An Unexpected Bride
Ashtyn Newbold
Copyright © 2019 by Ashtyn Newbold
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.
Front cover design by Blue Water Books
www.ashtynnewbold.com
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For all the lights in my life
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
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Chapter 1
Worthing, England, 1818
Five tiny fingers curled around Eleanor’s wrist, and she looked down to see two round blue eyes, their dark lashes casting shadows over rosy cheeks. Eleanor knew the look on her son’s face—she knew the pressure of his grip, the quiver of his chin, and the tenseness of his small frame.
“Not to worry, little one,” she whispered, smoothing away his dark curls. “We are almost home.”
“Home?” Arthur asked.
“Yes, home. The place where we can be safe and happy.” Safe and happy. Eleanor drew a shuddering breath as their coach rolled over the path that passed through Worthing, a town she knew to be just ten miles from Brighton. Brighton was home.
“Are Papa and Grandpapa home?” Arthur stared out the window at the unfamiliar land, the distant ocean, the smooth, predictable landscape, and the manicured vegetation. Sunlight touched everything from the rooftops of houses with flowers sprouting from their gardens to the curve of Arthur’s cheeks. He had hardly known anything but rocky ground, prickly moors, dark, stormy skies, and fierce wind.
“No, no,” Eleanor said. “We need never see Papa and Grandpapa again.” She wrapped her arm around Arthur’s shoulders, and he slid down in his seat, resting his head in her lap. She swallowed, closing her eyes. Her legs shook, and she hoped Arthur couldn’t feel it. He could never know that she was afraid too. “You will meet your Uncle Adam.” Eleanor’s voice broke with her brother’s name.
Arthur turned his face up to hers. Hesitant, uncertain.
“Adam is kind, just like my father was.” She blinked hard. Arthur had never seen her cry, and he never would. A beacon of strength was more comforting than reassuring words and promises.
She couldn’t imagine what her father must have been feeling when he died, knowing that he would never see his daughter again. Adam had written to her saying that her father had succumbed to his illness shortly after she had been taken to Scotland—shortly after Mr. Quinton had forced her to marry him and forced her to write lies in her letters home to her family. I am safe, she had said. I am happy. I love Mr. Quinton.
How could she love the man that had torn her from her life in Brighton? Torn her from the protection and care of her brother and dying father? The thought that she had once loved Mr. Quinton sent disbelief scratching over her heart. If what she had once felt for Mr. Quinton was love, then she wanted no part of it. Love deceived, destroyed, and hurt everything in its path. Her heart had blinded her to what Mr. Quinton truly was all along—a monster in disguise. Her father had seen his true nature, but she had not believed him until it was too late.
She forced air in and out of her lungs, slow and steady. Mr. Quinton could not hurt her and Arthur again. He was dead. Her late husband’s father, the elder Mr. Quinton, however, was not.
Eleanor began humming the song she often sang to Arthur in the silence of night and in the early hours of the morning.
“Sing, Mama,” he said.
She brushed her fingers through his hair as she sang in a quiet voice.
Hush, rest your head
The rain will end
The cracks will mend
The clouds will part
Rest aching hearts.
Hush, close your eyes
The sun will rise
The robin sings
Of happy things
Of days ahead.
Hush, fall asleep
The past we’ll keep
Let future reap
A spring to hold
A joy like gold
As she sang, Arthur visibly relaxed, his hands loosening on her wrist, his eyelids fluttering closed. They had been traveling for seven days, staying at various inns between Northumberland and Brighton. Eleanor counted the hours of travel as steps toward freedom, but she still could not banish the feeling that she was being followed. Chased. Her throat grew dry and her hands shook.
The coach continued on as Arthur slept on her lap. She checked the coins in her reticule, hoping she had what she needed to pay the coachman. She had brought all the money she had on her journey home, and she feared it would not be enough.
The uneven road turned Eleanor’s stomach to knots, but Arthur’s heavy breathing told her that he was still asleep. Summer rain began falling heavily, splashing on the windows in large droplets. In the distance, down the plush hill from the dirt path, Eleanor could see a small estate. It was two stories tall, with browned-butter stone, large windows, manicured gardens, and beautiful oak doors. She stared at the house, slightly blurred past sheets of rain. Standing firm and alone amid a storm, the house felt very much like a beacon of its own—a beacon of strength and hope.
With a lurch, the coach suddenly stopped. It teetered off balance for a brief second, and Eleanor clutched Arthur to keep him from falling off the seat. The horses brayed, and the coach slid to the left before falling completely still.
Eleanor straightened in alarm, her gaze darting out the window. Had highwaymen stopped their coach? In the light of day? Her heart hammered. Or had her late husband’s father, the elder Mr. Quinton, discovered his son, motionless and dead, and come to find her and Arthur?
“Mama.” His little voice sounded more curious than afraid. “Are we home?”
She put a finger to her lips, craning her neck out the window again. Just as she did, the coach door flew open. She stifled a shriek, pulling Arthur to her chest. Fully expecting to see the robust figure of the elder Mr. Quinton, or even a masked highwayman, she was relieved to see the extremely slender form and bald head of their hired coachman, Mr. Fifett. Rain dripped down his face, catching in the sparse dark mustache above his lip. “My apologies, ma’am, but I’m afraid we’ve fallen upon a spot of mud. “‘Twill take but a short moment to be on our way.”
She swallowed past her dry throat so she could speak. Misty air blew into the coach, sending shivers over her arms. She tugged at her gloves. “That is no problem at all.” Considering what her imagination had conjured about their sudden halting, she was quite relieved to hear that it was only the result of a little mud.
Mr. Fifett shifted, his boots sinking into the mud as well. “I’m afraid I must ask that you and your boy step outside for a moment while I push the coach out of the mud. I doubt I could budge it with the weight of the both of you.”
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nbsp; She eyed his slender arms, agreeing wholeheartedly with his assessment.
“Oh.” Eleanor glanced at the pouring rain again. “Yes, of course.” She lifted her bonnet off her black curls, setting it atop Arthur’s head. The wide brim would protect him well from the rain. It was the width of his shoulders, at least.
She took the coachman’s hand, stepping down to the ground before reaching inside to pick up Arthur. He wrapped his arms around her neck, tipping his head up to look at the storm. She followed his gaze to the charcoal clouds where they twisted in the sky, wringing out moisture like a wet cloth. The moment she stepped away from the coach, warm rain plummeted down, soaking through her hair and dress. Her feet sank into the mud as she walked several steps back. She blinked against the water in her eyes.
“Twill take a short moment, that is all,” The coachman half-shouted over the pounding rain. He slogged around to the other side of the coach, examining each wheel to find the one that was stuck.
“I believe it is this one here,” Eleanor said, pointing at the nearest wheel, the front right, buried deep in unrelenting mud.
“Ah, yes.”
To Eleanor’s surprise, Mr. Fifett dropped to his knees with a splash, rolling up his sleeves to his knobbed elbows. He dug around the wheel with his fingertips, picking up miniscule amounts of mud. At this rate, it would not take a short moment.
She continued standing in the rain, holding Arthur close. The thought of him catching a cold terrified her. The last time he had fallen ill he had narrowly survived. The bonnet shielded his head well from the rain, but his clothing was soaked, and the air grew colder by the minute. She felt as if she were still in Northumberland. There had been many occasions that she had confined herself to the house to avoid rain such as this. She had to remind herself that she was not there any longer, not afraid, not trapped, and certainly not weak.
“Sir, please allow me to help you.”
The coachman lifted his head. What could only have been a mixture of rain and sweat poured down his red face. He hesitated. “Oh, no, ma’am, I mustn’t employ a lady’s assistance.”
“I am already soaked, sir. I would like to help so I may take my son out of this weather as soon as possible.” She held his gaze. When he didn’t react, she set Arthur down several feet away and marched to the back of the coach. She took hold of the back corner and dug her feet into the mud as she pushed with all the energy she possessed. She heaved her body weight forward, her arms shaking with exertion as she tried to budge the coach. It didn’t move.
She walked around to the coachman, who stared at her as if she had descended from another world. He held a scant handful of mud in each palm.
“Perhaps I might dry digging, and you push?” she suggested.
He nodded. When he stood, she saw that the entirety of his knee breeches were covered in mud, his arms the same, all the way up to the elbows. She swallowed, picking up her skirts with one hand as she bent over the wheel. She sunk her hands into the wet earth, making a sliding and scooping motion to free an armful of mud. Working quickly, she created a ditch around the wheel as well as a slope in front of it, so the horses could easily pull the wheel up and forward. The horses shifted, sending a splash of mud toward her face. She blinked hard against the water and mud that now dripped down her cheeks and eyelids.
“May I be of assistance?” Another voice came from behind, a deep baritone—a voice that made the coachman’s sound quite childish in comparison.
Eleanor turned, glancing up to see the man who had spoken. He appeared to have addressed the coachman, but he stared down at Eleanor with concern, a set of piercing blue eyes meeting hers through sheets of heavy rain. He looked familiar, though she could not quite place him. His clothing too was soaked, water dripping off the brim of his hat. He extended one hand toward her, and she took it hesitantly. The man pulled her to her feet, taking in her appearance with steady flicks of his gaze. His eyes flashed with recognition. “Miss Claridge?”
She drew a quick breath as she studied the man’s face in closer proximity. How did he know her? He did look very familiar. As she took in his blue eyes and golden blond hair, she determined that he could only be the younger Beaumont son, a family she had grown up near in Brighton. What was Mr. Beaumont doing in Worthing? She had been briefly acquainted with Lord Ramsbury, the eldest Beaumont son, five years before. She could vaguely recall meeting this man as well. There was no mistaking the intensity of both men’s gazes, the striking blue and the inarguable attention.
Before she could respond, Mr. Beaumont shrugged out of his jacket, draping it over her head and shoulders. She gripped the lapels, grateful for the shield from the rain. She stepped back to Arthur’s side. He clung to her skirts.
With Mr. Beaumont’s help, the coach was free within a minute, rolling past the deep mud to much more steady ground. Eleanor’s arms shook from the recent exertion of digging, and Arthur trembled in the cold beside her.
“I thank you most ardently, good sir.” Mr. Fifett shook Mr. Beaumont’s hand before turning back toward Eleanor. “Shall we be on our way?”
She picked up her skirts with one hand, the weight of the water and mud that had soaked through causing them to drag on the ground. Arthur grasped her other hand as they walked back toward the coach. She paused beside Mr. Beaumont, handing his jacket back to him. “Thank you,” she said, her voice quiet.
She could only imagine what Mr. Beaumont thought of her. When she had disappeared five years before, the entire town of Brighton had likely been curious as to her whereabouts. Then she had written to her father, telling him of her elopement, and her reputation had surely crumbled. More likely than not, Mr. Beaumont was thinking all sorts of disdainful things about her. She stood, uncomfortable under his study.
The rain had softened to a trickle, the clouds parting above them. The timing was impeccable.
“Is it really you, Miss Claridge?” Mr. Beaumont asked. “Or…my apologies, what shall I call you now?”
He was referring to her married name. The name she would now always bear, a reminder of the wicked man she had once loved. “Mrs. Quinton,” she said. She wanted to say more, but fear stopped the words in her throat. What would Mr. Beaumont do if he learned her husband was dead, and she was fleeing from her home in the North?
He took her hand and helped her into the coach, lifting Arthur in beside her. Mr. Beaumont’s expression was all curiosity and concern. “Is this your son?”
“Yes,” she said.
“And what shall I call him?”
“Arthur.”
A smile crossed Mr. Beaumont’s face for the first time, a gentle upturn of his lips. “How great it is to meet you, Arthur.”
Eleanor cast her gaze down to her son, who had nestled his face into her arm, hiding from Mr. Beaumont’s view. “He is shy, that is all,” she said, though it was not entirely true. Arthur had every reason to fear unfamiliar men. Even those that should have been most safe, secure, and trustworthy had given him great cause to fear. His father and grandfather most of all.
Mr. Beaumont crossed his arms, glancing at the coachman, who had reclaimed his seat, before returning his gaze back to Eleanor. “Are you bound for Brighton?”
She nodded. Would he not let them leave? She was quite uncomfortable and wet, and her stomach had begun squeezing with pangs of hunger. And she hated to see Arthur suffer, as wet and cold as he was. She needed to get him to Brighton quickly, where he could warm up by a fire.
“That is still ten miles away,” Mr. Beaumont said.
Precisely. Eleanor wished to remain polite, but her patience was running thin. “Yes, so we must be on our way.”
“You intend to travel for another hour in your current state?” He shook his head. “I admire your resilience, Mrs. Quinton.” A soft smile. “My estate is just there, beyond the hill. I insist that you and your son come for a short time to change into warm, dry clothing and eat before taking the remainder of your trip.”
Eleanor fol
lowed his gaze out to the house she had noticed before the coach had gotten stuck. Free from the rain, the lines and curves of the house came into clear focus. She met Mr. Beaumont’s eyes, and the pleading there combined with Arthur’s shivering gave her little choice in the matter. “Very well. That is very kind of you.”
He nodded, walking toward the front of the coach. He offered Mr. Fifett the same courtesy, to which he heartily agreed.
Mr. Beaumont stepped into the coach, taking a seat across from Eleanor and Arthur, closing the door behind him. The coach began rolling forward before turning around, heading back in the direction of Mr. Beaumont’s estate. Eleanor kept her gaze fixed on her lap, stroking her fingertips over Arthur’s hair. She stole a glance at his face, where his eyes lay fixed on Mr. Beaumont.
“Are you visiting your brother in Brighton?” The baritone voice asked.
Eleanor glanced up. “Yes.” Another pang of grief struck her as she thought of her father, and how she would never see him again. The grief was muddled with guilt over the pain she must have caused him by leaving with Mr. Quinton. She tried to assure herself that the fault was not her own, but the assurances she gave herself always became lost in the harsh, drunken tones of her late husband’s voice. She pressed away the sounds that haunted her mind, focusing on the man in front of her. Could Mr. Beaumont be trusted? She pulled Arthur closer.
Mr. Beaumont gave another of his small smiles, the expression still mingled with deep curiosity. “When were you last in Brighton?”
Her fingers twitched on her skirts. “Five years ago.”
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