by Cardon, Sara
Read Each Story in our House Party
Read all the books in this first collection of our Regency House Party. They can be enjoyed in any order:
The Unwanted Suitor
Mistaken Identity
The Stable Master’s Daughter
An Unlikely Courtship
Tabitha’s Folly
This is the first of many Regency House Party Collections. Follow our Newsletter to find out when others become available. HERE.
These stories first appeared in serial form at http://www.regencyhouseparty.com. Join us there for the next party.
Guests are enjoying a certain amount of merriment on our Facebook page and group. Characters mingle with the visitors, Wellington the pug has an active presence and when a new party is in the works, we announce chapters as they go live. RHP Group
The Stable Master’s Daughter
Sara Cardon
To my husband, David, for showing me what a good man looks like. When I met you, I felt like I met my best friend. Thank you for lifting me through mountains and valleys.
Contents
Prologue
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
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
About the Author
Tabitha’s Folly: Chapter One
Prologue
Unexpected
Strathford Manor, Hampshire, England 1815
Marjorie Fairchild stood perched in a tree and willed her secret love to come outside. Leaves spun in circles around her head. Her stomach grumbled from the scent of baking bread drifting from the estate’s kitchen below, but she ignored her traitorous body. She needed to tell Reginald how she felt before she left. She might never see him again.
A stick snapped below. An acorn popped. Marjorie sucked in a breath and held very still, hoping no one—
“You look like a thief.”
Marjorie startled. Her numb hands slipped. Wrapping her legs around the branch, she swung upside-down from the underbelly of the oak branch.
She brushed hair out of her eyes to meet the direct gaze of Reginald’s older brother, Lord Miles Beauchamp. Blood rushed to her face, and her pulse throbbed in her temples. He stood tall and as solid as the oak tree, his square jaw unyielding. Sunlight glinted off his icy blue eyes.
Pressure built in her head until she thought she would explode. With all the dignity she could muster, she answered him. “A thief in broad daylight? I think not, my lord.”
Lord Beauchamp stared at her. Then he laughed.
She frowned. Had she ever heard him laugh? Too bad it was directed at her. Something buzzed by her ear and she cringed, her tenuous hold trembling.
“Please allow me to assist you.”
She shook her head, embarrassed but determined to right herself. Instead, she slid and dropped with a thump.
He laughed, full and deep, before biting down his grin.
When he offered his hand, Marjorie looked at her own—scraped, shaking, and covered in damp soil. She ignored his offer and stood, brushing off her homespun dress. She tried not to think about how she had grown tall enough to reach his chin, or how she was so acutely aware of his presence.
“How old are you now?” He eyed her in amusement.
“Sixteen,” she said, then bit her lip. She was not acting her age at the moment. So much for her planned confession and final farewell.
He frowned and seemed to assess her again, his low brows lending an air of disapproval. “That cannot be right.”
Of course he would not believe her, since he caught her spying and falling out of a tree. “I assure you it is, my lord.” Keenly aware of her childish behavior, she wanted to flee back to the stable, where she felt safe. “Please excuse me.” She waited for his approval. Carriage wheels crunched in the gravel leading to the estate. The breeze blew her hair loose, freeing a few leaves stuck in her red hair.
“Still spying? You haven’t outgrown that habit yet? Somehow I thought . . .” he hesitated.
Her eyes widened and her stomach dropped. “What had you thought?”
“Hmm.” Lord Beauchamp kept her waiting.
The kitchen door squeaked open and Reginald stepped outside. He stopped and swept his glossy dark hair from his eyes, then watched the footmen who greeted the carriage.
Marjorie bowed her head, a lump forming in her throat. Her plan was ruined. She did not want Reginald to see her in such wild disarray, but she needed permission to leave a superior’s presence. Why did he not dismiss her as the Beauchamp family always did? “I—I need to leave. Please, do excuse me, my lord.” She waited, holding her breath.
Lord Beauchamp studied her a moment longer. “Very well, you may go.”
She curtseyed and fought to pace her steps.
"Marjorie!" She recognized the voice.
She spun and stopped at the sight of her aunt descending from the carriage. Marjorie stood frozen, caught, and unable to move as her life took a tumble before her eyes. Aunt Harriet had come to take her from her father and home. Each previous visit with her aunt had been like a game of make-believe, pretending to be a lady. Marjorie wanted to learn to become a real lady and an artist, did she not?
Aunt Harriet opened her arms wide and embraced Marjorie tight enough to squeeze the air from her lungs, despite her aunt’s petite frame. She released Marjorie enough to cup her cheek. “You are so much like your mother.”
“Only my hair.”
Aunt Harriet’s mouth quirked, and she raised a thin brow. “It is so much more, dearest.”
Marjorie looked over her shoulder at the only home she had ever known, a home which was not her own. She hoped for one last glimpse of Reginald. Instead her eyes landed on Lord Beauchamp, and she frowned. He seemed like a shield to everything beloved and familiar—the grand house, kitchen garden, the rambling oak tree, even her father who managed the stable. Melancholy settled gently around her, like hay falling from the loft. Movement in her blurred vision caught her attention. Lord Beauchamp offered a crisp bow as a farewell, and he, too, left. She glanced around, but Reginald was already gone.
1
Anticipation
Three Years Later, Yorkshire, England 1818
Marjorie Fairchild lifted a gloved hand to the carriage windowpane. Raindrops hit against the glass, each with a plink, as the bank of dark clouds unrolled from the east like a woolen blanket. Somerstone Manor grew closer with each turn of the wheel as the trees cleared and the estate came into full view. Marjorie shifted on her seat. She would certainly be out of place at the house party. The home was the essence of her dreams—well maintained, long-standing, and a safe haven. It spoke of an ancient, noble history, and knights in shining armor. And seemed capable of housing London’s entire West End.
“Astonishing. I have never seen a house so . . .” Grand? Massive? Awe-inspiring?
Aunt Harriet supplied a word of her own. “Gaudy.”
Marjorie dropped her hand into her lap and smiled. “Yes, precisely. I have never seen its equal. Not even Reginald’s home.”
Aunt Harriet’s oblong face grew somber, and she adjusted the cap over her chestnut hair as she studied Marjorie. The carriage dropped into a rut as they waited in line, and so did Marjorie’s stomach. She recognized her mistake in bringing up Reginald, but focused on the Palladian architecture, counting six pillars near the entrance. It resembled the Roman temple La Maison Carrée. She brushed a hand over her reticule holding her new sketchbook. She could not wait to create rough sketches she could use for paintings later.
“Hmm. I must say, I rather hoped you had driven that man from your affections. You have not seen him in some time,” Aunt Harriet said, her perfectly thin eyebrows arched, even as she acted disinterested.
I have not seen Reginald in six months. Though Aunt Harriet probably believes I have not seen him since I left home, three years ago. Marjorie closed her eyes, sinking into herself. The memory of Reginald’s captivating smile at the ball in London caused a shiver like a feather brushing her skin. She had watched him flirt and dance the entire evening, but he had not seen her.
He never had.
Raindrops streaked like tears down the window. He had not noticed her even when she lived next door to him. Or, rather, on his property, since her father managed the stables for the Beauchamps.
“I heard some gossip about Mr. Beauchamp during cards at the Pratt's,” Aunt Harriet mused. “Something about him falling madly in love.”
Marjorie feigned indifference, though every muscle in her body tensed.
“He actually proposed to the woman. Astonishing, since he declared himself disinterested in matrimony. Less astonishing—but far more impressive—the young lady flatly refused him. Said he would be dependent on her money and she could never stand for that. Especially with his gambling debts.” Aunt Harriet nodded to herself. “That is a woman who will not settle. Who knows the measure of a good man.”
Marjorie pleated her skirt, her cheeks growing warm. The news of his rejection did astonish, but she wished her aunt would not use the news to deliver another veiled lecture. Aunt Harriet spoke against Reginald’s acquired reputation. But the man she described did not sound like the Reginald she remembered. Marjorie’s Reginald was charming, gentle, and made people laugh. He was prone to blue moods, but he buoyed others’ spirits with little effort. He swapped stories and put everyone at ease, equals or servants. No other man rivaled him—and he was beyond her reach. He was the second son of the Earl of Strathford and, therefore, unattainable. Her heart ached for the hurt Reginald must feel; she was familiar with the yearning of unrequited love.
Marjorie knew who she was and where she fell in the social order. Aunt Harriet married into a well-connected family and introduced Marjorie into the society that her mother gave up in marrying her father. But Marjorie would always be the stable master’s daughter. If Reginald were to notice her, his relations and friends would despise her on principle. Some truths could not be softened even in daydreams.
Marjorie despaired of ever making a match due to another hindrance. Few considered red hair, freckles, and a thin frame fashionable. Thankfully, she had her aunt’s faith she could make a good match, perhaps, with a clergyman or barrister or some such respectable man with an occupation to allow her a comfortable lifestyle and access to her passion for art and architecture.
Somerstone Manor would have a great many prominent guests, but Lady Du’Breven was a friend to Aunt Harriet and, upon meeting Marjorie in London, insisted the two come for a visit. Somerstone promised beautiful sites and intriguing discoveries, and Marjorie wanted to sketch each detail during her visit.
The carriage came to a stop. Servants unloaded their trunks, their voices easily heard. “Shall we see if the inside is as overdone as the outside?” Aunt Harriet pulled her mouth to the side in an effort to hide her smile.
Marjorie put a finger to her lips, trying to shush her aunt. Harriet possessed soft Sunday manners, but a wicked tendency to tease behind people’s backs.
The carriage door opened, and a footman held out his hand. Marjorie gasped, thinking she had conjured Reginald. But no, this man was dressed in livery. She had never seen a footman with a physique and features like him. His Grecian nose and intelligent hooded eyes gave him the air of an undercover aristocrat. How odd.
“May I assist you down?” He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.
She was staring, and his smile indicated he thought he knew why. Heat singed her cheeks.
“Gaudy,” Harriet whispered loudly.
In a snap, the spell was broken. Marjorie suppressed her laughter and could not stop smiling as the footman helped her alight from the carriage.
Servants unloaded trunks and assisted other carriages. A man traveling alone slipped off his horse and flashed a dark glance at her, as if to say Marjorie’s smiles made her shallow. From the privacy her bonnet afforded, Marjorie watched him as she and her aunt ascended the stone steps to the entrance. He muttered under his breath. She preferred Reginald’s laughter to this man's brooding. He entered the house, and she made a note to avoid him. If only she could find a safe corner and fade into the background.
“Do you remember in La Fontaine’s Fables, the story of the town mouse and the country mouse?” Marjorie asked.
“Why yes, I do. Though I believe it was about rats.”
“Oh, that is horrendous.”
Harriet leaned her head in. “Go on, dearest.”
Insecurity bloomed in Marjorie’s chest. She did not belong among the elite. “I fear I am the country mouse. I am completely out of my element.” Perhaps it was time to return to her father and the cottage near the stable.
“Nonsense. I am your guide. Do not go running off to the country simply because you are frightened.”
Marjorie laughed, touched by how well her aunt knew her. “I suppose no one will realize I am the country mouse. In any case, let us hope no dogs lurk about to ravage our party.”
“Ah, there most certainly are predators. Be on alert, dearest,” Aunt Harriet said as they reached the last step. “That was a climb. Is your breathing troubling you?”
“Not at all.” Though her heart beat fast at the prospect of meeting so many people.
“Chin up, shoulders back, deep breath.” Aunt Harriet’s slender frame looked regal, and, when she smiled in approval, Marjorie relaxed. “There now, that’s better. My only word of advice is to let the guide talk about the house’s art and not repeat past mistakes.”
“I committed that faux pas one time.” Marjorie narrowed her eyes. “I couldn’t stay mute when the tour guide repeatedly used he and his while discussing Marguerite Gérard’s work—not when she is the first woman in France to find success in a man’s field.”
The rain continued to fall beyond the covered entrance. Aunt Harriet adjusted her pinned hair. “I adore you, Marjorie. This set can be unforgiving, but it should not matter to our goals for you.”
“Lady Du’Breven needn’t have extended the invitation to include me if she really only wanted you to attend.” Marjorie said.
“We are old friends, it is true. But Lady Du’Breven extended the invitation for your benefit, not mine. You must have made a favorable impression when introduced to her during the season. Lady Du’Breven was deeply in love with her late husband and misses him dreadfully. She loves nothing quite so much as seeing good matches made.” Aunt Harriet gestured to the double doors, and footmen opened them.
The gentle presence of her aunt beside her reassured Marjorie as they were led into an extravagant entryway. Her damp boots squeaked on the polished floor, and voices carried laughter from deep in the house. A vase of white blooming roses permeated a rich aroma of tea with a hint of clover. Aunt Harriet kept Marjorie firmly beside her as they entered the gathering of ladies and gentlemen and an ancient butler took their gloves, bonnets, and pelisses. She and her aunt moved as one through a f
ew introductions, which all overwhelmed her and blended together. Aunt Harriet kept her from crumbling like hot cross buns when Marjorie sucked in a breath.
Reginald—her Reginald—leaned a hand against a doorway. She ought not to stare. His rank and her status separated them. He could reject her and shame her among the privileged. Yet she dared hope he would finally notice her.
His gaze swept her from head to toe and then captured Marjorie’s gaze with all the force of a lightning storm.
2
Dangerous Arrangement
Miles Beauchamp kept an eye on his brother as he checked the arriving carriages. The butler announced new arrivals, his grainy voice echoing through the entryway.
“Her hair is red as a fox,” said the man dressed like a peacock.
“I happen to like foxhunting.” Reginald said to his companions. He touched his chin, his sly smile making his eyes squint.
Miles was not sure he could survive two weeks of a frivolous house party. His pocket watch weighed in his coat like lead. He had too much work to do. But family obligations came first, and Reginald needed looking after. At least he’d rescued his brother from the scoundrel company he kept in London. If Reginald could remain free from gambling and drinking for a few weeks, perhaps he would come to himself again. And it would give Miles and his solicitor a chance to examine Reginald’s finances.
