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To my darling Rachel
Acknowledgments
As always, my editor, Holly Ingraham, has my eternal gratitude. Thank you for your talent, insight, and direction. You always have the best suggestions. Jennie Conway, Marissa Sangiacomo, and Meghan Harrington—you all are priceless. Thank you to Lesley Worrell, Jon Paul, and the fantastic art department at St. Martin’s Press. My covers are simply divine. To everyone at SMP who had a hand in March and McCalpin’s story, I’m so grateful for your support.
Pam Ahearn, I’m simply in awe of you. Thank you for everything. Kim Rozzell, you make everything so easy for me.
Corinne DeMaagd, Charlotte Russell, and Christy Carlyle—your friendship is truly a gift.
Greg, thank you for putting up with me when I hole away for hours to write. You are my dream.
Finally, the most important thank you goes to you, my readers. You mean the world to me.
Prologue
Leyton, just outside of London, 1805
Lawson Court
Accustomed to the hustle and bustle of a busy household, March Lawson sat completely numb while the longcase clock marked the passage of time second by everlasting second. The rhythmic movement of the pendulum failed to interrupt the stony silence that entombed her in the study, her father’s domain. Since they’d returned, she spent most of her time here as the familiar smells of leather and ink provided some comfort with sweet memories of her father. His journal lay open on the desk as if waiting for him to return and finish the estate bookkeeping.
One week shy of her seventeenth birthday, March had calculated she’d spent two hundred and three months on this earth. One out of two hundred and three wouldn’t normally garner much attention, but that infinitesimal fraction of time had allowed chaos to steal everything.
Dark misery pounded through her with the strength of a rough surf in a gale storm. She and her three siblings had only been gone a month, twenty-seven days to be exact. Now, she was the head of her family, one that consisted of a one-year-old baby brother and two sisters, ages eleven and ten. Under siege by a grappling confusion, her mind reeled. Her siblings hadn’t a clue the devastation that had awaited them on their return from Brighton.
She didn’t possess such luck. She’d known for the last two weeks. A letter had arrived by special courier to inform her and Hart Pennington, the family’s escort, that her parents had succumbed to influenza. Wise or not, she’d waited until the return trip to share the tragic news.
Thank God she’d had Hart or she would not have survived the journey home. Kind and gentle, he’d taken great care to distract her siblings during the carriage ride so March could consider their future and her new duties as head of the family.
Thirty years older than March, Hart Pennington had been in her father’s employment for over ten years serving as personal assistant and secretary. He was the one her father had chosen to rush them out of Leyton to avoid the influenza outbreak. When it was safe to return to Lawson Court, Hart had escorted them to their parents’ graves and gave comfort as the place markers were set into the ground. From that day forward, he was Uncle Hart and as much a part of their family as she was. Unfortunately, he wasn’t currently there to help, as a close friend had needed him to visit.
It made little difference whether Hart was there or not—this was her responsibility.
The house had grown eerily quiet. The pendulum of the longcase clock had suddenly stopped as if afraid any noise or movement would draw the attention of Death back to their doorstep.
The rotter.
The great thief had stolen the most vibrant and vivacious individuals of their small community into its cold embrace—including her parents. When her mother had fallen violently ill, her father had sent March and her siblings away in hopes they’d escape the illness while he stayed to nurse his wife. After two days, her mother had died. Her father had lasted less than a week. Knowing the love her father had for her mother, March doubted he expired from the assault of the disease’s high fever.
He’d died of a broken heart.
“March?” A small voice cracked, exposing the inability to withstand any more tears. Juggling their brother Bennett in her small arms, ten-year-old Julia struggled with the weight of the healthy baby as she closed the distance to stand by March’s side.
She pasted on the best smile she could muster. Once again, her youngest sister needed comfort. “What is it, my love?”
“Who will take care of us now?” Like the gentle beating of an angel’s wings, her sister’s whispered words floated like wisps of air toward her.
“I will.” March leaned forward and brushed her forefinger against Julia’s pink cheeks.
“What about Faith?” Julia’s thin voice grew ragged as if ready to burst into hysterics again. “Where is she?”
Julia, her youngest sister, had been practically inconsolable when she’d discovered their parents were gone and the secure home they’d all taken for granted had changed forever. Since then, Julia needed an immediate accounting if she couldn’t find her siblings.
“Faith went to bed early,” March answered. “She’s exhausted.”
“Who’s going to take care of Faith?”
“Sweetheart, we’ve discussed this.” March had tried her best to reassure her sister over the last two days, bestowing all the extra attention she could to alleviate Julia’s haunting fears. She’d spent hours holding Julia as her sweet innocence had been destroyed by each tear that stained her cheeks. No matter what comfort she offered her sister, it didn’t seem to help. In the lonely hours of the night, Julia nightmares tore open every one of March’s newly closed wounds of worry.
Her sister had every right to be terrified.
She was terrified. She swallowed, hoping it would hide her own fear and weepiness. Otherwise, Julia’s despair would erupt again.
Out of nowhere, Bennett whimpered, a sure sign he was miserable in Julia’s arms. Attempting to quiet his fussiness, the tiny girl bounced him up and down. The erratic motion infuriated the infant, and he let loose a bloodcurdling scream of outrage sure to make a banshee grimace.
“I just changed him, so he’s not wet.” Julia carefully passed the baby to March. “I suppose he’s hungry.”
March held the bundle close to her chest and walked a narrow path to and fro, all the while patting his back.
“March?” Julia whispered. “Who’ll take care of him?”
“I will.” The incessant use of her name grated her already thin hold on sanity, but her sister must feel the need to repeat it—over and over—as if it were a sacred prayer and would keep her safe.
Julia nodded just as though she understood a great maxim. “He’s your baby now, and you’re his mother.”
The innocent declaration tore the remaining shreds of March’s world asunder with
the truth she couldn’t deny. This was her new life. She’d never escape this massive responsibility, not until her brother grew old enough to manage Lawson Court.
March took a deep breath to calm the anxiety that had wrapped itself tight around her heart. There was no earthly way she could manage the estate on her own. She’d already written her father’s London solicitor asking for help. Her father had established trusts and guardianships for all of them in the remote chance something like this would happen. Lord Burns, a friend of her late grandfather, would be appointed guardian for the family and the estate with the added responsibility of trustee for the Lawson children’s personal trusts.
To survive her own grief, March clung to the belief Lord Burns would act quickly, and all would be well.
Julia’s lips began to quiver. “M-March, I’m scared.”
“I know, Jules.” She nodded as tears burned her eyes. “Me, too. Nevertheless, we’re still a family. Whatever I have to do, we’ll stay together. I promise.”
“I believe you.” Her sister turned to leave, then pivoted on one small foot. “I’m sorry you don’t get to dance.”
“What?” Still pacing while comforting the infant with rhythmic pats, March allowed her full attention to fall on her sister. Over the last two days, her sister’s fitful musings ran the gamut from disabling grief to unhealthy giddiness. This sudden change was yet another example. Such extremes made it difficult for March to understand the little girl’s mood.
“Your spring.” Julia’s brow bunched into neat lines.
“My spring? I don’t understand.”
“Like summer, winter, and autumn.” The little girl wiped her nose on her sleeve, the remnants of her latest tears. “Momma told me all about it.”
The upcoming Season. “You mean my introduction into society?”
Her little sister nodded. “I’m sorry you won’t get to wear your pretty gown and slippers. Momma showed them to me the last time we were in London. The embroidered stockings were soft. They reminded me of our lambs’ wool.”
“Don’t worry about that. There are other things much more important.” She gently tapped Julia on her button nose while keeping the baby tucked close. “Like you.”
“If I get a spring, March, I’m giving it to you,” Julia declared.
“Thank you, Jules. That’s very generous.” Her sister was a dear—a very small and very scared dear soul.
March’s life had taken a different route, one she had no clue how to navigate or where to turn. Selfishly, she couldn’t deny her disappointment. She’d looked forward to the upcoming Season.
Over the last year, she’d dreamed about meeting other young women and men who would become her lifelong friends as they started their path to adulthood together. With her mother’s guidance, she would have learned how to become a proper young lady and a productive member of society. More importantly, she’d find a husband, one who would cherish and protect her just like her father had done for her mother.
A cold knot twisted in her stomach. What if she never married or found the happiness she had always considered her due?
She shook her head. She was worrying for nothing. Once Lord Burns contacted her, life would resume to a new normal. He’d come and see to their needs. He’d help replace the household staff who either had succumbed to the influenza or had quit after her parents’ death. Only Mrs. Oliver, the housekeeper, remained, and she was still recovering from her bout with the disease.
March would have her Season next year.
Such a thought didn’t bring much comfort. There was no use denying what she really wanted was for her parents to walk through the door and end their ordeal. Her mother would comfort the baby, and her father would lift Julia in the air and make her laugh. Faith would join them with her ever-present book in hand. They’d all be a happy family once again. If there were a merciful God, he would find a way to turn back the clock two months.
She prayed for something that was inconceivable, and her heart shifted inside her chest in a poor attempt to escape the despair.
“So, you won’t leave us?” Julia’s reedy voice thinned and broke March’s reverie.
“No, sweets. I’m where I want to be. I want you to be here, too.”
“March?” Fear, stark and vivid, glittered in Julia’s beautiful doe eyes.
The uncertainty in her sister’s voice impaled her, and she feared her chest would split wide open.
“Who’ll take care of you?” Julia whispered. Her sister had asked these same questions every day, and the answer to this one was always the same.
No one.
She bit her lower lip hard enough to draw blood. Bitterness was a useless emotion. The quicker she accepted the circumstances, the less misery she’d face. “Papa has provided for us. We’ll all take care of each other. That’s the way it should be.”
The baby bawled at the top of his lungs. Tears welled in her eyes once more. So lost in her own grief, she’d forgotten to go to the village today for supplies. What a wretched mess.
Her brother’s cries turned into heart-stopping screams. They had no food in the house, but at least there was a little milk. It was past ten o’clock at night, much too late to go to the village for supplies. Tomorrow, she’d replenish the pantry. Within a week, she’d hear from the solicitor. All would be well.
“Sweetheart, would you heat the rest of the milk for your brother?”
Julia dipped her head, but it didn’t hide the tremble of her lips. “I’m sorry, March. Please don’t be angry. I drank the last of it.”
The baby’s breath hitched as he struggled for enough air to scream again. A panic, one she’d fought every waking hour since her return to Lawson Court, welled within her. She gasped in a desperate attempt for control.
“March, I—I’m sorry. I was hungry.” Julia’s tears started to race down her reddened cheeks. “Are you going to leave me, too?”
Chapter One
Eighty years later
“Miss Lawson, you’re relieved of your duties as housekeeper.” The viscount squinted and lifted his chin. The attempt resembled the sour face he always made when he drank an unsweetened glass of lemonade. “Immediately.”
This was simply rich. March summoned thoughts of dirty laundry to keep the hilarity of his pronouncement from overtaking her in a bout of laughter. If only his words were true, she might get a much-needed rest. An image loomed before her of lazing in bed with a tower of the latest gothic novels on the nightstand, but she pushed it aside. There was no use to wish for things that won’t happen.
Her responsibilities were endless today. This morning, she’d already taken inventory of the pantry, planned the meals for the week, paid the butcher, and balanced the weekly housekeeping ledger. She still had to assess the damage from the newest leak in the roof. Where those funds would come from was anyone’s guess.
The viscount steepled his fingers on the desk, then regarded her with an attempt to lift one haughty eyebrow skyward. The effort failed miserably when both eyebrows shot up and delivered what could only be described as a look of surprise.
March pretended to cough. Otherwise, a bubble of laughter would burst from her chest. The viscount could always lighten the moment. She leaned back in her chair and decided to enjoy the interview as best she could since the afternoon promised to be even more hectic than the morning. She had to go through the attic and sort through the old clothes. The dressmaker planned to stop by tomorrow to determine if any of the gowns were fit for alteration. Since Parliament had convened early this year, the start of the London Season was only several weeks away. She needed to see Mr. Willingham about a delivery of wood and coal. They’d already run through the budgeted allotment for the next six months.
“My lord, I can leave at the end of the week, but I expect my full weekly pay and fare for transportation back to London.” Her even, dulcet tone was quite remarkable considering he was discharging her from her duties. “May I ask the reason for my dismissal?”
With a tug of his neckcloth, the viscount met her gaze. The shock on his face better resembled a wide-eyed trout flapping on a riverbank seeking an escape back into the water. He schooled his expression quickly, but an odd hint of something, perhaps disappointment, replaced his look of surprise.
“Very well. You’re entitled to an explanation.” When he swallowed his discomfort, the tiniest hint of an Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “I’ve repeatedly asked that the weekly menu not include ham and beans.”
“My dismissal is over ham and beans?” March almost choked on the words. She bit her tongue in order to keep from guffawing. Her effort to hide her humor failed miserably. Stains of scarlet mottled the viscount’s face.
“Last night made the third time this month it’s been the main course for dinner. I despise the lumps and the congealed mess. Why isn’t there any sweets on the menu, I ask you? Your replacement, Miss Faith, has agreed to take your position with the assurance I’ll have more desserts. You may finish the week as you train her.”
March let out a sigh. Her heart squeezed at the pain of her failure. “Bennett, first, it’s ‘why aren’t there any sweets on the menu’ instead of ‘isn’t.’ Second, this is the best I can manage under the circumstances. Third, picking Faith as my replacement? What about her—”
“Her injured leg has no impact on her ability to do the work. You’ve repeatedly told us that she’s capable of anything and can do what she wants,” her nine-year-old brother challenged. The young viscount drew a deep breath and blew his unruly black locks out of his face. The startling green of his eyes was a welcome sight. His face appeared to change daily with hints of the man he would become. Every day he favored their father more and more.
“Sweetheart, that’s very kind of you to say. I’m sure if Faith heard it, she’d be pleased, too. However, dearest, please don’t kick the desk. It’ll mark the wood,” March gently chided.
With a huff of disgruntlement, Bennett turned and stared out the window. It had to be difficult growing up as the only brother to three older sisters. He had no older male to emulate or teach him how to be a proper young lord, much less what his responsibilities would entail when he reached adulthood. He needed a proper tutor, and an education befitting a viscount.
The Luck of the Bride--The Cavensham Heiresses Page 1