Willing Love

by Mary Jean Adams

  “Too young for what you’re thinking.” Evan suppressed a grin. “I would guess she was not one and twenty, although she couldn’t be far from it.”

  “One and twenty?” Stu frowned and considered. “That’s plenty old enough for what I was thinking.”

  Evan snorted. “Not if she’s Rachel Ashcroft’s granddaughter, it’s not.”

  “If?” Stu asked. “What do you mean by if? Did she not say who she was?”

  “No, she didn’t as a matter of fact. She was too busy ordering her new stable master around.”

  “Stable master?” Stu hesitated, for a moment, his jaw hanging loose, then gave a barking laugh. “She thought you were the stable master? That is rich. Knowing your need for amusement, I’ll wager you didn’t explain circumstances to her either.”

  Evan couldn’t suppress his grin any longer. “Of course not.” He gave Demon one last pat on the flanks before turning to his former valet. “But even so, I could tell she was Rachel’s granddaughter. She had all the toughness of the old lady, even though she looked like she might blow away in a stiff wind.”

  “A scarecrow then? That’s too bad.” Stu glanced about at the well-kept stable with its stone floors, oak beams, and brass fixtures. “Still, I don’t suppose she’ll have any trouble making a match considering what she stands to inherit. I hope you put in a good word for me.”

  A scarecrow?

  Evan considered. He would not have characterized her as such. To be sure, his hands nearly circled her slender waist when he lifted her onto her saddle, and he barely registered her weight when she snuggled against his back. However, thanks to her stubborn refusal to ride sidesaddle, he had been treated to more than one glimpse of a softly rounded calf and shapely knee. No, she didn’t resemble a scarecrow. Not in the slightest.

  Besides, her eyes were a mossy green and full of life, not the dead eyes of a straw man. During most of their encounter, she had been frowning, her full lower lip tempting him to steal a kiss even while her displeasure was on full display.

  “I’m sorry, Stu. You were saying?” Evan had not heard a word his friend had uttered for the last several minutes.

  Stu’s grin suggested he knew exactly where Evan’s thoughts had been. “I was just saying that I wanted to thank you for finding me this position now that you’re going back to sea.”

  “I wouldn’t have recommended you to Mrs. Ashcroft had I thought you incapable of running a stable of this size,” Evan replied.

  “Stables,” Stu corrected with some awe in his voice. “By my count, there are three of them, and there must be close to fifty horses. I wonder how many of them belong to the Ashcroft estate.”

  “From what I’ve heard, in addition to a profitable trading business, Rachel Ashcroft breeds the finest horses around. Although”—Evan watched Bolt snort at Demon through the slats between their stalls—“I’ve also heard the mares can be a bit unpredictable.”

  Stu chuckled. “Nothing you can’t handle I am sure.”

  Bolt tried again to intimidate Demon. Having none of it, the big black gave her a snort that sent her side stepping away from him.

  “I do find the more temperamental the animal, the more loyal they become when tamed,” Evan said.

  “You mean broken?” Stu asked.

  “No, I don’t believe in breaking man or beast. I prefer tamed.”

  Demon’s snort interrupted any more discussion, and the two men turned to see Bolt try to nip Demon through the slats.

  Stu laughed. “Although, heaven help me if I don’t keep those two apart. There will be no barn left standing.”

  ****

  The rain tapped against the crown glass windowpanes, soft at first, then harder as the skies opened up. Prudence moaned and pulled the coverlet over her head.

  The rain hadn’t woken her. She had been tossing and turning for hours. Every time she drifted off to sleep, a memory yanked her back to consciousness. Memories of the cruel taunts of the boys at school. Memories of her conversation with her grandmother. Memories of one absurdly handsome but all-too-irritating stable master. She pounded her pillow, then threw her head back into the divot left by her fists.

  Thunder rolled in the distance, and the wind lashed waves of rain against her window. Prudence shut her eyes and focused on the monotonous sound, hoping it would help her sleep at last.

  “Miss Prudence?”

  Prudence cracked an eye open to find Mrs. Hatcher, her grandmother’s housekeeper, standing over her, hands crossed in front of her white apron, eyes rimmed in red.

  She sat up with a jolt and glanced at the walnut clock on the mantel. A quarter past four in the morning. A full forty-five minutes has passed since she last looked.

  “What is it, Mrs. Hatcher?”

  “I’m sorry,” the elderly woman whispered before her voice caught in her throat. She put a clenched fist to her tight lips, while the rest of her face bunched around her hand like a spent handkerchief.

  No. It can’t be…

  Prudence threw back the coverlet and felt around on the floor with her bare feet for the slippers she kept by the side of the bed.

  Her satin wrap lay at the end of the bed. She stood and threw it over her shoulders, stuffing her arms through the sleeves. She was already through the door before she had a chance to tie the sash and tug her long auburn hair from beneath the collar.

  A parlor on the first floor of the house had been converted into a bedroom for her grandmother when her condition no longer allowed her to climb stairs. Prudence took the steps two at a time, heedless of the residual pain in her swollen ankle and the nightdress that tangled about her feet and threatened to pitch her headlong to the marble foyer below. She slowed only when she reached the set of French double doors leading to her grandmother’s room.

  A sniffle behind her told her Mrs. Hatcher had caught up with her. Prudence did not turn around. She needed all of her strength, and one look at the housekeeper’s red nose and watery eyes would turn her into a simpering puddle of self-pity, something her grandmother had taught her never to be.

  She swallowed and nudged the doors open.

  At first, Prudence thought her fears had been for naught. Her grandmother lay on her bed just as she had left her the night before, her silver hair arranged artfully about her, manicured hands resting across her stomach, rouged lips curled in a serene smile. Her pale skin almost glowed in the candlelight that flickered from the sconces on the wall.

  Yet Prudence knew her grandmother was gone. Even when ill, her grandmother’s presence filled the high-ceilinged parlor. Despite her grandmother’s body on the bed, the room was just empty space now. Bayberry candles helped to disguise the scent of death that hung in the air, a foul smell that grew stronger once one was aware of it.

  Prudence forced herself forward and sat on the edge of the mahogany four-poster bed. Sinking into the silk quilt embroidered with the tiny tea roses that had been Grandma Rachel’s favorite flower, she reached for her grandmother’s hand.

  Her grandmother’s fingers were stiff, and the skin chilled Prudence, but she covered the hand with her own, hoping she might warm it, and at least some part of Rachel Ashcroft would seem alive again.

  Behind her, Mrs. Hatcher gulped for air. She murmured her pardons and disappeared from the room. Prudence could still hear her as she sobbed and blew her nose just outside the door.

  How healing it must be to be able to let go. Prudence swallowed her own tears. There would be time later to deal with the grief. Right now, there were more pressing matters to deal with than her own sorrow.

  Ashcroft was hers now. She had gone to bed as the heir to the Ashcroft name and fortune. She had awoken responsible for dozens of household staff, hundreds of employees, and the livelihood of an untold number of merchants with whom her grandmother did business.

  Until now, she had only considered the moment-by-moment, day-to-day responsibilities of running Ashcroft. Now that the sum total belonged to her, it was as if she were being p
ulled under by a great wave of concerns. The sheer weight was suffocating.

  Feeling a little light-headed, Prudence pulled the cloying parlor air into her lungs. She needed to speak with Richard. As soon as possible. This morning, if he called on her. If not, she would send word as soon as dawn broke and the storm subsided.

  Mrs. Hatcher had deserted her post outside the door, and except for the monotonous ticking of the French clock on her grandmother’s mahogany bed stand, silence filled the room.

  Prudence glanced at the ugly, little clock, with its gilded cherubs and ornate, scrolled hands. It would be morning soon. Dawn would bring the welcome end of a long night, but the start of perhaps an even more difficult day.

  She should retire to her room to make herself presentable before visitors arrived.

  Tick…tick…tick. The pendulum swung back and forth in its gilded cage.

  Prudence rubbed her thumb across her grandmother’s cold hand. Perhaps she could afford to sit by her grandmother’s side for a little while longer.

  Dr. Willis arrived first. As the clock chimed half past nine, she heard Gil, Grandma Rachel’s ancient butler, open the door to receive him. Moments later, he announced Dr. Willis’s arrival.

  When Prudence didn’t respond, Gil shuffled back to the hallway where he exchanged raspy whispers with the doctor before taking it upon himself to show the man in.

  Dr. Willis’s considering gaze fell first on Prudence before he turned to his patient.

  Prudence tucked one wispy strand of hair behind her ear. She must look a fright. She still wore her nightdress and wrap and hadn’t even taken the time to brush her hair. Her grandmother appeared more presentable than she did.

  Prudence choked back a laugh lest Dr. Willis think her hysterical and insist she take some of the laudanum he kept available for such times.

  Instead, the good doctor gave her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. He must have taken her choked laughter for a sob. Prudence ducked her head and dabbed at her dry eyes with a handkerchief.

  Dr. Willis stood over Rachel Ashcroft’s body holding her wrist between his thumb and two fingers. He frowned.

  “I’m afraid she is gone,” he said in a voice as somber as an undertaker’s.

  Prudence nodded as though she appreciated his medical opinion.

  For heaven’s sake, she could have sent a message to him by post with that news. She hardly needed him to come all the way out here to state the obvious.

  The doctor lingered a moment longer, but seeming to sense that Prudence didn’t need his assistance or his laudanum, he cleared his throat and bade her good day. Prudence managed a polite nod and dabbed at her nose for good measure.

  Except for the ticking of the clock, silence filled the room. Prudence let herself sink deeper into the comforting beat until the present moment, metered out by the swinging of the pendulum, was all that remained.

  “Miss Prudence?” Mrs. Hatcher stood behind her. “There will be more visitors today. Would you like me to help you dress?”

  She sounded more composed than before, but when Prudence turned toward her, the old lady’s eyes were still swollen, and the tip of her beaked nose had turned almost crimson.

  “Not just yet,” Prudence said, her voice scratchy from underuse.

  “Then perhaps you would like me to bring you some tea,” Mrs. Hatcher suggested. “You have not breakfasted yet this morning, and it is fast approaching eleven.”

  “No, thank you. Perhaps later.”

  “Very well, miss.” Mrs. Hatcher turned and shuffled through the parlor door.

  The rain pinged against the plate glass windows with sharp little notes. Prudence watched the drops collect and run down the panes in translucent ribbons. If it continued to rain, it might deter the inevitable stream of visitors who would come to pay their condolences. At the very least, they would wait until the rain let up.

  Prudence glanced out at the steel gray sky through the crack in the oppressive velvet curtains. She needn’t hurry.

  The parson arrived next. His overcoat snapped as he shook the rain from it.

  Gil showed him into the parlor, not bothering to announce the man’s arrival. A breach of protocol, but understandable given Prudence’s earlier behavior.

  The parson said a quick prayer over the body and then whispered, “Is she well?”

  Of course she isn’t well. Grandma Rachel is dead.

  Prudence glanced up, realizing a little belatedly the parson had spoken to Mrs. Hatcher. His gaze wandered about the room, settling everywhere except on the nightdress and wrap Prudence still wore. The parson’s concern was for her, not her grandmother.

  Prudence cast him a wan smile. He nodded then averted his eyes to the window.

  “Can I offer you a cup of tea before you head back out into the weather, Mr. Simmons?” Mrs. Hatcher ignored the parson’s discomfiture at the disheveled appearance of her new mistress.

  “Yes, that would be most welcome,” he replied.

  His gaze darted back to Prudence for a fleeting moment as he followed Mrs. Hatcher from the room. Prudence was certain she would be the topic of conversation once they were out of earshot.

  Mr. Whitley arrived some time later but did not immediately enter the parlor. Prudence could hear whispered voices through the open doors. The marbled foyer had a wonderful way of amplifying sound, but she still could not make out the words.

  Moments later, Mr. Whitley’s leather shoes squeaked behind her.

  “I’ve taken the liberty of arranging a service with the parson for this evening,” he said, not bothering to greet her before getting down to business.

  Mr. Whitley’s brusque manner tended to put off people, but Rachel Ashcroft had always appreciated his efficiency. Prudence found it comforting as well.

  She nodded to indicate she heard him. A thank you was in order, but she couldn’t find the strength to speak.

  Mr. Whitley seemed to take her silence as an indication to continue. Either that, or he decided to get on with the business of the day, with or without her consent. Regardless of his reasons, it suited Prudence fine.

  “We will have the funeral the day after tomorrow when the weather, God willing, will be more cooperative. We’ll keep it to a small family affair.” He cleared his throat. Had he just remembered she was the only family Rachel Ashcroft had left? “Your butler has been given instructions to turn away all but Mrs. Ashcroft’s most intimate friends.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Whitley,” Prudence said, really meaning it.

  Mr. Whitley paused as though he were going to say more, but then turned on his heel and strode through the door with the same squeaky, purposeful steps that had announced his arrival.

  The last of the Ashcroft line. Mr. Whitley hadn’t said those words, but when he mentioned family, he practically swallowed his tongue.

  The ancestors had never been a prolific bunch, at least from what Prudence knew of the family tree. Her great grandfather had sired just one child, Grandma Rachel. Rachel Ashcroft had just one child before her grandfather had passed, Prudence’s mother. And Prudence’s parents had only managed to bear one child before they, too, went to their eternal rest.

  Prudence was the last of the line. The last of the Ashcroft’s yet, not really an Ashcroft at all.

  She sighed. Unmarried and childless, she was likely to remain so if her past experiences with the opposite gender were any indication. Did it really matter if the family name died out with her grandmother?

  “Oh, Grandma,” Prudence whispered, “I know how much you wanted me to get married, but I’m afraid I’m just not cut out for it.”

  The worst part of it was the business would likely be sold off once Prudence got too old to run it. Without heirs, it would eventually pass out of Ashcroft hands anyway.

  A weight as heavy as the gray storm clouds hanging low in the sky settled about Prudence’s shoulders.

  “I feel like I’ve let you down.” She squeezed her grandmother’s cold hand.

 
; Had Rachel Ashcroft been alive, her grandmother would have reassured her that she could never let her down. While she had been adamant toward the end that Prudence marry, she would have found a way to make her granddaughter believe it would happen.

  Of course, her grandmother could offer her no reassurances now.

  “It’s time to get dressed, dear.” Mrs. Hatcher appeared as if out of nowhere to pry Prudence’s hand from her grandmother’s cold one.

  Prudence looked up in confusion. “Mr. Whitley said the service would be tonight.”

  “Yes, Miss Prudence,” Mrs. Hatcher said, her voice soft and kind, as though speaking to a child. “The service is set to begin within the hour. We must get you ready.”

  Prudence looked about her. The rain had stopped, and through the window, she could see the sun gliding over the precipice of a distant hill. The clock on the bedside table declared it to be half past six.

  Chapter Five

  A cold drizzle tormented the miserable crowd huddled around the gaping, black hole that would become Rachel Ashcroft’s eternal resting place. Their expressions were as gloomy as the sky, the parson’s familiar words as monotonous as the cold drops that fell one after the other.

  The rain had started after daybreak, come down in torrents at times, then let up just enough to allow Parson Simmons to carry on with the service, but not enough to allow those in attendance the comfort of dry shoes or stockings.

  Mrs. Hatcher had tried her best to cajole Prudence into taking an umbrella, but the mild-mannered, sweet-tempered housekeeper had never been very good at cajoling where Prudence was concerned. And Prudence simply hadn’t felt like carrying her umbrella today. She was in the mood to be miserable, and if nature conspired to make her so, then perhaps that was as it should be.

  Prudence scanned the solemn faces. The crowd was not as large as it had been for the service of two days ago, but then, that had been held indoors in the warm confines of Trinity Church.

  Even so, close to fifty people huddled about the gravesite looking as though they had gone for a swim in bombazine and black linen.