A Midsummer Bride

by Amanda Forester

  Copyright © 2013 by Amanda Forester

  Cover and internal design © 2013 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover Illustration by Robert Papp

  Photography by Jon Zychowski

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  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  To my family and friends, who accept me as I am. And to Ed, who makes me believe I’m even better.

  Prologue

  Off the New England coast, 1810

  The ship was going down. And since she was on said doomed vessel, the situation was most inconvenient.

  The ship’s normal sway across the water ceased and it began to list to the port side. Harriet and Nellie had taken refuge in their cabin when the enemy frigate began to fire. Now the shouts and shots and clangs of battle raged on the main deck above them.

  Harriet held tight to the bunk, trying to steady her balance and her nerves. Her father was a renowned American sea captain and had once told her he laughed in the face of battle. Harriet was a long way from laughing, but she was determined to keep a level head.

  “I am sure it will be well,” soothed Harriet, trying to think of something comforting to say to her longtime maid, Nellie. Neither lady believed it.

  “Trouble, the both of you,” muttered Nellie. “You’re just like your mother, you are.”

  “You cannot possibly blame this on me,” defended Harriet. “All I wanted to do was go to New York to meet my parents. I have no idea where that English frigate came from.”

  All became deadly quiet and the ship’s list became more pronounced. Harriet’s pulse raced. She had been on ships all her life, though never in a sea battle, and this movement of the ship was unknown to her. It scared her in a way that sickened her stomach. The only thing between them and the ice-cold waters of the Atlantic Ocean was heading to the bottom of the sea. If they didn’t want to go with it, they needed to get out of their cabin and abandon ship.

  “We must get on deck,” said Harriet with what she hoped was calming cheerfulness.

  “No! We’ll be killed,” gasped Nellie.

  “Sounds like the battle is over. Hopefully we will find our dear Captain Wentworth has repelled these English scum. But either way, we need to get to the decks.” And find a lifeboat. She spared Nellie that last concern, the poor woman was terrified enough as it was. Truth be told, so was she.

  Harriet scanned the cabin. To her dismay, much of her equipment had been thrown to the floor in the battle. Many of the glass vessels had shattered, but some items were salvageable. The ship listed further to port side, sending more books toppling off the shelves.

  “If we are going to leave, we should do it.” Nellie was right of course, but Harriet could not leave her work behind.

  “Let me just grab a few things.” Harriet scooped up a copper alembic, her mortar and pestle, several metal vessels, and a small box furnace and placed them in a blanket from her bunk, tying them up to form a carry pouch.

  Clutching her precious equipment, Harriet led Nellie through the narrow passageway, which proved difficult. Furniture and stores and belongings had been thrown about, and they were forced to crawl over the debris and up the steep narrow stairs to find the main deck. Harriet had to use some muscle to clear enough of a path, but the thought of being trapped on a sinking ship was more than enough motivation to get her in the mood for a bit of exertion.

  After some struggle, she reached daylight and slowly peeked out of the hatch. The main deck of their merchant brig was unrecognizable. The main mast had been struck and hung down at an odd angle; the canvas sails and rigging now littered the deck. The English warship was lashed to the side of their vessel. Much to Harriet’s distress, English sailors had taken command of their ship and were forcing the American sailors into a line.

  This was supposed to be a quick sail from Boston to New York, where she would join her parents. How could it go so wrong? And why would an English ship attack them?

  Captain Wentworth saw them and gave a quick shake of the head. He did not wish them to be seen. Harriet moved back into the shadows, out of view.

  “This is an outrage,” Captain Wentworth shouted, a bright-red patch growing on the outer thigh of his white pantaloons. “By what right do you attack this merchant vessel? We are an American ship!”

  “You are harboring deserters from His Majesty’s Royal Navy,” said an English officer. He wore a blue coat with one gold epaulet on his right shoulder, which Harriet guessed marked him as the captain. Though why he would attack an American vessel so close to their own shores was unknown to her.

  “These men are all American citizens,” said Captain Wentworth.

  “These men are all able-bodied sailors and are needed for service. Congratulations, men, you have hereby volunteered for service in His Majesty’s Royal Navy.”

  “This is outrageous!” bellowed Captain Wentworth. “You cannot press these men into service.”

  “I get paid by the head, my dear captain,” said the English captain. “So yes, I can and will press these men into service. All except these two.” He pointed at two sailors. “These two I know have served in the navy before and have deserted their post. They shall be hanged from the yardarm as traitors.”

  “No!” Harriet dropped her bag and charged on deck before she could consider the advisability of her actions. She knew these sailors and could not stand by and allow them to die. “These men are American citizens. Jimmy and Pat may have served in your navy in the past, but they are Americans now. You have no right to enter judgment aga
inst them. Besides, Patrick is not even English. He’s Irish!”

  “Good afternoon.” The English captain took off his hat with a swoop and gave her a bow. “How lovely of you to join us. Unfortunately for your case, the Royal Navy does not recognize American citizenship, let alone see that as a justification for shirking military service. And frankly I could not care less whether this man is Irish or not. Discipline must be maintained.”

  “You cannot attack and board an American vessel and press her sailors into service. You cannot possibly do that. You are nothing but a pirate!” Harriet was outraged. Utterly. She glanced at Captain Wentworth and saw fear in his eyes.

  Only then did she recognize her own predicament was dire. Traveling with Captain Wentworth, a longtime friend of the family, should have ensured a safe passage from Boston to New York, safer even than an overland journey. Harriet was accustomed to traveling by sea, but there was another, uglier side of sailing from which she had always been protected.

  She had stumbled upon it now.

  “Piracy is a serious charge. Fortunately, I am only following orders.” The English captain gave her an unholy smile, cracking his weathered face. “I believe introductions are in order. I am Captain Beake, and who might you be?”

  “This is Miss Harriet Redgrave, daughter of Captain Redgrave and Lady Beatrice.” Captain Wentworth spoke with authority.

  It had been a long time since anyone had called her mother by her title. In America, Harriet’s mother was simply Mrs. Redgrave, and by all accounts happy to be so. In England, she was the daughter of an earl, a man she fled when she was just seventeen years old.

  “Lady Beatrice?” Captain Beake’s tone was doubting, mocking even.

  Harriet had never touted her aristocratic pedigree, she never had cause to want to be anything other than her father’s daughter. But now it was important to more than just herself to gain a modicum of respect from the English captain.

  “I am the daughter of Captain Redgrave and the granddaughter of the Earl of Langley.” Harriet squared her shoulders and met the English captain’s eye, daring him to doubt her.

  “Are you now?” The English captain scratched his chin. “Perhaps I should return you to your grandfather. He must be concerned for your welfare.”

  “I am sure he would reward you for delivering her to him unhurt.” Captain Wentworth emphasized the last word.

  Harriet shook her head, but Wentworth glared at her, his lips a thin line. He directed his gaze at the broken mast, the ominous black clouds, and then the ocean. His message was clear. The ship was going down and the weather was coming up.

  “Captain Beake,” Harriet said with what she hoped was authority. “I will accept your generous hospitality to be restored to my grandfather on one condition. You will not harm Jimmy and Pat.” Harriet gave him the look she saw her mother wear only in times of great annoyance or peril. Her father called it the “societal setdown” and said it was a look perfected in the cradles of all aristocratic tots. Harriet hoped she could mimic her mother well enough to make up for her otherwise unconventional upbringing.

  “I don’t know why you should be in the position to make orders,” grumbled Beake, but with a quick nod, the two sailors were released. “I shall leave them to deal with the weather. Honestly, a quick death may be preferable to drowning, but I am always at the service of a lady.”

  “Remember, no harm must come to her, or Lord Langley will hunt you down and have you and every man of your crew tortured unto death,” warned Captain Wentworth.

  Harriet made no comment to this patent untruth. In the twenty-three years she had been alive, she had never heard from her grandfather. The only thing she knew was that after her mother eloped with her father, Lord Langley had disinherited his daughter and refused to have any contact with them since.

  The rest of the scene played out like a dream. Her trunks and Nellie’s smaller bag were brought on board the English vessel, along with most of the American crew. Harriet did feel a little safer to be surrounded by men she knew, for while they were a little rough at times, they could be trusted. Jimmy, Pat, and the American officers, including Captain Wentworth, were left behind on the sinking ship.

  “Be safe!” she called to the men.

  “We shall make it back to land and alert your parents,” said Wentworth, as bold a liar as he was a captain.

  She stood at the stern and watched the American brig sink beneath the waves as she sailed away. She prayed for the safety of each man, many of whom she had known her entire life. The sun set over the place of her birth and she watched the land grow farther and farther away until the horizon was covered by black storm clouds.

  When there was nothing left to be seen, she staggered through the driving rain to the bow and glared in the general direction of their destination. England. The land her mother had fled. How would her grandfather react when she arrived?

  It was only darkness ahead.

  One

  London, England, June 1810

  “So we have a deal?” Duncan Maclachlan, Earl of Thornton, handed a quill pen to Lord Langley, trying not to let his enthusiasm show. Being a generally reserved man, it was not a difficult task to accomplish.

  “Yes, we do.” Lord Langley dipped his pen in the ink and signed his name to the contract. “I look forward to working with you in the future.”

  “As do I.” Thornton breathed deep. This transaction was definitely going to help his situation. The financial crisis was becoming dire. “Have ye plans to leave London for yer country house?”

  “Yes, yes, I suppose I should.” The elderly Lord Langley leaned back in his chair, his bulk making the chair squeak in protest. “I do not wish to travel, but staying in London for the summer, that would be even worse. And yourself? Do you have plans for the summer?”

  “House party.”

  Lord Langley grimaced. “Not for me. Too much bother. All those children running about.”

  “Children?”

  “Such as yourself. Those young bucks can be irritating beyond words, and the young ladies are far worse.”

  Thornton smiled. “Then I fear ye would despise my summer plans. The Duke of Marchford asked me to host a house party at Thornton Hall in Scotland.”

  “All the way to Scotland? No, too far, odd notion.”

  “He is my friend and I am always pleased to be in his service.”

  “Had to, eh? Him being a duke and all. But who will travel all that way?”

  “He is a duke…”

  “Ah yes, and in want of a wife.” Langley shook his head. “The hills will be crawling with young ladies come to take their shot at the biggest prize in all of Britton. Oh, I don’t envy the young, no I surely do not.”

  “Youth is a crime age will correct in time.”

  “And what of yourself? You also are of unmarried status and in possession of a title. You best take care of your own neck, lest you find it in the matrimonial noose as well.”

  Thornton only smiled. He could not even begin to think of matrimony until he had resolved his financial difficulties.

  “You best be double cautious if Marchford’s grandmother will be attending.” Langley got a wistful look in his blue eyes. “The Dowager Duchess of Marchford is a woman you would do best not to cross. I’ve heard she has contacts with a matchmaker.”

  “I’ve heard the same.”

  “I fear you may be in someone’s sights.”

  Thornton merely shook his head. As an impoverished Scottish earl, he was not at liberty to take a wife. Ironic in a way, since he was not opposed to the institution of marriage as his friends proclaimed to be. Yet unlike them, he found conversing with the female of the species challenging, which was just as well, since his restricted pocketbook forbade ladies of any variety.

  A banging on the front door could be heard all the way in the library and interrupted the conversation. The butler arrived shortly after to inform his lordship that a Captain Beake and a young lady had arrived to beg an audien
ce with him. No card was presented.

  “What? Never heard of him. Send him on his way,” demanded the earl.

  “Very good, sir. I only bring it to your attention because the lady claims to be a relation of yours.”

  “Got all the relations I need. Don’t need any more poor relations crawling out of the woodwork trying to get their fingers on my money.”

  The butler paused and cleared his throat. “The young lady claims to be the daughter of Lady Beatrice.”

  Silence fell heavy on the room. Lady Beatrice was Lord Langley’s only child. At the age of seventeen, in a scandal still discussed by society matrons with malicious enjoyment, Lady Beatrice had run away with a sea captain—an American sea captain—never to be seen again.

  Naturally, everyone assumed Lady Beatrice was mad, for what young woman of sane mind would elope with an American sea captain? Poor Lord Langley tried to hush up the scandal by saying he had her confined to an asylum, but everyone knew the truth.

  “These imposters.” Lord Langley sat down hard on his chair. “Every once in a while I have someone pretending to be Beatrice come ’round the house trying to steal money from me. Someday they will murder me in my bed.”

  “I will send them away, my lord,” said the butler.

  “No,” Langley sighed. “Curiosity and hope are the bane of men. Send them in.”

  “Shall I stay to ensure yer safety?” asked Thornton, a trifle curious himself.

  “Yes, that would be appreciated. Thieves, naught but thieves. Stay and be a witness to my demise.”

  “Try to keep yerself from murderers at least until our transactions are completed,” commented Thornton with a touch of humor to lighten the moment.

  “All heart you are,” muttered the old man, but the edges of his mouth turned up.

  The butler escorted in two persons of dubious quality. The first was a man whose life was etched in the lines on his face. His tanned features revealed him to be a man of action; his eyes squinted, as if still staring into the sun. His blue coat marked him as a sea captain, and he looked every bit of his occupation.

  The second person was a lady in a simple muslin dress, wool coat, and pelisse that had seen better days. Under a ragged bonnet, her auburn hair was pulled back in an efficient manner and her most striking feature was her height, about the same as her male companion’s.