by Kira Stewart
Better than a Duke
A Clean Regency Romance
Tales of Bath
Kira Stewart
Copyright ©2018 by Kira Stewart. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic of mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Table of Contents
Prologue
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
Prologue
The sun shone brightly on the neat walled cottage garden that lay behind the rectory in the little Parish of Redmond, deep in the Hampshire countryside.
Henrietta Maldon, the youngest daughter of James Maldon, the rector of Redmond Parish, sat quietly beneath the shade of an apple tree, absorbed in the latest novel.
A rag tag gang of vagabond thieves had just held up the carriage of a young lady named Sarah, and she was about to be abandoned and left to her fate.
It was not a particularly genteel book for a young lady to be so enraptured with, but her heart was beating fast, and her face flushed as she read on. But then again, Henrietta Maldon was not a particularly ordinary young lady. Her mind was filled with the books she had read, the far-fetched adventures of other spirited young women, of whom she hoped one day to emulate.
Unlike her older sisters, Kitty and Jane, Henrietta was not content to sit at her needlework or practice on the pianoforte. She loved instead to be outdoors, feeling the sun on her cheeks, or sitting on the low branches of a tree, and much to the chagrin of her mama—her nose poised between the pages of the latest book.
She was also inclined to have a quick temper. With her dark auburn hair, she took after her father, but unlike his gentle temperament, was prone to sudden outbursts of emotion. Her mother, Sophie Maldon, had been something of a beauty in her day, and had been born into an aspiring middle-class family with pretentions of grandeur, and wanting great matches for her daughters was of upmost importance. With a tendency to feel above most of her own rank and social standing, she came across as something of a snob and quite domineering, but essentially had a kind heart. Without that, Mr. Maldon could never have married her.
The rectory afforded a modest library, her father being an avid collector, if not an actual reader of books. Sometimes the owning of a library was enough to show one’s literary intent, without the actual supplication and effort of the actual reading. There was never a shortage of novels and her father often subscribed to the latest publications, usually ignorant of their genre, leaving little Henrietta to browse at will.
Her sisters often teased her, called her both a tomboy and a bookworm, and chided that she would never marry.
Henrietta, or Henry as she called herself, responded that she did not care. She never wanted to marry, although, secretly she hoped that one day she would meet a handsome hero, straight out of the pages of one of her stories, and together they would have great adventures.
At the age of ten, she saw the world through the eyes of the heroes and heroines she read about. The sleepy village afforded little in the way of adventure, but the girl’s imagination made up for the slow pace of life. Inventing her own plots, her dear papa’s gentle parishioners became unwitting players in her latest imagined storyline.
Miss Hetherington, the local school mistress, became a heiress; kindly Mrs. Crotchet, the old seamstress, became an evil godmother; and even her poor papa was not spared, and the mild cleric became the wicked Baron in many a tale.
For her own part, she liked to think of herself in the role of an orphaned young girl, penniless, yet somehow finding herself the receiver of a generous, yet anonymous benefactor. Henrietta enjoyed her own company, but loved to share her stories. Her sisters thought her too silly to take much notice of, so it was her second eldest sibling, her brother George, whom she sought out when needing an audience for her imagined narratives, and more importantly, her brother’s best friend, Tom.
Like her brother, Thomas Langton was four years older than the young Henrietta. Living only a mile away from the village, he was a regular visitor to both the village school and rectory.
In Thomas Langton, Henrietta had found an ally, as his love of reading matched her own. Living with his widowed mother, his family was not very well off, and he was treated like one of the family at the rectory, sharing the benefits of the library with Henrietta.
He would often find the curious girl sat with her nose in a book, and stop and spare the time to ask her opinion on the latest read, and to swap stories.
To this end, Thomas Langton often became the hero of many of her imagined tales.
Life was slow and uncomplicated in the village, the pace and daily routines in tune with nature. Henrietta longed for something to happen, but when it did, it was not a change that she would have wished for.
Thomas Langton was to move away. His great aunt and uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Abbotsford, of Bath, whom were both childless and wealthy, had decided to “adopt” the boy and give him a good education.
His mother being so poor, she could not afford such a start in life for the young man. He would attend his great-uncle’s old college in London and the move was to be imminent.
The members of the Maldon family at the little rectory, greeted this news with a mixture of both excitement and sadness. The boy was like a son and brother, and he would be greatly missed, and yet the opportunity was beyond any of their wildest hopes, and they wished the boy well.
He had shared his news over tea one sunny Sunday afternoon in July, sat in the bright and sunny parlour. He would be leaving as soon as his things could be packed and the travel arranged. He would be away for at least four years to cover his college education.
There had been back slapping and hand shaking between the men at the news, a great display of emotion, and even tears from Mrs. Maldon, probably wishing that she had pushed one of her daughters at the poor boy whilst she had the chance. In her turn, poor Henrietta had rushed from the room, unable to contain her emotions.
Thomas had left the others to seek her out, easily finding her in the
place she liked the best, her father’s library. She stood by the casement window looking out into the fading summer sunshine, almost hidden by the long velvet drapes.
“Dear Henry, whatever is wrong?”
The young girl could hardly speak, as she tried to stop the tears from flowing.
“Just think of all of the stories I will be able to tell you on my visits home and what adventures I shall have.”
The young girl sniffled.
“And, of course I will write.”
The girl eventually turned to face him, her face solemn.
“You will write?”
Her voice was small and meek.
“Of course I will write. Now, come here, you silly goose. Four years will not be long. Just think, you will be a fine young woman by the time I return, and with lots of suitors I imagine. Now, you must promise to wait for me?”
Henrietta looked serious and held out her hand.
“I promise. Now, we must shake hands on it to secure our promise.”
She had read in a book somewhere that the shaking of hands was both a solemn and binding affair.
Smiling, Thomas held out his hand, taking her small hand in his
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“There, we have made our promise.”
The young man tried hard to stifle his amusement at the funny young girl. She would soon forget about him in no time at all.
The young man was joking, but Henrietta took his words to heart. That night she wrote in her journal.
T is to go away for a long time. He has asked me to wait for him and I shall. We made a solemn oath and shook on it! If I ever do get married, it shall be to T!!!
Henrietta missed her friend and confidant. Thomas did write letters occasionally, but when they did arrive at the rectory, Henrietta could not help feeling a little disappointed that they were addressed to all of the family, and not just particularly to herself. When the letters had been read and re-read by her family, Henrietta would take charge of them, keeping them hidden with all of her special and secret items, in a small wooden chest that George had made for her.
For a while, she would sit at her window, his letter in hand, tracing over the neat handwriting. Where he mentioned her name, she would lightly run her fingers over the letters, and wish fervently for his return. Whenever she felt sad at missing her friend, she thought about the promise they had made, and it lifted her spirits for a while.
Through her vivid imagination, she kept him close to her—the hero of all her imagined adventures. Very soon, the fictional Tom had overtaken the real one in her thoughts. Indeed, if anyone were to read her diaries, they would be amazed to hear of the adventures of the pair, and their exciting escapades.
1.
Several months passed, as summer dissolved slowly into the browns and russets of autumn. The days shortened and the nights darkened, and soon the cold of winter was upon them.
On a fine crisp morning, in mid-November, a letter arrived from Thomas, the first in several weeks. Her father had picked up the morning post, and there among the usual correspondences, was a letter in the young man’s bold handwriting. He was coming home for Christmas. He would arrive the day before St. Nicholas Day, and would be home until after the Twelfth Night, the whole of the Christmas period.
Even though the boy had only been away for four months, it might have well been for years, in the way the Maldons planned for his visit. Christmas in the old rectory was always well celebrated, but this year would be something special. Mr. Maldon declared that they would hold a grand party to celebrate the start of Christmas on St. Nicholas Day, and Tom and his mother would be guests of honour.
As soon as she heard the news, Henrietta knew she had to prepare a special present for her special friend, and what better gift than a story written especially for him?
The days leading up to the party were full of baking and decorating. The three girls helped their mother to cook and bake the puddings, pies, and sweet meats that would decorate the large dining table, whilst George, back from his own studies, went out with his father to gather the greenery and foliage that would decorate the household, bringing the fresh outdoors inside.
The men returned with branches of holly, mistletoe, and ivy, leaving the great swathes of greenery upon the hall floor.
“Now James. What are we going to do with all that? My, you must have brought half the forest into the house with you,” his wife gently chided.
James Maldon, already in the Christmas spirit, caught his wife by her apron in cheerful play.
“Why Sophie. I was thinking maybe we could make a kissing bough or two.”
The middle aged woman blushed like a young girl, knowing she was still an attractive woman, although, over the years and with childbirth, she was no longer the slender young woman who the young cleric had married.
“Now James, whatever will the girls think?”
Kitty and Jane thought it a splendid idea, and quickly began to choose the boughs with the best berries, as Henrietta stood and watched.
“Henry can kiss her dear Tom, when he arrives. She is his sweetheart,” the girls teased their younger sister.
Pulling a face, Henrietta ran up to her room. She had no time to waste on silly arguments with her sisters; she still had her story to finish. It was her best yet, and she had been so bold to call the heroine Henrietta and the hero Tom. In her tale, Henrietta was to be rescued from the clutches of an evil highway man by a mystery masked man, who does not reveal his identity.
That was the extent of the plot she had written so far, and Henrietta was struggling to find a suitable ending.
She wanted Thomas Langton to think it the finest story ever written. She imagined him telling her what a wonderful story it was, and the two of them discussing the fine intricacies of the plot, seated alone together in the library.
During the first week in December, no one saw or heard from the young girl, except for at meal times, for she hid herself away, scribbling upon sheet after sheet of her writing paper. Once she had finished the story, she would copy it out neatly onto her best paper.
Yet there were many chores, and her mother needed all the help she could muster, and despite her protestations, the young girl had to spend all of the fifth of December helping to decorate the spiced oranges. They would be hung near the great fireplace in the dining room, where the heat from the fire would send the exotic scent of orange oil and cinnamon to delicately fragrance the room.
Only once the rooms had been decorated, and supper had been eaten, was Henrietta allowed to go to the library to finish off her story. The room was dark, and she lit the small candle and placed it on the large wooden desk by the window. She still did not have an ending for her story, and Tom would be home tomorrow, when they would all be exchanging presents.
Kitty had announced smugly that she had embroidered Tom a handkerchief with his initial in the corner, and with fine lace work around the edges. Jane had made him a bookmark, using flowers pressed from the previous summer. These were fine presents, but hers would be the best, if only she could think of a suitable ending.
The wind rattled the casement window, and kneeling on the window seat, she pressed her face to the glass. The dark shadows of trees waved their arms against the star-spangled sky, as a few snowflakes drifted on the cool night air.
That was it, she had her story. She would set it on a snowy evening, and the mysterious hero would be followed by the heroine from the horse tracks left in the snow, and then his true identity would be revealed, and they would live happily ever after.
Returning to the paper, she hastily finished the piece. She would copy it in her best handwriting, and onto her best paper in the morning, before Tom and has mother arrived in the afternoon.
Before bedtime, she even let her mother twirl and wrap her hair into rags, in an attempt to curl the unruly auburn mane. After all, she wanted to look her best.
That night, Henrietta slept with the story safely under her pillow. No one was to read the story except for her beloved Tom.
2.
The rectory looked splendid. Henrietta had copied out the story onto her finest cream vellum paper, and had rolled and tied it with a blue satin ribbon, placing it carefully inside her secret wooden chest for safe keeping. Now, she could admire the decorations and thought the whole place looked a winter wonderland. The fires and candles were already lit, and a great feast had started to be laid on the dining room table.
She wore her finest dress, the burgundy velvet with the white lace trim. Henrietta had never really cared for her appearance before. She had left that to her silly sisters to curl their hair and pinch their cheeks until rosy. Yet now, as she looked into the mirror, it was with the eyes of a critic and it was as if she was looking at herself for the first time. Her eyes were grey, the lashes fair, but not long like her sister Jane’s. A splatter of freckles decorated her nose, a reminder of the long summer past, and her lips were not quite as full and red as her sister Kitty’s. The dark auburn ringlets were already falling limply around her shoulders.
Biting her lips and pinching her pale cheeks, she attempted to add colour as her sisters did.
Henrietta sighed. She had never wanted t
o look like her siblings, but for once, wished her hair would behave itself.
Sticking out her chin defiantly, she stamped her foot, her mirror image doing the same. Tugging at the red strands, she pulled the pins from her hair, and threw them onto the bedroom floor.
“There, that is better.”
Her tousled hair fell easily onto her shoulders and down her back.
Her mama would be dismayed, but she did not care. She did not want Tom to think she had turned into a silly girl in his absence.
Henrietta was surprised to find that she was not the only one looking forward to seeing Tom. Jane in particular, had made a special effort with her dress and sported a red ribbon in her hair.
Unlike Henrietta, Jane Maldon had inherited her mother’s dark colouring. Her eyes were dark and framed with long delicate lashes that she had learned to flutter in a most attractive way. Her mouth curved into a perfect cupids bow, and at the age of seventeen, it was obvious that she was becoming a beautiful young woman.
A year older than her brother George, Jane had always seen herself superior, and had paid little heed to her siblings’ friends, but now Thomas Langton’s status had changed from one that she had seen originally as beneath her station, to one now elevated far above. The young man now appeared in a totally different light. As Henrietta joined them for breakfast, the conversation was already deep into the subject of the young man in question.
“Father says that the Abbotsfords are one of the wealthiest people in Bath. Just think how wealthy Tom will be when he inherits.”
“If he inherits, my dear?”
Her papa looked up from reading his morning paper and smiled fondly at his eldest child. She was a pretty thing, but vain, much like her mother had been at her age.
“But papa, the Abbotsfords do not have any children of their own, so they are bound to leave their estate to him. Aren’t they?”
