The Mrs MacKinnons

by Jayne Davis

Genres: Historical Romance; Regency Romance

Synopsis

England, 1799: A traumatized soldier returning to a derelict inheritance. A widow with a small son and a manipulative father.

Major Matthew Southam returns from India, hoping to put the trauma of war behind him and forget his past. Instead, he finds a derelict estate and a family who wish he'd died abroad.

Charlotte MacKinnon married without love to avoid her father's unpleasant choice of husband. Now a widow with a young son, she lives in a small Cotswold village with only the money she earns by her writing.

Matthew is haunted by his past, and Charlotte is fearful of her father's renewed meddling in her future. After a disastrous first meeting, can they help each other find happiness?

Release date: January 7, 2018

Publisher: Verbena Books

Print pages: 564

Sample

Prologue

Seringapatam, India, May 1799

Private Webb shifted uncomfortably, his hand pressed hard against the gash in his thigh. Sweat trickled down his back, sticking his tattered red coat to his skin. He stood listening to the sounds of fighting drifting further down the narrow street. The wound didn’t feel too bad, he thought, cautiously lifting his hand. Blood was oozing slowly, not flowing. He found an almost-clean handkerchief in his pocket and folded it into a pad. He fastened it in place inside his torn trousers with a bit of the string he always carried in his pockets.

The shouting and clashing of steel reminded Webb that the rest of his company were still fighting their way further into the city, so he picked up his musket and limped after them. The lieutenant’s voice, high with fear, was trying to keep the company together and stop the usual suspects from sneaking off to look for loot. Webb was about to add his support when he remembered his new demotion back to private. If Lieutenant bloody Dawson thought he knew best, he could damn well manage the company on his own.

He slipped down a quiet alley before he came into sight of the company, grimacing at the unmistakable sight of Fingers Richardson slinking off ahead of him. Last week he would have dragged the thieving bugger back to the rest of the company, but that was when he still had a set of sergeant’s stripes on his sleeves. He spat into the dust and filth in the gutter; the true reckoning for yesterday’s argument was yet to come. With any luck the lieutenant would get himself killed and maybe he would get away without a flogging. But in the meantime the bloody officers’ orders against looting could go hang. Not that they obeyed those orders themselves, oh no. He hesitated only a moment before limping off after Fingers.

Half an hour later, their pockets rather heavier and the best items stuffed uncomfortably down their boots, they came across the entrance to a grimly solid building with high walls and few windows. A prison? Two guards stood by the gates looking the other way, towards the continuing sounds of fighting. Fingers started to creep back the way they had come, but some lingering sense of responsibility made Webb put out a hand to stop him.

“Tipu’s enemies are our friends, right?” Webb asked. Fingers nodded reluctantly. “Well, then…?”

Fingers still looked doubtful.

“And maybe they’re not just guardin’ prisoners, eh?” Webb said. He doubted that the Tipu would keep valuables in the same place as prisoners, but Fingers wasn’t the brightest of sparks. He nodded eagerly this time.

They unslung their muskets and checked the bayonets. Shots in the next street masked the small sounds they made, and the guards were taken completely by surprise. Once inside the building, Fingers showed great enthusiasm in dealing with the few soldiers that were still there, searching the bodies carefully for valuables and keys. Webb made him unlock every door they came to, even though Fingers wasn’t particularly interested in releasing prisoners. The stench from the cells made even Webb retch, and he hoped that some of the poor bastards locked up here had enough strength to get themselves and their fellows out.

He left Fingers searching the boxes in a storeroom, and descended another flight of stairs. There were only a few guttering lamps, but no guards. Half the cells were empty, or empty of human life, at least. The rotting straw stank, and the rustling noises spoke of rats scuttling through the filth. In other cells there were prisoners chained to the walls, some already dead. Webb almost threw up again. The prospect of death on the battlefield, or even in a stinking field hospital afterwards, was not one he welcomed, but it was a fact of life soldiers were resigned to. Slowly rotting away here in this fetid darkness was a far more hellish fate.

He released as many prisoners as he could, striking their rusting chains from the walls with the butt of his musket. Most were natives, but in the dim light he could just make out one or two paler faces—Europeans, he supposed. But this was only supposition until the last cell, where one dead body and one only-just-living prisoner still had enough uniform on them to be identified as British soldiers.

“Jesus Christ!” he swore, rolling over the one still alive. He struck the ends of the chains off the wall and picked the man up, ignoring the faint groan that interrupted the rasping breathing. He wasn’t heavy—although a man that tall should have weighed twice as much. Webb staggered back up the corridor, stumbling and almost dropping his burden as the wound in his thigh shot pain up his leg. He was concentrating too hard on negotiating the steps to hear the footsteps behind him. The first—and last—he knew of something wrong was a fierce pain in his back and the taste of blood in his mouth.

 

 

Chapter 1

Portsmouth, November 1799

The masts and rigging of the ships along the dock were black against the clouds, the gradual change of the sky from dark to pale grey the only sign that dawn had arrived. A sharp wind blowing off the land brought spatters of rain that soaked into cloaks and overcoats. It also brought land smells—a mix of coal and wood smoke, and a faint whiff of rotting fish and seaweed from the jetties. Thankfully it was just rain in the air, not the sleet that might be expected at this time of year.

“Major?”

Matthew Southam turned from watching the Amathea’s deckhands start to unload the cargo. “Lieutenant Fanton.”

“Looking forward to dry land?”

“It will be good to see England again,” Matthew said. Good to see the countryside, perhaps. And it would be good to get off this ship. As for the rest…

“And land that doesn’t move? And family?”

Matthew gave an embarrassed smile at this reference to his supposed seasickness. “I haven’t seen my family in ten years,” he said, responding only to the second question and not indicating whether this was a good or a bad thing.

“I have to thank you once again for helping to keep Captain Beauchamps away from Miss MacLeod,” Fanton said. Beauchamps was another returning army officer, although not someone Matthew had come across during his time in India.

“My pleasure,” Matthew said. “You had too many duties to keep an eye on him all the time.” And at least it meant he was still useful for something.

“Mrs Reed-Smythe should have done her duty better,” Fanton said. “Or she should have declined to chaperone the girls—then we could have made other arrangements.”

Matthew suspected that the recently-widowed Mrs Reed-Smythe had been anxious about her own financial future and had accepted money from Captain Beauchamps to absent herself while he attempted to seduce her young and attractive charge. There was no point in airing his suspicions to the lieutenant, so he just gave a non-committal grunt.

“You’re travelling to London?”

Matthew nodded. “Webb has already gone ashore to arrange transport,” he said. “Four seats,” he added, guessing what the lieutenant’s next question would be. “I will escort Miss MacLeod and her sister to London and see they reach their relatives safely.” He shivered as an icy gust found its way under his coat. “I’ll be glad to get some warmer clothing too.”

“Too long in India thins the blood,” the lieutenant stated, and held his hand out. “I wish you a good journey, sir,” he said. They shook hands, and Matthew returned to gazing at the land as the lieutenant hurried off to supervise the unloading of baggage and cargo.

These last few days, waiting until the wind changed so they could enter port, had seemed interminable—a final climax to the horrendous journey. At times the ship had seemed like just another prison, albeit with more people, air and food. But a prison just the same. He pulled the flask from his pocket and took a big mouthful of brandy, the spirit warming his mouth and throat. The flask was nearly empty, and he hoped Webb would remember to buy some more while he was arranging a carriage and driver. Assuming, that is, that Webb didn’t just pocket the money and disappear. He still wasn’t sure why the man seemed to have appointed himself as his orderly, but he had been useful during the voyage and, as long as he returned, was likely to be so in future.

Another passenger stood further along the rail, a gentleman dressed in clothing far more suitable for the weather than Matthew’s. The man looked his way, then abruptly turned and moved further off. Matthew recognised him as one of the passengers who had embarked in Gibraltar. The one who had shown him a copy of the London Gazette after dinner one evening, and asked if the reports of the siege at Seringapatam were accurate. Matthew recalled with shame his rude response that the man should mind his own damn business, before he escaped the dining room to spend the rest of the evening on deck, as usual. He’d tried to apologise, but he’d clearly caused offence and the man avoided Matthew for the remainder of the voyage.

There were more footsteps behind him, lighter ones this time. Miss MacLeod and her younger sister. Matthew could see why Captain Beauchamps had been intent on seduction—the elder Miss MacLeod had quantities of curling brown hair with intriguing blue-green eyes and a winning smile. If he had been interested in such things he might have been tempted himself—although taking advantage of a pair of orphans as Beauchamps had attempted was not something he would ever have actually done.

“We’ve come to say goodbye, Major Southam,” Miss MacLeod said. “And to thank you for your help.”

In truth, they had done more for him than he had for them—although whether he was grateful for this he had yet to decide. Standing by the rail, watching the Indian Ocean roll past, then the Atlantic, had been strangely mesmerising. Each wave subtly different from the next, their shapes and the pattern of blown spume changing with the wind, the colour varying from deep blue to green to gunmetal grey with the changing skies. He had more than once felt the urge just to lean over until he joined the waves. The thought of dying didn’t worry him. The urge was particularly strong when he hadn’t slept for days. A few times it had only been the thought of what would happen to Miss MacLeod and her sister without his protection that had kept him on the deck side of the rail.

He realised that Miss MacLeod was waiting patiently for him to reply.

“My apologies, Miss MacLeod. Wool gathering again, I’m afraid.” He glanced down at the younger girl, clutching her sister’s hand. “It is too soon to say farewells. I will ensure that you reach your relatives in London safely.” The girl’s shoulders relaxed, and Matthew realised she had been worried about the rest of the journey. “I could not abandon you on the docks,” he said.

“We are giving you so much trouble.” She looked apologetic.

“Nothing of the sort!” Matthew said. “You helped immensely to relieve the boredom. Particularly as I could spend so little time below decks.”

“You will be glad to be on dry land again, sir?” Matthew suspected she did not quite believe in his seasickness, but did not challenge his story. “Do you know how much the stagecoach costs?”

“Webb is arranging to hire a carriage,” Matthew said. “No, don’t protest! You’ll need to conserve your funds. Allow me to take the pair of you to London.”

“I should not allow you to pay for us,” she said, a small frown creasing her brow. “But I thank you.”

“Miss MacLeod, I do not know my plans, but if you are in need of assistance in the future, apply to the East India Company offices. They are likely to know where I may be found.”

“I suspect Mrs Reed-Smythe would not approve of my asking assistance from you, sir.”

“I think you need not worry about her,” Matthew said. “She is not the best example of proper behaviour.” That produced a small smile.

“You are ready to go?” he asked, spying Webb’s skinny frame in his scarlet uniform approaching the gangplank.

“Yes, our trunks are there.” She pointed to two small trunks placed close to his own. He had several much larger trunks—having no intention of returning to India, he had brought all his possessions with him. He frowned—the pile included a smallish trunk with his name stencilled on that he did not recognise. He rubbed his eyes, and took another mouthful of brandy, deciding not to worry about it. Likely his mind was playing tricks again.

“Success?” he asked, as Webb arrived on deck, wheezing noisily after climbing the gangplank. Webb did not have enough breath to speak, nodding instead.

“Carriage, horses and driver arranged, sir, ready within the hour,” he confirmed as soon as his breathing returned to a more normal rate.

“Good man,” Matthew said. It would be cold riding on the box, but better that than cooped up inside. “Can you make sure my trunks are sent to the right place? And make sure the MacLeods’ trunks go too.”

“Sir!” Webb saluted, and hurried off to organise the luggage. Matthew muttered a curse as he realised he hadn’t got his flask refilled, but there would be time for that before they left. He retreated a few steps into the lee of the main mast—the biting wind was still finding its way into his ill-fitting coat, making him shiver. The two girls’ clothing, although worn and now travel-stained, was of good quality and they’d had the sense to wrap up warmly. They stayed at the rail watching the comings and goings on the dock. Thus it was that Captain Beauchamps did not notice Matthew leaning on the mast as he approached them.

“Excuse me, Miss MacLeod,” the captain said politely, lifting his hat as he came to stand in front of her. Miss MacLeod turned to face him, looking wary but not frightened.

“I don’t think we have anything to say to each other, Captain,” she said, managing a very good frosty tone for one of her few years. Matthew was about to intervene, but she seemed to be managing well on her own so far.

“I wish to apologise for my earlier behaviour, Miss MacLeod, and to make amends if possible,” the captain said, bowing slightly. “I understand from Mrs Reed-Smythe that your destination is London. That is a long way for an unaccompanied young woman to travel. If you permit, I will escort you and ensure you arrive safely.”

“Thank you, but that will not be necessary. Arrangements have already been made.”

A fleeting expression of annoyance crossed Beauchamps’ face, quickly controlled. “May I enquire as to what those arrangements are? Just to be sure you will be safe,” he added, trying for a reassuring tone.

“Major Southam has arranged a carriage.”

“Alone with Major Southam?” There was censure in his voice.

“What had you in mind, sir?”

“Mrs Reed-Smythe has agreed to act as your chaperone, so there would be no impropriety, Miss MacLeod. Please allow me to make amends—”

“If Mrs Reed-Smythe does as well at chaperoning me as she did during the voyage, I hardly think her presence in the coach will be of any use. As I said, arrangements have already been made.” She turned her back on the captain to end the conversation. Beauchamps stared at her back for a moment then turned away himself, swearing under his breath. He finally noticed the major watching him.

“Think you’re so clever?” he hissed through clenched teeth. “What business is it of yours?”

“Common decency?” Matthew suggested.

Beauchamps consigned Southam to the devil and stalked off. Matthew shrugged, dismissing the man from his thoughts. He wished he could dismiss thoughts altogether—he could not, but the brandy helped a little.

 

 

Chapter 2

Upper Edgecombe, Gloucestershire, November 1799

“Mr Brock and his family settled down to a nice dinner of worms, snails and slugs.”

Charlotte MacKinnon put down her quill and pushed the stopper into the bottle of ink. She spread the last few pages out across the table and read through them carefully. Then, checking that the ink on the last page was completely dry, she shuffled them together into a neat pile. Just the covering letter to write before parcelling it up to send to Mr Berry in London. She stretched her back and arms, cramped from sitting too long, and grimaced at the usual ink stains on her fingers.

She removed her spectacles and glanced at the clock on the parlour mantelpiece. Davie would be back from his lessons at the squire’s house soon. Squire Thompson allowed Davie to share in the lessons with the tutor he hired for his son, in return for Charlotte’s help with other matters. She frowned, remembering that Bertie Thompson would be going off to school next year. She would have to make other arrangements for Davie’s education. He was ten years old, but she couldn’t afford to hire a tutor, nor to send him away to school.

Charlotte rubbed a hand over her eyes. Her stories helped, but didn’t make enough money on their own. Perhaps she should consider accepting Sir Vincent if he offered for her again? It must be nearly six months since he had last proposed, so he would probably try again fairly soon. Putting that unwanted thought out of her mind, she tried to plan her next story. Was it time for the fox family to have another adventure?

A gust of wind spattered raindrops against the window. It had rained all week, but not heavily enough to make the paths through the Birchanger woods impassable. The sloping ground prevented flooding, but too much mud made the steep sections slippery, which meant that Davie would have to walk the extra mile along the road instead.

Flooding… hmm. She reached for one of the pencils she used for everything except her final copy.

Half an hour and several sheets of scribbled paper later, she became aware of voices coming from the kitchen. Not Davie, and not Sally—she would have gone home by now. It must be Mary talking to someone else. She’d been so deep in her flow of ideas she hadn’t heard anyone being let in. Charlotte put the papers into a drawer. At least half of the things she’d jotted down wouldn’t be of any use, but she had the beginnings of the next Woodland Tale.

In the kitchen, Davie sat at one end of the long table, eating biscuits. He looked remarkably clean; Mary must have made him wash when he arrived. Mary sat at the other end of the table with Emma Wilton from the bakery, her petite figure contrasting with Emma’s rather plump one—too much sampling of her own baking, Charlotte suspected. They both sat drinking tea, and Mary had set a third place with a cup and plate.

“Wondered when you’d appear!” Mary said. “I popped in a while ago, but you was writing. Didn’t want to distract you.”

“Quite right, thank you.” Charlotte sat down, and Davie handed her a folded note. It was from Letty, the squire’s wife, asking if she could go over to Northridge Hall a day earlier next week. She put it into her pocket and poured herself a cup of tea. She was about to ask what brought Emma here, when she noticed the red eyes and quiet sniffs.

“Emma’s come about the accounts,” Mary explained.

“It’s not time, is it? It’s not been six months…” Charlotte stopped as Mary shook her head.

“Losing money,” she said. “Wondered if you could tell why.”

Charlotte sighed.

“I’m sorry, Mrs MacKinnon,” Emma said tearfully. “I wouldn’t ask, but I don’t know who else to turn to. It took my Billy years to build up the business, but now he’s gone and I’m not…” Emma stuck her face back into her handkerchief, shoulders shaking.

“Of course I’ll take a look,” Charlotte said, managing to sound cheerful. “Did you bring them with you?” Emma sniffed, and reached into a large bag on the floor beside her chair.

“Why don’t you stay for supper, Emma?” Mary said, with a quick glance to get Charlotte’s agreement. “You’ll have to help get it ready, mind, if Mrs Captain’s going to be checking your accounts.”

Emma nodded and Charlotte smiled. Mary, practical as usual, had not only given her time to look over the accounts, but ensured that Emma wouldn’t be hovering behind her as she did so.

“I can make you my apple pie,” Emma offered hesitantly. “If you’ve got apples…”

“Come along, then. Sally’s left the vegetables chopped, you can help put the stew on then make your pie.”

Charlotte sat and drank her tea as the two women moved Davie away from the table and started preparing the meal. Davie grabbed the last biscuit, and disappeared before Charlotte could ask him if the squire’s tutor had set him any work. She fetched her spectacles and some paper from the other room and opened the accounts book.

By the time dinner was ready she had an inkling of the problem. Since the death of her husband, Emma had religiously kept records of money taken and money spent, but Charlotte suspected she didn’t really understand why such records were necessary. She jotted down some questions.

Their meal was ready by the time she finished her list, and Mary kept Emma talking village gossip while Davie concentrated on eating as much as he could. Charlotte allowed her mind to wander to the adventures of Mr Fox again.

When the apple pie had been eaten and the dishes washed, Davie settled at one end of the table with his mathematics while the three women gathered at the other. Emma looked rather apprehensive.

“D’yer know what I be doing wrong?” she asked.

“I’m not sure yet,” Charlotte said. “But I’ve got some questions for you.” She looked at the list she had written. “The price you pay for flour seems to have risen.”

Emma nodded. “Mr Weekes, he says the price of wheat has gone up.”

“It seems expensive, Emma. I’ll check what Weekes charges the squire’s cook for their flour.” She looked at the list again. “You’re selling more white bread?”

“Folks like it.”

“But did you put the price of the loaves up when Mr Weekes started to charge you more?”

Emma frowned. “I did try, but folks complained.”

Charlotte sighed inwardly. “And the new fancy cakes, how did you decide how much to charge for them?”

“Dunno, Mrs MacKinnon. Just seemed about the right price to me.”

“How much flour does it take to make a batch?”

Emma’s brow creased. “I don’t rightly know—half a sack for a big batch, maybe. I always check I’ve got enough before I start,” she added earnestly.

Charlotte rubbed a hand across her eyes, not knowing where to begin. She’d checked Billy Wilton’s accounts for him annually for several years, and he’d had a good head for business. Emma was an excellent baker, especially of cakes and pies, and had helped her husband run the bakery for fifteen years. But if she still hadn’t grasped the business side of things, Charlotte wondered how she could make her understand what was needed.

“Make some more tea, shall I?” Mary asked, seeing Charlotte’s expression. Charlotte, about to answer, was interrupted by a loud knock on the front door. Mary went to see who it was, so Charlotte got up to fill the kettle.

“Mrs MacKinnon?” It was a man’s voice, not one she recognised.

“I’m one of the Mrs MacKinnons.” Mary’s voice was quieter. “Did you want Mrs Captain or Mrs Sergeant?”

“Bring him through, Mary,” she called.

The man following Mary back into the kitchen wore practical clothing, somewhat travel-stained.

“Who’s the letter from?” Mary asked him.

“Lady Henbury, ma’am, in London.”

“That’ll be for Mrs Captain,” she said, taking the proffered letter and handing it to Charlotte.

“I’m to wait for a reply,” the man said.

Mary waved the man to a seat and asked if he needed anything.

“No, thank you, ma’am. I got money to stay at the inn tonight.” He paused for a moment. “Mrs Captain and Mrs Sergeant?”

“It helps when there’s two of us with the same surname,” Mary explained with a laugh. “She married Captain MacKinnon and I married Sergeant MacKinnon. Not related,” she added.

Charlotte’s amusement disappeared as she took in the contents of the letter. She must have made some sound, for Mary asked if she was all right.

She took a deep breath, clutching the letter in shaking hands. “I will be.” She took another deep breath, then read the letter again carefully. After a moment’s thought she spoke to the messenger. “Can you be here at ten tomorrow?” she said.

“Yes, ma’am.” The man stood, gave a small bow in their general direction, and headed for the door. Emma looked around uncertainly, and stood up to leave as well.

“I’m sorry, Emma,” Charlotte said. “I won’t be able to do anything for a few days. Mary can explain.”

“I’ll be round tomorrow,” Mary promised Emma. “We’ll sort something out, don’t you fret!” Looking somewhat reassured, Emma followed the messenger to the front door. Mary shut and bolted it behind them.

“Mama, who’s Lady Henbury?” Davie asked.

“My Aunt Elizabeth,” Charlotte said. “My mother’s sister.” She looked at the letter once more, as if she didn’t really believe what it said.

“She writes to tell me my mother is very ill, and not expected to live.”

Davie’s eyes widened, but he said nothing. Mary unearthed an ancient bottle of brandy from a cupboard, poured a small glassful and thrust it into Charlotte’s hand. Charlotte took a sip and coughed, then firmly put the glass down.

“I’m all right, Mary. It’s a shock, that’s all.”

“You’re to go to London?”

“Yes. Benning, the messenger, he’s to take me to Bath tomorrow and put me on the mail coach. I’ll be in London the next day.”

“Your father’s not written?”

Charlotte shook her head—she wouldn’t have expected any communication from that quarter.

“Where will you stay? With your aunt?” Mary concentrated on the practicalities.

“It is she who invites me, but I’ll see if Ann Hamilton can put me up.”

“You’ll not need to take much then. Is Davie to go?” She glanced at the boy, who was following the conversation with interest.

Charlotte shook her head. “Davie… Mama only saw him when he was very small, he doesn’t remember her. I don’t want my father to get any ideas…”

Mary nodded in understanding. “Well, you just go and pick out what clothes you need to take and get a good night’s sleep. I can look after everything while you’re gone.” She glanced at Davie. “And I’ll make sure he don’t miss his lessons! You’ll miss your day with the squire—I’ll send a message with Davie.”

“Emma…?”

“I reckon I’ve got enough idea what she’s bin doin’ wrong from what you said. I’ll go along and see what I can sort out. Davie can come too—good practice for him to see why he should be studyin’ his numbers!” She gave a small smile at the fleeting look of dismay on Davie’s face, before he remembered that the bakery was also a splendid source of cakes, pies and other delightful offerings.

“You finish your sums, Davie,” Charlotte said sternly. “Then I’ll read you my latest story and you can tell me if it’s any good before I take it with me tomorrow.” Davie reluctantly pulled his book towards him again, and Charlotte went upstairs to pack. She hesitated over the mourning gowns she hadn’t worn for nine years, but eventually packed one, hoping she wouldn’t need it.