by Cheryl Holt
SWEET SURRENDER
by
CHERYL HOLT
Copyright 2012 by Cheryl Holt
KINDLE EDITION
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This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to institutions or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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CHAPTER ONE
Rural England, summer, 1814…
"Are you sure this is the right place?"
"I’ve lived in the area all my life. Of course, I’m sure."
Grace Bennett stared up at the teamster—Mr. Porter—in whose wagon she’d been riding for most of the morning. He seemed competent and truthful, yet she was completely confused.
"You’re certain this is the entrance to Milton Abbey," she said, "home of the Scott family?"
"None other."
"Is there another Scott family in the vicinity—perhaps in the village or the surrounding towns?"
"There are likely other Scotts all over the world. But you asked me to drop you at Milton Abbey. This is Milton Abbey."
She peered at the massive gate next to which they’d stopped, then her gaze swept down the long, tree-lined lane. At the end, she could discern the contours of a mansion, and it wasn’t the sort of comfortable abode she’d anticipated.
It was an edifice where a king might reside. There was a courtyard with a fountain, marble steps leading up to an ornate front door, a sloping green lawn tended by gardeners. The corners had turrets—turrets!—as if it had once been part of an ancient castle.
"They can’t be merchants," she mused more to herself than to him.
Mr. Porter scoffed. "They wouldn’t dirty their hands in such a low way."
"I don’t understand this, at all."
"I don’t, either," her younger sister, eighteen-year-old Eleanor said. "It’s not even close to what I was expecting."
Grace frowned at her ward, nine-year-old Michael Scott. "How about you? Does this make any sense?"
"No, Grace." Michael was the most confident child she’d ever met, but he appeared even more unsettled than she was. "Do you suppose my grandmother is here?"
"I have no idea. I can’t believe this is her home."
She stared up at Mr. Porter again. "Were you acquainted with a Mr. Edward Scott? He died nine years ago in a carriage accident."
"Not mister, Miss Bennett. You mean Lord Milton."
"What?"
"Edward Scott wasn’t a commoner. He was Lord Milton, the earl of Milton."
"That just can’t be." She shook her head. "The Edward I’m talking about was a merchant."
"He wasn’t a merchant, and he didn’t die nine years ago. He passed away over the prior winter. From the influenza."
"Are you positive there isn’t another branch of the family that might have had a son named Edward? Maybe there was a cousin or a nephew."
"Anything is possible, Miss Bennett, but as I mentioned, you were interested in Milton Abbey. The Edward who lived at Milton Abbey was Lord Milton, and he died last winter."
"Hmm…"
Grace’s confusion soared.
For a few brief months a decade earlier, her best friend Georgina had been married to Edward. They’d had a short and wonderful love affair, but tragically, he’d been killed in a carriage accident. Before he’d ever learned of Georgina’s pregnancy. Before she’d had the chance to tell him they were having a baby.
Georgina had recently perished from her own bout with the influenza, and her final words had been about Edward, about how much she still missed him.
"The Edward to whom I refer," Grace haltingly stated, "was very charming, very handsome. He had dark hair and blue eyes and—"
"Yes, yes," Mr. Porter interrupted, "that’s the one. He looked like this lad." From his perch on the wagon seat, he pointed down at Michael.
"I look like him," Michael explained, "because he’s my father."
Mr. Porter gasped. "Edward was your father?"
"Yes."
He nodded. "I can definitely see why you’d think so."
"I don’t think so," Michael huffed in the autocratic manner for which he was renowned. "I know so. My mother always said I was his spitting image."
"You act like him, too," Mr. Porter muttered.
"I’ll take that as a great compliment, sir."
Mr. Porter studied the grand house hidden in the trees, Michael, the house again. He gestured to Michael.
"Would you wait over by that hedge? I need a private minute with your auntie."
"She’s not my aunt. She is my guardian. My mother entrusted me to her care. It was her dying wish that Grace watch over me."
"Fine," Mr. Porter snapped, "she’s your guardian. Now wait over there while I speak to her."
Michael peered up at Grace, silently asking if he should, and Eleanor eased over the awkward moment.
"Let’s let Grace talk to Mr. Porter," Eleanor said, "then we’ll continue on our way."
"Is that all right with you, Grace?" Michael inquired.
"Yes."
Michael picked up his bag—and Grace’s too—and he walked through the gate. Eleanor grabbed her own satchel and followed him.
"What is it?" Grace asked Mr. Porter once they were far enough away that they couldn’t listen in.
"Does the Scott family know you’re coming?"
"No."
"You’re about to surprise them?"
"Yes."
"The lad seems convinced that he’s the earl’s son."
"He’s Edward Scott’s son," Grace corrected. "I’ve never claimed that his father was an earl. Edward was a merchant; that’s all I was ever told."
"I’m simply warning you: I’ve never heard of another boy."
"Another boy? What do you mean?"
"I’d like to be a mouse in that corner…" he grumbled.
"What?"
"Lord Milton—Edward Scott—was married. He has a son, a lawful son, named Percival. He’s already been installed as earl."
"What has that to do with Michael? I’m sure you’re mistaken about these two Edwards. They have to be different men."
"I’m not about to speculate as to why you believe Edward died a decade ago."
"He did die!"
"So you say, but use your head girl! They won’t be too keen on you spreading stories about there being another son."
"It’s not a story," she indignantly scoffed.
"That’s as may be, but you should…ah…reconsider before you proceed. You’ll be stirring a hornet’s nest."
"Michael needs their help."
"Why are you so certain they’ll give it?"
"I’m not. I’m just…just…"
Her voice trailed off, her worry and fatigue acute. She gazed over at Michael and Eleanor, at the gray stone of Milton Abbey. Throughout their lengthy journey, she hadn’t wanted them to sense her concern over Edward’s relatives.
Now, they were literally at the gate, and she was more anxious than ever.
"We don’t have anywhere else to go," she finally said.
"It’s a fine pickle you’ve sliced for yourself, Miss Bennett."
"Yes, it is. Would you know if Michael’s grandmother Beatrice is at home?"
His brows flew up. "The dowager countess? N
o, she’s in London, lucky for you."
"Why would you say that?"
"When you meet her, you’ll see." He nodded toward the house. "Edward’s brother is here."
"Edward has a brother? What’s his name?"
"Jackson Scott—recently back from the wilds of Africa. He’s an adventurer."
"My goodness."
"He’s come to take charge of young Percival, but the earl and his mother are still in the city. Mr. Scott is entertaining a few of his old school chums. It’s not a suitable environment for your sister and ward."
"Why not?"
"There are a hundred lewd rumors circulating in the village, Miss Bennett. Mr. Scott has been away from England for an eternity, and he’s enjoying his return."
Grace snorted with disgust. "I’m not afraid of some drunken school boys."
"They’re not boys."
"I’m not afraid of drunken men, either." As a midwife and healer, she’d observed the very worst that human beings had to offer. Nothing surprised her; nothing scared her. "Besides, it’s only eleven o’clock. Who would be imbibing of spirits this early?"
"You’d be amazed at what a rich, idle fellow can find to occupy his time."
"No, I wouldn’t." She reached up her hand. "Thank you, Mr. Porter. I appreciate your advice and your many kindnesses."
"You’re welcome." Mr. Porter clasped her extended hand and gently patted it. "I’ll be in the village until Friday, then I’m off to London. If this doesn’t end as you planned—"
"We’ll be all right," she stated with more confidence than she felt.
"—ask for me at the blacksmith’s shop. They’ll locate me for you. I’m happy to take you with me."
"We won’t need a ride anywhere."
"You just never know," he sagely replied, then he clicked the reins, and his horses pulled with all their might.
Gradually, the wheels on the wagon turned, and the animals drew him away. She watched until he rounded the bend in the road, and as he vanished from view, she was bereft, as if she’d lost her last friend.
"Are we going on or not?" Eleanor called.
Grace pasted on a smile. "Yes, of course, we’re going. Why wouldn’t we?"
"You have the strangest expression on your face. You seem…worried."
Michael wasn’t looking at Grace, and she gave a slight shake of her head, warning Eleanor to avoid words like worry or concern. She had enough on her plate without making Michael anxious. He was too astute; he always sensed when something was wrong, and she didn’t want him fretting.
And nothing was wrong precisely.
She merely wasn’t positive they’d tracked down the correct people. Edward had been estranged from his family, so Georgina had few details about any of them. But they haled from Milton, and Milton Abbey was their home.
What were the chances that there could be another Milton Abbey in England?
Grace refused to accept Mr. Porter’s version about Edward. They couldn’t be mistaken. She had justice on her side, and if it killed her, she would ensure that Michael received the recognition and assistance he deserved.
She walked over and grabbed her portmanteau. It contained all that remained of a life of work and effort. When they’d been evicted, when the sheriff had arrived and forced them to leave Georgina’s small cottage, he’d let them each fill a bag.
The ordeal had been humiliating, searching cupboards and drawers, pondering, sorting, choosing. What did they need? What could they carry?
The furniture had come with the house when Edward bought it for Georgina, so it belonged to Edward’s relatives. Grace hoped—once she’d contacted them—that some of their possessions could be retrieved. She wouldn’t consider any other conclusion.
Eleanor and Michael picked up their bags, too, and the three of them started toward the mansion. As they approached, it grew larger and larger until the walls towered over them. They stood, gaping up at it.
"What should we do?" Eleanor asked.
"We knock on the door, silly," Michael answered.
He strode forward, leading the way as was his custom.
From his earliest days, he’d been unique in a manner other boys could never be. He was shrewd and smart and overly wise for his age. He would be a ruler of men, would always have lesser mortals tagging after him, eager to admire and adore.
When Georgina had begged Grace—with her dying breath—to serve as Michael’s guardian, it had been easy to agree. Who wouldn’t love such a marvelous child?
He bounded up the stairs, then paused to glance over his shoulder at Grace.
"Is my grandmother here?" he queried. "Did Mr. Porter say?"
"She’s not here, but he claims you have an uncle. He’s here."
"An uncle! How splendid!" Michael gushed.
"An uncle?" Eleanor frowned and murmured, "Georgina never mentioned that Edward had a brother."
"No, she didn’t," Grace whispered, "which vexes me enormously."
"What’s his name?" Michael inquired.
"Jackson Scott."
"I like it!" Michael beamed. "It’s very noble."
"Maybe Mr. Porter erred." Eleanor’s frown deepened. "Maybe we are at the wrong house."
"We’re not at the wrong house," Michael insisted. "I just know this was my father’s home. Can’t you feel it?"
He spun away and had raised his hand to knock on the door when it was whipped open. Two giggling women raced out. From their attire, they appeared to be housemaids, although their caps were off and their hair down.
A man was chasing them, and he might have been a gentleman, but he’d removed his coat, and his shirt sleeves were rolled back. He was clutching a decanter of liquor, the contents sloshing out as he ran by.
The trio didn’t notice Grace, Michael, or Eleanor. They were too absorbed in their game. They dashed down the steps and hurried off.
"Last to the lake," one of the women shouted to the man, "is a rotten egg."
They chortled as if it was the pithiest remark ever uttered, then they increased their speed.
"I hope that wasn’t my uncle," Michael said as the group vanished around the corner.
"I’m sure it wasn’t," Grace replied. The door was still open, and she nodded to it. "Let’s find some help."
They entered cautiously, not certain of what they might encounter, and Grace’s trepidation spiraled.
The house was ornate, like something out of a fairytale, but there were no servants in evidence. Off to the side, there was a fancy salon cluttered with debris. Apparently, Jackson Scott had been reveling quite raucously, but there was no one present to clean up after him.
When she had left Cornwall for Milton Abbey, she had pictured the Scotts as staid, boring merchants. They would rise at dawn, labor strenuously, eat heartily at a bountiful dining table, and retire early to rest up for the next day’s endeavors.
Her opinion had been based on what a fine man Edward had seemed to be. What she hadn’t imagined was inebriation and wicked conduct. If debauchery was in progress, how could she introduce Michael into such a depraved environment?
There was a bench in the foyer, and she motioned to it. Michael and Eleanor sat while Grace paced, each stride echoing off the high ceiling. Eventually, a footman approached.
"Oh, hello," he said. He gaped as if he’d never seen visitors before. "I didn’t realize you had arrived."
Obviously, Grace nearly sneered. Instead, she politely inquired, "Can you assist us?"
"With what?"
"I’d like to speak with Mr. Jackson Scott regarding a…personal matter."
"I wouldn’t dare to interrupt him."
"You can’t tell him he has a caller?"
"I’m not that brave," the man insisted. "He’s…entertaining. He doesn’t like to be bothered."
"Is the butler here?"
"Most of the staff was given a holiday. There are only a few of us on the premises."
"I see," Grace said.
"Perhaps if you cam
e back next week?"
"We can’t. I have to talk to him today."
"He’s asked not to be disturbed."
With that uncooperative response, he sauntered off, leaving Grace in a tremendous quandary. Was it all right for them to wait? She supposed they could become squatters in the foyer. If they were lucky, Mr. Scott might stroll by and deign to notice them.
"Well!" Eleanor huffed with indignation. "What do you make of that? I’ve received more courtesy from a stray mutt in the road."
"What now, Grace?" Michael inquired.
Grace studied them, deciding they looked as exhausted as she felt.
The previous months had been extremely difficult. First, Eleanor had finished school and returned home. Then Georgina had grown ill and died. Her monthly stipend from Edward’s estate had stopped. Shortly after, the sheriff had notified them that they were being evicted.
In the years Grace had stayed with Georgina, she’d saved a small amount of money from her nursing, but it wasn’t much. Her modest income had never been sufficient to sustain the three of them.
She’d had no option but to beg assistance from the Scott family. She’d written to Beatrice, who hadn’t answered the letter. So Grace had recklessly traveled to Milton, being absolutely certain that—once they met Michael—they wouldn’t deny him.
But she was assailed by doubts. What if she’d been wrong? What if the journey had been for naught? If Jackson Scott sent them packing, what would they do?
There was nothing for them in their rural village, and even if there was, they had no funds to pay their way back. They’d have to start over in the Milton area, where they had no acquaintances or ties. Eleanor would have to hire herself out as a maid or shop girl, and the notion was so depressing that Grace could have plopped down and wept for a week.
She was twenty-five years old, and her entire past had been filled with struggle and toil. Her parents had perished when she and Eleanor were little. As orphans, they’d had no kin to help them. Eventually, Georgina’s mother—their neighbor—had taken them in and raised them.
She’d been a healer and had taught Grace her trade. Grace had a natural affinity for healing, so she’d gratefully embraced the path fate provided. Student had become master, and she’d ultimately guided the woman through her own demise.