell from my heart. “It’s easy enough. He has power over us only if we care about any of this.” I waved at the scene before us, pretending a nonchalance I didn’t feel. “If we don’t care about this—if we don’t want this—then he can’t lord it over us. If we don’t envy him, we cannot be hurt by him.”
William rolled his eyes, then threw his arm wide in a gesture to encompass the scene before us. “A life of ease and luxury. A life here, at Edenbrooke. How can you honestly say you don’t envy that?”
“Think about this, though: He will never have a choice of profession. He will be forced to marry for a good connection and won’t be able to marry for love. He will be courted for his money and position and title and will always question the loyalty of those around him.”
William was still glowering. “I just can’t get over the resentment.”
I flashed a smile. “Well, I’m not saying I don’t dream of breaking his nose on a regular basis. I imagine it in detail. I can almost feel the crunch of it under my knuckles.”
William scowl lifted. “How bad is it?”
“It gushes. Like a ruddy waterfall.”
William smiled.
“And then, of course, it mends horribly, so he’s got a crooked nose for the rest of his life and, as a result, snores so loudly that no woman will share a bed with him.”
William chuckled and said, with a fierceness that seemed part anger for Charles and part affection for me, “It’s us against him, Philip.”
“I know.”
He sighed and patted Eclipse’s neck, then ran his hand over one of her ears. His gesture was as gentle as a lover’s caress. “If it was anything else,” he said, “I think I could endure it. But it’s my horse, Philip. The closest I may ever come to owning a real racehorse.” A look of wretchedness was etched on his young face. “You know as well as I do that I wouldn’t be able to afford this kind of horse as a clergyman or a soldier or whatever I decide to do for my career.”
William spoke the truth. Our futures would be vastly different from Charles’s.
“Listen, Will. If I ever have it in my power to buy you a racehorse, I will do it. I promise.”
William smiled. “Thanks. But I think you’ll be just as poor as I will be.”
“No. I am much better at managing money than you are.”
William laughed, then turned his horse back to the woods, and let him have his head. I watched them go, hoping for William’s sake that the woods would bring him solace, and then I turned back to the whittling away of my attachment to my home. If I could do this to my heart, then I would have no affection for Edenbrooke by the time Charles inherited it. It was either that or go mad with resentment and envy.
***
I lay on my cot for a long time, listening to the sounds of the camp as my thoughts rolled over each other, a turmoil of memories and grief. I thought of home and Charles and the promises I had made myself long ago never to be like him, never to want what he had. I wished for a sleep and a forgetting that never came.
***
Major Colton waited for me the next evening, walking with me to my tent after our strategy meeting. The sleepless night had long since caught up with me, and I could hardly put one foot in front of the other.
“What bothers you, Wyndham?” he asked, with the voice of a friend rather than a soldier.
I stopped in front of my tent, battling with myself for a moment. Some part of me had decided last night that if I didn’t tell anyone the news, I could go on as if nothing had happened. I could continue to lead my men, I could spend my days fighting for my country, and when the time came, I could marry for love and not for the sake of my family’s fortune and reputation. I could have everything I had spent my life working toward. The problem with that route, though, was that my father had raised me too well to follow it. If there was anything a gentleman should do, it was his duty. And my duty to my family and home took precedence over my personal desires. I took a deep breath and blew it out again, releasing in that moment the indecision I had battled all day, and said bluntly, “My elder brother has died. I have inherited everything.”
He let out a low whistle. “Then it is not Major Wyndham anymore, is it? Sir Philip.”
I grimaced at the sound of my new name.
“I am deeply sorry for your loss. And for our loss, as well. I have never met a finer soldier.” Major Colton held out a hand.
“Thank you,” I said gruffly, finding my throat suddenly tight. I shook his hand as a feeling of finality settled over me. I would miss this so much. This beautiful country, the business of war, the loyalty and camaraderie of my brothers at arms, the satisfaction of working hard for a great cause every day and falling asleep exhausted every night. My independence was gone. My career was over. It was time to go home.
***
EDENBROOKE
/> Three Months Later
“Still brooding, are you?” William asked as he pulled up a chair next to mine.
I looked up from the signet ring I had been twisting around my little finger. The library at Edenbrooke was bathed in the warm light of the late afternoon sun. I had turned my chair away from the orchard that was framed in the tall wall of windows, facing instead the portrait of my father hanging above the large fireplace.
I looked back down without responding. The ring was somehow getting heavier every time I turned it. If I kept going, I would eventually be dragged down to hell by it. What a fitting thought. It was such a little thing—one’s finger. Such a small portion of one’s body. Like the disease that had invaded my brother’s lungs. Such a small thing, at first. Too small to see with the naked eye. But four and a half months later, he was dead. And across the sea, during the height of the Peninsular War, when I stood ready to lead my men to victory, this small thing had changed everything. That small disease, this small ring, this insignificant finger, that awful letter—I clenched my hand into a fist. And now this unwelcome new life was mine.
“Let me guess,” he said. “Mother has told you that you owe it to the family to marry well, and she has convinced you to go do the gentlemanly thing by attending a Season in London and offering for some well-connected young lady. And you are miserable about having to spend the next few months courting beautiful young ladies.” He stuck out his lower lip in an exaggerated expression of pity.
I laughed reluctantly. “Ah, poor me.”
“Indeed! If only I had been born second instead of you. I would have known exactly what to do with all this good fortune.”
I threw him a worried glance, wondering if there was something hidden beneath his teasing words. “Tell me truly, William. Will you hate me now, as we hated Charles? Will you resent me for inheriting everything?”
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