Grace
The Shackleford Sisters Book One
Beverley Watts
BaR Publishing
Copyright © 2020 BaR Publishing
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To my darlings Isaac and Tobi-Rose, without whom this book would have been finished years ago
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Epilogue
Author's Note
Claiming Victory
Books available on Amazon
About The Author
Prologue
The Reverend Augustus Shackleford rested his hands contentedly on his ample stomach and belched loudly, the stew he’d just consumed resting a trifle heavily on his stomach. It was noon at the Red Lion Pub in the village of Blackmore in Devonshire, England, and while he could have quite easily have had his luncheon back at the vicarage, the Reverend much preferred the ale and conversation the pub provided as opposed to the never ending arguing and bickering that came with the unfortunate position of having nine females residing in his house. Though he’d never asked him, the Reverend was content that his dog Freddy was also of the same opinion. The Foxhound was currently curled up under the table happily chasing rabbits in his dreams.
Reverend Shackleford was not a man of immense wealth and fortune, and under normal circumstances would be quite content with the fact that the coin in his pocket would more than suffice the cost of the meal he had just consumed.
These were not normal circumstances however and the coin in his pocket – or anywhere else for that matter would certainly not be sufficient to provide the money to set up his only son in the manner befitting a gentleman.
His only son after eight daughters. The Reverend sighed. It had taken three wives to finally produce an heir, but the cost of paying for the eight females he’d been blessed with in the first instance was sorely testing even his creativity – something he’d prided himself on up until now.
He sat morosely staring into his pint of ale next to his long-suffering curate and only friend Percy Noon.
“You know me Percy, I’ve got a mind as sharp as a well creased cravat, but I’ve got to admit I’m completely flummoxed as to what to do to raise the coin.”
“Perhaps you can find some kind of work for your daughters, something suitable in polite society for ladies of a gentle disposition,” Percy suggested as he pushed his plate aside.
The Reverend snorted. “Have you seen any of my daughters lately?” he scoffed, shaking his head glumly. “Ladies of a gentle disposition? They don’t possess a single ladylike bone in the eight bodies they have between ‘em. They have no clue how to follow orders or how to comport themselves in any society let alone a polite one.
“If I wish to secure even a modest fortune for Anthony, then I have no recourse but to marry ‘em off. Though I can’t imagine a man who’d be bacon-brained enough to encumber himself with any of ‘em. Unless he was in his cups of course.” The Reverend was silent for a while, clearly imagining a scenario where he could take advantage of a well-heeled male whilst the unfortunate victim was suitably foxed. In the end he sighed.
“Percy, the situation is dire indeed. If I don’t come up with a plan soon, there’s going to be no coin left for Anthony at all. And not only that, we could well find ourselves in the workhouse.” He glared at Percy as if it was somehow all his curate’s fault. “If that happens Percy my man, there’ll be no more bread and butter pudding for you of an evening."
Percy repressed a shudder. He wasn’t sure if it was at the prospect of ending up in the workhouse or the thought of Mrs. Tomlinson’s bread and butter pudding – the last of which could probably have been used to keep out the drafts. The curate suspected the vicarage cook was a little too fond of Blue Ruin to give much attention to her culinary skills.
“Then your only recourse Sir is to marry them off and marry them well,” he stated decisively, settling deeper into his chair. “Somehow.”
The Reverend stroked his chin, thinking about his wayward daughters. Each daughter was entirely different than the last. The only similarity they all shared was unruliness. Four of them were already at a marriageable age with the eldest, at twenty-five, a confirmed bluestocking. What chance did he have of marrying any of them off to a gentleman wealthy enough to secure a fortune for his only son?
He was sure that given time he could do it. But it would test even his legendary resourcefulness. Especially if he was going to do it without spending any money.
“Right, we’ll need a list of suitable wealthy titled gentlemen bottle-headed enough to take ‘em on Percy,” he decided, motioning for another mug of ale. “Then we’ll let ‘em know that I have, err…, good, dutiful daughters who are in need of husbands.”
“As you wish Sir,” Percy said doubtfully as the serving wench brought another ale for them both. The Reverend picked up his tankard and took a large gulp.
“But before we do that, we’ll start by writing down all the positive attributes of the chits so we can emphasize their good points to any prospective husbands. I mean we both know that none of them are exactly bachelor fare, but we can fudge it a bit without anyone being the wiser. At least until they have a ring on their fingers.
“We’ll start with Grace since she’s the one most likely to end up an old maid if we don’t come up with the goods pretty sharpish. Right then Percy, you start.”
Silence.
The Reverend frowned. “Thunder an' turf man, surely you can find something good to say about her.”
"She has nicely turned ankles,” responded Percy a bit desperately.
“Steady on Percy. I certainly hope you’ve never had an extended opportunity to observe my eldest daughter’s ankles otherwise I might have to call you out.”
Percy reddened, flustered. �
�Oh no Sir, not at all, I just happened to notice when she was climbing into the carria…”
“Humph, well I’m not sure we can put that at the top of the list but in Grace’s case, we might have to resort to it. I mean why her mother chose to call her Grace is beyond me considering she’s distinctly lacking in any attributes remotely divine like. And she’s the least graceful person I’ve ever come across. If there’s something to trip over, Grace will find it. Clumsy doesn’t even begin to cut it,” he added gloomily.
“Well, she has very nice eyes,” Percy stated, thinking it best to keep any further observations about the Reverend’s daughter above the neck, “And her teeth are sound.”
The Reverend nodded, scribbling furiously.
“Can she cook Sir?” The Reverend stopped writing and frowned. “I don’t know that she can Percy. At least not in the same capacity as Mrs Tomlinson.”
“Probably best not to mention it then,” Percy interrupted hastily, unwillingly conjuring up the vision of Mrs. Tomlinson’s Bread and Butter pudding again. “And anyway, marriage to a gentleman is not likely to necessitate her venturing into the kitchen.” The Reverend nodded thoughtfully.
“How about her voice? Can she sing?”
“Like a strangled cat.”
“Dance?”
“I don’t think she’s ever danced with anyone. I deuced hope not anyway. If she has, I’ll have his guts for garters.”
“Conversation?” Percy was getting desperate.
“Non existent. I don’t think she’s spoken more than half a dozen words to me since she was in the crib.” The Reverend was becoming increasingly despondent.
“Does she cut a good mother figure to her sisters?”
The Reverend snorted. “I don’t think any of ‘em are without some kind of scar where she’s dropped ‘em at some time or another.”
“How about her brain?” Percy now resorted to clutching at straws.
“Now that’s something the chit has got. Every time I see her, she’s got her nose in a book. Problem is, that’s the one attribute any well-heeled gentleman will most definitely not be looking for…”
Chapter One
Nicholas Sinclair, newly appointed Duke of Blackmore looked up at the imposing house in front of him and sighed, knowing he couldn’t remain in the carriage for much longer. After a month of travelling, he longed for nothing more than a warm bed and a glass of brandy. Regrettably, it was only late afternoon so the bed would have to wait, but certainly not the brandy.
The door was opened by the footman and Nicholas forced himself to move, taking his time on the step so he could climb down without falling on his face.
It had taken nearly six months for him to be well enough to attempt the journey home. His father had been dead for three of them.
“Your grace, welcome home.”
Nicholas straightened his coat before moving up the steps towards the imposing front door where the aging butler stood waiting patiently. “Huntley? By God man, I didn’t think you were still alive.”
The butler’s expression did not change as he bowed before Nicholas. “I still have some years in me, your grace.”
Nicholas allowed a small smile to cross his face before it disappeared just as quickly. He’d never thought to be back in front of this house and certainly not as the Duke of Blackmore.
Moving from the steps, he allowed Huntley to open the door before stepping inside the house. The few staff were lining the long hall, waiting for him to address them as their new master.
His collar suddenly tight around his throat, Nicholas cleared it. “Carry on with your duties.” He did not need to know their names nor their positions, only that they stayed out of his way.
“Your grace, this is Mrs. Tenner,” Huntley stated, motioning to a plump woman wearing a tentative smile as she curtsied before him. “She is your housekeeper.”
Nicholas acknowledged her with a nod. “Mrs. Tenner. I will not require anything but my meals in my study.”
“Of course, your grace,” she answered. Nicholas moved past her and continued down the hall slowly, feeling the stares of his staff burning in his wake. The home was as he remembered, with dark wood and portraits of the previous Sinclairs bearing down on anyone who walked through the hallowed halls.
There was a faint hint of disuse, likely because the house had been in mourning since his father’s death. And since there remained only a handful of servants, it was clear that most of the house had simply been closed off.
Nicholas waited for the pain of his father’s demise to strike some sort of chord within him, but it never came. There had been no love between the father and son for years, ever since Nicholas had stormed from this house at the tender age of fifteen and joined the Royal Navy.
There had been no letters, no calls for him to come home, no words of praise for everything that Nicholas had accomplished during his time in uniform. Even when he was appointed Captain – one of the youngest in the fleet - and called upon to join Admiral Lord Nelson to fight at Trafalgar, there had been no word from his father.
In the old Duke of Blackmore’s eyes, Nicholas had not existed.
The feeling was mutual.
Finding the door to the study, Nicholas pushed it open, the faint smell of his father’s favourite cigar lingering in the air. He didn’t enter nor did he glance at the portrait still hanging over the massive fireplace. The study felt like his father’s.
Sickened, Nicholas turned away from the room, unable to take the step forward. The walls seemed to be closing in suddenly and he couldn’t get out of the house fast enough. His father was at every turn, the row between them heavy in the air still, even after twenty years.
He needed to get out.
His pace frustratingly slow, Nicholas stumbled back to the front door. Luckily the servants had already dispersed so weren’t privy to his sudden desperate need for some air. As he emerged onto the terrace fronting the house, he heaved in lungsful of air like a dying man. Which was how he felt much of the time. His chest felt as though it was encased in iron. Slowly the feeling of panic began to fade and he was able to breathe a little easier. The air was redolent with spring flowers, nothing like the salty air he’d been used to.
He would get no more of that here in Blackmore.
But then neither would he smell the smoke of battle or hear the screams of his men dying after losing limbs to a cannonball or split in two on the end of a cutlass. And one man, merely a boy, who’d died in his arms…
Trembling, he shut his eyes on the scene that haunted his dreams every night, taking another deep breath. Blackmore was a world away from his old life, and it was high time he put the past to bed.
The problem was, as Nicholas had come to realise, that was easier said than done.
Wiping his suddenly damp forehead with a kerchief from his pocket, Nicholas went back down the steps and followed the stone crushed path through the formal gardens and out between the hedges, finding himself eventually in the orchard behind the house. The trees were in full blossom and Nicholas wandered slowly through them, remembering times from his childhood when he’d done just this, whether it was to escape his studies or to escape his father.
Always with Peter.
The thought of his brother caused another wrench in his chest. Forever frozen at fifteen, Peter would never know or face the kind of life Nicholas had experienced. His twin brother lay in a grave instead, and Nicholas had been the one to put him there.
Nicholas pushed away the hurt, setting his jaw.
Peter was dead.
His father was dead.
John was dead.
He was no longer a Captain in the Royal Navy. He was now, God help him, the Duke of Blackmore with all the duties and responsibilities that came with the title. He could almost hear his father’s cold voice lecturing him on loyalty to the family name and the need to produce an heir as quickly as possible.
Unfortunately, that would involve procuring a wife. Something he neith
er needed nor wanted.
Nicholas stared out over the orchard, leaning against an apple tree as he waited to get his breath back after the unfamiliar exercise. He smiled grimly. At this point in time, he wasn’t even sure he was up to performing the duty necessary to beget an heir. Nevertheless, he would have to find a wife soon and begin the unpleasant task of taking over his father’s estate.
The ship he’d commanded was nothing but a nightmarish memory. One that would, God willing, fade over time. The dukedom was the only thing of importance now.
As he turned to retrace his steps, a motionless shape under a tree in the distance caught his eye and Nicholas frowned. Was it an animal or a person?
There was only one way to find out.
Picking his way carefully, Nicholas eventually found himself at the tree in question, completely nonplussed at what he found. A woman was asleep at its base, her skirts spread out over the grass. There was a book resting on her chest and a stray, russet curl on her cheek, the breeze blowing it lightly across her skin.
Whoever the woman was, she clearly had no regard as to who might find her under the tree. Nicholas crouched down, the splinter wounds in his chest protesting he did so, and gently shook the woman’s shoulder. “Madam.”
She made a sound but did not wake and he gripped her shoulder harder, shaking it more forcefully. “Madam.”
She jolted awake, and shot up, the top of her head colliding with his chin. Nicholas felt an explosion of pain in his jaw as he reared back, falling flat on his backside on the ground next to her in a most ungentlemanly manner.
“What?” he heard her ask imperiously. “Who the devil are you?”
Rubbing his now injured jaw, Nicholas narrowed his gaze. “More importantly, Madam, who the devil are you and why are you trespassing on my land?”
Chapter Two
Grace Shackleford stared at the man on the ground beside her, her head still fuzzy from her impromptu nap under the shade of the tree. The orchard was her favourite place to come in all of Blackmore and since the old Duke never stepped foot outside of his large house, she’d never felt as if anyone cared that she borrowed one of his trees every now and again.
Grace (The Shackleford Sisters Book 1) Page 1
