The Apple Blossom Bower (Historical Romance Novella)

by Margaret Evans Porter

  “What a pretty name,” Elizabeth commented. “I’m sorry I shan’t be able to meet her. Did Garth tell you we no longer have the house in Dover Street?”

  Edwin shook his head.

  “Father suffered financial reverses and couldn’t afford to maintain it, or our former mode of living. He meant to lease it, until Garth came clean about how very much he’d lost at cards. The contents had to be sold as well. And so we removed to Lyme.”

  “I didn’t know. Garth said something about a few possessions being sold, but he gave no reason. I’m sorry.”

  “I rather like the change,” she said with apparent unconcern, “unlike my mother, who misses the opera and the fashionable assemblies. My brother cannot abide Lyme. Too provincial for his tastes.”

  Although she seemed undaunted by her family’s altered circumstances, Edwin pitied her. He had always liked Elizabeth and would always regard his former flirt as his friend—a much better one than Garth had turned out to be.

  “Garth is still sunk in debt,” she confided. “Father demanded that he give up the yacht. They had a dreadfully loud argument, and the very next day he sailed away. I don’t mind telling you I’ve been concerned. He’s reckless, and I do worry that his desperate need of money may lead him into greater trouble.”

  Her revelations solved the mystery of Garth’s motive for visiting Harbourne Court. Instead of curtailing his own expensive pleasures, the selfish young man schemed to fill the Corston coffers by marrying his sister to a wealthy baronet. And naturally he had coveted Jem Kelland’s mythical chest of gold, Annis’s supposed inheritance.

  He sent word to the stables that he wanted his fastest horses harnessed to the seldom-used chaise of which his great-uncle had been so proud.

  When he handed the young woman into the coach, she squeezed his fingers gratefully and said, “I confess I envy you, Edwin. I’d like to be married myself, to a certain gentleman in Lyme. He won’t easily win my father’s consent, for he hasn’t a title or a fortune. I don’t care, for we are well-suited. But you know how my parents are,” she concluded forlornly.

  “They’ll come around.”

  He wished he might accompany her to Totnes, for he needed to explain to Annis what had prevented him from meeting her at the fair. But escorting Elizabeth to a lodging house in his closed carriage was too risky—Garth might hear of it and make mischief.

  Alone again, his mind was flooded with memories of his night with Annis, whose instincts had compensated for her lack of experience in lovemaking. Her eagerness, her warmth, her pleasure had delighted him. Impatient for another chance to explore the magic of a shared bed, he intended to marry her as soon as possible.

  Amazing, he thought with a smile, what a kiss at harvest time could lead to.

  Edwin found his betrothed seated high in her apple tree, an open book upon her lap. The blossoms were dropping, the pale petals drifting to the ground as silently and beautifully as snowflakes.

  “Annis.”

  He read no welcome in her face.

  “I’m sorry I missed the fair,” he began, “but it couldn’t be helped. Your stepfather came to collect the bay mare. I couldn’t tell him I had plans to meet you, lest he guess you’d stopped at Harbourne Court on your way to Totnes. He stayed quite a while, and wanted to inspect my apple trees and—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said in a voice devoid of all expression.

  Her demeanor was not what he’d anticipated. “I would’ve ridden to Totnes after he left, but a visitor arrived. By the time she departed—”

  “She?”

  He’d never heard a single pronoun invested with so much disdain.

  “Elizabeth Corston. She was hunting her brother—poor girl, he threw her into the devil of a scrape. What’s more, his extravagant ways brought about their father’s ruin—the Corstons’ financial situation seems grave indeed. Garth can go hang, for all I care, but before he does I hope he’ll be sensible enough to sell his yacht and provide his sister with a dowry. She has a suitor in Lyme, but there’s—”

  “Does she? How do you know?”

  “She told me so. How I wish Garth had never come to Devonshire—it brought trouble on everyone. Mostly me, and at a time when I’d rather have devoted my whole attention to you.”

  She was seated so far above him that her next comment was inaudible.

  Exasperated, he said, “Do come down here, else I shall get a stiff neck. There are things I mean to say that I’d rather not shout.”

  She required no further incentive to descend from her perch. In an instant she was standing before him, her face prettily flushed and her eyes bright.

  “Now I shall have the stiff neck,” she said. “Why must you be so very tall?”

  Placing his hands upon her hips, he drew her close. “Annis, how soon can we be wed? I’m not inclined to wait three weeks for the bans, and would gladly travel to Exeter to obtain a special license from the dean of the cathedral.”

  “Mother says May weddings are unlucky,” she informed him regretfully.

  “Then ours will be in June. Early in the month.”

  “The very first day,” she promised, twining her arms about his neck.

  Reaching for the branch directly above their heads and plucked an intact blossom and presented it to her with a loving look. “By tomorrow all the flowers will have fallen. Your bower will be no more.”

  “The leaves will soon come in, and eventually the fruit. Before we know it, we’ll be celebrating another harvest home.”

  “And I shall bring my wife back to this special place, and kiss her as passionately as I did last autumn.”

  Annis tucked his gift into her hair. “You needn’t wait. Do it now,” she commanded.

  Edwin took great pleasure in obeying.

  ~ ~ ~

  ~ About Margaret Evans Porter ~

  Award-winning author Margaret Evans Porter has published eleven highly acclaimed historical and Regency novels, including bestsellers and many foreign editions.

  She studied British history in the U.K., returned to the U.S. to complete her theatre training, and subsequently worked in film and television. She is listed in Who's Who in America; Who's Who in Authors, Editors and Poets; and Who’s Who in Entertainment.

  Margaret returns annually to Great Britain to research her books, and is an avid world traveler. She and her husband share their lakeside home with two lively dogs.

  Website: http://www.margaretevansporter.com.

  Facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/AuthorMargaretEvansPorter.

  Twitter: http://twitter.com/MargaretAuthor

  Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Margaret-Evans-Porter/e/B000API94Y

  Kissing a Stranger

  The Islanders Series, Book 1

  ~ Prologue ~

  Isle of Man: September, 1793

  Time to go home, Lavinia Cashin decided. Gray clouds curtained Mount Snaefell’s distant peak, and she’d get a soaking if she didn’t hurry. Before climbing onto her pony she tucked a flowery sprig of mountain heather and a young ivy tendril into a buttonhole.

  A purple, bell-shaped blossom dropped off, and she brushed it from her mud-brown skirt, woven from the fleeces of native Loghtan sheep. Originally the garment had belonged to her sister, and the fabric was thin in places, carefully patched and mended. Although the side seams had been taken in and the sleeves shortened, the faded crimson riding coat was rather large in the shoulders. It used to belong to brother.

  The old leather sidesaddle, another family relic, creaked when she mounted. “Walk on, Fannag.” In the language he understood the best, she added, “Immee er dty hoshaight.”

  The animal picked his way carefully down the steep mountainside path, past the crumbling remains of a tholtan, an abandoned Manx farmhouse. In fields bound by ragged stone walls, reapers were at work scything ripened oats and barley—it was Mean Fouyir, the middle of harvest, a busy time on the island.

  A strong breeze whipped Fannag’s
mane and Lavinia’s dusky curls—impossible to say which was more unruly or more tangled. This homeward journey over the hills and through the glens was the last time she would be so cavalier about her appearance.

  Her spirits sank lower when she arrived at the rocky headland crowned by the seaside castle her ancestors had acquired centuries ago. Seated on the front steps were her parents and brother, comfortably informal. Her sister perched before them on a camp stool, sketchpad open and pencil sweeping across the page.

  A talented, dedicated watercolorist, Kitty was working on Lavinia’s going-away present. “Did you ride to Snaefell?” she asked.

  “To the summit of North Barrule but no farther, for there’s a storm coming. Haven’t you finished yet?”

  “Impossible, without you. This is a family portrait, we all must be in it.”

  Dismounting, Lavinia led her pony across the ragged lawn to join the threesome posing on the steps. Her father perused his Manx Mercury, the weekly newspaper that circulated in the island, occasionally stroking the head of the tailless cat stretched out beside him. Her mother sorted the contents of the garden basket, separating and binding together the spent flower heads of mugwort and feverfew, costmary and wormword.

  Kerron lounged on the bottom step. Glancing up from his open book, he told Lavinia, “We feared the mooinjer veggey had caught you up there in the hills.”

  “I keep well away from the little men in green,” she answered, matching her brother’s playful tone. “Whenever I see their red caps, I run away quick as I can.”

  “Lhondhoo,” Kitty called, “don’t let Fannag’s head droop. And try not to look so gloomy.”

  “I can’t help it. By this time tomorrow, Father and I will be on our way to England.”

  With a strangled choke, Kitty laid down her drawing pencil. She reached for her handkerchief and coughed into it. Her parents exchanged worried glances.

  “Worse today,” said Lord Ballacraine.

  “I gathered yarrow,” said his wife. “It’s as beneficial to a weak chest as any of the doctor’s potions. And costs us nothing.”

  “We’ll soon have money enough to make her well,” he replied. “And send Kerr off to his university. The woolen mill is productive, and my cargo of cloth ought to fetch a high price in Liverpool. Before year’s end, our Lhondhoo will have her pick of the most eligible gentlemen in London.”

  Lavinia was doubtful about his last prediction. Their journey to England was an expensive gambit, and the desired outcome was her marriage to a wealthy gentleman. But she worried that her family’s great faith in her attractions was misplaced. In the years since her release from the schoolroom, she’d roamed the countryside like the vagabond she resembled rather than the nobleman’s daughter she truly was. Worse, she had no dowry. That her face could compensate for these troubling defects, as her siblings frequently asserted, seemed unlikely. In future she’d be judged by London standards, not Manx ones.

  Her father, of Celtic heritage, was one of the island’s dark people; her fair-skinned mother’s pedigree could be traced back to the Norse occupation. From the former she had thick black hair, tumbling down her back in windblown curls, and from the latter a light complexion and pale gray eyes. This combination of traits, the twins agreed, was arresting and unique. Lavinia remained unconvinced.

  “If no man will wed me, what’s to become of us?” she wondered aloud. “We could lose the castle.”

  Her father’s smile was confident, full of pride. “You’ve never lacked for partners at the assemblies in Ramsey and Douglas and Castletown,” he reminded her. “The London ones will be no different. You’ll have a multitude of admirers.”

  She hoped so, for her family’s sake. They depended upon her.

  Her mother reached into the basket and held up one of her cuttings. “Sleep with this beneath your pillow tonight, and your future husband will appear in your dreams.”

  Lavinia accepted the yarrow stalk and added it to the heather and ivy adorning her jacket.

  Could she find contentment and lasting love in a marriage of convenience? It seemed too much to hope for. A bridegroom who was truly fond of his bride, she reasoned, would probably be gentle and kind on the wedding night. But if a couple were barely acquainted, and if their motives for marrying had nothing to do with affection....

  She abandoned this depressing speculation to study the ragged coastline, the boundary of her small world for almost nineteen years. A strong blast of damp air chilled her to the core, another sign of the approaching tempest. Fannag’s ears twitched, and he swished his tail apprehensively. Lavinia patted his neck to soothe him, desperate for comfort herself.

  Hers was a close-knit family, bound together by their adversity and their poverty. Her parents were devoted to each other. The twins, though not identical in looks or temperament, were equal in being her best and truest friends. Kerr, with his well-trained mind and dark good looks, envied her more than a little; he waited impatiently for his turn to make the journey she would shortly embark upon. Kitty, domestically inclined and plagued by ill health, pitied her and tried not to show how much.

  Lavinia understood that her destiny lay elsewhere—she’d been told so all her life. Yet never had she imagined the heart-wrenching regret of these last days at Castle Cashin.

  A blackbird soared across the clouded sky.

  “Oh, look—listen!” she cried. “Lhondhoo came to say slane lhiat.”

  For to her sensitive ears, the bird’s plaintive call sounded exactly like a Manx farewell, and the finality of it made her even sadder.

  Part I

  In kissing, do you render or receive?

  William Shakespeare,

  Troilus and Cressida, act IV, scene V

  ~ Chapter 1 ~

  London, October 1793

  A stream of pedestrians crossing Bond Street brought Lavinia’s coach to a standstill. Watching them pass by, she marveled anew at the prosperity and assurance of London’s residents. People of all classes were well dressed and adequately shod. On her small and impoverished island, only the richest could afford fine fabrics. Everyone else wore plain and serviceable woolens and primitive shoes.

  English horses bore no resemblance to the stunted, rough-coated working animals kept by Manx crofters. They were uniformly large and perfectly groomed, whether pulling a gentleman’s carriage, a brewer’s cart, or a hired vehicle like the one returning her to her father’s rented townhouse in Cork Street.

  And the buildings! In fashionable Mayfair, dwellings of honeyed stone and warm brick lined the streets, testimony to the wealth of their occupants and the talents of English architects. Each time Lavinia passed a towering classical edifice supported by columns, she recalled the engravings in her brother Kerron’s Greek and Roman texts. Pointed church steeples were visible in all directions.

  Her gaze shifted from the busy street scene to the oblong box balanced on her maidservant’s lap. It held a garment of surpassing elegance, worthy of a princess—if not a queen—and would join a growing collection of gossamer gowns, plumy hats, smart jackets, and heeled shoes. Today she’d been measured for a proper riding habit. A necessary expense, her father declared, for she couldn’t hack about Hyde Park wearing her siblings’ castoffs.

  The carriage’s progress along Cork Street was slow, and a sedan chair speeded past it to appropriate a highly desirable space at the curb. Shouting curses at the pair of liveried chairmen, the jarvey accused them of piracy. Ignoring the lively exchange of insults and threats, Lavinia climbed carefully down from the coach, hampered by tight sleeves, confining stays and layer upon layer of muslin.

  The chair’s passenger exited his conveyance at the same moment. Facing her, he cried, “O, mio Dio!” His fair hair was tied behind with a wide satin bow, and he had deep brown eyes. The dramatic burgundy coat and green breeches offered a counterpoint to the pure whiteness of Lavinia’s gown.

  “Never did I expect to see so glorious a sight in this damp, gray city,” he told her,
coming even closer. “You belong in sunny Italy, bella signorina.”

  His bold appraisal was simultaneously unnerving and flattering Ignorance of town manners put her at a disadvantage, but she knew better than to encourage a man who flirted with her in the street, however handsome he might be.

  Beaming down at her from an immense height, he said, “I well know how people of your country greet one another.” He captured her chin in long, strong fingers and poked his head under her hat brim to kiss each of her cheeks. Then, very lightly, he brushed his lips against her mouth.

  Who was this madman?

  Evidently sensing her desire to bolt, he captured her forearms with strong hands. Lavinia, now thoroughly alarmed and incapable of speech, helplessly stared up at him. His grin was so infectious that for a moment she knew a mad desire to smile back—before her senses returned and she shook him off.

  When he stepped toward her again she glared fiercely and edged away. His chairmen snickered.

  Her surly hackney driver let out a braying laugh and called, “Catch her and buss her again, guv’nor!”

  Before the stranger could repeat his assault, Lavinia raced for the front door.

  As impudent as he was handsome, she fumed, face flaming after her very public mortification. He’d been making sport of her. No man so exquisitely and richly dressed—and so amazingly good-looking—could be sincere in his admiration. At first glance he’d surely realized she was a provincial, despite her modish finery, and had mocked her most cruelly. Not all Englishmen, it seemed, were coldly reserved and stiffly correct in their behavior.

  “He’s a devil, that one,” Polly grumbled, struggling with the cumbersome box.