The Noble Guardian

by Michelle Griep

  Abby glanced down at the sweet girl, then back up to him. “Has something been decided?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “Thank God,” she breathed out, but a wave of uneasiness still washed over her. He hadn’t hurried over here for no reason, for the captain was ever a man of intention. She angled her face. “Then why are you here? Should you not be speaking with Emma’s father?”

  “No, you’re the one I need to talk to.”

  His fingers continued to pinch his hat, moving it inch by inch, ‘round and ‘round. Emma threw her rabbit and crawled over to it, then threw it again. And again.

  Another carriage rolled in, passing them by and stopping at the inn’s front door, and still the captain said no more.

  “Well?” Abby prodded.

  He blew out a sigh. His head dipped, and he pinned his gaze on the ground, as if he might find whatever it was he wanted to say lying there in the dirt.

  Abby tensed, uneasiness prickling the skin at the nape of her neck. What was this? The captain wasn’t one to mince words. He was a man of action, of command. One who said what he must and hanged the consequences.

  “You frighten me, sir.”

  He jerked his face up, pain etching lines at the corners of his mouth. “Forgive me. I know my silence has caused you much hurt, Miss Gilbert, and for that I am grieved. But I hope to put an end to it here and now.”

  “And how do you propose to do that?”

  “By asking you to marry me.”

  Her jaw dropped. Her breath stopped, clogging somewhere in her throat. Surely she had not heard him correctly.

  “Pardon?” her voice squeaked.

  He turned away and crouched by Emma, handing her his hat, then rose and swung back to Abby, catching both her hands in his big, calloused fingers.

  “That night you came to me at the Blue Bell and told me you loved me, I could hardly fathom it. Lord knows I am not an easy man to love. But you, sweet Abby…” His lips thinned, and he shook his head. “You have held my heart in your hands from the day you stood brave and tall on the heath, threatened by highwaymen yet holding your ground. There can never be another woman for me but you. The truth of it is I love you, Abigail Gilbert, and I will never love another.”

  The healing balm of his words slipped into the cracks, the hurts, the years of dry ground that had longed to hear such endearments—until one single question stopped the flow.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Why did you not tell me this five nights ago?”

  “I…” He squeezed her fingers, gentle, firm, warm, as if to drive home some unspoken point. “I didn’t want to get your hopes up, not until we reached London. I wanted to find you a home with one of my colleagues first. Give you a safe place to stay while I earned money for lodgings of our own.”

  Lodgings of our own?

  Samuel’s words nestled into her heart. All this time, when she had thought he had rejected her, he was only planning how to care for her. Her. The immense weight of responsibility he must have carried the past few days swept over her. Because he loved her.

  “But things are different now. I am different, and there is no more need to wait. So…” He cleared his throat and looked at her almost sheepishly—a first, that. A very handsome first. “Will you have me? Will you be my wife?”

  Tears filled her eyes, turning the world to yet another watery mess. “Oh Samuel,” she barely managed to choke out.

  A slow smile flashed across his austere face, instantly changing him into a young man full of life and vigor and love. “So your answer, my lady, is yes?”

  Pulling free of his grasp, she lifted to her toes and planted a resounding kiss on his lips. Satisfied, she stepped back and grinned. “Yes!”

  Low laughter rumbled at their side, and they both turned.

  The bear of a man who’d rode in to find Samuel chuckled at them both. “If Brentwood or Moore could see this.”

  “Indeed, my friend.” Samuel laughed too. “Would that they could.” Then he glanced at her, a sultry gleam in his brown eyes, and once again caught up her hand in his. “I will never be the same, you know. You have made me very happy.”

  She beamed at him. “Do you realize, Captain, that you have just taken on my guardianship for the rest of your life?”

  “I would have it no other way.”

  Emma clapped her hands, and Abby’s heart soared.

  “Neither would I, my love.” She lifted Samuel’s fingers to her lips and pressed her mouth against his knuckles. “Neither would I.”

  Epilogue

  One year later, five miles west of Burnham, England

  Abby set down her sewing and shifted in her chair, preparing to rise. Nowadays simply standing took all her effort. But before she pushed upward, Emma dashed across the room, ginger curls flying, and plowed into Abby’s legs.

  “Baby sleep?” Emma pressed her cheek against Abby’s swollen middle.

  A resounding kick from inside pushed back against the girl’s sudden attack.

  “No, Emma.” Abby smiled. “The baby is most definitely not sleeping. Be a good girl, now, and gather your Bibby. It is time we begin making dinner for your father.”

  “Papa!” Emma squealed, then spun on her heels and ran to the corner of the bedchamber where she’d left a heap of blankets and a cloth baby doll. Ever since Samuel had brought home the little toy last week—which Emma promptly named Bibby—the girl had hardly let the doll out of her sight. Lord only knew what Emma would do when she had a real babe to hold.

  Abby pressed her hand against her big belly as she stood, struggling for balance. Sweeping aside the sheer window curtain, she peered out at the hay field, and her heart instantly melted. Ahh, but she’d never tire of watching the long lines of Samuel’s body stride across the land. He’d thrived since they’d moved here, wrangling with dirt and sun and rain instead of cutthroats. He smiled frequently, laughed often, and his brooding good looks took on an even more handsome shine.

  Lowering her hand, she let the curtain drop. He’d reach the house soon, likely bringing with him an appetite. Heat flushed over her cheeks, and a slow grin curved her lips. No doubt he’d want more than dinner.

  Her grin suddenly faded as a knock on the front door carried in past the sitting room. They didn’t receive many guests out here in the country, especially not in the minutes before dark.

  She hurried as fast as her large girth allowed, Emma running on her tiptoes right alongside her, and opened the front door—

  Then wished she hadn’t. Her stomach lurched, and she leaned one hand against the doorframe.

  A man in a dark blue riding coat stood on the stoop, the grime of the road dusting his shoulders. His blue eyes were all too familiar, for she looked into the same shade each day.

  “Mr. Hawker?” The name barely made it past her lips. What in the world was Emma’s father doing here? Now?

  “Mrs. Thatcher.” He dipped his head toward her, then pinned his gaze on Emma. “May I see her?”

  A chill cut straight to Abby’s heart. She’d feared this day. Awakened at nights in a sweat, fighting with the counterpane from a nightmare such as this. Though Samuel often reassured her otherwise, she’d always suspected Emma was only theirs on loan, a gift that would be snatched away some future day.

  And now the future was here, standing at her door in a black felt hat and riding boots.

  She drew in a breath for courage and fumbled for Emma’s little hand. “Of course you may. Will you come in?”

  Without pulling his gaze from the girl, he shook his head and crouched, eye to eye with Emma. He fumbled in his coat pocket and retrieved a small, hand-carved horse, then held it out. “For you.”

  Emma’s eyes widened. “Horsie?” she breathed, then glanced up at Abby.

  “Yes, Emma. A horse for you.” She bit her lip before her voice broke.

  “Horsie!” Emma shrieked and snatched the toy from her father’s hand.

  Mr. Hawker reached out and patted
the girl on her head, then rose. “Is your husband here?”

  For one wicked moment, a lie bristled on her tongue. If she told the man Samuel was away, he’d leave and Emma could stay…but that would only delay the inevitable.

  She pulled back her shoulders, hoping good posture would provide some measure of courage. “You should find my husband out back. He was nearing the house only moments ago.”

  Mr. Hawker tucked his chin. “Thank you, madam.”

  He strode away, and Abby pressed the door shut behind him, a bit wobbly on her feet but this time not from pregnancy. Emma galloped around the sofa in a circle with her new toy, squealing, “Go, horsie! Go!”

  Abby skirted her and sank to the sofa cushion. Would this be the last she’d hear of Emma’s sweet laughter? Had last night been the final time she’d ever tuck her into bed? Had the plate of cheese and bread she’d shared with the girl at noon been her last meal with her?

  God, no! How am I to part with her?

  The loss was too great, and she hunched over, bowed by the weight of such a dreadful prospect. Her chest squeezed, feeling as hollow as if a giant hand had reached in and yanked out the roots of her deep, rich love for Emma, a love that’d been growing ever since the day Samuel had handed the girl over to her.

  The door jolted open, and Samuel poked his head inside. “Bring Emma outside, please.”

  Tears burned in her eyes. Was this shearing pain in her heart what it felt like to lose a child? She rubbed both hands on her belly and stood. Though another was on the way, there would be no consolation for losing Emma.

  With a bravery she didn’t feel, she held out her hand and forced a light tone to her voice. “Come, Emma.”

  Emma trotted over to her, horse in hand, and wrapped her small fingers around Abby’s. “Go? Ride?”

  “No, my sweet. At least, I hope not—” A sob cut off her words. Her head pounded as she delivered Emma outside, fighting to keep a great, wailing cry from breaking loose.

  Samuel and Emma’s father turned at their approach, and once again, Mr. Hawker crouched. “Come, child. Come to me.”

  Emma looked from the new horse in her hand to the man and apparently decided it was worth the risk to allow him to gather her in his arms since he’d brought her a toy. He walked off with her, but not far.

  Abby turned to Samuel, unable to contain the misery welling inside her for one second longer. “Oh Samuel!”

  His brow folded as he studied her, then suddenly softened. He pulled her to him and pressed a kiss against her forehead, smoothing back her hair with his big hands. “All is well, my love. He merely wants to say goodbye.”

  Her breath hitched, especially when the babe inside gave another good kick—as was the child’s custom whenever Samuel held her close.

  She pulled back and tipped her face up at her husband. “But where is Mr. Hawker going? Why such a formal parting?”

  “He sails for America, and thank God for that. I feared he’d drink himself to death, but he’s finally decided to leave his past and pain behind and start a new life.”

  “And Emma?” Abby held her breath, dreading but needing to know what would become of her girl.

  A grin flashed across Samuel’s tanned face, vanquishing any fear she might ever bring to him. “She stays with us.” He reached out and placed his hand on the bulge of her belly. “Emma will be the finest older sister our son could ever know.”

  Closing her eyes, she breathed in blessed relief and thanked God.

  Then she snapped her eyes open and arched a brow at Samuel. “Do not be so sure it is a boy, husband. You might very well have a daughter.”

  “If it is”—he smirked—“then I will be sorely outnumbered.”

  Boot steps neared them, and they both turned. Mr. Hawker set Emma down, and the girl ran right into Samuel, wrapping her arms around his legs. He stood solid, a broad beam holding up both of their worlds.

  Mr. Hawker’s blue eyes—so hauntingly the same as Emma’s—stared directly at Abby. “You’re doing a fine job of raising her, ma’am.” Then he dipped his head at Samuel. “Thatcher, take good care of your family, all of them. Goodbye.”

  Samuel nodded. “Goodbye, Hawker. Godspeed.”

  Emma’s father wheeled about and retrieved his horse, swinging up into the saddle the same time as Samuel swung Emma up into his arms.

  He winked at Abby. “He needn’t have told me that, you know. I will care for my girls until my last breath.”

  Abby grinned. “And if you have a son?”

  “And when I have a son”—he bent and kissed her on the nose—“I shall teach him to care for my girls as well.” Settling Emma up on his shoulders, he reached for Abby’s hand. “But until that day, I guess I’ll have to do as your sole guardian.”

  “I would have none other.” She grinned. “For you, husband, are the most noble of guardians a woman could have.”

  Historical Notes

  One of my favorite parts of writing historical fiction is the research. I love learning tidbits and weaving them into the story. Here are a few pertinent facts I came across in the writing of The Noble Guardian.

  Highwayman

  A highwayman is simply a thief who steals—usually at gunpoint—from travelers on the road. Not all, but some of those attacks turned deadly, the robbers not wishing to leave anyone behind who could identify them. Others wore masks for the same purpose. Hounslow Heath was a notorious haunt for highwaymen because criminals would choose remote stretches of highways that supplied regular traffic going to and from major destinations. Dick Turpin is one of the most notorious English highwaymen, a villain who roamed the wilds in the 1730s.

  The Magistrates of Bow Street (especially Richard Ford)

  Bow Street Runners began with only a handful of men under the direction of Magistrate Henry Fielding in the 1750s. The force grew to eventually branch out into a horse patrol in 1805. This consisted of around sixty men who were charged with guarding the principal roads within sixty miles of London. Their most successful achievement was to rid Hounslow Heath of highwaymen.

  In Brentwood’s Ward, The Innkeeper’s Daughter, and even in this story, an update is given on Magistrate Richard Ford. There really was a Bow Street magistrate with this name, but alas, he died on May 3, 1806, at age forty-seven. For the sake of this story, however, I chose to keep him alive a bit longer and give him a wife. The magistrate mentioned in this story, Sir Nathaniel Conant, served from 1813 to 1820.

  Physicians vs. Surgeons vs. Apothecaries

  During the Regency era there was a clear distinction between physicians, surgeons, and apothecaries. Only physicians were labeled with the title of doctor, and they usually attended only wealthy families. They were the gentlemen of caregivers and were deemed socially acceptable.

  Surgeons, on the other hand, were the general practitioners of the day, so they didn’t get such a high and lofty title but merely went by mister instead of doctor. Because surgeons performed “physical labor” by treating patients, they occupied a lower rung on the social ladder. Apothecaries were the pharmacists who concocted and dispensed drugs.

  Croup and Putrid Throat

  What we think of today as croup—barking cough and wheezing breaths—isn’t necessarily what people of yesteryear believed it to be. In fact, croup was a catch-all phrase that could be applied to many illnesses at the time, such as the deadly diphtheria. The most common treatment during the Regency era was white horehound syrup, which was used to alleviate any cough or lung issues. It is known to have a pleasant taste.

  Putrid throat is another historical all-inclusive phrase that meant a severely inflamed throat that put off an odor and included tissue destruction. Generally a high fever, delirium, and hallucinations also accompanied such an illness. Most likely this was either strep throat or, once again, diphtheria. Back in the day, diphtheria was a very common cause of death.

  Coaching Inns

  Before the advent of the railroad, the best way to travel across country
was by carriage. Though not everyone owned a carriage because the upkeep of horses was expensive, travelers could still rent a carriage and horses at coaching inns. In fact, that was the main function of a coaching inn (besides providing lodging). Inns hired out fresh horses, post-chaises (sometimes called traveling chariots), and drivers, who were called postilions. Inns were anywhere from seven to ten miles apart and could be any size, ranging from small, family-run affairs to large, several-storied buildings manned by plenty of staff.

  Bibliography

  Beattie, J. M. The First English Detectives: The Bow Street Runners and the Policing of London, 1750–1840, reprint ed. Oxford, England: Oxford University Press, 2014.

  Bleiler, E. F., ed. Richmond: Scenes in the Life of a Bow Street Runner, Drawn Up from His Private Memoranda. Mineola, NY: Dover Publications, 1976.

  Cox, David J. A Certain Share of Low Cunning: A History of the Bow Street Runners, 1792–1839, 1st ed. London: Willan, 2010.

  Harper, Charles G. The Old Inns of Old England: A Picturesque Account of the Ancient and Storied Hostelries of Our Own Country, vol. 1. London: Forgotten Books, 2017.

  Protz, Roger. Historic Coaching Inns of the Great North Road: A Guide to Travelling the Legendary Highway. St. Albans, England: CAMRA Books, 2017.

  Tristam, W. Outram. Coaching Days and Coaching Ways. Amazon Digital Services LLC, May 1, 2011. First published 1893.

  Acknowledgments

  While writing is a solitary profession, a book is never written alone. I have so many to credit with holding my sweaty hand on this writerly journey. Here are a few of those that make up my tribe…

  Critique Partners: Yvonne Anderson, Julie Klassen, Kelly Klepfer, Lisa Ludwig, Ane Mulligan, Shannon McNear, Chawna Schroeder, MaryLu Tyndall