Courting the Vicar's Daughter: A Regency Romance (Branches of Love Book 6) Read online

  Courting the Vicar’s Daughter

  by Sally Britton

  Other Titles By Sally Britton

  The Branches of Love Series:

  Prequel Novella, Martha’s Patience

  Book #1, The Social Tutor

  Book #2, The Gentleman Physician

  Book #3, His Bluestocking Bride

  Book #4, The Earl and His Lady

  Book #5, Miss Devon’s Choice

  Book #6, Courting the Vicar’s Daughter

  Forever After:

  The Captain and Miss Winter

  Timeless Romance:

  An Evening at Almack’s, Regency Collection 12

  Courting the Vicar’s Daughter © 2019 by Sally Britton. All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover design by Blue Water Books

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Sally Britton

  http://www.authorsallybritton.com

  First Printing: March 2019

  Dedicated to my husband, my very best friend.

  And to my aunts and uncles, for telling me how proud they are. You have all inspired the very best of my characters in every book.

  Chapter One

  December 31st, 1820

  The snowfall in the darkening skies, and the surrounding blanket of white, made the ride from the Earl of Annesbury’s house to Whitewood Manor eerily silent. The only sound beyond Harry and his brother-in-law’s breath was the jingle of the carriage harnesses. Neither man spoke, though Harry knew he ought to say something. Normally he broke tension with a witty remark, but that was hardly appropriate in these circumstances.

  “What if he won’t let you help him?” Harry said suddenly, disturbing the silence.

  “I have to try, Harry. I am a doctor; it is my duty to see to any who need medical attention.” Nathaniel Hastings, Harry’s brother-in-law, shifted in his seat. “Tell me again exactly what the footman said.”

  It was New Year’s Eve, and both men had been attending a celebration at the Gilbert home, where their family and friends had gathered to feast, play games, and sing until the old year ended. No further parties would be had in the country for many months, as all the nobility and many members of the gentry would make their way to London for the Season.

  Twenty-year-old Harry Devon had been looking forward to this night. Home from university for a short holiday, twenty-year-old Harry Devon had been looking forward to this night. But his desire to sing and tease his sisters had been forgotten with one urgent message sent from his father’s home, Whitewood.

  “Father had a riding accident this morning,” Harry said, holding a hand up to rub the bridge of his nose. “A broken leg. No one knew of it until hours passed and he was found by a tenant. He was brought home, the apothecary has been attending him, and they only sent for me when he requested it.”

  Harry’s fear that his father might refuse any help that Nathaniel selflessly volunteered was well-founded; Mr. Devon had never spoken the name of Nathaniel Hastings, or even that of his eldest daughter Julia, since they had wed.

  Never mind that Nathaniel is a respected physician. Harry knew his brother-in-law was well-published in medical journals. Really, most would consider it an honor to be attended by him.

  “Perhaps it is not too serious,” Nathaniel said, tone cautious. “You would’ve been called home sooner.”

  Harry chuckled, without much of his usual humor. “My father would sooner give up his fortune than admit to any weakness, in body or mind. The fact that he sent for me, instead of waiting until I came home in the morning, worries me.” Harry tensed when the carriage turned into the lane leading up to his house.

  Every window glowed with light, and the old butler threw the front door open as the carriage rolled to a stop. Harry climbed out first, Nathaniel barely a step behind.

  Carmichael, the butler, met them on the landing and began to explain the situation in hushed tones. “Mr. Devon went on his morning ride as usual, sir. No one even thought to look for him until the farmer brought him to the door.”

  “It was an accident, nothing more.” Harry swallowed and nodded. “And his injury, Carmichael?”

  “When he fell from the horse, it apparently stepped backward. The lower part of his right leg is broken and protruding. Mr. Neeson has been here all day, tending to Mr. Devon.”

  Harry looked over his shoulder at Nathaniel, whose expression had turned very grim. “Show us to my father.”

  Carmichael bowed and then lead them to the hall of family rooms, where Mr. Devon’s bedchamber lay. Harry stepped into the room, immediately overwhelmed by the heat within. The fire was blazing and scores of candles had been placed on every surface. His father’s large four-poster bed was against the far wall, swathed in green velvet curtains, and Harry could see his father’s pale face in the center of the bedding. His cold blue eyes leapt out, hostile even in the midst of misfortune.

  Harry’s eyes were a matching shade, but he hoped they never caused a person the trepidation his father’s did.

  Mr. Neeson, the village apothecary, came forward with a straight back and narrowed eyes. “I am afraid your father isn’t doing well, Mr. Devon.”

  “Mr. Neeson, this is my brother-in-law, Doctor Hastings. Please, tell him everything about the injury and what has been done for my father.” Harry gestured for Nathaniel to come forward, which he did, only to be met with an almost scornful huff from the old apothecary.

  “Doctor Hastings,” Mr. Neeson said, his tone one of disinterest. “Mr. Devon has suffered a riding accident. After falling from his horse, he was trampled upon. He has sustained a break just below his hip and a compound fracture in his shin. The bone was protruding by three inches. He was exposed to the elements for above two hours. I have treated his wound and stretched the bone back into place. There is nothing more for you to do here.”

  Shocked at the tone of the man, Harry opened his mouth to say something sharp, but Nathaniel began speaking, calm and collected.

  “I understand your protectiveness of your patient, Mr. Neeson. Please answer just a few questions for me, as a professional courtesy. Did Mr. Devon have many bone fragments in the wound?”

  Drawing himself up, Mr. Neeson spoke as though to a simpleton. “As a doctor, sir, you should know the danger of going into a man’s leg and poking around. You must’ve read the work of Samuel Cooper in regard to the danger of gangrene should the wound be too disturbed.”

  Nathaniel closed his eyes and spoke with patience. “I am familiar with the esteemed Doctor Cooper, but I would rather not discuss medical theories. Did you clean any debris from the wound?”

  “I packed the whole with the appropriate medicines and poultice,” Mr. Neeson stated firmly. “As is recommended in cases such as these.”

  Although Harry didn’t even pretend to understand the world of medicine, he trusted Nathaniel’s reputation as an expert in medical care.

  “Mr. Neeson,” Harry said, breaking in before the argument continued. “I ask that you defer to Doctor Hastings in the care of my father. He’s family, and I trust him.” Harry exchanged a meaningful glance wi
th Nathaniel before going to his father’s side.

  Mr. Devon, his dark hair flecked with gray, lay as pale as a ghost in his bed. He moaned as Harry approached, then appeared to come more to his senses. “Horace,” he said, using Harry’s given name.

  Kneeling by his father’s bed, Harry tried to offer a reassuring smile. He had never been particularly close to the man. For the most part, he regarded his father with distrust and regret, but in this moment, he needed to be supportive and compassionate.

  “I’m here, Father. I brought Doctor Hastings with me. Julia’s husband. I want him to look at your wound.”

  Nathaniel approached but came no closer than the foot of the bed, clutching his medical bag tightly.

  “Hastings?” his father said and turned his fever-bright eyes to the foot of the bed. When he spoke again, he hissed his words. “Get this man out of my house at once. Remove him from this property.”

  Harry stiffened and his stomach clenched tightly. “Father—”

  “Remove him,” his father shouted, then coughed and sunk into his pillows.

  “I can help, Mr. Devon—” Nathaniel said, his voice soft, but he was cut off.

  “Be gone,” Devon said, turning to face Harry. “Neeson will see to my needs.”

  Neeson came forward and took Nathaniel’s arm, as though to remove him from the room himself. “You are over-exciting my patient, Doctor Hastings, and that will only make his fever worse.”

  Nathaniel carefully pulled his arm from the apothecary’s grasp, then looked at Harry with a somber expression. “I cannot help him if he will not allow it, Harry,” he said.

  Harry looked from his father to Neeson, who preened like a pompous old goat. “Thank you for trying,” Harry said, forcing a smile. “Please tell my sisters of the situation here.”

  Shaking his head, Nathaniel shared one last look of sympathetic irritation with Harry before he left the room, bag still in hand.

  “How dare you bring him here,” Mr. Devon whispered, his eyes closed tight. “If I live or die, it will not be because that man touched me.”

  “Yes, Father,” Harry said, as he’d been trained to do his whole life. He settled into a chair near his father’s bed. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Wait.” The injured man pressed his bloodless lips together. “If infection sets in, there will be a fever. The loss of my leg is a possible outcome.”

  Though Harry wasn’t particularly close to his father, who possessed a cold and unfeeling nature, the idea of the man dying before his eyes unsettled him. “If it would save you to amputate—”

  “Neeson has his orders,” Devon said with a snarl, then he began to pant.

  The apothecary shuffled forward quickly. “You shouldn’t upset him, young sir.”

  Harry dropped his face into his hands and barely repressed a groan. Then he sat up and removed his coat. If he had to sit in the oven-hot room, with two old men he felt nothing but frustration for, he was at least going to be comfortable.

  “It is a shame you were injured today, Father.” Harry forced some lightness into his voice. The atmosphere oppressed him, but with nothing to do but sit, he needed some way to alleviate the building stress. “It is a fine night. My sisters and their families are all well, should you wonder, and anticipate the New Year with great hope.”

  His father snorted. “Foolish of them. All poor nobodies, except Rebecca.” He started coughing. “I had hopes for this family. You see how that turned out. Everyone a disappointment to me.”

  Harry knew this line of lecturing well enough to give it to himself, though he never agreed with it. Their father’s hopes had been to manipulate each of his daughters into advantageous marriages, enriching his coffers and social connections, with little care for their personal wishes.

  In time, Harry would be forced to choose between bowing to his father’s wishes or being cut off. Though used to the ways of a wealthy gentleman, Harry had never really considered taking on his father’s responsibilities.

  “Best not to antagonize him, sir,” the apothecary whispered loudly across the room.

  “I am sick, not deaf, Mr. Rigley,” Harry’s father muttered darkly, before he turned to cough into his pillow again. “And the boy needs to be aware of his legacy. If I die—”

  Harry jerked a little straighter. “You will not, Father. You have a strong constitution.” Imagining his father succumbing to anything, even illness, against his own wishes was a foreign concept.

  “Be quiet, Horace.” His father’s frame trembled and he moaned. “You will find everything in order, ready for you to take up your duties when the time is right.”

  Swallowing, Harry leaned closer to his father’s side and tried to sound certain as he spoke. “I am still studying, Father. And when I am through at university, I will come home. You will teach me how you wish things to be done.” Of that Harry had no doubt. He would be thoroughly educated in his father’s less-than-savory business practices.

  “Foolish boy.” His father squeezed his eyes shut and sighed, though it was a rasping sound that made Harry wince. “Let us hope you are less like your useless sisters than I suspect, or the legacy I leave you will mean nothing.”

  The legacy of a callous heart, a man who loved money and position more than his own children, was not one that Harry wanted. In truth, he distanced himself as much as he could from his father in all matters. His friends at school were the men on scholarship, not the sons of lords. His favorite pursuits were those that gave him joy, not income or prestige. His sisters, whom his father ignored, were dearer to Harry than his own life.

  The thought of the party left behind came to him, and he wished there had been no cause to leave the circle of his family. What did it say about him, that he would rather be there again than at his father’s bedside? He’d left behind a house full of joy and laughter for the bitterness of his only living parent.

  His father would not make for a pleasant patient, even if the fever subsided in the night. Harry knew his sisters, for all the good they possessed, should not be exposed to their father on normal terms. With Mr. Devon ill, it would be best to keep everyone as far from the house as possible. Which left it all to Harry to care for Mr. Devon. The last several years of his life, Harry had acted as a buffer in the family, which meant he was quite used to the position.

  Whatever the outcome of the illness, it was up to Harry to see his father through it.

  Chapter Two

  Four Years Later, September 23rd, 1824

  Carrying a basket of gingerbread biscuits to a neighbor, surrounded by the scent of damp earth and the golden leaves of fall, was quite possibly the most perfect way to begin a morning. Augusta Ames, who privately preferred the childhood nickname of Daisy, was called Miss Ames since both of her sisters married. If she couldn’t be called Daisy, she much preferred Miss Ames to Miss Augusta.

  She swung her basket as she walked and took in the sky with a smile, not wishing to be anywhere else in the world. The bright shade of blue above promised a clear, beautiful morning. Those were the very best sort of mornings.

  A cart turned onto the road from a lane and she waved to its driver, Mr. Rollins. He was a tenant farmer on the Whitewood property. He tipped his cap and pulled up his horse when they drew even. “Mornin’, Miss Ames. Where are you off to with that cheery smile?”

  “To the Thatchers’. Little Annie Thatcher has just turned six, and gingerbread is her favorite.” Daisy reached into the basket, finding a biscuit beneath the napkin she’d used to cover her baked goods. “Would you like to sample the birthday treat?”

  Though she was twenty-one, she appreciated the gingerbread as much as the six-year-old would. And what sort of person would ever pass up the opportunity for gingerbread?

  “Oh, that’s kind of you—”

  She forestalled his polite declination by holding the biscuit up to him. “Please, Mr. Rollins? It will make your ride to the village more agreeable.” She knew his destination quite well, as it was
his habit to go for supplies and sundries every second Tuesday. The Rollins family were a people of routine, as were many locals, and no one knew their schedules quite so well as Daisy. It often fell to her, as the last of the vicar’s children at home, to perform charitable acts in her family’s name. Knowing the people in her community with some intimacy aided in that duty.

  “What a treat, Miss Ames. You’re an angel.” He accepted the biscuit and immediately took a bite. The gingerbread, shaped like stars, boasted a little icing on each point. Her father would not approve of the extravagance of icing biscuits; he believed they were treat enough without depleting the kitchen’s sugar supply. A vicar’s family ought to be the very model of economy, after all.

  “I’m not at all certain about that, Mr. Rollins, but I do hope you enjoy the biscuit.” She curtsied and went on her way, hearing his cart continue down the road a moment later.

  A breeze danced through the trees and across the lane, making the leaves above her shiver and twirl on their stems. Autumn had arrived, and all the world put off summer gowns in exchange for the golden splendor.

  Daisy couldn’t resist grinning to herself. Chancing a look behind her, she lifted her skirts a little higher than proper in order to skip. There was nothing so freeing as a good skip down a road. The basket bounced against her hip, the handle tucked tightly in the crook of her arm, but she didn’t mind it.

  Her bonnet fell back, but the ribbons kept it secure around her neck, and she tossed her blonde curls out of her eyes with a laugh.

  On days such as this, her dreams took flight on the breeze. All of her plans to open a school for the local girls were beginning to take a more realistic shape. For years she’d saved every spare coin she could to make a start. She had enough to purchase the most essential books, and she was nearly ready to reveal her plans to the community.

  She didn’t want to open a boarding school for the children of the middle-class, for nobility. She wanted to give the little girls she saw every day a way to better themselves, to better their families present and future. Her father thought it a worthy endeavor, if not a very practical one.