The Summer Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance)

by Anne Gracie

  “As a married couple, yes,” Flynn said.

  “You would do that?” she asked, clearly moved. “Live with an old lady?”

  He grinned. “Not any old lady. Just an ageless, elegant, canny wee elf.”

  Daisy gave him an odd look. “She ain’t an elf, stupid.” She turned back to Lady Beatrice. “If you don’t like the idea, of course, we won’t. Flynn says he’ll buy us the closest house available so I can pop in often and you won’t have to miss me at all.”

  “Don’t like the idea?” the old lady echoed.

  “Because of the baby,” Daisy said. “They make a lot of noise, I’m told.”

  “Live with a baby?” The old lady’s face lit up. She turned to the doorway. “Did you hear that, Featherby, this house is going to have a baby in it, at long last.” She blinked away tears and almost whispered, “All my life, I’ve wanted a baby.”

  Featherby beamed. “A baby?” He turned to William who was carrying in champagne and glasses. “We’re going to have a baby, William. Living here, with us.”

  William’s big ugly boxer’s face split in a grin. “Congratulations, Miss Daisy. That’ll make this house feel like a proper family home then, won’t it?”

  They drank toasts then—all five of them, including Featherby and William, who had been with them since the beginning. They drank to Daisy and Flynn, to the success of Daisy’s shop, to the coming baby, and to Lady Beatrice, who, as Daisy pointed out, was going to become a great-aunt.

  “A great-aunt? Nonsense!” the old lady declared. “I shall be a splendid aunt!”

  Daisy laughed. “You are already!”

  * * *

  After Featherby and William had left, the old lady grew serious. “Now that you’re getting married, I’m going to change my will,” she told them. “I had planned to leave this house to Daisy.”

  “To me?”

  “A woman should always have a home of her own. But between you and Mr. Flynn, I’m not worried about your future security—Max will ensure the marriage settlements provide handsomely for you.”

  “He won’t need to,” Flynn growled.

  “I know, dear boy, but he likes doing that sort of thing and a nephew should be useful. But since Daisy’s future is settled I’m going to write up a new will; when I die I intend to leave this house to Featherby and William.”

  Flynn frowned. They were good servants, but . . .

  Daisy took his hand and started to explain but the old lady cut her off. “Featherby and William have been as much a part of this grand adventure as my dear gels. I shudder to think where we all might still be had they not come with you that first fateful day. And since then, Featherby has not only cared for me, he’s made me the envy of the ton—did you know, Flynn, dear boy, half the aristocracy have been trying to steal Featherby from me, and he didn’t so much as hint.”

  She gave a brisk nod of satisfaction. “Those two gentlemen tended me when I was at the lowest point of my life and never once turned a hair at what they were asked to do. They looked after me and my gels not simply as loyal servants, but almost as . . . family. And when I die—which I trust will be many years in the future—they will be elderly and in need of security. So as well as a pension, I will give them this house. You won’t mind, will you, Daisy? The other gels all have their own homes already, but you—”

  “Have a home here with you—the only home I’ve ever had—and I’ll always have a home with Flynn and our baby, wherever we live. And I love this idea, Lady Bea. I never had a father, but Featherby and William have been like fathers to me—to all of us—and of course the other girls and I would always look after them, but it’s so much better this way, something they’ve earned the right to, and not charity.”

  She hugged the old lady. “Do you know how much I love you? How much we all love you? And I’m so happy that you’ll be here for my baby to grow up with. You can teach her all the things you’ve taught me—and no, I don’t mean grammar and deportment, though I s’pose the poor little thing will have to learn that too.”

  The old lady sniffed. “Don’t know as I’ve taught you very much at all.”

  “Oh, but you have—more than you know.” Daisy’s smile was blinding, and it took in Flynn as well as the old lady. “You’ll teach her how to be a true lady—generous and kind and loyal and loving, in the heart, where it truly matters.”

  “Just like her mother,” Flynn said softly. “The finest lady in London.”

  “Drat!” the old lady grumbled. “Got something in my eye again. Where’s a wretched handkerchief when you need one?” Flynn handed her his.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature.

  —JANE AUSTEN, NORTHANGER ABBEY

  The first day of summer dawned fine, and miraculously, given the weather they’d been having recently, it stayed fine all day.

  Carriages started arriving outside St. George’s in Hanover Square, disgorging smart gentlemen who handed down elegantly dressed women in beautiful hats. A crowd of curious and hopeful onlookers gathered to watch. A society wedding always provided good entertainment. And possibly handfuls of pennies would be thrown.

  Soon the church was crowded. It smelled of flowers, perfume, incense, beeswax and brass polish. Dappled lozenges of colored light lit the floor, sunshine through stained glass.

  Inside the church, Flynn paced back and forth in front of the altar rail.

  “Why so anxious? You’ve been through this three times,” Max, his best man, observed in smug amusement. “My wedding, Freddy’s and Jane’s wedding just gone—you should be used to it by now.”

  “It didn’t matter to me then,” Flynn snapped and continued pacing. What if she’d changed her mind? What if she panicked, ran?

  Freddy Hyphen-Hyphen grinned. “Nice to see someone else suffering, ain’t it, Max?”

  The music that had been playing quietly in the background now stopped and a firm, decisive chord announced a change. Flynn spun around and there she was, his bride, dressed in a soft cloud of white. She looked exquisite, so small and dainty and fragile, so strong and tough and prickly and perfect.

  The music played and, walking on Featherby’s arm, she started down the aisle towards him. She was nervous, he could see from the little frown of concentration between her brows, but the minute she saw him, her face lit up and she smiled.

  He blinked. Her smile brightened the whole church. Her sisters followed her, but Flynn barely noticed. He had eyes only for Daisy.

  She reached him and put out her hand, and he took it, the only thing that felt real—her small warm precious hand. Her hand in marriage.

  In a daze he heard the minister begin, in a daze he repeated the vows, in a daze he slid the gold ring on her finger.

  “You may kiss the bride.”

  They kissed, and Flynn started to breathe again. He’d done it, won the lady of his heart, Daisy Chance, now Daisy Flynn—the finest lady in London.

  They walked back down the aisle again, well-wishers filled the church, waving and smiling and sobbing—the damp handkerchiefs were out in force—most of them for Daisy.

  Did she see how she was loved? Not for any reason, no reason of birth or position, just because she was the dear, sweet girl she was.

  Daisy walked back down the aisle in a blur. She was married. Flynn’s arm was under her hand, strong and sure and warm. She lost track of the well-wishers who crowded around her, familiar faces, from the literary society, from her shop, friends of Flynn’s and Max’s and Freddy’s.

  The carriage awaited. She bade farewell to each of her sisters, hugging them and sobbing, as if she was leaving them forever, not for a few weeks’ honeymoon at the seaside—Flynn wanted her to see the real sea that he loved, not the stinky river, and was threatening to teach her to swim. She’d see about that.

  Sh
e bade good-bye to Featherby and William, hugging them both.

  Lastly she hugged Lady Beatrice, the old lady who’d changed her life.

  “Don’t see what you’ve got to cry about,” the old lady grumbled, her own eyes red with weeping. “Got a fine husband there. All my gels have done exceptionally well in the husband department. But Daisy”—she leaned forward and said in a voice that no one else could hear—“for what it’s worth I would trade every jewel, every lover I’ve ever had and ten years of my life—twenty—for what you have.” She smiled and patted Daisy’s cheek. “A man who loves you, just as you are, and a babe.”

  Flynn threw handfuls of silver coins into the crowd and they drove off in a shower of rose petals and rice and a clatter of noise from the things someone—probably Freddy—had tied to the back of the carriage.

  They were spending the first night in a grand London hotel—the Pulteney, which the czar of Russia had graced with his presence. As the carriage bowled smartly through the streets, they fell quiet.

  “Happy?” Flynn asked.

  She nodded. “Happier than I ever believed possible. I love you so much, Flynn.” She leaned against him, her heart full to bursting.

  “I know darlin’—and I love you too.”

  After a moment she said, “So, did you notice?”

  “Notice what?”

  “What I’m wearin’.”

  He grinned. “You look beautiful, as always.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You didn’t notice, did you?”

  “I did. It’s a beautiful dress.”

  She stuck her foot out and pulled the hem of her dress up so he could see them clearly.

  He looked. Red shoes with a red and white rosette on the toe. “Are they . . . ?”

  She nodded. “The ones you gave me. I wore them to our wedding—they’re not exactly weddin’ shoes, you know, but I wore them.”

  “Why?”

  “For you. So I wouldn’t limp down the aisle.” She thumped his shoulder. “It’s the first time I’ve worn them, and I didn’t limp and you watched me all the way and now, you didn’t even notice!”

  He pulled her across his knees. “That’s because, my little hedgehog, I was looking at you—the prettiest bride a man ever had—not checking how you walked.” And he kissed her, hard.

  “Are they comfortable?”

  She nodded. “You were right—they do make it easier to walk.”

  “Good. So will you wear them again?”

  “Maybe. For special occasions.”

  He frowned. “What kind of special occasion were you thinking of?”

  She fiddled with his waistcoat buttons, suddenly shy. “Like when we waltz . . . or summat.”

  Flynn hugged her tightly, too moved to speak. And then he kissed her again because she was his wife and he loved her. “Have I told you lately how wonderful I think you are?” he murmured.

  “You just called me a hedgehog—that’s a compliment in Ireland, is it?”

  “It is. The very finest of compliments.”

  His loving bride snorted. And then she kissed him.

  Epilogue

  I did not then know what it was to love.

  —JANE AUSTEN, SENSE AND SENSIBILITY

  “Have you got her safe?”

  Daisy smiled at her husband. “Yes, Flynn, she’s safe. I’m holding her good and tight.”

  “Not too tight, I hope.” He cast the small white bundle in Daisy’s arms an anxious look. “Is she warm enough?” At the sound of his deep voice, their baby opened her eyes and gurgled happily.

  “She’s warm as toast. Stop worryin’.” Daisy loved the way her big tough husband fussed so over his tiny daughter.

  “We should have waited. February is too cold. I don’t know why she needs to be christened anyway.”

  “Oh, hush.” The baby gazed solemnly up at her daddy from the depths of a soft white wrap. She had his blue, blue eyes. Beneath the tiny knitted cap lay a fuzz of dark hair. They’d be curls one day, Daisy knew. She was the most beautiful, perfect baby.

  They entered the church and took their places in the pews nearest the font.

  “Here, let me take her,” Flynn said, and with a smile Daisy handed her daughter over. He tucked her in the crook of his arm, beaming down at the tiny scrap. “Ah, look at you watching everyone with those bonny blue eyes. You know everything that’s going on, don’t you darlin’? Such a clever girl,” he crooned.

  Daisy watched her husband and daughter, her heart so full she could barely breathe. She’d thought on her wedding day she could be no happier. But the good feelings just kept on growing.

  Their family sat around them; Lady Bea, swathed in furs, proudly dandling the Davenham heir, her great-nephew, Max and Abby’s baby son, little Georgie.

  Jane sat beside Lady Beatrice, making peekaboo eyes at the tiny boy who watched her with big eyes and gurgled happily. Beside Jane sat her tall husband, Zachary, the Earl of Wainfleet, dark as a gypsy and handsome as sin. Freddy and Damaris sat on the other side of Lady Beatrice, arm in arm.

  All her sisters had made the journey from their country properties up to London to see her daughter christened. In the wettest February ever.

  She slid her arm through Flynn’s. She was so blessed.

  Just eighteen months ago, she didn’t know anyone here. She’d been all alone in the world, nobody to love and never dreaming anyone would ever love her. She didn’t really believe in love then.

  Now she had a family of her own, her very own husband and baby, as well as sisters, brothers-in-law, a beloved aunt and a nephew. As well as friends, good friends. And a shop.

  It was—almost—more than one girl could handle.

  The service passed in a blur until, “Will the godparents step forward?” said the minister, and Abby and Max stepped up. With ill-concealed reluctance Flynn handed his daughter over to Abby, but the baby made no fuss. She knew her aunty Abby.

  Daisy was watching Lady Beatrice and her sisters. Her heart was too full to take in much of what the minister was saying. She was waiting for the naming part. She hadn’t yet told them the baby’s full name.

  The minister took the baby from Abby’s arms. She gazed up at him, calm and trusting.

  “I baptize thee Beatrice Abigail Damaris Jane Kathleen Flynn, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.” He dipped the baby and dribbled water on her head.

  Little Beattie Flynn opened her mouth and screamed the church down.

  “That’s my girl,” Flynn said proudly.

  Read on for a special excerpt from the first Chance Sisters Romance

  The Autumn Bride

  Available now from Berkley!

  Chapter One

  “Give a girl an education and introduce her properly into the world, and ten to one but she has the means of settling well, without further expense to anybody.”

  —JANE AUSTEN, MANSFIELD PARK

  London, August 1816

  She was running late. Abigail Chantry quickened her pace. Her half day off, and though it was damp and squally and cold outside, she’d taken herself off as usual to continue her explorations of London.

  Truth to tell, if her employers had lived in the bleakest, most remote part of the Yorkshire moors, Abby would still have removed herself from their vicinity on her fortnightly half day off. Mrs. Mason believed a governess should be useful as well as educational, and saw no reason why, on Miss Chantry’s half day, she should not do a little mending for her employer or, better still, take the children with her on her outings.

  What need did a governess, especially one who was orphaned, after all, have for free time?

  Miss Chantry did not agree. So, rain, hail or snow, she absented herself from the Mason house the moment after the clock in the hall chimed noon, returning a few minutes before six to resume her du
ties.

  Having spent most of her life in the country, Abby was loving her forays into this enormous city, discovering all kinds of wonderful places. Last week she’d found a bookshop where the owner let her read to her heart’s content without pressuring her to buy—only the secondhand books, of course, not the new ones whose pages had not yet been cut. She’d returned there today, and had become so lost in a story—The Monk, deliciously bloodcurdling—that now she was running late.

  If she returned even one minute after six, Mr. Mason would dock her wages by a full day. It had happened before, and no amount of argument would budge him.

  She turned the corner into the Masons’ street and glanced up at the nearby clock tower. Oh, Lord, three minutes to go. Abby picked up speed.

  “Abby Chantry?” A young woman, a maidservant by her garments, limped toward her with an uneven gait. She’d been waiting opposite the Masons’ house.

  Abby eyed her warily. “Yes?” Apart from her employers, Abby knew no one in London. And nobody here called her Abby.

  “I got a message from your sister.” She spoke with a rough London accent.

  Her mouth was swollen and a large bruise darkened her cheek.

  “My sister?” It wasn’t possible. Jane was hundreds of miles away. She’d just left the Pillbury Home for the Daughters of Distressed Gentlewomen, near Cheltenham, to take up a position as companion to a vicar’s mother in Hereford.

  “She told me where to find you. I’m Daisy.” The girl took Abby’s arm and tugged. “You gotta come with me. Jane’s in trouble—bad trouble—and you gotta come now.”

  Abby hesitated. The girl’s bruised and battered face didn’t inspire confidence. The newspapers were full of the terrible crimes that took place in London: murders, white slavery, pickpockets and burglars. She’d even read about people hit over the head in a dark alley, stripped and left for dead, just for their clothing.

  But Abby wore a dull gray homemade dress that practically shouted “governess.” She couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to steal it. And she was thin, plain and clever, rather than pretty, which ruled out white slavers. She had no money or valuables and, apart from the Mason family, she knew no one in London, so could hardly inspire murder.