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Synopsis
With An Heiress at Heart, Jennifer Delamere delivers the first in a historical romance series sure to set hearts aflame. After five years in exile for a youthful indiscretion, Lizzie Poole is given a second chance to join London society when her best friend Ria takes to her death bed and asks Lizzie to assume her identity. Ria wants Lizzie to carry out her final wishes, but neither knows that Lord Somerville has designs on Ria -- and that maintaining the ruse will put Lizzie's heart at risk.
Release date: October 30, 2012
Publisher: Forever
Print pages: 393
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An Heiress at Heart
Jennifer Delamere
New South Wales, Australia, February 1846
Beyond this breach, my friends, lies the great Bathurst Plains!”
This announcement came from a man on horseback who was leading the procession of four bullock drays—large two-wheeled carts piled high with supplies and pulled by oxen.
From her perch atop one of the drays, Lizzie Poole strained to catch her first glimpse of the valley beyond the Blue Mountains.
It had been a long journey from Sydney. For three days they’d traveled the narrow road painstakingly cut through the mountain pass. The road had risen and fallen sharply and taken countless turns through narrow gorges. Lizzie thought they might never escape the dense woods, which were at times so thick she could barely see the sky above. And she did not care at all for the bird they called the kookaburra, whose call sounded to her like maniacal laughter.
But they were at last moving into bright sunshine. The drivers brought the rigs to a halt at the point where the road crested a ridge, and the western valley opened before them in a breathtaking vista. Beyond the steep cliffs with their dramatic rock formations, the land stretched away for miles: trees and plains making a tapestry of green and brown, dotted here and there with colorful flowers. Lizzie even glimpsed a sparkle of blue from a distant river. Although she had spent four months looking at the ocean’s endless horizon, the world never appeared as large to her as it did now.
“Tom, isn’t it magnificent?” she called down to her brother, who had been walking beside the dray.
“Aye,” agreed Tom. “It looks bigger than all of England.”
Lizzie could see the same awe she felt reflected on the faces of the other newcomers: there were three single men who had been hired straight off the ship in Sydney to work on the sheep farms, and a clergyman, Rev. Greene, who had traveled with his wife and two children to preside over the small church in Bathurst.
Their guide, Mr. Edward Smythe, appeared pleased at their reactions. He spread his arms wide and proclaimed in theatrical tones:
“The boundless champaign burst upon our sight,
Till nearer seen the beauteous landscape grew,
Op’ning like Canaan on rapt Israel’s view.”
Lizzie smiled. She was not surprised that Mr. Smythe should be spouting poetry at a moment like this. He was a handsome man, with dark hair and expressive brown eyes, and Lizzie could easily picture him as an actor on the stage. He was young, too; like Lizzie and her brother, he looked to be still in his twenties. What intrigued Lizzie most, however, was that although his accent revealed him to be an English gentleman, he seemed perfectly at home in this rough and untamed land.
“Canaan,” repeated Mrs. Greene, who was seated on the dray with Lizzie and cradling an infant in her arms. “I suppose the Promised Land was indeed as beautiful as this.”
Lizzie considered these words as the drays once more took up their slow, steady advance. She and Tom had left behind everything in England. Would they really find a new beginning here, as Tom had promised her? She desperately hoped so.
After another hour or so, they came within sight of a group of men digging a ditch along the edge of the road. There were ten of them, and Lizzie thought she had never seen such miserable-looking creatures. Dirty and ragged, they worked with grim determination under the oversight of three men—the master of the crew, shouting orders from horseback; a tall man with a sunburned face, who was holding a shotgun; and a third very large fellow, who was wielding a whip.
When the master saw the caravan, he immediately rode up to meet them and exchanged greetings with Mr. Smythe, riding along with him for a few minutes as the caravan kept its forward pace. The other two men, Lizzie noticed, kept the road crew mercilessly at work.
“This is Captain McCann,” Mr. Smythe announced to the travelers. “He is in charge of keeping this road maintained and safe.”
“Welcome,” said the captain, riding his horse up the line of oxcarts so he could greet everyone. “I am happy to see more immigrants to the valley.” When he saw Lizzie, he lifted up his eyebrows in surprise, then turned and said over his shoulder, “What’s this, Smythe? Did you take your wife with you all the way to Sydney and back again?”
Mr. Smythe’s eyes glinted in amusement. “No, sir,” he said. “This is Miss Poole. Lately arrived from England with her brother.”
A look of confusion crossed the captain’s face. After a moment’s hesitation, he replaced it with an apologetic smile and raised his cap to Lizzie. “I beg your pardon, miss.”
“Are those… convicts?” the minister’s wife asked timidly, pointing to the workers.
“Indeed they are, ma’am,” the captain responded. “We’ve brought them up here to repair the culverts.”
Two of the convicts turned from their work to watch the drays as they passed, but a flash of the whip from the burly man sent them back to their labors once more.
“Poor creatures,” she said, echoing Lizzie’s thoughts.
“Do not give them too much pity, ma’am,” the captain said. “They brought it upon themselves by their evil ways. ’Twas no more than they deserved.”
“Why, what have they done?”
“Thieves, mostly,” he replied coolly. “Some are murderers, too. You’ll do well to stay clear of them.”
As their cart passed the convicts, two others managed to throw them dark glares without their overseer being aware of it.
Rev. Greene’s son turned to him and said, “Papa, do you suppose God has forgiven those fellows?”
“He has if they have repented and asked Him for forgiveness,” he replied.
“Do you really believe it is that simple?” Tom asked him. “Wouldn’t a just God exact vengeance?”
The minister gave Tom an inquiring look. Tom’s impassive face gave little indication of what he was thinking. But Lizzie knew what must be on his mind. Four months had passed since Tom had killed Freddie Hightower in a duel, exacting his own vengeance on the man who had seduced his sister, taken her to Europe, and abandoned her there. The memory of that cold, miserable morning when Tom, still bloody from his duel, revealed to her what he’d done still sent a chill to Lizzie’s heart. Even though Freddie had cruelly mistreated her, she had never wished for his death—certainly not at the hands of her own brother.
“Perhaps after we are settled, you might visit me at church,” the minister suggested to Tom. “Then we might have leisure to discuss these matters more fully.”
“Thank you, sir,” Tom said with a nod of his head. But Lizzie doubted such a meeting would ever take place. Tom had made it clear to her that he felt justified in acting as he had. He had done it “for her sake,” he said, and he would not allow anyone to change his mind. Despite his words, Lizzie knew his actions had left a stain on his heart and given him no real peace. She was in no better condition herself, she reflected bitterly. Her foolish actions had brought on those terrible events. Surely there was no pardon for that.
“It’s for certain the Crown is not so forgiving,” the captain said to Tom. He gestured dismissively toward the convicts. “These men will be paying for their crimes for the rest of their lives. It’s a fate worse than death. Be glad you’ve come to Australia as a free man.”
The captain could not have known how close he was to the truth. If Tom had been arrested for what he’d done to Freddie, he might well have arrived in Australia in chains. But Tom had escaped. He’d arranged the duel for the morning they left for Australia, not telling Lizzie of his plans until the deed had been done. They had been out to sea within hours of the duel, their trail untraceable to anyone who might wish to follow. No one here was aware of the sordid tale that caused their departure from England.
It all seemed as a dream now, as they began moving across the open valley, full in the light of the brightly burning sun. Odd, too, that it was February and yet they were in the heat of summer. Everything was different here. The world she had known was gone.
Would she ever feel at home in this strange new land?
Mr. Smythe had insisted they would. He had seen them as they disembarked from the ship at Sydney harbor, and had immediately worked his way through the crowds in order to meet them, offering work on one of the largest sheep ranches in the Bathurst Valley. He said that he’d been sent by the owner to hire able-bodied laborers from the immigrant ship, whose arrival had been keenly anticipated. With transportation of criminals now limited to other parts of Australia, the region of New South Wales was in dire need of free workers.
“My wife will be overjoyed to meet you,” Mr. Smythe had said upon their agreeing to go.
Lizzie had lost count of how many times he’d repeated this sentiment over the course of their journey. “Are there no other ladies to keep her company?” Lizzie had asked.
“None have given her the close friendship she craves. But something tells me you two will be very close.”
Lizzie had asked for more particulars, but he would say no more. It would have to remain a mystery until she met this Ria Smythe.
The day was far advanced when they finally reached the town of Bathurst and pulled up to the place where they would lodge for the night. A sign above the door proclaimed this to be the Royal Hotel. It seemed far too grand a name for the two-story wooden building. And yet, after three nights of sleeping on the ground, Lizzie was sure it would feel as grand as a palace.
Tom helped Lizzie descend from the oxcart. At the front of the caravan, Mr. Smythe dismounted from his horse and was immediately met by a lovely young lady. “Eddie, you’re home!” she cried happily. She tossed back her bonnet as she ran toward him, giving Lizzie a clear view of her face before the woman threw her arms around him and kissed him.
“Blimey,” Tom remarked to Lizzie. “If that lady ain’t the spittin’ image of you!”
Lizzie could only stare. The woman did look amazingly like her. She was a match in so many ways, from her pale blond hair to her face and figure. Lizzie could not see the woman’s eyes from this distance, but she was certain they were blue like her own. She had the oddest feeling she was looking in a mirror.
Tom grinned. “Now I see why Smythe asked us so many questions about our family!”
“It might also explain why he seemed so disappointed that I had never had a sister,” Lizzie observed. “He must have thought there was a connection.”
Mr. Smythe gently set his wife at arm’s length to get a better look at her. “How well you look. I cannot believe you came all the way to town to meet me. But, my dearest, I fear you have scandalized these good people with your actions just now.” He spoke as if he were chiding her, yet it was clear he was pleased by her enthusiastic greeting.
“Why, Eddie,” she answered, “you know I could not wait even one more day to see you.”
They gazed at each other with such loving affection that Lizzie’s heart twisted in envy. She had once felt love like that. But she had never known such happiness. Falling in love had brought her only ruin and heartache. She would never again dare to open her heart in that way.
“Ria, my darling,” said Mr. Smythe, “aren’t you going to ask me what I brought you from Sydney?”
“Have you brought me a present?” she asked gaily. “What could it be?”
“Come and see,” he said, and began to draw her toward Lizzie. The moment Ria saw Lizzie, she pulled up short. Her mouth fell open and her eyes—blue, as Lizzie had known they would be—lit up with wonder and joy.
“Indeed I have brought you a present,” Edward said with a satisfied smile. “I have brought you a sister.”
London, June 1851
If you’ve killed her, Geoffrey, we will never hear the end of it from Lady Thornborough.”
Geoffrey Somerville threw a sharp glance at his companion. The man’s flippancy annoyed him, but he knew James Simpson was never one to take any problem too seriously. Not even the problem of what to do with the young woman they had just accidentally struck down with his carriage.
The girl had been weaving her way across the street, seemingly unaware of their rapid approach until it was too late. The driver had barely succeeded in steering the horses sharply to one side to keep from trampling her under their massive hooves. However, there had not been enough time or space for him to avoid the girl completely, and the front wheel had tossed her onto the walkway as easily as a mislaid wicker basket.
Geoffrey knelt down and raised the woman’s head gently, smoothing the hair from her forehead. Blood flowed freely from a wound at her left temple, marring her fair features and leaving ugly red streaks in her pale yellow hair.
Her eyes were closed, but Geoffrey saw with relief that she was still breathing. Her chest rose and fell in ragged but unmistakable movements. “She’s not dead,” he said. “But she is badly hurt. We must get help immediately.”
James bounded up the steps and rapped at the door with his cane. “First we have to get her inside. People are beginning to gather, and you know how much my aunt hates a scandal.”
Geoffrey noted that a few people had indeed stopped to stare, although no one offered to help. One richly dressed young lady turned her head and hurried her escort down the street, as though fearful the poor woman bleeding on the pavement had brought the plague to this fashionable Mayfair neighborhood. At one time Geoffrey might have wondered at the lack of Good Samaritans here. But during the six months he’d been in London, he’d seen similar reactions to human suffering every day. Although it was no longer surprising, it still saddened and sickened him.
Only the coachman seemed to show real concern. He stood holding the horses and watching Geoffrey, his face wrinkled with worry. Or perhaps, Geoffrey realized, it was merely guilt. “I never even seen her, my lord,” he said. “She come from out of nowhere.”
“It’s not your fault,” Geoffrey assured him. He pulled out a handkerchief and began to dab the blood that was seeping from the woman’s wound. “Go as quickly as you can to Harley Street and fetch Dr. Layton.”
“Yes, my lord.” The coachman’s relief was evident. He scrambled up to the driver’s seat and grabbed the reins. “I’m halfway there already.”
Geoffrey continued to cautiously check the woman for other injuries. He slowly ran his hands along her delicate neck and shoulders and down her slender arms. He tested only as much as he dared of her torso and legs, torn between concern for her well-being and the need for propriety. Thankfully, nothing appeared to be broken.
James rapped once more on the imposing black door. It finally opened, and the gaunt face of Lady Thornborough’s butler peered out.
“Clear the way, Harding,” James said. “There has been an accident.”
Harding’s eyes widened at the sight of a woman bleeding on his mistress’s immaculate steps. He quickly sized up the situation and opened the door wide.
Geoffrey lifted the unconscious girl into his arms. She was far too thin, and he was not surprised to find she was light as a feather. Her golden hair contrasted vividly with his black coat. Where was her hat? Geoffrey scanned the area and noted with chagrin the remains of a straw bonnet lying crushed in the street. Something tugged at his heart as her head fell against his chest. Compassion, he supposed it was. But it was curiously profound.
“She is bleeding profusely,” James pointed out. “Have one of the servants carry her in, or you will ruin your coat.”
“It’s no matter,” Geoffrey replied. He felt oddly protective of the woman in his arms, although he had no idea who she was. His carriage had struck her, after all, even if her own carelessness had brought about the calamity. He was not about to relinquish her, not for any consideration.
He stepped grimly over the red smears her blood had left on the white marble steps and carried her into the front hall, where James was again addressing the butler. “Is Lady Thornborough at home, Harding?”
“No, sir. But we expect her anytime.”
Geoffrey knew from long acquaintance with the Thornborough family that Harding was a practical man who remained calm even in wildly unusual circumstances. The childhood escapades of Lady Thornborough’s granddaughter, Victoria, had developed this ability in him; James’s exploits as an adult had honed it to a fine art.
Sure enough, Harding motioned toward the stairs with cool equanimity, as though it were an everyday occurrence for an injured and unknown woman to be brought into the house. “Might I suggest the sofa in the Rose Parlor, sir?”
“Excellent,” said James.
As they ascended the stairs, Harding called down to a young parlor maid who was still standing in the front hall. “Mary, fetch us some water and a towel. And tell Jane to clean the front steps immediately.” Mary nodded and scurried away.
Another maid met them at the top of the stairs. At Harding’s instructions, she quickly found a blanket to spread out on the sofa to shield the expensive fabric.
Geoffrey set his fragile burden down with care. He seated himself on a low stool next to the woman and once again pressed his handkerchief to the gash below her hairline. The flesh around the wound was beginning to turn purple—she had been struck very hard. Alarm assailed him. “What the devil possessed her to step in front of a moving carriage?”
He was not aware that he had spoken aloud until James answered him. “Language, Geoffrey,” he said with mock prudishness. “There is a lady present.”
Geoffrey looked down at the unconscious woman. “I don’t think she can hear me just now.” He studied her with interest. Her plain black dress fit her too loosely, and the cuffs appeared to have been turned back more than once. Her sturdy leather shoes were of good quality, but showed signs of heavy wear. Was she a servant, wearing her mistress’s cast-off clothing? Or was she a lady in mourning? Was she already sorrowing for the loss of a loved one, only to have this accident add to her woes? “If she is a lady, she has fallen on hard times,” Geoffrey said, feeling once again that curious pull at his heart. He knew only too well the wretchedness of having one’s life waylaid by one tragedy after another.
A parlor maid entered the room, carrying the items Harding had requested. She set the basin on a nearby table. After dipping the cloth in the water, she timidly approached and gave Geoffrey a small curtsy. “With your permission, my lord.”
Something in the way the maid spoke these words chafed at him. He had been entitled to the address of “my lord” for several months, but he could not accustom himself to it. There were plenty who would congratulate him on his recent elevation to the peerage, but for Geoffrey it was a constant reminder of what he had lost. Surely nothing in this world was worth the loss of two brothers. Nor did any position, no matter how lofty, absolve a man from helping another if he could. He held out his hand for the cloth. “Give it to me. I will do it.”
The maid hesitated.
“Do you think that is wise?” James asked. “Surely this is a task for one of the servants.”
“I do have experience in this. I often attended to the ill in my parish.”
“But you were only a clergyman then. Now you are a baron.”
Geoffrey hated the position he had been placed in by the loss of his two elder brothers. But he would use it to his advantage if he had to. And he had every intention of tending to this woman. “Since I am a baron,” he said curtly, motioning again for the cloth, “you must all do as I command.”
James laughed and gave him a small bow. “Touché, my lord.”
The maid put the towel into Geoffrey’s hand and gave him another small curtsy. She retreated a few steps, but kept her eyes fastened on him. Geoffrey suspected that her diligence stemmed more from his new social position than from the present circumstances. It had not escaped him that he’d become the recipient of all kinds of extra attention—from parlor maids to duchesses—since he’d become a baron. The years he’d spent as a clergyman in a poor village, extending all his efforts to help others who struggled every day just to eke out a meager living, had apparently not been worth anyone’s notice.
Geoffrey laid a hand to the woman’s forehead. It was too warm against his cool palm. “I’m afraid she may have a fever in addition to her head injury.”
James made a show of pulling out his handkerchief and half covering his nose and mouth. “Oh dear, I do hope she has not brought anything catching into the house. That would be terribly inconvenient.”
Harding entered the room, carrying a dust-covered carpetbag. He held it in front of him, careful not to let it touch any part of his pristine coat. “We found this near the steps outside. I believe it belongs to”—he threw a disparaging look toward the prostrate figure on the sofa—“the lady.”
“Thank you, Harding,” James said. He glanced at the worn object with equal distaste, then motioned to the far side of the room. “Set it there for now.”
That bag might be all the woman had in the world, Geoffrey thought, and yet James was so casually dismissive of it. The man had a long way to go when it came to finding compassion for those less fortunate.
He turned back to the woman. She stirred and moaned softly. “Easy,” Geoffrey murmured, unable to resist the urge to comfort her, although he doubted she could hear him. “You’re safe now.”
James watched from the other side of the sofa as Geoffrey cleaned the blood from her hair and face. “What a specimen she is,” he remarked as her features came into view. He leaned in to scrutinize her. “Look at those high cheekbones. And the delicate arch of her brow. And those full lips—”
“This is a woman, James,” Geoffrey remonstrated. “Not some creature in a zoo.”
“Well, it’s clear she’s a woman,” James returned lightly, unruffled by Geoffrey’s tone. “I’m glad you noticed. Sometimes I wonder if you are aware of these things.”
Geoffrey was aware. At the moment, he was too aware. He could not deny that, like James, he had been taken by her beauty. Except her lips were too pale, chapped from dryness. He had a wild urge to reach out and gently brush over them with cool water…
“Good heavens,” James said, abruptly bringing Geoffrey back to his senses. He dropped his handkerchief from his face. “This is Ria.”
Geoffrey froze. “What did you say?”
“I said, the young lady bleeding all over Auntie’s sofa is Victoria Thornborough.”
No. Surely that was impossible. There were occasions, Geoffrey thought, when James seemed determined to try him to the absolute limit. “James, this is not the time for one of your childish pranks.”
James shook his head. “I am absolutely in earnest.”
“But that’s preposterous.”
“I think I should know my own cousin. Even if it has been ten years.” He bent closer as the woman mumbled something incoherent. “You see? She heard me. She recognizes her name.”
The room suddenly became quite still. Even the servants who had been hovering nearby stopped their tasks. All eyes turned toward the sofa.
Was this really Ria? Geoffrey had to take James’s word on it for now; he had never met her. He had been in Europe during her brief, clandestine courtship with his brother. This woman, to whom he had been so curiously drawn—for some reason he could easily believe her to be a lady, despite her dirty clothes and bruises. He had no trouble believing Edward could have fallen in love with her—had he not been taken with her himself? No, he told himself again. It had been mere compassion he’d been feeling. And it was utterly incomprehensible that his sister-in-law should appear like this out of nowhere.
“If this is Ria,” Geoffrey said, “then surely Edward would be with her?”
“So one would expect,” James replied. “I agree that the situation is most unusual.”
“Unusual,” Geoffrey repeated drily. The word might describe everything about what had happened between Ria and his brother. Their elopement had taken everyone by surprise, causing a scandal that was bad enough without the embarrassing fact that Ria had been engaged to his other brother, William, at the time.
“At least we can surmise that they were not aboard the ill-fated Sea Venture,” James said. “Where did they go, I wonder?”
“That is only one of the many things I’d like to know,” Geoffrey said. He’d exhausted himself with searches and inquiries after Edward and Ria had disappeared without a trace. The best they could discover was that the couple may have booked passage on a ship that had sunk on its way to America. And yet all was conjecture; there had never been answers.
Geoffrey took hold of the woman’s left hand and began to remove a worn glove that was upon it. He heard the maid behind him gasp, but he was beyond worrying about the possible impropriety of his actions. If this was Ria, he wanted evidence that Edward had made an honest woman of her. He did not think his brother would deliberately trifle with a woman’s affections, but he also knew Edward was prone to rash whims and irresponsible actions. Anything might have kept him from carrying out his plans.
With one last gentle tug from Geoffrey, the glove came off, revealing a hand that was rough and calloused. It was a hand that had done plenty of manual labor. Though she was not wearing a wedding band, she was wearing a gold and onyx ring that Geoffrey recognized as having once belonged to Edward. The sight of it nearly devastated him. He could think of only one reason she would be wearing it instead of his brother.
“Why?” Geoffrey asked roughly, as his concern melted into consternation. “If they were in dire straits, why did they stay away? Why did they not ask us for help?”
“If you were in their shoes,” James answered, “would you have wanted to face William’s wrath? Or Lady Thornborough’s?” He looked at the woman thoughtfully. “Perhaps they were not always so destitute. Look at her, Geoffrey. Look at what she is wearing.”
Geoffrey allowed his gaze to travel once more over the slender figure in the plain black dress that seemed to declare her in mourning. “No!” Geoffrey said sharply. How could she have survived, but not Edward?
Geoffrey rose and gave the towel and the glove to the maid. He walked to the window and peered through the lace curtains to the street below. It was filled with carriages moving swiftly in both directions, but he could see no sign of either his coach or the doctor’s. He knew it was too soon to expect their return, but he could not quell the anxiety rising in him.
Which was worse: the continual pain of not knowing what had become of his brother, or the final blow of discovering he really was dead? If anyone had asked him that question before this moment, he might have given an entirely different response.
He had to get Ria well again. And he had to get answers.
She was dimly aware of voices speaking above her, of a soft, cool cloth against her burning face.
A sweet scent of roses kept urging her to inhale deeply, trying to lure her back to consciousness. But a piercing pain shot through her side with every breath, and the pounding behind her right temple kept forcing her back into a gauzy daze, unable to open her eyes.
The murmuring paused, seemingly stilled by a rustle of skirts and a quick tread upon the floor. A woman’s sharp voice said, “Have you done nothing to bring her around?”
“We have sent for Dr. Layton,” a man replied.
“Tut, tut. You are as useless as your father was.”
“My dear aunt, I must protest. I am sure I am a good deal more useless than he was.”
Another disapproving noise, then a curt order. “Quick, Mary. Bring my smelling salts.”
More rustling, followed by the assault of an acrid smell under her nose. She sneezed hard, wincing as a bolt of pain surged through her head.
Gradually her eyes focused on an elderly lady dressed in a heavy silk gown of very dark green. The woman was looking down at her with a mixture of shock and astonishment.
And then she remembered.
She had been standing across the street from Lady Thornborough’s house, trying to make up her mind whether or not to approach it. Even now, after coming so far, she had hesitated. Could she carry out her plan? Would they believe her story?
It had to be done. She had made a promise to a dying woman, and she would keep it. Both fever and chills had plagued her during the long walk up from the docks, compelling her to keep moving lest she faint dead away on the pavement.
“You must go,” Ria’s voice had echoed in her e. . .
Beyond this breach, my friends, lies the great Bathurst Plains!”
This announcement came from a man on horseback who was leading the procession of four bullock drays—large two-wheeled carts piled high with supplies and pulled by oxen.
From her perch atop one of the drays, Lizzie Poole strained to catch her first glimpse of the valley beyond the Blue Mountains.
It had been a long journey from Sydney. For three days they’d traveled the narrow road painstakingly cut through the mountain pass. The road had risen and fallen sharply and taken countless turns through narrow gorges. Lizzie thought they might never escape the dense woods, which were at times so thick she could barely see the sky above. And she did not care at all for the bird they called the kookaburra, whose call sounded to her like maniacal laughter.
But they were at last moving into bright sunshine. The drivers brought the rigs to a halt at the point where the road crested a ridge, and the western valley opened before them in a breathtaking vista. Beyond the steep cliffs with their dramatic rock formations, the land stretched away for miles: trees and plains making a tapestry of green and brown, dotted here and there with colorful flowers. Lizzie even glimpsed a sparkle of blue from a distant river. Although she had spent four months looking at the ocean’s endless horizon, the world never appeared as large to her as it did now.
“Tom, isn’t it magnificent?” she called down to her brother, who had been walking beside the dray.
“Aye,” agreed Tom. “It looks bigger than all of England.”
Lizzie could see the same awe she felt reflected on the faces of the other newcomers: there were three single men who had been hired straight off the ship in Sydney to work on the sheep farms, and a clergyman, Rev. Greene, who had traveled with his wife and two children to preside over the small church in Bathurst.
Their guide, Mr. Edward Smythe, appeared pleased at their reactions. He spread his arms wide and proclaimed in theatrical tones:
“The boundless champaign burst upon our sight,
Till nearer seen the beauteous landscape grew,
Op’ning like Canaan on rapt Israel’s view.”
Lizzie smiled. She was not surprised that Mr. Smythe should be spouting poetry at a moment like this. He was a handsome man, with dark hair and expressive brown eyes, and Lizzie could easily picture him as an actor on the stage. He was young, too; like Lizzie and her brother, he looked to be still in his twenties. What intrigued Lizzie most, however, was that although his accent revealed him to be an English gentleman, he seemed perfectly at home in this rough and untamed land.
“Canaan,” repeated Mrs. Greene, who was seated on the dray with Lizzie and cradling an infant in her arms. “I suppose the Promised Land was indeed as beautiful as this.”
Lizzie considered these words as the drays once more took up their slow, steady advance. She and Tom had left behind everything in England. Would they really find a new beginning here, as Tom had promised her? She desperately hoped so.
After another hour or so, they came within sight of a group of men digging a ditch along the edge of the road. There were ten of them, and Lizzie thought she had never seen such miserable-looking creatures. Dirty and ragged, they worked with grim determination under the oversight of three men—the master of the crew, shouting orders from horseback; a tall man with a sunburned face, who was holding a shotgun; and a third very large fellow, who was wielding a whip.
When the master saw the caravan, he immediately rode up to meet them and exchanged greetings with Mr. Smythe, riding along with him for a few minutes as the caravan kept its forward pace. The other two men, Lizzie noticed, kept the road crew mercilessly at work.
“This is Captain McCann,” Mr. Smythe announced to the travelers. “He is in charge of keeping this road maintained and safe.”
“Welcome,” said the captain, riding his horse up the line of oxcarts so he could greet everyone. “I am happy to see more immigrants to the valley.” When he saw Lizzie, he lifted up his eyebrows in surprise, then turned and said over his shoulder, “What’s this, Smythe? Did you take your wife with you all the way to Sydney and back again?”
Mr. Smythe’s eyes glinted in amusement. “No, sir,” he said. “This is Miss Poole. Lately arrived from England with her brother.”
A look of confusion crossed the captain’s face. After a moment’s hesitation, he replaced it with an apologetic smile and raised his cap to Lizzie. “I beg your pardon, miss.”
“Are those… convicts?” the minister’s wife asked timidly, pointing to the workers.
“Indeed they are, ma’am,” the captain responded. “We’ve brought them up here to repair the culverts.”
Two of the convicts turned from their work to watch the drays as they passed, but a flash of the whip from the burly man sent them back to their labors once more.
“Poor creatures,” she said, echoing Lizzie’s thoughts.
“Do not give them too much pity, ma’am,” the captain said. “They brought it upon themselves by their evil ways. ’Twas no more than they deserved.”
“Why, what have they done?”
“Thieves, mostly,” he replied coolly. “Some are murderers, too. You’ll do well to stay clear of them.”
As their cart passed the convicts, two others managed to throw them dark glares without their overseer being aware of it.
Rev. Greene’s son turned to him and said, “Papa, do you suppose God has forgiven those fellows?”
“He has if they have repented and asked Him for forgiveness,” he replied.
“Do you really believe it is that simple?” Tom asked him. “Wouldn’t a just God exact vengeance?”
The minister gave Tom an inquiring look. Tom’s impassive face gave little indication of what he was thinking. But Lizzie knew what must be on his mind. Four months had passed since Tom had killed Freddie Hightower in a duel, exacting his own vengeance on the man who had seduced his sister, taken her to Europe, and abandoned her there. The memory of that cold, miserable morning when Tom, still bloody from his duel, revealed to her what he’d done still sent a chill to Lizzie’s heart. Even though Freddie had cruelly mistreated her, she had never wished for his death—certainly not at the hands of her own brother.
“Perhaps after we are settled, you might visit me at church,” the minister suggested to Tom. “Then we might have leisure to discuss these matters more fully.”
“Thank you, sir,” Tom said with a nod of his head. But Lizzie doubted such a meeting would ever take place. Tom had made it clear to her that he felt justified in acting as he had. He had done it “for her sake,” he said, and he would not allow anyone to change his mind. Despite his words, Lizzie knew his actions had left a stain on his heart and given him no real peace. She was in no better condition herself, she reflected bitterly. Her foolish actions had brought on those terrible events. Surely there was no pardon for that.
“It’s for certain the Crown is not so forgiving,” the captain said to Tom. He gestured dismissively toward the convicts. “These men will be paying for their crimes for the rest of their lives. It’s a fate worse than death. Be glad you’ve come to Australia as a free man.”
The captain could not have known how close he was to the truth. If Tom had been arrested for what he’d done to Freddie, he might well have arrived in Australia in chains. But Tom had escaped. He’d arranged the duel for the morning they left for Australia, not telling Lizzie of his plans until the deed had been done. They had been out to sea within hours of the duel, their trail untraceable to anyone who might wish to follow. No one here was aware of the sordid tale that caused their departure from England.
It all seemed as a dream now, as they began moving across the open valley, full in the light of the brightly burning sun. Odd, too, that it was February and yet they were in the heat of summer. Everything was different here. The world she had known was gone.
Would she ever feel at home in this strange new land?
Mr. Smythe had insisted they would. He had seen them as they disembarked from the ship at Sydney harbor, and had immediately worked his way through the crowds in order to meet them, offering work on one of the largest sheep ranches in the Bathurst Valley. He said that he’d been sent by the owner to hire able-bodied laborers from the immigrant ship, whose arrival had been keenly anticipated. With transportation of criminals now limited to other parts of Australia, the region of New South Wales was in dire need of free workers.
“My wife will be overjoyed to meet you,” Mr. Smythe had said upon their agreeing to go.
Lizzie had lost count of how many times he’d repeated this sentiment over the course of their journey. “Are there no other ladies to keep her company?” Lizzie had asked.
“None have given her the close friendship she craves. But something tells me you two will be very close.”
Lizzie had asked for more particulars, but he would say no more. It would have to remain a mystery until she met this Ria Smythe.
The day was far advanced when they finally reached the town of Bathurst and pulled up to the place where they would lodge for the night. A sign above the door proclaimed this to be the Royal Hotel. It seemed far too grand a name for the two-story wooden building. And yet, after three nights of sleeping on the ground, Lizzie was sure it would feel as grand as a palace.
Tom helped Lizzie descend from the oxcart. At the front of the caravan, Mr. Smythe dismounted from his horse and was immediately met by a lovely young lady. “Eddie, you’re home!” she cried happily. She tossed back her bonnet as she ran toward him, giving Lizzie a clear view of her face before the woman threw her arms around him and kissed him.
“Blimey,” Tom remarked to Lizzie. “If that lady ain’t the spittin’ image of you!”
Lizzie could only stare. The woman did look amazingly like her. She was a match in so many ways, from her pale blond hair to her face and figure. Lizzie could not see the woman’s eyes from this distance, but she was certain they were blue like her own. She had the oddest feeling she was looking in a mirror.
Tom grinned. “Now I see why Smythe asked us so many questions about our family!”
“It might also explain why he seemed so disappointed that I had never had a sister,” Lizzie observed. “He must have thought there was a connection.”
Mr. Smythe gently set his wife at arm’s length to get a better look at her. “How well you look. I cannot believe you came all the way to town to meet me. But, my dearest, I fear you have scandalized these good people with your actions just now.” He spoke as if he were chiding her, yet it was clear he was pleased by her enthusiastic greeting.
“Why, Eddie,” she answered, “you know I could not wait even one more day to see you.”
They gazed at each other with such loving affection that Lizzie’s heart twisted in envy. She had once felt love like that. But she had never known such happiness. Falling in love had brought her only ruin and heartache. She would never again dare to open her heart in that way.
“Ria, my darling,” said Mr. Smythe, “aren’t you going to ask me what I brought you from Sydney?”
“Have you brought me a present?” she asked gaily. “What could it be?”
“Come and see,” he said, and began to draw her toward Lizzie. The moment Ria saw Lizzie, she pulled up short. Her mouth fell open and her eyes—blue, as Lizzie had known they would be—lit up with wonder and joy.
“Indeed I have brought you a present,” Edward said with a satisfied smile. “I have brought you a sister.”
London, June 1851
If you’ve killed her, Geoffrey, we will never hear the end of it from Lady Thornborough.”
Geoffrey Somerville threw a sharp glance at his companion. The man’s flippancy annoyed him, but he knew James Simpson was never one to take any problem too seriously. Not even the problem of what to do with the young woman they had just accidentally struck down with his carriage.
The girl had been weaving her way across the street, seemingly unaware of their rapid approach until it was too late. The driver had barely succeeded in steering the horses sharply to one side to keep from trampling her under their massive hooves. However, there had not been enough time or space for him to avoid the girl completely, and the front wheel had tossed her onto the walkway as easily as a mislaid wicker basket.
Geoffrey knelt down and raised the woman’s head gently, smoothing the hair from her forehead. Blood flowed freely from a wound at her left temple, marring her fair features and leaving ugly red streaks in her pale yellow hair.
Her eyes were closed, but Geoffrey saw with relief that she was still breathing. Her chest rose and fell in ragged but unmistakable movements. “She’s not dead,” he said. “But she is badly hurt. We must get help immediately.”
James bounded up the steps and rapped at the door with his cane. “First we have to get her inside. People are beginning to gather, and you know how much my aunt hates a scandal.”
Geoffrey noted that a few people had indeed stopped to stare, although no one offered to help. One richly dressed young lady turned her head and hurried her escort down the street, as though fearful the poor woman bleeding on the pavement had brought the plague to this fashionable Mayfair neighborhood. At one time Geoffrey might have wondered at the lack of Good Samaritans here. But during the six months he’d been in London, he’d seen similar reactions to human suffering every day. Although it was no longer surprising, it still saddened and sickened him.
Only the coachman seemed to show real concern. He stood holding the horses and watching Geoffrey, his face wrinkled with worry. Or perhaps, Geoffrey realized, it was merely guilt. “I never even seen her, my lord,” he said. “She come from out of nowhere.”
“It’s not your fault,” Geoffrey assured him. He pulled out a handkerchief and began to dab the blood that was seeping from the woman’s wound. “Go as quickly as you can to Harley Street and fetch Dr. Layton.”
“Yes, my lord.” The coachman’s relief was evident. He scrambled up to the driver’s seat and grabbed the reins. “I’m halfway there already.”
Geoffrey continued to cautiously check the woman for other injuries. He slowly ran his hands along her delicate neck and shoulders and down her slender arms. He tested only as much as he dared of her torso and legs, torn between concern for her well-being and the need for propriety. Thankfully, nothing appeared to be broken.
James rapped once more on the imposing black door. It finally opened, and the gaunt face of Lady Thornborough’s butler peered out.
“Clear the way, Harding,” James said. “There has been an accident.”
Harding’s eyes widened at the sight of a woman bleeding on his mistress’s immaculate steps. He quickly sized up the situation and opened the door wide.
Geoffrey lifted the unconscious girl into his arms. She was far too thin, and he was not surprised to find she was light as a feather. Her golden hair contrasted vividly with his black coat. Where was her hat? Geoffrey scanned the area and noted with chagrin the remains of a straw bonnet lying crushed in the street. Something tugged at his heart as her head fell against his chest. Compassion, he supposed it was. But it was curiously profound.
“She is bleeding profusely,” James pointed out. “Have one of the servants carry her in, or you will ruin your coat.”
“It’s no matter,” Geoffrey replied. He felt oddly protective of the woman in his arms, although he had no idea who she was. His carriage had struck her, after all, even if her own carelessness had brought about the calamity. He was not about to relinquish her, not for any consideration.
He stepped grimly over the red smears her blood had left on the white marble steps and carried her into the front hall, where James was again addressing the butler. “Is Lady Thornborough at home, Harding?”
“No, sir. But we expect her anytime.”
Geoffrey knew from long acquaintance with the Thornborough family that Harding was a practical man who remained calm even in wildly unusual circumstances. The childhood escapades of Lady Thornborough’s granddaughter, Victoria, had developed this ability in him; James’s exploits as an adult had honed it to a fine art.
Sure enough, Harding motioned toward the stairs with cool equanimity, as though it were an everyday occurrence for an injured and unknown woman to be brought into the house. “Might I suggest the sofa in the Rose Parlor, sir?”
“Excellent,” said James.
As they ascended the stairs, Harding called down to a young parlor maid who was still standing in the front hall. “Mary, fetch us some water and a towel. And tell Jane to clean the front steps immediately.” Mary nodded and scurried away.
Another maid met them at the top of the stairs. At Harding’s instructions, she quickly found a blanket to spread out on the sofa to shield the expensive fabric.
Geoffrey set his fragile burden down with care. He seated himself on a low stool next to the woman and once again pressed his handkerchief to the gash below her hairline. The flesh around the wound was beginning to turn purple—she had been struck very hard. Alarm assailed him. “What the devil possessed her to step in front of a moving carriage?”
He was not aware that he had spoken aloud until James answered him. “Language, Geoffrey,” he said with mock prudishness. “There is a lady present.”
Geoffrey looked down at the unconscious woman. “I don’t think she can hear me just now.” He studied her with interest. Her plain black dress fit her too loosely, and the cuffs appeared to have been turned back more than once. Her sturdy leather shoes were of good quality, but showed signs of heavy wear. Was she a servant, wearing her mistress’s cast-off clothing? Or was she a lady in mourning? Was she already sorrowing for the loss of a loved one, only to have this accident add to her woes? “If she is a lady, she has fallen on hard times,” Geoffrey said, feeling once again that curious pull at his heart. He knew only too well the wretchedness of having one’s life waylaid by one tragedy after another.
A parlor maid entered the room, carrying the items Harding had requested. She set the basin on a nearby table. After dipping the cloth in the water, she timidly approached and gave Geoffrey a small curtsy. “With your permission, my lord.”
Something in the way the maid spoke these words chafed at him. He had been entitled to the address of “my lord” for several months, but he could not accustom himself to it. There were plenty who would congratulate him on his recent elevation to the peerage, but for Geoffrey it was a constant reminder of what he had lost. Surely nothing in this world was worth the loss of two brothers. Nor did any position, no matter how lofty, absolve a man from helping another if he could. He held out his hand for the cloth. “Give it to me. I will do it.”
The maid hesitated.
“Do you think that is wise?” James asked. “Surely this is a task for one of the servants.”
“I do have experience in this. I often attended to the ill in my parish.”
“But you were only a clergyman then. Now you are a baron.”
Geoffrey hated the position he had been placed in by the loss of his two elder brothers. But he would use it to his advantage if he had to. And he had every intention of tending to this woman. “Since I am a baron,” he said curtly, motioning again for the cloth, “you must all do as I command.”
James laughed and gave him a small bow. “Touché, my lord.”
The maid put the towel into Geoffrey’s hand and gave him another small curtsy. She retreated a few steps, but kept her eyes fastened on him. Geoffrey suspected that her diligence stemmed more from his new social position than from the present circumstances. It had not escaped him that he’d become the recipient of all kinds of extra attention—from parlor maids to duchesses—since he’d become a baron. The years he’d spent as a clergyman in a poor village, extending all his efforts to help others who struggled every day just to eke out a meager living, had apparently not been worth anyone’s notice.
Geoffrey laid a hand to the woman’s forehead. It was too warm against his cool palm. “I’m afraid she may have a fever in addition to her head injury.”
James made a show of pulling out his handkerchief and half covering his nose and mouth. “Oh dear, I do hope she has not brought anything catching into the house. That would be terribly inconvenient.”
Harding entered the room, carrying a dust-covered carpetbag. He held it in front of him, careful not to let it touch any part of his pristine coat. “We found this near the steps outside. I believe it belongs to”—he threw a disparaging look toward the prostrate figure on the sofa—“the lady.”
“Thank you, Harding,” James said. He glanced at the worn object with equal distaste, then motioned to the far side of the room. “Set it there for now.”
That bag might be all the woman had in the world, Geoffrey thought, and yet James was so casually dismissive of it. The man had a long way to go when it came to finding compassion for those less fortunate.
He turned back to the woman. She stirred and moaned softly. “Easy,” Geoffrey murmured, unable to resist the urge to comfort her, although he doubted she could hear him. “You’re safe now.”
James watched from the other side of the sofa as Geoffrey cleaned the blood from her hair and face. “What a specimen she is,” he remarked as her features came into view. He leaned in to scrutinize her. “Look at those high cheekbones. And the delicate arch of her brow. And those full lips—”
“This is a woman, James,” Geoffrey remonstrated. “Not some creature in a zoo.”
“Well, it’s clear she’s a woman,” James returned lightly, unruffled by Geoffrey’s tone. “I’m glad you noticed. Sometimes I wonder if you are aware of these things.”
Geoffrey was aware. At the moment, he was too aware. He could not deny that, like James, he had been taken by her beauty. Except her lips were too pale, chapped from dryness. He had a wild urge to reach out and gently brush over them with cool water…
“Good heavens,” James said, abruptly bringing Geoffrey back to his senses. He dropped his handkerchief from his face. “This is Ria.”
Geoffrey froze. “What did you say?”
“I said, the young lady bleeding all over Auntie’s sofa is Victoria Thornborough.”
No. Surely that was impossible. There were occasions, Geoffrey thought, when James seemed determined to try him to the absolute limit. “James, this is not the time for one of your childish pranks.”
James shook his head. “I am absolutely in earnest.”
“But that’s preposterous.”
“I think I should know my own cousin. Even if it has been ten years.” He bent closer as the woman mumbled something incoherent. “You see? She heard me. She recognizes her name.”
The room suddenly became quite still. Even the servants who had been hovering nearby stopped their tasks. All eyes turned toward the sofa.
Was this really Ria? Geoffrey had to take James’s word on it for now; he had never met her. He had been in Europe during her brief, clandestine courtship with his brother. This woman, to whom he had been so curiously drawn—for some reason he could easily believe her to be a lady, despite her dirty clothes and bruises. He had no trouble believing Edward could have fallen in love with her—had he not been taken with her himself? No, he told himself again. It had been mere compassion he’d been feeling. And it was utterly incomprehensible that his sister-in-law should appear like this out of nowhere.
“If this is Ria,” Geoffrey said, “then surely Edward would be with her?”
“So one would expect,” James replied. “I agree that the situation is most unusual.”
“Unusual,” Geoffrey repeated drily. The word might describe everything about what had happened between Ria and his brother. Their elopement had taken everyone by surprise, causing a scandal that was bad enough without the embarrassing fact that Ria had been engaged to his other brother, William, at the time.
“At least we can surmise that they were not aboard the ill-fated Sea Venture,” James said. “Where did they go, I wonder?”
“That is only one of the many things I’d like to know,” Geoffrey said. He’d exhausted himself with searches and inquiries after Edward and Ria had disappeared without a trace. The best they could discover was that the couple may have booked passage on a ship that had sunk on its way to America. And yet all was conjecture; there had never been answers.
Geoffrey took hold of the woman’s left hand and began to remove a worn glove that was upon it. He heard the maid behind him gasp, but he was beyond worrying about the possible impropriety of his actions. If this was Ria, he wanted evidence that Edward had made an honest woman of her. He did not think his brother would deliberately trifle with a woman’s affections, but he also knew Edward was prone to rash whims and irresponsible actions. Anything might have kept him from carrying out his plans.
With one last gentle tug from Geoffrey, the glove came off, revealing a hand that was rough and calloused. It was a hand that had done plenty of manual labor. Though she was not wearing a wedding band, she was wearing a gold and onyx ring that Geoffrey recognized as having once belonged to Edward. The sight of it nearly devastated him. He could think of only one reason she would be wearing it instead of his brother.
“Why?” Geoffrey asked roughly, as his concern melted into consternation. “If they were in dire straits, why did they stay away? Why did they not ask us for help?”
“If you were in their shoes,” James answered, “would you have wanted to face William’s wrath? Or Lady Thornborough’s?” He looked at the woman thoughtfully. “Perhaps they were not always so destitute. Look at her, Geoffrey. Look at what she is wearing.”
Geoffrey allowed his gaze to travel once more over the slender figure in the plain black dress that seemed to declare her in mourning. “No!” Geoffrey said sharply. How could she have survived, but not Edward?
Geoffrey rose and gave the towel and the glove to the maid. He walked to the window and peered through the lace curtains to the street below. It was filled with carriages moving swiftly in both directions, but he could see no sign of either his coach or the doctor’s. He knew it was too soon to expect their return, but he could not quell the anxiety rising in him.
Which was worse: the continual pain of not knowing what had become of his brother, or the final blow of discovering he really was dead? If anyone had asked him that question before this moment, he might have given an entirely different response.
He had to get Ria well again. And he had to get answers.
She was dimly aware of voices speaking above her, of a soft, cool cloth against her burning face.
A sweet scent of roses kept urging her to inhale deeply, trying to lure her back to consciousness. But a piercing pain shot through her side with every breath, and the pounding behind her right temple kept forcing her back into a gauzy daze, unable to open her eyes.
The murmuring paused, seemingly stilled by a rustle of skirts and a quick tread upon the floor. A woman’s sharp voice said, “Have you done nothing to bring her around?”
“We have sent for Dr. Layton,” a man replied.
“Tut, tut. You are as useless as your father was.”
“My dear aunt, I must protest. I am sure I am a good deal more useless than he was.”
Another disapproving noise, then a curt order. “Quick, Mary. Bring my smelling salts.”
More rustling, followed by the assault of an acrid smell under her nose. She sneezed hard, wincing as a bolt of pain surged through her head.
Gradually her eyes focused on an elderly lady dressed in a heavy silk gown of very dark green. The woman was looking down at her with a mixture of shock and astonishment.
And then she remembered.
She had been standing across the street from Lady Thornborough’s house, trying to make up her mind whether or not to approach it. Even now, after coming so far, she had hesitated. Could she carry out her plan? Would they believe her story?
It had to be done. She had made a promise to a dying woman, and she would keep it. Both fever and chills had plagued her during the long walk up from the docks, compelling her to keep moving lest she faint dead away on the pavement.
“You must go,” Ria’s voice had echoed in her e. . .
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An Heiress at Heart
Jennifer Delamere
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