Marblestone Mansion
Book 9
(Scandalous Duchess Series)
By
Marti Talbott
© All Rights Reserved
Cover Art: YOCLA Designs
Editor: Frankie Sutton
Table of Contents
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CHAPTER 1
The moment James MacGreagor walked through Dartmoor Prison’s outer archway in Princetown, England, he thought of her. In fact, he half expected her to be waiting for him, even though he knew it to be impossible. He was right, for in the early morning hours just after dawn, there was not another living soul waiting outside the prison walls for him…or for anyone else. Long ago, he faced the realization that the woman he so desperately loved was gone, long gone, and he had no one to blame but himself.
Even so, it did not keep him from thinking of her.
No longer a lanky little boy of thirteen with light red hair and freckles growing up in a loathsome English orphanage, he was now a man of average height with dusty brown curls and a square jaw. His hair had not seen a good trim in longer than he could remember. His beard and mustache were just as shaggy, and his brown eyes had long since lost their luster. He wore the same clothes he was arrested in, which consisted of sturdy boots, tattered breeches, a striped flannel coat, an ordinary, albeit yellowing white shirt with an upturned collar, and a permanently dented Bowler hat. At least the boots had served him well and he’d been allowed to keep them. James carried no bag, for he had nothing left when he was arrested, save a knife, which they promptly relieved him of. He was not surprised that the knife could not be located before he was released, and he made no fuss about it. He just wanted out.
The air outside the prison was crisp and clean. The sky was beginning to brighten, and when a small flock of Chaffinch flew overhead, he slowly turned to see where they were going. More than a few times, getting a glimpse of them through the bars on his window was the highlight of his day. Mindful of where he was, he spotted a footpath, and when he began to climb the hill, he wondered if she was awake yet.
His real name was James Stevens, or so he believed, and when he was offered the honorable name of MacGreagor by the Scottish Duke of Glenartair, he happily claimed it. It was as close as he had ever come to being part of a real family. Of course, he would always count Leesil and Cathleen as his big sisters, but it meant more once they all shared the same surname.
His benefactor sent him to school in the south of England near Bristol, where he lived in a boarding house and studied shipbuilding and engineering. Finished with school, he secured a position as apprentice on a ship and sailed to South Africa. Not long after he returned to Bristol, he met and fell in love with the sweetest young woman he had ever known.
Even now, the memory of her smile warmed his very soul.
At the top of the hill, James turned to look back. How placid the prison looked from the outside. Three walls in graduating sizes circled the square, three-story cellblocks that were arranged in such a way as to resemble the spokes of a wagon wheel. They were the same cells that once confined Americans captured at sea during the War of 1812, and later, Frenchmen loyal to Napoleon. The names and dates scratched into the walls of his cell bore testimony to the truth of the prison’s history.
Indeed, the prison appeared quite docile on the outside, where no one could hear the screams of a man being dragged to his hanging, the whimpering of other men in pain after the lashing of the whip, or the grind of the useless crank attached to the bars of cells. Feeble, hungry, or ill of mind, made no difference for a man who could not turn the useless crank until the counter reached one thousand, was forced to suffer the lash of the whip.
James respectfully took off his hat and bowed his head in memory of all the suffering he had witnessed. When he raised his head again, guards in three of the towers were watching him. For a moment, he feared being captured again, though on what charge this time, he could not fathom. He put his hat back on, nodded to the guards, took the footpath down the other side of the hill…and wondered if she ever thought of him.
The day he first saw Jillian Eldridge, she was in a Bristol market buying vegetables. Strangely shy, he followed her from stand to stand, watched from a distance, and when she could not reach an apple she had her eye on, he mustered his courage and got it for her. The instant her smiling eyes met his, she had his heart, and he knew he could never love another. Jillian graciously consented to let him escort her home, and before they left the market that day, he watched her drop coins in an elderly blind man’s basket.
“God bless you, Jillian,” the blind man said.
“And you,” she returned.
After they left the market, James asked, “How does he know ‘tis you who gave him the coins?”
She shrugged. “I have wondered the same. I suspect either he is not truly blind, or he calls everyone Jillian.” She grinned and he laughed.
Thus, the love he had waited for all his life had arrived, and for six deliriously happy weeks, he courted her. They attended carnivals, took long walks down a path beside the Avon River, tried to throw rocks high enough to hit the Clifton Suspension Bridge above, and laughed when neither of them could. When he proposed, there was such absolute joy in her expression that it thrilled him to the bone.
“I shall love you, James MacGreagor, until the day I die,” she whispered as he held her in his arms. Those were the words that kept him alive. Yet, there were other men in Bristol who preferred her, and it was unlikely she had waited four long years for him.
James sighed and continued to follow the path on the other side of the hill. He walked across the barren, desolate hills and valleys for the better part of the day before he found signs of habitation. On the other side of the last hill, lay a patchwork of planted fields that were dotted with the occasional cottage and separated by hedgerows. At last, he felt among the living again. He walked down the hill, came to a road he hoped would take him to Bristol, and headed north.
James was exhausted, thirsty, and hungry by the time he heard a wagon approach from behind, so he moved to the side of the road, stopped, and turned to watch. To his amazement, the driver brought his unmatched team of horses and the wagonload of hay to a halt right beside him.
From the tattered and torn condition of his clothing, it wasn’t hard for the stranger to guess where the younger man had come from. “You escape?”
James could barely manage half a smile. “Nay, they were happy to see me go.”
“What were you in for?”
“Sedition.”
The stranger’s jaw dropped. “Sedition? How many of you were there?”
“Just me…as near as I can tell.”
The stranger eyed him suspiciously. “You hoped to overthrow the government all by your own self?”
“The truth be told, I was quite drunk at the time and remember not a word of it.” James shifted his weight to his other tired and aching leg. “Apparently, I suggested we hang them all.”
“Hang who?”
“Parliament, two witnesses said.”
The stranger chuckled, “You best give up drinking, lad.”
“I’ve not had a drop since.” The calves of his legs were throbbing, and James doubted he could walk another mile before collapsing and having to give up for the day.
“Where you headed?”
“I left a fair lass in Bristol.”
“Bristol be nearly a hundred miles. You aim to walk all the way?”
“If I have to.”
The stranger thoughtfully stroked his beard. “If you’ll help me weed and cull my cornstalks, I’ll see you on the train to Bristol…on a cheap ticket day, that is.”
> “You trust me?”
“Cannot think of a reason not to. I’ve seen my share of men come out of Dartmoor, but they all claim to be falsely accused. If what you say is a lie, you’re better at it than they were.” The stranger chuckled a second time. “Sedition? Who could make such as that up? Have we a bargain?”
James eagerly nodded, “Indeed we do.”
“Get in then and sit a spell.”
No finer words had James heard in years. He crossed in front of the horses, hoisted himself up and took a seat next to the driver. James gripped the side of the wagon and held on, as the driver slapped the reins on the backs of the horses and the wagon began to move.
“The name’s Hardy Brown.” He was just as robust as his name implied, with a stout build, callused hands, and a firm grip on the reins.
“Mr. Brown, I…”
“Just Hardy will do. We farmers are none too formal these days. What is your name?”
“James MacGreagor.”
“Ever done weeding, James MacGreagor?”
“Some.”
“Well then, you’ll do. Your misses waiting for you, is she?”
“I hope so, but ‘tis doubtful. I dinna tell her where I was.”
The stranger pointed at a water bucket on the floorboard and nodded. “Help yourself.”
James lifted the lid, used a dipper to withdraw the water and greedily drank his fill. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before he said, “Been four years since I tasted water as clean as this. Thank you.”
“You are welcome. Why did you not tell the missus where you were?”
“I dinna tell anyone. I feared they would assume anyone connected with me was an accomplice.”
Hardy Brown slightly tipped his head to the side. “Quite possibly so. I am surprised they did not hang you.”
“They wanted to, but the Chaplain talked them out of it.” James could smell the sweet air as they passed farm after farm, where carefully tended garden flowers were in full bloom. The cottages looked to be well cared for with white, vine-covered outer walls and thatched roofs not unlike those in Scotland. Thick hedgerows kept Cows and horses from wandering out of pastures, dogs barked as they passed by, and James loved every moment of it. It was as though the world was brand new, and to him, it was.
“I hear conditions are none too pleasant inside.”
“The first year is the worst,” James answered, turning his attention back to Hardy. “‘Tis a time of reflection, they call it, for there is no one to talk to, save the Chaplain, who comes but once a month to save a lad’s soul.”
“And did he save yours?”
“At first, he tried to get me to confess, which he claimed was to prepare the soul for the afterlife. When I did not, indeed could not, for I remembered nothing, we talked of ships and machines. Not once did he mention hell as my final destination, which was just as well. The bed was hard, the water putrid, the food sparse, and I believed I was already in hell.”
The farmer laughed. “I imagine you did. What did you do before you tried to hang parliament?”
James couldn’t remember the last time he found a reason to chuckle. “I am a builder and engineer apprentice, a ship’s engineer to be precise.”
“That where they caught you?”
“Nay, I missed the ship. Everythin’ I owned was on it. I even gave up my room at the boardin’ house believin’ I was bound for Australia. When I arrived the next mornin’ to go aboard, there was a ruckus on the pier. ‘Twas a docker’s strike, I supposed, though I cared not what it was at the time. I tried my best, but I dinna break through the mob and could but watch the Loch Vennachar sail away without me.”
Astonished, Hardy stared at James. “Lad, it was in all the papers. The Loch Vennachar was lost at sea…back in 1905, I believe it was.”
James deeply wrinkled his brow and then bowed his head. “Were all aboard lost?”
“They were. It seems you have an angel on your shoulder, for you missed a death ship.”
Not in his wildest dreams had James considered that possibility, and he was quite taken aback. It was a long moment before he muttered, “She thinks me dead.”
“‘Twould be my guess,” said Hardy.
“Mine too.” He felt a sinking in his stomach he could not ignore, and looked away. Even the green of the fields and the pleasant air could not rid him of it. No woman would wait for a man she believed was dead.
When he reached the next lane, Hardy turned the team, pulled up to the door of his five room cottage, and halted the wagon. “Let’s get you cleaned up afore my wife gets a look at you. She’s gone to town to get some goods, and we’ve just enough time.” As the men got out of the wagon, Hardy was greeted by two collies, both of which whined as though he had been gone for weeks. “Steady, old boys,” Hardy said, which seemed to calm them down a little.
As soon as they came to investigate, James put his hand down and let them smell it. He apparently had their approval, for when he knelt down to rub the collies behind the ears, both tried to lick his face. It made him actually laugh out loud.
When he stood up and looked around, James asked, “Is all this land yours?”
“A good piece of it. My family has lived in that cottage for generations and we’ve tried growing all sorts of crops. This year it’s corn.” Hardy pointed to a row of trees. “The missus likes canning, so we have apple and cherry trees over there, and a little vegetable garden in the back. Everything else comes from town, save what we can get from the cow. Come along, son, we’ve not a moment to lose.” Hardy left the wagon, walked to the vine-covered cottage and opened the door.
The house smelled of a cinnamon and salt solution women commonly used for cleaning. To a hungry James, it smelled like paradise. The parlor held a davenport and an easy chair. Two bookcases were filled to the brim, and there were two reading lamps to provide light at night.
“Crops were good last year,” Hardy said as he led the way through the kitchen to a door at the other end, “so I gave my Mave a bathroom.” He opened the door and let James peek inside. “Help yourself to my straight razor and see about cutting off all that hair while I dig up some clothes.”
James watched as Hardy walked back through the kitchen and disappeared. For a moment, he wondered if he was dreaming. The bathroom was fairly large, with wood paneling on the top half of the walls, and hand painted porcelain tiles on the bottom. James was not a deeply religious man, but he believed in giving credit where credit was due. He took a moment to lift his eyes to heaven and mouth the words, “Thank you.” He stripped off his clothes, grabbed the pearl-handled straight razor, and then looked at the ghost of a man he had become. He scarcely recognized himself.
Filled with determination, James couldn’t wait to get the straggly hair off the back of his neck and to see his clean-shaven face again. When he was finished, his haircut wasn’t a perfect job, but it was good enough. As soon as the cast iron tub had water in it, he got in and submerged as much of his body as he could. He didn’t even care that the water was only lukewarm. To have a bath – finally, he would have settled for ice-cold.
He had just gotten in the tub when Hardy knocked and opened the door a crack. “I found a shirt and some breeches that might fit. I’ll leave them beside the door.”
“Thank you,” James said, making sure he said it loud enough.
“Hurry up, laddie. Mave will be home soon.”
“Aye, Hardy.” He lathered his hair, scrubbed every inch of his bony body, and then got out and dried off. Just as Hardy’s wife pulled their one horse buggy into the yard, James came out of the bathroom looking like a new man. His face was clean-shaven although there were a couple of nicks from the razor, and the clothes fit surprisingly well.
Hardy nodded. “You look right handsome, you do.” He glanced in the bathroom and was pleased to see that James had cleaned up after himself. He quickly gathered the old clothes, took them out the back door and then came back inside. He poured James the first
glass of milk he had seen in years and handed it to him. “Thing is, Mave will not abide a stranger sleeping in the house. I…”
“If ‘tis all the same to you, I was hopin’ to see the stars tonight,” James interrupted.
“Good. You can build a bed of straw and the dogs will likely enjoy the company. Stay here till I come back.”
While James drank the milk, he watched and listened through an open kitchen window, as Hardy hurried out the door to help his wife unload, and to explain the situation. At first, she put her hands on her hips and didn’t have anything to say, but when he told her the charge was sedition, she started to laugh.
Carrying a cloth sack filled with groceries, she marched into the kitchen, set the sack on the table, and then stared at James. “You can go to prison for that? I threaten to hang parliament, the constable, and the mayor of the town at least twice a week.”
There was nothing feeble about Mave Brown, and it was evident she worked just as hard as her husband. She wore her long brown hair in a tight bun atop her head and laugh lines creased the corners of her brown eyes.
“I knew she would like you,” Hardy whispered. “Take care, for she shall drag every detail out of you before supper time.” He winked at his wife and then went back out to fetch the rest of the supplies.
He was right and James didn’t mind one bit. He sat on a stool, answered every question, and watched Mave gather the ingredients, and then start to make biscuit dough in a bowl. It was difficult, but he minded his manners and tried not to lick his lips too often. Mave stood nearly as tall as her husband, and adored it when he kissed her cheek, which James would soon discover Hardy did often.
“You did not marry the lovely Jillian before you left?” Mave asked, as she spread flour on the table, lifted the dough out of the bowl, and began to lightly knead it.
“Nay, her father would not give permission,” James answered.
“He did not like you?”
“He liked me well enough, but we were not old enough to suit him, and without a firm position, he worried that I cannae provide for a family.”
Marblestone Mansion, Book 9 Page 1