by Patty Deans
The Hawkthorn Ghost Plays Cupid
A Regency Romance
By Patty Deans
Published by Awe-Struck E-Books
Copyright ©2001
ISBN: 1-58749-109-5
Electronic rights reserved by Awe-Struck E-Books, all other rights reserved by author. The reproduction or other use of any part of this publication without the prior written consent of the rights holder is an infringement of the copyright law.
Publisher's Dedication
For Patty Deans, who did not live to see this book published. We hope you are pleased. And to Joanne McCraw, who lovingly edited this book for Patty, a fellow Regency author she would never meet. Well done, Joanne!
CHAPTER 1
Hawkthorn Manor, England
October 15, 1811
Mist curled around the hidden door. The Old Earl stepped into the room. His tall majestic figure, dressed in a burgundy velvet coat, sparkled in the moonlight like rubies. He twirled his cane then bowed from the waist.
"I need you," whispered young Robert Craigh.
"What might a six-year-old be worrying about after the sun goes down?" The apparition spoke in his usual hoarse voice, slightly above a whisper.
"I heard Julia tell Miss Harper the Earl of Hawkthorn is on his way home." Robert hugged his book to his chest. "He is the Dragon of Hawkthorn."
The Old Earl clicked his heels, and brushed back his shoulder-length, white hair. The lace that hung below his sleeve swayed with the movement, disturbing the mist. "This is good news."
Robert wiped away a tear, hoping the Old Earl would not notice. "But, sir, the dragon is a most fierce beast and I fear I am not big enough to protect Julia properly."
Wrinkled jowls trembled as the Old Earl shook his head. "There is no need to be afraid. Jameson merely swaggers and belches fire as any good dragon should."
"Fire?" Robert's eyes widened in disbelief, his book splattered to the floor, and the golden title, Hawkthorn Dragon, glittered in the moonlight. "Will he burn Julia?"
"Words are his fire." The Old Earl's fists disappeared in the pockets of his pantaloons. Rocking on the heels of his square-toed boots, he added, "James has a big heart, much like Julia's."
"Oh, if his heart's the same, is he no taller than she?" Robert asked, hopeful that between he and Julia, they could hold off a dragon that stood not much taller than a horse's withers.
The earl drew his hand from his pocket and leveled it above his own head, "He is bigger than Julia, bigger than I, but he has a loving heart -- like Julia."
Dismay snuffed Robert's spark of hope. "It's a dragon's heart and Julia would never have a dragon's heart."
The old man shook his finger. "Nor should you believe that Jameson has a dragon's heart." Shrugging his tall Boney frame, he swaggered closer, his voice a haunting serenade. "Ah, James steals your heart before you know it. Julia quietly demands you give her yours. But it all ends up the same. They have your heart."
Robert raised his eyebrows. "Julia showed me how to feel my heartbeat. I still have my heart."
The old man smiled. "Perhaps, when you're older, you'll understand. James will protect you, and keep the land profitable." Then with a flourish he twirled into a mist, and magically back again. "James will teach you to ride."
Robert wistfully sighed. "To ride as well as Julia?"
"Balderdash! You will ride better." The Old Earl shook a pointed forefinger with emphasis. "Julia fears you'll be thrown, and it interferes with her teaching you. Her skill comes naturally. She can't teach something she's never learned."
"I'll never have Julia's bottom. Aunt Shredda says only a few can ride so well."
"James will teach you," the Old Earl insisted.
"But Julia says he'll chase her away." Robert sniffed back his tears, and he rammed his fist against his teeth to keep from crying.
The old man bent low to face the boy. "No, he won't...we won't let him."
"Can your magic stop James from turning into a fierce dragon?"
"I need no magic. James' now the earl. He will tend the land and you'll ride with him. Julia can spend more time with you, young man. You'll see."
Very pleased at being called a young man, Robert confided in a whisper, "Julia doesn't like the Hawkthorn Dragon."
With a shake of his white hair, the Old Earl whispered, "Never you mind. That won't be a problem for long."
"You promise he will never harm Julia?" Robert looked into the old man's eyes searching for the truth.
The Old Earl laughed heartily. "On my honor."
"And Julia will be able to spend hours with me?"
"What are you planning to do with Julia?"
"Julia is teaching me Greek, sir. And I am behind in my translations."
"Greek!" The shaggy white eyebrows raised, the old man leaned closer, and shook his finger. "James will teach you to ride! The wind to your back racing after the fox." Then he heaved a long sigh. "Ah, I do miss the hunt. You have more need to learn to control a horse than to read Greek."
Robert's lip curled, and he forced himself not to laugh. "Papa and Mama told me those who can't read Greek always belittle the language."
"Humph!" The Old Earl swung his cane, and stood straight. "They never knew what they missed with their noses stuck in a book. Better to tend to the land, Robert, than read ridiculous books by my countess about imagined dragons. If James fails to beget an heir, you may have to take charge."
"Is begetting an heir difficult?"
With hardly a blink of a lash, the old man said, "'Tis what I expect of him. But we must both have patience, Robert."
The Old Earl faded away as usual when the sound of Miss Harper's heels reached the nursery.
She rushed across the room, and put her cool hand to Robert's head. "A bad dream, Master Robert?"
"I talked to myself," he reassured her, for it turned Miss Harper all starchy when he spoke of the Old Earl. Robert often asked the old man to talk to Miss Harper, but he always left before any of the household could see him. Julia insisted the Old Earl had died fifteen years ago, and Miss Harper feared he was a ghost.
Robert crawled under the covers. He wondered if he could lift the Hawkthorn sword to save Julia if the Old Earl's magic failed to protect her. Robert loved Julia; he would not let the Hawkthorn Dragon hurt her. Or belch fire near her.
CHAPTER 2
Jameson Craigh had changed, yet nothing had changed in London. Diamonds set in gold baubles, silks, and French brandies delicacies, were all still available. Napoleon's warring be damned. Obviously no one in London cared if a soldier fell, and spilled his blood on a battlefield.
James shook his head hoping the action would chase away the unbidden shivers that raced up and down his spine. What could be wrong? He was in England. He was home. Why would he feel a sense of urgency as powerful as when he dodged cannon balls on the battlefield? Why had he survived fighting on foreign soil when his brother died in a carriage accident not fifteen miles from London?
By Jove! It seemed as if he were dreaming up worries like his man Casper.
Above his head the solicitor's faded sign swayed against the gray sky. He shrugged off the old wariness of battle, and reminded himself it wasn't a call to arms, but a courtesy call to collect any message the solicitor might have for Papa. He dashed up the flight of stairs, two steps at a time.
The old clerk, Miza, opened the creaky door and, instead of the usual nod, he bowed. "This way, my lord." He stepped aside.
James nodded, determined to adjust to being an heir to an earldom instead of a second son. Inhaling musty air, he followed Miza down the narrow hall to the solicitor's office.
"Earl of Hawkthorn, Mr. Jones," The stooped
clerk announced before he discreetly disappeared.
Startled by the use of his father's title, James stared at Stewart Jones, expecting a correction.
Mr. Jones rose from his massive desk, and gave a slight bow. "Lord Hawkthorn, I have been expecting you."
"My father?"
"He died two days after he sent for you. I assume you did not receive the missive informing you of his death?"
"No!" Stunned by the news, James grabbed the smooth back of a nearby chair. "It would have been difficult, but I would have returned immediately."
"Your father was in the same accident that took his wife and your brother."
"Papa didn't mention he rode in the carriage."
Stewart nodded, and motioned James to sit. "I have prayed for your return. You are needed at Hawkthorn."
He did not want to believe he'd never see them again. Denial made James say, "You mean..." His voice staggered to a halt.
"Of course." Stewart, his expression grave, added, "You are now Earl of Hawkthorn."
James slumped in the chair, and rested his head in his hands. He stared at the worn wooden floor, his mind flooded with memories. And regrets.
The lean solicitor eased himself back into his chair. His fingers fidgeted with the papers in front of him until the clock struck the hour. "May I presume you will be staying in England?"
James raised his head to nod before he drew in a fortifying breath. "When exactly did my father die?"
Stewart appeared nervous. He turned his gaze away, and cleared his throat. "A few days before Christmas. The fourteenth of December to be exact. Several weeks after the tragic accident."
James flinched. "More than ten months ago!" He dragged in a slow breath. "Tell me about the accident." It surprised him that he sounded more like his grandfather than an officer and gentleman.
Clearing his throat, Stewart began, "It happened during one of those unpredictable ice storms. Your brother, father and stepmother were returning home the morning after Squire Henry's annual ball. Your father survived because he was thrown from the carriage."
"What about Robert?"
Stewart looked pleased when James mentioned his half brother. He settled back in his leather chair, and steepled his fingers. "Robert remained at Hawkthorn with his governess."
"And Julia?" James leaned forward, remembering the feisty little girl with a mop of golden curls, and mischievous blue eyes.
"Your cousin was visiting your aunt, Lady Loretta, here in London."
James gripped the arms of his chair. "What caused Papa's death?"
"Grief, mostly. Shattered by the death of his beloved wife, and unable to speak of his oldest son. But pneumonia weakened him. He wanted to talk to you," Stewart replied sadly.
"I'm sorry I wasn't here to be with him," James admitted, feeling the loss with such fierce poignancy, he wanted to be alone with his grief. It wasn't possible now. "Papa and I had our moments of disagreement. He was a good father, and though I wasn't his best pupil, I did learn to translate accurately." Looking at Stewart with resignation, James held back the tears that welled in his eyes. "Death is always close in battle. Still one never gets used to it."
Stewart nodded in agreement. "I sat with your father during his last moments. The Earl had immense faith in you, my lord." As he dabbed his eyes with a white handkerchief, Stewart suddenly appeared weary and old.
Strange, Stewart Jones always seemed ageless and invincible, like Papa. James fisted his hand and held his breath. It will be difficult to ever accept the finality of death.
"Even near the end..." Stewart's voice cracked. "Your father expressed his confidence in you to right the estate. He seemed pleased it would not suffer through a second generation of neglect." He raised his handkerchief to his forehead, and wiped his wrinkled brow. "The earldom signified a weighty responsibility and your father's interest, rest his soul, lay more in scholarly pursuits."
"Both Papa and my brother devoted their lives to translating the great classics." James straightened in the chair. "Not like the Old Earl. That is how my brother and I referred to our grandfather."
With a nod of acknowledgment, Stewart returned his handkerchief to his pocket, and wrung his hands. "Would you like to go over the books?"
James wanted it clear that the friendly relationship, Stewart and Papa had enjoyed, would continue with himself. "There is no hurry, Mr. Jones. I would like to see all the tenants before I look at the books. Perhaps you should join me at the estate in a fortnight."
"Please, call me Stewart."
Stretching his arm across the desk, James shook the offered hand to seal their accord.
"Although the books are in order..." Stewart paused before adding, "the tenants have been too long without the direction of an Earl of Hawkthorn."
What about Hawkthorn's condition made Stewart nervous? In any event, James inherited the title with all the responsibilities that entailed. Anxious to put an end to the meeting, and call on Papa's tailor to order appropriate clothes to replace his uniform, he said, "I will try to emulate the Old Earl, and restore Hawkthorn to the glory it had during his life."
"Your father believed you would do just that."
James nodded, pleased by his father's confidence.
The old man's eyebrows rose, "Lady Loretta is anxious to see you."
"I will make it a point to stop by and see her before I leave London."
Stewart spoke softly. "Your aunt has left London. She is staying at Hawkthorn. You may need some advice from her."
James raised his eyebrows. "Pray tell what might that be about?"
Stewart leaned forward unconsciously fingering his beard. "The young lady, my lord."
James shook his head not understanding what the solicitor meant. "The young lady?"
Reaching into a drawer, Stewart pulled out a few papers, and placed them on his desk before he said, "Your cousin, Lady Julia, and your half brother, Master Robert, are your wards."
"Yes, of course," James mumbled to himself.
"I believe you are the one who gave Lady Loretta the name of Aunt Shredda." Stewart smiled. "Robert and Lady Julia call her Aunt Shredda, too."
"Yes," James said off-hand before continuing in a more serious vein. "Aunt Shredda will insist I marry for their sakes."
"I assume you are right on that account."
"You understand, I will not allow my aunt to run my life." That brought a chuckle from James' chest, and he leaned on the desk briefly. "I don't want a wife. Truthfully, I will not mind raising two children."
"They have grown older..."
"So have we all." James shrugged. "I can handle them. They will be less trouble than a battalion of tired, hungry men."
"Of course, my lord!" The old man smiled. "Are we agreed that I travel to Hawkthorn in a fortnight?"
James nodded wondering what had amused Stewart Jones. As he walked down the gloomy hall, he recalled his youthful wildness that had brought misery upon his father. Hawkthorn must have been clothed in black last Christmas with Papa dying just before the holidays.
But now, he thought, Hawkthorn belonged to him and would be decorated for Christmas. He would see that Robert and Julia never experienced a lonely holiday again.
As he left the musty office, Miza bowed. "Good day, my lord."
He nodded at the old man, dashed down the stairway to the street. At the curve in the street James found the tiny shop with Papa's aging tailor.
"This way, my lord. I'm sorry about your father. He often admitted you would be a far better earl." The short, stout tailor led James to the back room, and as he stepped back, added, "I will see that you have several changes, the rest of your clothes will be sent within the week." The tailor bowed respectfully.
James nodded. "It is most kind of you to rush my order."
"Your father would expect that of me, my lord."
After an hour at the tailor, James walked through the dark narrow alley to his carriage thinking of the many nights he'd slept on the ground, bu
t tonight he'd be in a fine hotel in a warm room with a soft bed. He would dine in splendor. It had been a long time since he'd had luxuries available to him. The war, a long way off, would not cease. Others would fight to keep England free. He vowed to never forget those soldiers.
By nightfall he would no longer be known as His Majesty's officer, but as the Earl of Hawkthorn with the responsibility of the estate, and his heir, Robert.
And, of course, Julia.
***
As the sun set, James dashed up the stairs to White's Club, and looked around. He saw a hand lifted in greeting. Glen Sharn limped a few feet from his table to signal James. His best friend seemed to have grown stout since he left the battlefield. A wounded leg and eight months had obviously done more good than harm. James hurried over to his friend, shook his hand, then sat opposite Glen at the table.
"I'm glad you could join me. I've met with Papa's solicitor. I suppose you know..."
"You're now the earl."
"Yes. I'm excited about being a guardian. I actually feel blessed with Robert and Julia left in my charge. In some way I suppose I want to compensate for the havoc soldiers cause the innocent. I'm tired of seeing children forage for food and not know the fun of fishing. I want to see children laugh."
"At long last," Glen laughingly shouted, "the Dragon of Hawkthorn is returning home as its earl."
A few interested heads turned, and eyed them curiously.
James rolled his eyes remembering when he'd acquired that nickname. "Damn, I wonder who else remembers Julia calling me the Dragon of Hawkthorn? She shouted it so all the servants could hear. The little imp used to play in the creek with the stable boys. She bit me, you know, after I reported her actions to my stepmother, who didn't take it at all well. The little spitfire certainly gave me a pinch of trouble."
Glen's smiled skeptical.
"I'll take her a doll to sweeten her. All little girls like dolls." He laughed looking at Glen's grin. "For God's sake man, why would you remember what that ragamuffin called me?"
"It describes you more aptly than anything I've ever thought to call you." Glen leaned forward, and lifted his glass of wine. "Come now, James, she's but a tiny little girl with a monstrous amount of spirit."
