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    A Pitiful Remnant
    A Pitiful Remnant
    A Pitiful Remnant
    Ebook117 pages1 hour

    A Pitiful Remnant

    By Judith B. Glad

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    About this ebook

    A marriage of convenience. How dreadfully inconvenient...

    Lisanor needs a husband willing to marry her immediately, but he must agree to an outrageous condition. Guillemot is all but bankrupt and Clarence, the new marquess, has no choice but to marry for money. She is trained to manage a great estate, he to command a regiment, and neither is willing to give an inch. One of them must yield if they are to work together, to live together, perhaps even to love together.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherUncial Press
    Release dateJan 16, 2015
    ISBN9781601742001
    A Pitiful Remnant

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      Book preview

      A Pitiful Remnant - Judith B. Glad

      http://www.uncialpress.com

      Prologue

      Southeastern Yorkshire,

      Late January, 1809

      Good morning, Grandfather. You sent for me?

      Her grandfather's expression was more serious than usual as he tapped the newspaper on his desktop. I'm afraid it's bad news.

      He had to say no more. Captain Foxworth? The words came out a bare whisper, for all the breath seemed to have left her body.

      Yes. His name is in the latest casualty list from Spain. His voice shook. A terrible battle...a victory for England, but... As if unable to go on, he handed her the newspaper.

      Tears blurred her vision, but she knew. Lisanor let the newspaper slide to the floor. What will we do?

      I don't know. If only--

      Grandfather, you must not continue to blame yourself for my father's follies. You were ill, too ill to be troubled with estate management. If there is fault, it is mine. I paid no attention--

      How could you? I have never burdened you with financial matters. Bad enough I used you as bailiff, allowed you to labor like a...a serf.

      I did nothing you did not do at my age. How many times have you told me that we Hights are yeomen, not peers? Ackerslea Farm is my heritage. I can only learn how to best manage it by working at every task, no matter how menial.

      But I could have kept your father on a tighter rein. We are facing disaster. And it is my fault.

      Grandfather's heart seizure two years past had forced him to relinquish much of the management of Ackerslea Farm to his only son. At first all had been well, but after the harvest her father had gone to London, ostensibly to attend the opera and theatre with old friends, men from his carefree bachelor days. He had renewed his acquaintance with the expensive crowd surrounding the prince and, instead of returning to his duties at home, he had reverted to old habits, living extravagantly, spending lavishly, and gaming wildly. Only after his death in a curricle accident this past October had they learned that he had not only squandered the farm's income, but also had spent monies intended for seed and supplies. Even worse, he had given vowels against Ackerslea Farm's future income.

      If there is a fault, it is my father's. She hated to speak ill of the dead, but her father's reckless improvidence would affect everyone at Ackerslea Farm for some years, as they struggled to pay creditors and to recoup the financial loss.

      Mine was the final responsibility. Grandfather sounded tired, defeated. And now we must somehow find another man for you to wed.

      Must we?

      I fear so. While I have no doubt of your competence, the reality of the matter is that alone you will be vulnerable. You need a husband whom the world will see as the master here, no matter that it will be a fiction.

      Where will you ever find another man who will be willing to accept your terms? The concessions Captain Foxworth insisted upon were close to ruinous. She had protested strongly when Grandfather revealed that Foxworth had demanded a generous allowance, and a munificent payment for each male child he fathered on her. But finding a man who would yield total control of the Farm to a mere woman went against the grain of most men. All men, I think, but those words she left unspoken.

      I have an idea. If it comes to fruition, I will tell you.

      Chapter One

      Northern Lincolnshire,

      March, 1809

      The sling chafed the back of his neck and the fingers of his right hand refused to work. His breathing was impaired by the wrappings around his chest, the splint on his leg meant he couldn't walk properly, and his arse hurt like bloody hell. Might as well be dead.

      Major Clarence Lamberton knew he was indulging in self-pity, but somehow any sense of shame eluded him.

      The action had gone on far longer than he'd been capable of fighting. According to the sailors he'd overheard, Coruña was being called a terrible defeat for the British, even though they had won the battle. And had lost it, too, for General Sir John Moore had been killed. Now the ships were carrying the remnants of the British army back to England. Pitiful remnants they were, too. Fully half of the remaining men had taken an injury of one sort or another. And the rest were exhausted and disheartened.

      I should be with my men. They need me.

      His commanding officer had ignored his arguments and sent him off on a boat with other injured officers.

      At least he'd been spared the stinking dark of the hold. His pallet on the deck was only somewhat shielded from spume and drizzle by tattered canvas stretched from rail to rail. He might be damp, but he could see a small slice of the shore of England, slowly growing visible in the mist.

      England. Home.

      God, how he had missed Guillemot's Burn. But would he be welcome when he got there? In his last letter--good lord, that was in October--his father had threatened to cut off his allowance if he didn't sell out. But duty had been a stronger bond than family. Besides, he had nowhere to spend the money.

      The wounded were loaded onto wagons for the journey to London. But before they set out, a command to halt came back along the line. They waited, shivering in the damp coastal air, until a man on horseback appeared.

      A man he recognized, even through the film of pain that darkened his vision. Nettles. His sergeant, when he'd had a platoon to command.

      Major Lamberton?

      He pretended not to hear.

      Faint hope. Someone near the tailgate called, He's here. Up front. The mounted man commanded his minions to Fetch the major, but be gentle.

      The journey home used to be long, but this time it happened in mere hours. Or at least that's what his mind told him when he woke as they were carrying him up the stairs. Familiar stairs leading to a bedchamber he'd last slept in eight years ago. My lord, the doctor will be here soon, Carleton said.

      Carleton? Why was a footman taking care of him?

      For a long time after that, nothing made sense. Carleton continued to speak to him--kept calling him 'my lord' which made no sense at all. An old woman who vaguely resembled his mother came to sit beside his bed and weep, until he wanted to tell her to go away and irrigate some other floor. His sister, she of the bright golden hair and lilting voice, never came to visit. That was how he knew it was all a dream. Phillipa would never leave him to Mother's tears or a doctor's callous ministerings. But hadn't Phillipa married that Scotsman? MacIvers? And gone off to live in the Highlands? I can't remember.

      My lord, can you sit?

      Father? Is that you?

      My lord, your father--

      Oh, my poor Clarence. Has no one told you? Again the weepy woman was there beside his bed, watering the floor, dampening his bed linens.

      Madam, his lordship needs undisturbed rest, else he may not recover.

      Maybe the doctor wasn't so callous after all.

      My lord, let me hold this cup...

      The tea burned his lower lip, and he turned his head. Then it burned his chest.

      He can't manage a cup, you fool. Get a sauceboat. We'll have to pour it into him.

      The next time he woke, he had his wits about him enough to look around. The room was familiar. Am I home? At Guillemot? How...

      My lord, are you awake?

      It was Carleton again. But this Carleton was older, more dignified. Dressed as a butler, not in a footman's livery. Why? was all he could manage, but his fingers caught at the man's jacket and tugged.

      Oh, my lord, you've your wits about you at last. I must call my lady. And before he could ask the questions that had barely begun to phrase themselves in his mind, Carleton disappeared.

      An interminable interval later, a very young footman entered, bearing a steaming basin. He was followed by a silent older woman in a maid's uniform who proceeded to strip him naked and wash him all over. By the time she was done, both the water in the basin and the skin on his body were chilled. He locked his jaw to prevent the chattering of his teeth and waited for the next round of torture.

      Eventually, still shivering, he plummeted into sleep.

      After an eternity in Hell, he woke in a place devoid of light. No, there was a faint glimmer...under a door?

      I'm weak as a newborn kitten. He felt as if he were caught in the depths of some thick, clinging substance, one which limited his motion and weighed down his limbs. His left leg was wrapped in something stiff and heavy,

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