Passion and Propriety (Hearts of Honour Book 1) (2 page)

As she brought the final hymn to a close, Hannah permitted herself a brief glance in the direction of the disturbing feeling. Expecting to be met by proof of her folly in the manner of an empty space, she startled at the sight of an officer—a stranger
to Hartley—slumped against the carved pew end. Even hunched over, it was obvious he was tall with broad shoulders that filled out his greatcoat in an intimidating fashion. Her fingers slipped on the keys, and the officer’s eyes flew open. His gaze found hers, and for the briefest moment she thought she saw a spark of recognition in his dark eyes before his brows lowered in a scowl.

Embarrassed at being caught out, Hannah felt an uncharacteristic blush warm her cheeks and spun to face the organ. There was something
familiar about the officer, which was impossible, as she would not have forgotten being introduced to a man with such a formidable presence. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling she knew
him somehow.

Stifling a sigh, Hannah acknowledged what was to blame for her odd humour. She’d been dreading the arrival of this day for a very long time, heralding as it did the final death-knell of her girlhood dreams. With the arrival of her twenty-seventh birthday, the hope she’d nurtured throughout the years that she would have a husband, children, a family of her own one day, had died on a breathless whimper.

Reminding herself that life still held purpose, just not the one she’d aspired to, she focused on her father’s message. Prepared for this far-from-auspicious day with her in mind, he paraphrased from Jeremiah.

“God’s thoughts towards us are of good and not evil. His plan is to give us a blessed end—a positive, hopeful, and rewarding end.”

Hannah was all too aware the exact wording was an “expected”
end. While appreciating her father’s attempt to be encouraging, she considered the original translation more appropriate. It had long been expected by gentry and commoner alike that the vicar’s eldest and by far plainest daughter would end her days as a spinster.

After the service, Hannah told herself she was relieved to discover the back pew empty and the stranger nowhere in sight. Whatever the dishevelled gentleman’s reason for being in Hartley, it was no concern of hers, and she ignored the urge to search for him amongst the thinning crowd.

Occupied with her duties, she found comfort in familiarity. She approached Lord and Lady Wescott, the most highly placed of her father’s parishioners, and gave them her undivided attention to ensure they did not feel slighted in any way. The elderly widow, Lady Mostyn, whose son was a baron too filled with self-importance to visit his ailing mother, required cosseting to soothe her disappointment. Miss Laidlaw, thrilled to receive an invitation to visit her wealthy aunt and uncle in Bath, beamed when Hannah congratulated her on her good fortune. If the young lady’s luck continued, she might even find herself a husband.

Mr Grantham, the odious manager of the Blackthorn estate, required extra careful handling. While not highly positioned, he was one of the most powerful personages in the district’s society, as he controlled the purse strings that paid the majority of its inhabitants’ wages—Hannah’s father’s included. Accompanying him was the equally unpleasant Mr Trowbridge, owner of a modest property on the outskirts of Blackthorn. Despite his position—and the fact he was owed a considerable sum of money by her father—his interest in Hannah’s youngest sister, Rachel, was wholly unwelcome. The man bore on his portly frame more than twice the pretty, fair-haired girl’s years, and he had a reputation for lechery. But with the power to see the vicar sent to debtor’s prison if the loan was called in, the Fosters could not afford to snub him outright.

While Hannah had no desire for either of her younger sisters to meet her lonely fate, neither did she wish to see their happiness sacrificed to expediency. If the horrid Mr Trowbridge had cast his gaze her way, she would have accepted his proposal, as an unappealing husband was better than no husband at all. The relief of knowing her father was safe from penury would have been significant, and eliciting even modest dowries for her sisters would have more than made up for any indignities she would have endured. But, typically, Mr Trowbridge had shown no interest in Hannah. Nor had the repugnant gentleman found her middle sister, twenty-year-old Naomi, to his taste, as the girl’s strong opinions had the tendency to counteract her otherwise comely charms. No, the recently widowed Mr Trowbridge’s interest was fixed on Rachel, a prize he would not have the satisfaction of claiming if Hannah had any say in the matter.

Deliberately engaging Mr Trowbridge and Mr Grantham in conversation, Hannah did her best to distract them until Rachel could make her escape. Her hope was the girl would head straight to the vicarage as promised and not allow herself to become diverted in some fashion, her flightiness an increasing cause for concern.

Once the rest of the local society had been sufficiently indulged, Hannah turned her attention to the more lowly positioned members of the congregation, many of whom she counted as friends. The highlight of her morning was sharing recipes with Mrs Darrow, Lady Wescott’s cook. The portly woman’s scones were lighter than hers, but she readily admitted Hannah’s pastry was flakier.

After luncheon, during which her birthday was celebrated in a modest fashion in keeping with her wishes, Hannah left her sisters engaged in leisurely pursuits and her father fast asleep in his favourite reading chair. Donning her bonnet, she made her way down a well-worn path to the cemetery in the field beside the church.

“It’s been quite a day, Mama,” she murmured, kneeling down beside the grave and plucking at the weeds that had sprung up since her visit the week before. “It’s my birthday, and we both know what that means.”

Sitting back with her skirts spread out around her, Hannah sighed. All she’d ever wanted was to be a wife and mother. Now, if their father was to pass away before at least one of the girls was married—the hope being a husband would be willing to provide a home for his wife’s sisters—all three girls would find themselves penniless and without protection. But finding both generous and tolerable husbands for Naomi and Rachel was proving easier said than done.

The curse that had blighted generations of the Blackthorn viscounts was believed by many to have spilled over into the surrounding district in recent years, causing a number of landholding families to relocate to more pleasant, prosperous climes. The few eligible gentlemen remaining, while content to enjoy the company of the vicar of Hartley’s younger daughters, invariably chose girls from more substantial families—girls with
dowries—
when it came to matrimony.

In an attempt to raise her spirits, Hannah lifted her face to the pale spring sun. A movement caught her attention, and she looked to the nearby trees to see a large, brown horse all but hidden in the foliage. After brushing the soil from her hands, she stood and slowly approached.

“Hello, boy,” she said, reaching up to stroke his forehead. He must have run off from a Sunday hunt, leaving his rider to walk home in disgrace. But rather than finding the reins snagged on a bush, she was surprised to see them tied securely
to the branch of a tree.

“Where’s your rider? Off hunting for truffles?” Hannah’s lips twitched at the unlikely image of the owner of such a proud beast digging around the forest floor.

The horse pushed against her hand, and she patted his velvety muzzle. There didn’t appear to be anyone lurking—or grovelling—amongst the oak trees, and she scanned the cemetery. Spotting the form of a man sitting against a headstone, the rider she presumed, Hannah wondered who it could be. She had no intention of disturbing him, but when he remained unmoving for several minutes, she took a few steps in his direction. Her eyes widened. It was
him,
the bedraggled officer from the service, and he wasn’t sitting but had collapsed in a heap. She picked up her skirts and ran across the grass, but her footsteps slowed when she saw which headstone he was leaning against—the one belonging to the most recently deceased of the Blackthorn viscounts.

“William?”

The officer’s lids flickered open, revealing eyes clouded with pain. She knelt beside him and placed her fingers against his brow, unsurprised to find him burning with fever.

“Don’t worry. I’m here to help.”

Compassion and concern welled within Hannah, as her suspicions led her to an inescapable conclusion. The battle-scarred and gravely ill officer was none other than her childhood friend, William. The sixth Viscount Blackthorn had finally returned home.

Chapter 3

Homecoming

“Papa, girls, come quickly.” Hannah ran through the house, stopping only to collect the bag she used when visiting her father’s parishioners.

“What is it? What’s happened?”

Her father followed her into the kitchen where she rapidly assembled what she needed from her collection of herbal tinctures and medical supplies.

“William Blackthorn has collapsed across his father’s grave.”

“
Viscount
Blackthorn?” Naomi asked from the doorway. “After all these years?”

“The officer with the limp?”

Hannah nodded to her father before turning to Rachel. “Run down to the granary and ask Mr Jenkins to hitch up his flat-backed cart. Tell him to drive it to the top of the cemetery as quickly as possible, and get him to bring those sons of his. We’ll need help lifting the viscount.”

Obeying without question, for a change, Rachel reached for her bonnet hanging on a hook in the foyer.

“Once you’re sure he’s on his way, go and find Grace,” Hannah called after her. “She’s probably helping Sally with her confinement.”

Rachel hesitated near the door. “Sally?” Preferring the characters in her stories to the more pedestrian inhabitants of the village, the vicar’s youngest daughter had a tendency to forget the names of their neighbours.

“Sally Martin, the farrier’s wife. Her babe is overdue. Tell Grace she’s needed at the manor urgently.”

Grace, Hannah’s closest friend, had been cast from the only home she’d ever known upon the death of her father, Lord Cromley. His wife had not appreciated raising her husband’s bastard child alongside his legitimate ones, and had been only too eager banish the girl at the first opportunity. Spurned by the society in which she’d been raised, Grace had apprenticed herself to her elderly aunt, the village’s midwife and herbalist, and now serviced the district in her stead.

Hannah’s father stayed her arm, his expression troubled. “Shouldn’t we send to Thornton for the doctor?”

“Must we?” While the doctor could be enticed to travel to the village for a fee, he was unlikely to be sober, even this early in the afternoon. “Grace will do William—I mean the
viscount
—far more good than Dr Cooper would.”

“You’re probably right.” Her father sighed. “Mr Grantham may insist on calling a physician, but I’ll encourage him to send to the city for a more trustworthy candidate.”

“That devil will do whatever suits his own needs,” Naomi muttered, earning a warning look from her father though he didn’t dispute her assessment. “What can I do to help?”

Hannah shot her more sensible middle sister an appreciative look. “You can pack my portmanteau and make sure it finds its way into the cart, as I don’t fancy having to carry it all the way up to the manor.”

“You plan on staying with the viscount?” Her father followed Hannah out the door, donning his coat on the way.

“Mr and Mrs Potts won’t be able to care for him by themselves, and Grace is far too busy to sit at his bedside.” Hannah didn’t add that her friend wouldn’t neglect her many other patients just because Lord Blackthorn was of a higher station.

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with you tending to a young gentleman.” Her father shook his head as they strode briskly along the path to the cemetery.

“Who else is there, Papa? I’ve done my fair share of nursing, and it’s not as if I’ve a reputation to uphold . . . well, other than as your daughter, the dutiful spinster.”

Her father’s expression softened, but Hannah had no time to regret her bitter tone. As they approached the Blackthorn plot, her priority was the man lying propped against his father’s tomb. The viscount’s condition appeared to have worsened during the short time she was away. His breath came in harsh pants, and his complexion, though tanned by some distant southern sun, was grey and waxen. Wary of the sling she saw tucked beneath his greatcoat, she gave his uninjured shoulder a gentle shake.

“Lord Blackthorn? William?” Hannah took the liberty of using his Christian name in the hopes of garnering a response. To her relief, his eyes opened. “I’m Miss Hannah Foster, and this is my father, the Reverend Foster,” she said, not sure he would remember them after so many years. “We’re going to take care of you.”

His heavy-lidded gaze followed her hands as she removed a bottle from her bag and poured a pungent liquid into a tumbler.

“If you could drink this, please.” She raised the glass to his mouth.

“No laudanum,” he muttered, turning his head.

“It’s just willow bark and some herbs to help with the fever,” Hannah assured him.

After studying her for a moment, he opened his cracked lips. The brew contained both sugar and liquorice to try and disguise the bitter taste, but he grimaced after taking a sip.

“You need to swallow it all,” Hannah said, using her best no-nonsense tone.