by Mary Nichols
Dear Reader,
Claiming the Ashbrooke Heir is a shorter story than I usually write and presented me with a challenge. The story is set in Regency times when being an unmarried mother was a terrible disgrace; her reputation would be in tatters and marriage out of the question, no matter how mitigating the circumstances, so my heroine is in trouble from the start, ostracised and penniless. But she adores her tiny son and is determined to make a good life for them, despite all the obstacles. I hope you enjoy finding out how she overcomes these obstacles to find true love in the end. I certainly enjoyed writing it for you.
Mary Nichols
Born in Singapore, MARY NICHOLS came to England when she was three, and has spent most of her life in different parts of East Anglia. She has been a radiographer, school secretary, information officer and industrial editor, as well as a writer. She has three grown-up children and four grandchildren.
Claiming the Ashbrooke Heir
Mary Nichols
www.millsandboon.co.uk
Table of Contents
Cover
Dear Reader
About the Author
Title Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
July 1813
ANNETTE, carrying a brown paper parcel which contained the mending she had been given to do, dashed along the road so fast she was almost running. It was a hot day; the sun beat down mercilessly, reflecting the heat from the streets, and her chemise and underskirt were sticking to her.
She hated leaving Timmy in the care of her slatternly landlady but she had no choice; she had to work to earn enough to pay their rent and buy food. Every minute she was away from him felt like an hour, and she imagined all manner of terrible things happening while she was absent. He might be taken ill, with Mrs Grosse not realising or even caring that something was wrong, or one of the woman’s brood of children might pick him up and drop him. He was only six weeks old, and very tiny, which was hardly surprising after all that had happened to her.
His birth had not been easy, and she had been prepared not to take to him, but when he had been put into her arms by the woman who had been fetched in to help she had loved him at once. He was so small and helpless, with a little screwed-up face, a tuft of golden hair and tiny fingers that had a surprisingly firm grip. She had cried over him, knowing he had been born into a hostile world, and that she would have a struggle on her hands to keep them from starving, but do it she would. She had to make the best of the situation for both their sakes.
The pavement was crowded with pedestrians, most of them in a hurry to go somewhere, though a few hawkers stood by their barrows, selling vegetables and fruit. She was dodging between them when she looked up and saw a man walking towards her and her heart missed a beat. It was Jeremy; she was sure of it. What was he doing in Norwich? Surely he had not come looking for her? She put her head down, hoping he had not seen her.
She knew she had changed. Since her son’s birth the weight had dropped off her. Her once thick hair had become thinner and there were dark rings round her eyes from lack of sleep, because Timmy cried a lot. He was not thriving as he ought to be, and she supposed it was because she had been husbanding the little money she had very carefully and she did not get enough to eat, so that her milk held little sustenance.
The man was almost level with her now. She slowed down to risk a glance at him from beneath the rim of her chip bonnet and realised it was not Jeremy, after all, but someone who looked like him. He was wearing a black frock coat with black velvet facings, black pantaloons and a double-breasted waistcoat. It was not his sombre clothes that reminded her of Jeremy, who favoured bright colours, it was his face. He had beautifully chiselled features, blue eyes and curly brown hair so like Jeremy’s it was uncanny. But this man was taller and broader than Jeremy, and his complexion was darker—as if he spent long hours out of doors; he was altogether a more mature man, though probably only a few years older.
Her relief was so profound she smiled. The smile took him by surprise. Not because she had smiled; after all there were plenty of doxies on the streets of Norwich who habitually approached men with a smile in the hope of attracting their custom. No, it was the fact that it lit her face. It was like sunshine after rain. His own fanciful imagery made him smile too, and he found himself doffing his hat to her.
Taken aback, she stumbled, and a man hurrying along behind her bumped into her. The parcel flew from her hands. She reached out to grab it and lost her balance. The gentleman moved so quickly she was not even aware of it until his strong hands steadied her. Miraculously he managed to catch her parcel at the same time.
‘Are you hurt, ma’am?’ His voice was deep and mellifluous.
‘No, not at all. Thanks to your swift action. And you saved my parcel too. I am indebted to you.’
Once again she surprised him. Her clothes, though clean, were well-worn, but her voice was cultured, the voice of someone educated, someone who could express herself among gentlefolk. He returned her package and bowed. ‘My pleasure, ma’am.’
She took it, thanked him, and then hurried on, faster than ever now. She had to get back to Timmy. The encounter with the man who had looked so much like Jeremy had shaken her and made her realise how fragile was the life she had built around herself, how easily it could fall about her ears.
She left the busy streets behind and turned down an alley close to the river. Here the houses were huddled drunkenly together, and the air was filled with the stench of the river and the brewery close by. Ragged children played in the gutter and a couple of stray dogs fought over something loathsome. Annette hurried past them, in at one of the doors, and up the uncarpeted stairs to a room at the top of the house. She could hear Timmy crying.
‘Mama’s back,’ she said, dropping her parcel on the table and crossing the room to pick him up. He was soaked. ‘Oh, you poor thing. We shall soon have you dry and smelling sweet again.’
She sat on her bed to change him, annoyed with Mrs Grosse for not seeing to him when she was being paid to do so. When he was once more clean and dry, she fed him and sat cuddling him, staring at the filthy walls of her room and musing on how she had come to such a pass. This was the second home she had had since leaving Riseborough Hall, if you could call this hovel a home, but while she had her son she would do anything, put up with anything. He was the be all and end all of her existence.
If only Mama were still alive! But if she had been Annette would not have been working at Riseborough Hall, and she certainly would not be where she was now. They would still be in their cosy little home in Islington, running a school for young ladies, readying them for Society. There had been one or two younger children too, and it had been Annette’s task to teach them the rudiments of reading and writing and how to enjoy themselves in play.
It was that ability to relate to young children that had led Lady Somers, the mother of one of the pupils, to recommend her to Lady Ashbrooke, who had been looking for a nursery maid for her two young children. It had been the week after Mama’s funeral, and Annette had been sitting in the parlour after they had all gone, knowing that without an income she could not hope to stay in the house. Her plight had been brought home to her very forcefully when the landlord had given her notice to quit. A young girl of fifteen could not possibly live alone, he had told her, and if she had no one to take her in then she had best make her way to the workhouse. Lady Somers’ intervention had been a godsend.
At Riseborough Hall she had been given two grey cot
ton dresses and several white aprons and a cap which constituted her uniform. Nearly four years she had been there, helping Miss Burnley, the children’s governess, to look after Isabelle, who had been four years old when she first arrived and Harriet who was two. She had grown to love them, fitting into the regime of the house-hold, glad to have a roof over her head and a small wage, and to learn a little of the ways of the aristocracy, for whom money meant very little and family reputation everything. She had sullied that, so her ladyship had said. No, she had not, she told herself. It had been Jeremy who had done that, but she was the one being punished.
She went to the table and opened the parcel she had brought in with her. If it had not been for the gentleman rescuing it, it would have been trampled in the dirt and then she would have been in trouble. It contained two sheets, petticoats, stockings, underclothes—all of which needed mending. The work had to be done and returned the next day, when she would be paid two shillings and sixpence.
‘Do a good job and we might find more for you to do,’ the housekeeper at one of the grand houses on St Stephen’s Street had told her.
Thankful to find something after knocking on doors for the best part of the morning, she had been almost triumphant as she’d carried the parcel away and hurried home to Timmy. She had work of a sort and they would not starve. Not today at any rate. She took the first sheet and her workbox to the window, where the light was better, and set to work. Her fingers were busy, but it left her brain with nothing to do but reflect on the past.
Had Jeremy really condoned what had happened to her at the hands of his autocratic mother? ‘You may have that,’ she had said, pushing five gold coins along the table towards her, as if she could not bear to put them directly into her hand. ‘That does not mean I believe your story, not for a minute. I do not. You are nothing but a harlot and not fit to have contact with my innocent children.’ Annette had known it was no good expecting Jeremy to back her story because, according to Miss Burnley, he had been packed off to join his elder brother who was in Spain, fighting the war against Napoleon Bonaparte. To keep him out of her clutches, she supposed.
Oh, how she had longed to fling the coins back at the woman. But fortunately her good sense had come to her aid and she had pocketed it, telling herself it would be repaid in full one day. One day she would make Lady Ashbrooke eat her words.
Her ladyship had known perfectly well that she had no family, that there was not a soul in the world to whom she could turn, and yet she had given her only half an hour to pack and leave—and that in the middle of one of the harshest winters anyone could remember. Now, in the stifling heat of a July afternoon, with her child sleeping the sleep of the innocent and her hands busy with her needle, she could almost feel the cold.
She had left the house on foot, carrying her portmanteau which, except for a few books which had been too heavy to carry, contained the sum of her possessions—including the four gowns she had taken to Riseborough with her and not been allowed to wear. ‘Too grand for a nursery maid,’ Miss Burnley had said. What had lain before her was unknown and terrifying, and she had hardly noticed the snow seeping into her shoes, or that her toes and fingers were numb.
She had been passing Becky Musgrove’s cottage on the edge of the village when the woman herself had opened her door and called out to her. ‘Annie! Annie Ryston, where are you off to in this weather?’
Becky was elderly and tiny, with a mop of almost white hair, cornflower-blue eyes and a rosy complexion. She had once been nurse to Charles and Jeremy, the two older Ashbrooke boys by his lordship’s first wife, and now lived a simple but comfortable life in the cottage, on a pension provided by Lord Ashbrooke.
‘I am going to catch the carrier’s wagon.’
‘You’ll not do that today, m’dear, the roads are impassable. Didn’t you know that?’
‘Oh, no. Now what am I to do?’
‘Best come in and sit by the fire; you look frozen.’
She turned and followed the old lady into the cottage. It was a very tiny dwelling, but sparkling clean, and a good fire burned in the grate of the living room. The table had been laid for one and a delicious smell was coming from a pot suspended over the flames. She moved towards the warmth and held out her frozen hands.
‘Sit down, child,’ Becky invited. ‘And take off those shoes and stockings or you will catch your death of cold.’ Taking Annette’s cloak, she hung it over the back of a chair close to the fire. ‘Whatever possessed you to come out on a day like this? I cannot imagine what her ladyship was thinking of to allow it.’
‘It was her ladyship sent me out,’ she said, divesting herself of her wet footwear.
Becky looked towards the portmanteau, which had been dropped by the door. ‘You’ve never been turned off?’
‘Yes.’
‘Goodness me, whatever have you done to deserve that?’
She looked up at the sympathetic woman and blinked back tears. ‘Been a gullible fool.’
‘Oh.’ The old lady digested this with apparent understanding, then she said, ‘It was Jeremy, I suppose?’
‘I’m not saying.’
‘You do not have to. I have seen him about the estate with you and the children and I can guess. Of the two boys in my care, he was by far the biggest handful. Not that Charles was an angel, far from it, but he was always the more thoughtful and responsible of the two. But I am surprised at you being taken in.’
Looking back, so was she, but it had begun so slowly she had been lulled into feeling easy with him. Back from university, and because of the war unable to go on a Grand Tour, which most young men of his rank usually did, he had been kicking his heels about the estate, ripe for mischief. He would make excuses to join her when she was out with the children, and then he would make himself agreeable, talking of nothing in particular, strolling along beside her, being charming and helpful. Then it had progressed to compliments on her good looks and her cleverness, and later he would send the children on ahead so that he could take her hand and flirt with her. And she, fool that she was, had soaked it up, believing him to be sincere.
She had been too naïve to see where it was all leading until the night he had come to her room and sat on the bed, saying he could not sleep for thinking about her. It had not been until he’d started to touch her through her nightclothes, murmuring endearments the whole time, that the alarm bells had begun to ring in her brain and she’d thrust his hand away and told him to go back to bed. If he had really loved her, as he’d said he did, he would have stopped then, but he took no notice, hardly seemed to hear her. She had not dared cry out for fear of waking the children, who slept in the rooms adjoining hers. Instead she had struggled silently and ineffectually.
He had been a bit sheepish afterwards, grinning while he dressed himself and kissing her lightly before he left her room, as if he had done nothing untoward. ‘Part of your education,’ he had told her. It had certainly been that. If it had taught her one thing it had taught her not to trust anyone—especially not young men with bright gold hair, mischievous blue eyes and winning smiles.
‘What are you going to do?’ the old lady asked.
‘I don’t know. I must find work where I can live in until—’ She stopped suddenly, unable to contemplate the future. The prospect of the birth itself was frightening enough without the added worry of not knowing how they were both to live. The thought came to her that perhaps they would not live, either of them. Many women died in childbirth. Wealthy women as well as poor ones. It had happened to the wife of Mr Charles, so she had heard from servants’ gossip. She had never met him, but if he was anything like his brother then it was as well she had not.
‘When is it due?’
‘Her ladyship called their physician in and he said about the beginning of June.’
‘Some time yet, then…’ Becky paused, then added, ‘I have been thinking. My sister Martha takes in boarders and might be able to help. She is a widow and lives in Norwich. You will need to pa
y her; she is not a wealthy woman.’
‘Oh, do you think she would? I would be so very grateful. I am sure I can find work even if it is only sewing.’
It had been easy to say that, sitting in a cosy room by a warm fire, with the bowl of soup Becky had just handed her in front of her. Since then she had discovered just how hard it was for a mother with a child and no man to support her.
Becky had offered her a bed for the night, saying she couldn’t turn a dog out in that weather, and she had accepted gratefully. It was more than she could have hoped for when she had left the Hall, but she had been well aware it was only a temporary reprieve, that the future had to be faced. Shunned by society, spat upon, refused work and lodgings, all because of a child and the lack of a wedding band.
She had kept out of sight while she was with Becky, afraid that someone might see her and report her presence to the Hall, but three days later the roads had been cleared and she had set out on the carrier’s cart to Bury St Edmunds, where she had boarded the stage to Norwich. Inside her bag was a letter to Mrs Porter, Becky’s widowed sister, who lived in St Ann’s Lane.
Mrs Porter was not at all like her motherly sibling. She was thin and hard-faced, but while Annette had been able to pay for lodgings she had been prepared to tolerate her, believing her to be Mrs Annie Anstey, the widow of a soldier killed in Portugal. It was there that her son had been born and put into her arms, and in that moment she had known that, whatever had brought him into life, she would nurture him and love him with every ounce of her strength. That was what had been missing ever since her mother had died: someone she could truly love and who might love her.
Lady Ashbrooke’s five guineas, along with the proceeds from selling her mother’s wedding ring and a small pendant which had been all that was left of her jewellery, had kept her going through her pregnancy, but a week ago all but a few shillings had gone, and she had been obliged to admit she did not have the rent money.
