Lady Faith Takes a Leap

Lady Faith Takes a Leap

The Baxendale Sisters Series

Book Two

A Regency Novella

By

Maggi Andersen

Published by Maggi Andersen

Lady Faith Takes a Leap Copyright © 2015 by Maggi Edited by: Devin Govaere Cover Artist: Erin Dameron-Hill By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.

Please Note:

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead is coincidental and are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute or transmit in any form or by any means.

For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the author.

ISBN-10: 0994229119

ISBN-13: 978-0-9942291-1-3

Lady Faith Takes a Leap

The Baxendale Sisters

Come away! Come, sweet love!

The golden morning breaks;

All the earth, all the air,

Of love and pleasure speaks.

Anonymous Elizabethan poet

Highland Manor, Royal Tunbridge Wells, 1822

In his study, Lord Baxendale stood before Faith, his hands behind his back. “You have had a splendid Season, Faith.” His ruddy face creased in a troubled frown. “Although you did little to make it so.”

“I did try, Father.”

“You do understand the reason for this great expense. Eh? To marry?”

“Yes, of course I do, Father.”

“A suitor–and there were several–obviously found your reluctance somewhat quelling.”

Faith sat bolt upright on a damask chair, her hands in her lap. “I wasn’t aware of it, Father.” She glanced away from his concerned face. She’d always found the dark furnishings in this room oppressive, even more so at this moment. Suddenly cold, she wished she could draw closer to the small patch of late afternoon sunlight warming the Carmelite-brown carpet.

“You were not aware of beaus turning to other ladies of a warmer disposition?”

“No, Father.”

“At least Fitzgibbon has remained loyal.”

“Yes.”

“He’s most agreeable in his attentions to you. And his family is top of the tree.”

“Lord Fitzgibbon has been charming.”

“He seems to care for you.” 

Faith nodded. “It seems so.”

“Then, of course, you will accept him.”

Faith met her father’s puzzled gaze. When she was younger, he’d been far more lenient, ignoring her tomboy antics. But before her first Season, he had sat her down in this study and explained how a woman should always be as sweet and pleasing to her husband as she was to her father. She must behave in a manner suited to her station in life. Faith loved her father and wished to please him. She tried to smile, but her face felt stiff, and although she wanted to reassure him, she must have a few days more; it was surely unfair to expect her to choose a man she hardly knew. “Might I have more time to decide?”

“More time?” he asked with a pained expression. “You have been in his company often these last weeks. He dined here with us only last week.”

In desperation, Faith brought Lord Fitzgibbon’s visage to mind, hoping for a sign that he was the one. The earnestness in his brown eyes. How tenderly he held her on the dance floor.

Her father had recovered much of his equilibrium along with his investments, but she suspected his patience would soon wear thin.

Earlier, her mother had stopped Faith on the stairs. “I do like Lord Fitzgibbon. Such a nice man.”

 It was true, he was. Faith’s life would be comfortable and secure. He had assured her that his mother, a virtual paragon of wisdom, gave her approval of Faith and felt she would make him a good wife. He had gazed at Faith as if she would be delighted with this pronouncement. She was dismayed to find she wasn’t. Fitzgibbon was not yet thirty, with good hair and teeth, dressed soberly yet fashionably, with impeccable manners. What was wrong with her? She had refused her father’s first choice for her, Lord Gillingham, because he was so much older, and she hated to do so again. And after such an expensive Season, as her father continually reminded her. He had toted up the cost of a lease of a house in Mayfair for months, a new wardrobe of expensive gowns, silk stockings, shoes, hats and gloves. And with her stepsister, Honor, the only one married, there was still Hope, Charity and Mercy yet to enter the marriage mart.

Faith drew herself back to the present where her father was listing all the reasons for her to accept Lord Fitzgibbon’s hand. It wasn’t a long list, but impressive, she had to admit. He gazed at her expectantly.

“I would like another week to decide. Please, Father.”

“Your sister Honor was given far too much latitude. I shan’t make the same mistake again.” He ran a hand through his greying hair and settled his solid frame into the chair behind his desk. After a moment, he nodded in a deceptively acquiescent manner. “Very well, Faith. I doubt much can change in a week.”

She left her father’s study, finding herself in agreement with him. After all, what could?

****

Brandreth Park

As the boom of gunfire thundered across the wood, Lord Vaughn left the shooters and the beaters behind. He strode away through the trees, his faithful dog at his side. He had bagged several woodcock and pheasants and should be feeling some level of contentment. He wasn’t.

Earlier, his elder brother, Chaloner, Marquess of Brandreth, had tried to buoy his spirits. “It can’t be as bad as all that,” he’d said, thumping Vaughn on the back.

“All right for you.” Vaughn attempted to tamp down his frustration. “I’ve never wished to be marquess and take on all this, but I envy you your snug life. A pretty wife, nice children, and a career in Parliament.”

“You could have most of those things, if you stopped raising hell and settled down,” Chaloner said, his green eyes disapproving. He was never a good man to talk to, Vaughn knew. As the head of the family, all his advice came as a lecture. His dark hair lightly peppered with grey, Chaloner looked settled and satisfied with his lot. He was even starting to put on weight around the middle.

“You couldn’t have married Miss…whatever the girl’s name was,” Chaloner said, continuing to stomp all over his feelings. “Not an apothecary’s daughter. Her father had the good sense to put a stop to it.”

“He said he didn’t feel my intentions were honorable and that I should stick to my own class.” Vaughn shrugged. “It’s all in the past. Miss Crispin has married a farmer. And by the way, I don’t believe I can be accused of being a hell-raiser, haven’t been one for some time.” He pointed his gun to the sky and followed the flight of a bird.

Vaughn lowered the gun. He no longer had the heart for the shoot. He turned to his brother. “Haven’t I proved myself worthy since taking over Strathairn’s horse stud in York? With John’s parliamentary duties, and the birth of his son, he was grateful for my help. Said I have a feeling for it.”

“You were always smart, Vaughn. Could enter politics in the future, should you wish it. One day, of course, you’ll inherit from Aunt Fenella, but not for years one might hope, bless her soul.” Their mother’s sister, Fenella, Lady Tattershall, was a force to be reckoned with still.

“One member of the family in politics is enough, I suspect,” Vaughn said through tight lips. With Edward in the law and Bart in the Church, Vaughn’s stamp on life must be his own.

“Have you thought more about the army? My offer to set you up with a commission in the Horse Guards still stands.”

“Thank you, Chaloner, but no.” This conversation had ruined any enjoyment in the day. “Think I’ll take a walk.”

“Perhaps you should,” Chaloner said with another fond slap on his back. “Might improve your sore head.”

Vaughn’s heavy sigh made his dog prick up his ears. He reached down and gave the animal a pat. Dogs were so loyal. It was a pity that people weren’t always so. He skirted a boggy patch as he ventured deeper into the woods, leaving the hullabaloo behind. The peace and stillness matched his mood. He breathed in the odor of rotting leaves and earthy smells, engulfed by a wave of nostalgia, remembering his adventurous boyhood when life was uncomplicated and each day an adventure.

Faith settled on a rug beneath the spreading branches of a chestnut tree. She approved of Charity’s choice, a scenic spot near the river. At a distant boom, birds flew from the trees. “Another volley of gunshot,” Faith said to her younger sister. “The Brandreths’ guests must be enjoying a successful day’s shooting.”

“Mm.” Charity stood her easel on a flat piece of ground near the riverbank. “I’ll work here. The light is perfect.” She picked up her brush and palette. Taller than her sisters, Charity bent over her canvas and flicked back a fair lock, closer in color to their mother’s, a shade darker than Faith’s. “Are you looking forward to their ball?” Charity’s voice held little disappointment at still being too young to attend.

“Yes. Seeing Honor and Edward, especially.” Faith angled her lacy yellow parasol to block the sun, which was still surprisingly hot, and glanced at her sister with a sigh. Charity’s straw hat swung carelessly by its blue-striped ribbons. “Mama will have a fit if you get freckles on your nose like Mercy.”

“Mercy is devising a lotion to fade them,” Charity murmured. “It contains something called deliquated oil of tar.”

“I wouldn’t let that anywhere near my face, and neither should you,” Faith said.

“I like her perfume, though,” Charity said. “Cinnamon and cloves I think. She’s really quite inventive.”

“She is, but I prefer Attar of Roses,” Faith said.

“Mm?” Charity murmured, now sunk in contemplation of her canvas.

Faith turned a page of the Minerva Press novel her elder sister, Honor, had smuggled into the house for her to read. Father had banned them, saying they filled a woman’s head with ridiculous notions. The story proved to be enjoyable, but Faith felt guilty every time she opened the book.

“I think I’ll paint that big oak tree over the river. I like the way the sun dapples the leaves.” Charity dabbed at her palette with a paintbrush, mixing paint.

The river bordered Brandreth Park, now linked with Highland Manor through Honor’s marriage to Edward. The eldest, Lord Chaloner, was Marquess of Brandreth, their father having died some years ago.

Faith closed the book, her attention caught by a fragile yellow butterfly alighting on the tree trunk beside her. Her recent conversation with her father made her too unsettled to read. It was true; her Season had been a success of sorts. A whirlwind of soirees, balls, card parties, musical evenings, and routes. But choosing a husband was like wandering in a hedge maze. One way might look promising, but then it led to a dead-end.

She sorely missed Honor’s wise counsel. As Honor and Edward had a farm in Surrey, the family didn’t see much of them. But they were coming tomorrow for the Brandreths’ hunt ball. Honor was so practical she was sure to help Faith order her scrambled thoughts. Faith glanced at Charity, painting furiously, lost in her art. At sixteen, Charity was too young to discuss the important matters one faced in the grown-up world. 

A gentle breeze carried the smell of pine and swayed the willow fronds dipping gracefully into the water. Another barrage of shots sent a flurry of birds into the sky. On the far bank, a dog barked.

“Pheasant for dinner tonight,” Charity said. “Chaloner has promised to send some.”

Faith sat up as a hound exploded from the bushes on the opposite bank, followed closely by a tall, dark-haired man. He stopped and raised his hand to shade his eyes.

“Good afternoon.”

Charity left her easel and walked to the river’s edge. “Good afternoon,” she called back.

Faith clambered to her feet, her heart racing, as he removed his hat and bowed, revealing hair midnight black and silky straight. Lord Vaughn, a younger and more dazzling version of her brother-in-law, Edward. She hadn’t seen him since, at sixteen, she’d watched him in the Brandreth wood bagging birds for the hunt ball dinner. That had been two years ago, and she was too young to attend. She had climbed a tree for a better view until Honor had come and dragged her home. Her father had made no secret of his disapproval of Vaughn, who he saw as the most troublesome of the Brandreth men. He’d expressed relief when he’d gone to live with his sister, Sibella, and her husband in York to manage the Marquess of Strathairn’s horse stud.