by Merry Farmer
August Sunrise
Merry Farmer
AUGUST SUNRISE
Copyright ©2018 by Merry Farmer
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your digital retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill (the miracle-worker)
ASIN: B0796X14PB
Paperback ISBN: 9781980674177
Click here for a complete list of other works by Merry Farmer.
If you’d like to be the first to learn about when the next books in the series come out and more, please sign up for my newsletter here: http://eepurl.com/RQ-KX
Created with Vellum
Contents
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
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
London – May, 1879
Miss Marigold Bellowes turned heads wherever she went. It was a fact of life she’d lived with since emerging from the schoolroom into society. She was well aware that she possessed a figure men stared at and coloring that women envied. Her blonde hair had just a touch of copper to it, proving that her parents had named her well, and her green eyes were the sort that unnerved those she stared at for too long. But Marigold wasn’t foolish enough to believe her looks were what enthralled people. That honor went to her father’s money.
“Is Lord Kendrick staring again?” she whispered to her best friend, Lady Lavinia Prior, as the two crossed St. Stephen’s Hall, heading toward the stairs that would take them to the Strangers’ Gallery overlooking the House of Commons Chamber.
Lavinia—who was younger than Marigold by five years and quite pretty herself, with thick, chestnut hair and dark eyes—glanced over her shoulder, then sniggered. “He is, poor thing.”
Marigold’s answering sigh quickly turned to a giggle. “I’ve refused his proposal three times. You’d think the man would go and sniff up another tree.”
Lavinia laughed out loud, then raised a hand to cover her mouth, her cheeks going pink. “I don’t know whether it’s cruel of you to say that or if you’re doing the man a favor by snubbing him.”
“I’m doing him a favor,” Marigold answered as they joined the queue to the gallery stairs. “Clearly, Lord Kendrick is only interested in marrying a woman who can bolster the sagging fortunes of his estate, if rumors are to be believed.”
Lavinia hummed sagely. “They are to be believed, according to Mama. That’s why she hasn’t tried to thrust me at him.”
Marigold winced for her friend and rested a gloved hand on her arm before they started up the narrow stairs to the gallery. “Is she still trying to snag a titled husband for you?”
Lavinia let out an ironic laugh. “She’s trying to match me with anyone prominent and influential enough to meet her exacting standards, no matter what I think of things. Lord Kendrick doesn’t come close to meeting her mark. Not when his chances of bankruptcy are so high.”
“And I suppose that’s why he hasn’t given up on me,” Marigold sighed, feeling far guiltier than she should. But as more than a few men needed to understand, financial difficulty on their part did not necessitate feelings of love and a desire to wed on the part of whatever female they set their hearts, or rather, their billfolds, on.
They reached the top of the crowded stairs and stepped out into the Strangers’ Gallery, a stretch of tiered seats in the balconies above the House of Commons chamber floor. The gallery was open to any members of the public who cared to observe the proceedings of government, but women rarely attended. At least, they rarely attended when it was business as usual. But change was afoot. A group of men, both in the House of Commons and in the House of Lords, had been making noise about passing a bill that would increase the rights of women. It was a long way from granting them equal standing with men or the vote, as Marigold wanted, but anything that would secure a woman’s right to her own property and her life was a step in the right direction.
The bill was due to be debated that day, so more than a few women had taken up seats at the very front of the gallery. Marigold tapped Lavinia’s arm and pointed to a section of seats at the front, then made her way toward them.
“To be honest,” she said, continuing their conversation, “I’ve reached the end of my tether when it comes to men hoping to win my hand, as though it’s some sort of prize. The fact that my father has made a smashing success of his business should not preclude me from having a real marriage based on love.”
They reached the front row amidst the hubbub of dozens of conversations, but Marigold had been loud enough to catch the attention of Lady Stanhope, who glanced up at her with shrewd, calculating eyes.
“Well, that’s quite an introduction,” Lady Stanhope said, her lips twitching into a smile. She scooted to one side, patting the bench beside her. “Do sit next to me.”
“Lady Stanhope.” Marigold greeted the woman with a fond grin.
Everyone who had spent any time observing Parliament or getting involved in political circles knew Katya Marlowe, the Countess of Stanhope. She was regarded by many as the most powerful widow in England. Her husband, the Earl of Stanhope, had died fifteen years before, leaving her with three children, a title, vast estates, and, reportedly, a huge sum of money. Her son, Rupert, the current earl, was not yet eighteen and was still at university, so Lady Stanhope continued to manage the Stanhope legacy. At a year shy of forty, she was a strikingly handsome woman, with sharp, bold features, dark hair, and piercing blue eyes. She was rumored to have had a string of lovers after her husband’s death, and was considered to be friends with several prominent politicians.
“Still batting fortune hunters away with a stick?” she asked as Marigold settled onto the bench beside her.
Marigold laughed. “I can’t fault them for trying. I just wish they would try somewhere else.”
Lady Stanhope smiled. “Good for you for not giving in and marrying one just to make the others go away.”
“Believe me, there have been times when I’ve been tempted,” Marigold said with an ironic twist of her lips. “If I could find just one man who I thought I could be happy with, who would appreciate me for myself and not what I can do for him, then I’d fasten the leg-shackles tomorrow.”
Lady Stanhope arched one severe eyebrow. “Why not seek out a man who can do something for you?”
Marigold paused in the process of settling her reticule and parasol by her side. “How would I do that?”
Lady Stanhope raised her
shoulders slightly in a shrug and glanced out over the chamber. “Simple. Think about matrimony the way a man does. Consider what your aims and goals in life are and set your sights on a man who can fulfill those goals.”
“That’s rather mercenary, isn’t it?” Lavinia asked, glancing around Marigold to study Lady Stanhope.
“Men do it all the time,” Lady Stanhope said with a wave. “Robert only married me because my mother was a Romanov, and he wanted his children to have royal blood. Why shouldn’t we marry for similar reasons?”
“Why is it that you never remarried, Lady Stanhope?” Lavinia asked.
Marigold felt a flush of embarrassment for her friend’s impertinent question, but Lady Stanhope merely chuckled.
“There are a great many reasons I haven’t remarried, my dear,” she told Lavinia, then leaned closer to Marigold, as if sharing a secret. “I have too much power, too much influence, on my own. And besides.” She inched closer still and lowered her voice to whisper to both women, “I am not the sort to be unfaithful, which would vastly limit my ability to sample the many delicacies that the men of the world have to offer.”
“Oh, my!” Lavinia pressed a hand to her mouth and snapped straight, her face turning bright puce.
Marigold, on the other hand, laughed so loud that several sets of eyes—both male and female—turned to them. Only then did she cover her mouth, blushing with merriment as much as embarrassment. “I like the way you think, Lady Stanhope,” she whispered.
Lady Stanhope sat a little straighter, beaming with pride and mischief. She tilted her head and studied Marigold. “So what are your goals, my dear? Who do you want to be?”
Marigold blinked rapidly under the assault of such an important question. “I’m not sure. I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it.”
“Yes you have,” Lady Stanhope countered immediately. “A woman like you, who has turned down half a dozen offers of marriage, who continues to receive those offers even as she approaches thirty, and who attends sessions of Parliament when the rights of women are being discussed, has most definitely considered what she wants from life.”
Marigold’s startled expression melted into a cunning grin. “I suppose you’re right.” She darted a glance around to gauge if anyone was eavesdropping. Since ministers were flooding into the gallery below and taking their seats, as if the session were about to start, their conversation went unnoticed. “I want to be the wife of a powerful man,” she confided, mischief bubbling up inside of her.
“I thought so.” Lady Stanhope nodded in approval.
“I want to have a say in the world,” Marigold went on. “At the moment, the only way to do that is as the wife of a powerful man and the mother of his children, but I want to align myself with those who are fighting to give women power of their own.”
“Would you enter politics yourself if you could?” Lady Stanhope pressed her.
Marigold hesitated. She glanced to the gallery as the Sargent at Arms called the room to order. The men crowding the benches on either side of the room seemed worn and full of cares to her. They were a stern, grey mass of seriousness.
“Perhaps it would be more enjoyable to be the power behind the throne,” she said in a circumspect voice, tilting her head to one side.
“A wise observation,” Lady Stanhope said.
A different swirl of emotion filled Marigold’s heart. “And I have always wanted to be a mother.” She took a breath after her statement, caught by the seeming paradox that wanting to give birth and hold public power seemed to present.
“You can be a mother and a powerful woman,” Lady Stanhope told her, in a hushed voice as the men below began to speak. “In fact, I’m certain my children would argue that I’m frightfully powerful, in spite of and because of them.” There was a mischievous glint in her eyes as she glanced to Marigold.
“Does your son think so?” Lavinia whispered.
“More than my daughters,” Lady Stanhope answered.
Marigold wanted to laugh again, but the gallery had settled in to watch proceedings below. She smiled to herself all the same, her heart beating with excitement and promise that had nothing to do with the drone of parliamentary business below. She’d always considered motherhood and ambition to be two separate beasts, and believed she could only feed one of them. But if Lady Stanhope could wield influence and raise children as well, then so could she.
However, Lady Stanhope was right about something else, though she had hinted at it more than stating it outright. If she wanted to be the woman she’d dreamed of being, she would have to choose a husband for what he could do for her, the same way men tried to pitch woo to her because of what her father’s money could do for them.
In the true way of men, Marigold had to sit through a lot of unnecessary business and debate about topics that made about as much sense as corsets for puppies before the bill to advance the rights of women was brought up. As soon as the issue of extending the budget for rail lines in Surrey was finished and voted on, the MP from Bury St. Edmunds introduced the bill for women’s rights. A flurry of activity ensued as both the men on the floor and the observers in the gallery prepared for the fight.
Marigold watched the Liberal side of the aisle with interest. The bill was supported by several Liberal MPs and fiercely opposed by the Conservatives, as was just about every other bill that extended the rights of women, the working class, or anyone not currently enfranchised. Lord Hartington, the Leader of the Opposition, stood in a huddle with a handful of other MPs, looking ready to stand up and debate. But he wasn’t the one who broke away from the group to approach the box.
A shiver of something warm and exciting swirled in Marigold’s gut. “Who is that?” she whispered to Lady Stanhope.
A fond smile spread across Lady Stanhope’s lips. “That, my dear, is Mr. Alexander Croydon.”
“Who is he when he’s at home?” Marigold went on, her eyes trained on him. She couldn’t account for the way her heart suddenly beat faster and harder, other than the man’s obvious good looks. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a fit physique. His hair was graying at the temples, but he didn’t seem particularly old, all things considered. His confident grin as he took the podium and cleared his throat made Marigold want to lean in to listen.
“My lord Speaker, members of the House, and especially my distinguished colleagues on the other side of the aisle,” he began. “What would any of us be without the women in our lives?”
His question was met by various grunts and guffaws.
“We would be nowhere,” he went on. “And nowhere is precisely where these brave and valiant women who form and shape us are in the eyes of the government of this kingdom. They are the very backbone of our society, and yet, in the eyes of the law, they are reduced to the status of servants or children. They are not even entitled to the property that they bring into a marriage. If they should choose to break free from a union that is abusive or degrading, they are left with nothing. We propose to change all of that. Therefore, we are introducing this bill to extend the rights and legal protection of women, their persons, and their property.”
Both sides of the chamber erupted into shouts of encouragement or derision. Mr. Croydon allowed it to continue for a moment, as if building up for his next assault. He glanced straight up into the gallery as he waited, directly at Lady Stanhope. Out of the corner of her eye, Marigold watched Lady Stanhope raise an eyebrow and nod in approval. A thousand questions about what the relationship between the wily widow and Mr. Croydon could be popped to Marigold’s mind.
Then Mr. Croydon’s gaze shifted to her.
Their eyes met. Marigold’s breath caught in her throat. Mr. Croydon’s eyes were almond-shaped and blue. They burned with cleverness and confidence…and something new. The clamor in the room faded to the background, and for a moment, all she saw was his handsome, self-assured expression, his poised smile. She smiled back before she could stop herself, pressing a hand to her heart.
A mom
ent later, he turned back to the men around him and continued. “The bill we propose encompasses the three major legally sanctioned offenses against women: property rights, legal recourse in cases of divorce, and the right to maintain custody of children in case of abandonment or neglect.”
Marigold’s breath came rushing out. Whatever connection she and Mr. Croydon had had in that split-second of wonder, it was gone. The electric energy that had coursed through her ebbed as he dove into a long, complicated speech spelling out the laws and changes that needed to come. As desperately as Marigold wanted to hang on his every word, she was buzzing with the need to know so much more than he was saying. How had she never noticed the man before? Why hadn’t he attended any number of social events that made up the season? Had he been in attendance and she just hadn’t noticed him? That seemed impossible.
Beside her, Lady Stanhope made a curious, humming noise. It was intriguing enough to drag Marigold’s eyes away from Mr. Croydon. She blinked when she found Lady Stanhope watching her instead of the proceedings on the floor.
“They say that he could succeed Lord Hartington as leader of the Liberal Party,” she said, the mischief in her eyes making her angular face appear downright wicked.
“Oh?” Marigold asked, the single syllable coming out high and breathy.
“They also say that, in the event of an election, which is quite likely next year, he could be tapped for Prime Minister.”
“Prime Minister.” Marigold nodded, heat rising up her neck to her cheeks.
