The Restless Heart

by Jessica Blair

Genres: Sagas

Synopsis

Olivia Coulson is pretty and determined enough to attract any man's eye. George Chilton-Brookes, heir to the Cropton estate, is visibly enchanted by her, while handsome gentleman farmer Kit Fernley is also drawn to her looks and vivacity. Olivia wavers between her two suitors, eventually inclining towards the wealth and social position that marriage to George will bring - only to find that he has turned his attention elsewhere. So she marries Kit: handsome, attentive, loving...and in her eyes second best. Unable to forgive her fickle lover for his rejection of her, Olivia sets out to make George sorry he ever slighted her; becoming so intent on settling old scores that she is barely aware of the deadly danger her husband faces. Challenged by his father to undertake a long and perilous sea journey to the Arctic wastes, Kit accepts, comforted by thoughts of his wife awaiting his return and oblivious of the lengths to which Olivia will go to achieve her revenge.

Release date: November 10, 2011

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 336

Sample

The early-morning light of an August day in 1812 streamed over Whitby’s rooftops and penetrated the bedroom window of Bell
House, on the west bank of the River Esk.


Olivia awoke slowly and then, with sleep banished, luxuriated in the soft feather bed which cocooned her in its comfort. She
stretched, the movement sensuous, as she recalled her flirtations yesterday during a friend’s party at Rigg Hall on the cliffs
between her home town of Whitby and Robin Hood’s Bay.


She smiled to herself, revelling in the thought of her reputation among the younger Whitby set. She was friendly with them
all but knew that her many admirers had been warned of dire consequences should they fall completely under the spell of Olivia
Coulson. Enjoying her company, they ignored these warnings and responded to her vivacious personality. She exuded charm all
the more when she saw, and was amused by, the glares of hostility from other young women as her many beaux were drawn under
her spell.


Nevertheless when guest lists were compiled her name always appeared for she brought life to any party. She would grace it
with the finest clothes suitable for the occasion. Her manners would be impeccable, thanks to her upbringing by a firm mother,
a tolerant father, and the indulgent lead of her two elder brothers. Many would describe her as pretty; others would cast
a slight doubt on that assessment, but they would be looking at only one aspect of her features. Chin just a little too firm maybe, cheekbones
a shade too high or mouth a bit too wide, but even her detractors had to admit that her lips were exquisite. When parted,
in that engaging smile which was all Olivia’s, they revealed a perfect row of dazzling white teeth. Perhaps her best feature,
the one that gave her the greatest claim to beauty, was a pair of large wide-set eyes, hazel with just a touch of green.


She slid from the bed and stood at the window. From here she could see the shipbuilding yard of Coulson and Sons. It had been
founded by her great-grandfather in 1725, taken over by her grandfather in turn and inherited by her father twenty-five years
ago. Expansion had been made on his ancestors’ solid foundation and now her father was the leading shipbuilder in Whitby.
Her grandfather had built the house in which she now lived, choosing a position close to and overlooking the proud family
achievement.


Already she could hear the ring of hammers as a new day in the life of this thriving Yorkshire port dawned. Her gaze passed
over the glistening waters of the river which ran between surrounding cliffs to meet the sea beyond the piers built to protect
the estuary from the ravages of the North Sea when it was whipped into anger by ferocious winds. Beyond, on the east bank,
houses climbed the cliff, seeming to stand one on top of the other as if reaching for light and air while denying that right
to those below.


But Olivia’s thoughts were of other things. She was tired of the life she led: the parties, the picnics, the endless At Homes
enlivened by the occasional ball. True, she always attracted the young men’s attention, and flirtation was second nature to
her now, but the suitors she met were almost interchangeable and none of them had the power to force her to relinquish her
single state.


Was there no special man out there who could give her the sort of future she wanted? Her brothers were set for life through
their participation in the family business but she, being a girl, was excluded from active participation. Her future could only be marriage, and she certainly was not going to
marry beneath her.


She sighed, turned from the window and dressed for breakfast.

‘Good morning, Mother. Good morning, Father,’ she said with her usual brightness when she came into the dining-room.

‘Good morning, my dear. Did you sleep well? No effects from the party?’ asked her mother, Lavinia.

‘None,’ returned Olivia, and kissed her parents.

Edward Coulson beamed at his daughter ‘Good morning to you.’ He pressed her hand with affection, never ceasing to wonder how
every morning she could be so bright. Olivia had brought a new dimension to breakfast-time ever since her two brothers had
married. When they were at home that meal more often than not had turned into a discussion about the business to be transacted
that day, but since their marriages commercial talk had disappeared from breakfast. Now Edward appreciated all the more the
company of his wife and the daughter who could twist him round her little finger. He knew it but enjoyed it.


Her father and mother had already started their meal so Olivia went to the sideboard to make her choice of bacon and scrambled
egg along with some bread freshly baked that morning by Mrs Wilson, the cook who had been with the family for ten years.


As she returned to her place at table there was a gentle tap on the door. It opened and Sommers, the head butler, who had
served the tolerant and thoughtful family as long as Mrs Wilson, came into the room. He placed four envelopes on the table
beside his employer.


‘Some mail, sir. The coach was late in yesterday. Wheel trouble, I’m told.’

‘Thank you, Sommers. Not an accident, I hope?’

‘No, sir.’ The butler inclined his head as he stepped back a pace. In those few moments his eyes had swept across the table, checking that everything was in order. If it wasn’t there would be the devil to pay as he meted out chastisement to
his underlings, male and female.


Edward glanced quickly at the writing on the envelopes and tossed three of them back on the table, keeping the fourth in his
hand.


‘Only one of real interest, my dear?’ asked Lavinia from the opposite end of the long table.

He gave a little smile. ‘Ah, this one may well interest you both if it is what I think it is.’ He picked up the paper-knife
which was always placed with his breakfast cutlery in case any mail had come into Whitby on the previous evening’s coach.


Olivia looked at him with undisguised curiosity. Her father’s mail was generally connected to his business, but, judging by
the twinkle in his eyes this was something different.


He slit the envelope open, laid down the paper-knife with deliberate precision and then extracted a card from the envelope.
His perusal of it caused a broad smile to appear on his face. ‘Thought so,’ he said in satisfaction.


‘Well?’ Lavinia enquired sharply.

He glanced up to see his wife and daughter, their breakfast in abeyance, eyes fixed on him, awaiting with keen anticipation
what he was about to say.


Without preamble he read: ‘“Mr and Mrs Richard Chilton-Brookes request the pleasure of Mr and Mrs Edward Coulson and their
daughter for the weekend at Cropton Hall to celebrate the twenty-first birthday of their son George from 5 p.m. 20th August
to 11 a.m. 23rd August”.’


‘Well, I never.’ His wife was almost overcome by surprise.

‘You’ll accept, won’t you? You must!’ cried Olivia, eyes wide with the thought of a weekend spent amongst the county’s well-to-do.
New faces, new people her own age … maybe this invitation was an omen, a step towards fulfilling those dreams which had filled
her mind this morning. Like her mother she had never met the Chilton-Brookes but knew her father had done business with the owner of the Cropton Estate.


‘Of course,’ replied her father, even those two words full of satisfaction and pride.

He knew his father and grandfather would have been proud of the hard work, determination and shrewd judgement which had enabled
him to expand the firm and led to this invitation to mix with Yorkshire’s landed gentry.


Coulson-built ships quartered the world: merchantmen trading with the Continent, colliers running coal from Newcastle to London,
convict ships bound for Australia, transports taking troops to Canada, whalers for the expeditions to the Arctic. Wherever
a ship was needed, there would be a Coulson ship. The firm had a reputation for solid construction, a workmanlike approach,
and for supplementing Baltic wood with finest English oak. Edward had an eye for the best timber, reliable and tough, which
would stand the rigours of any sea. Though he had trained his sons in what to look for, he always carried out this side of
the business himself.


Three years ago he had been looking for a new source. This took him beyond the high moors which closed in on the town, creating
a sense of isolation in Whitby minds and turning most people’s eyes to the sea in the hunt for prosperity.


Early one day in April he had viewed the weather with a critical and assessing eye, honed by experience, and decided to set
out to look for oak. He told Sommers to send someone to see that his horse, which he kept stabled at the White Horse hostelry
and coaching house, be ready for him in half an hour and he ordered some sustenance from the kitchen to tide him through his
ride. After fond farewells to his wife and daughter, telling them he might be away for three or four days, Edward rode out
of Whitby.


The rough and lonely track he chose was mainly used by pedlars and carriers. It crossed the wild moorland landscape to Pickering on the southern edge, overlooking the fertile vale that gave the small market town its livelihood.


He guided his horse through the bustle of the town in late afternoon as trading for the day was drawing to a close. Sharp-tongued
farmers drove the sheep and cows they had purchased out of their pens. Dogs snapped at the animals’ hooves. Drovers yelled
abuse when their herds did not obey. Amid the hustle and bustle urchins raced and housewives scurried to find last-minute
bargains before hastening home.


Edward rode down the main street and espying the Black Bull soon verified that he could have a room there. Once his horse
had been taken care of he set about putting his initial acquaintance with the landlord on to a more friendly footing.


Pleased with this gentleman’s trade, and with having someone different from his usual Pickering customers to talk to, the
landlord was forthcoming with information about the area.


Accordingly the next morning, after a breakfast which had tested even his hearty appetite, Edward was riding at a gentle pace
towards the village of Cropton, about four miles away. He relaxed in the saddle, enjoying the feel of the sunshine which was
unmarred by a few trails of high thin cloud. The day was calm, the weather settled, just as he had predicted in his own mind
when he had viewed the sky in Whitby only yesterday morning. It seemed much longer ago and, as Edward pondered the reason,
he came to the conclusion that it was because this was the first time in over a year that he had escaped Whitby and work.
Not that he did not like his work, he loved it, but now, away from it, he recognised he had needed this change to get away
even if only for a few days. He would enjoy them, and central to that enjoyment would be his quest for timber.


Following the landlord’s directions he found himself in gently rolling countryside with well-tended fields stretching northwards
before rising to meet the moorland. Cattle and sheep grazed unhindered but Edward’s eyes gave them only a passing glance for they were drawn to the woods he could see in
the distance.


Nearing them he drew rein, soothing his horse with a gentle pat and low voice. The sight of the fine trees had drained any
tension that was left from his body and he sat, utterly relaxed, letting his eyes wander over them. Larch, elm, chestnut,
sycamore … but not what he had hoped he would see. With a little grimace of disappointment, he sent his horse along the grassy
lane. Half a mile further on it swung around the edge of the wood. Unprepared for what he saw, Edward jerked his mount to
a halt and gasped at the sight of a fine stand of oaks which occupied the distant border of the adjacent field. Excited, he
quickly looked along the hedge for a gateway. Seeing it, he put his horse to it, leaned from the saddle and pushed it open.
Once inside the field he manoeuvred the animal so he could secure the gate again then galloped towards the oaks.


Edward swung from the saddle and in a matter of moments was among the trees, leaving his horse to champ contentedly at the
grass. Edward was in a fever of excitement. These were some of the finest oaks he had ever seen, but he did not see them purely
as majestic trees. Instead he saw strong timbers for the ships he would build, timbers which would sing a song in harmony
with the sea.


He must have them. He must! He hurried back to his horse and within a few minutes was in Cropton enquiring as to whose land
he had seen the oaks on and where he could find the owner.


The directions he received took him to a fine wrought-iron gateway set in a long stone wall which, because he could not see
its ends, he assumed either formed the boundary for the whole estate or enclosed land private to Cropton Hall, the name carved
on the stone gatepost.


The front door of the gatehouse stood open and this led Edward to believe there must be someone inside. He ran his riding
crop across the iron gate to attract attention. His action was effective for in a matter of moments a buxom woman with a rosy complexion appeared in the doorway. She was plainly
dressed in brown with a white collar at her neck. Her mobcap held her hair in check, though a few wisps revealed that it was
dark brown. Her eyes were sharp, demanding identification from the stranger who had disturbed her at her cleaning.


‘Good day, sir. What might you be wanting?’

‘Mr Chilton-Brookes, if he is at home, and if you’ll be kind enough to let me through this gate?’

Mr Chilton-Brookes usually informed her whenever he was expecting visitors. The admission of strangers he left to her judgement,
and this rider was definitely a stranger. However she had summed him up quickly, a practice she had developed to a fine art
over the ten years she had been gatekeeper while her husband worked on the estate. This visitor seemed gentlemanlike enough.
His soft voice, round face and ruddy cheeks indicated a good-natured character, and there was no impatience or hostility in
his eyes. He sat his horse well and held it gently under control.


‘Certainly, sir,’ she said. ‘Just follow the drive for about half a mile or so and you’ll come to the house.’

‘Thank you kindly,’ said Edward as he passed through the gate held open by the woman.

He kept his horse to a walking pace, enjoying the sight of the rhododendrons about him and imagining them in their full glory
in about a month’s time. They were backed on both sides of the track by thickets of firs and fringed by well-manicured lawns
stretching almost to the house itself. The carriageway curved to the front of an elegant building and then swung back on itself
in a large circle. The centre of the circle held a rose bed whose flowers, when in full bloom, would make a perfect adornment
to the house.


The building had a solid, well-tended appearance. The windows in its four bays sparkled in the sunlight. The pots of flowers
on the balustrade of an elegant terrace, running the full width of the house, had clearly been tended assiduously.


Several chairs arranged there were unoccupied except for one close to the front door. Here, sitting with a rug over his knees,
was a man of medium build. His hair was grey and his gaunt features seemed to indicate that he had not been well. At the sound
of the horse’s hooves he sat up but when he saw a stranger leaned back again and watched him approach.


Edward eased his horse to a halt in front of the man. ‘Good day, sir,’ he called brightly. ‘Might I be addressing Mr Richard
Chilton-Brookes?’


He nodded. ‘Aye, you are that, but you have the advantage of me.’

‘Edward Coulson. May I step down and discuss some business with you?’

‘Business? What sort of business brings you seeking me?’ Chilton-Brookes was openly curious.

‘Something which I believe will be to our mutual advantage,’ returned Edward. He swung from the saddle and came up the four
steps on to the terrace beneath the portico with its pediment supported by six classical columns. He held out his hand. Richard
Chilton-Brookes took it and the two men eyed each other for a moment before he indicated a chair next to his. Edward sat down.


‘Well?’

‘I am a shipbuilder in Whitby,’ Edward began.

Chilton-Brookes raised an eyebrow. ‘So what brings you riding in the country?’

‘Timber, sir, timber. I am looking for the best English oak. Can’t beat it for strengthening my ships.’

From Edward’s delivery of these words it was plain that he had a passionate love for wood and that shipbuilding was his life.
Chilton-Brookes gave a small smile. ‘And you’ve seen my oaks and want to know if I’ll sell?’


‘You come right to the heart of the matter, sir. I like a man who does not beat about the bush, so I’ll do the same. Is there
any point in our talking further? If not I’ll ride away and leave you in peace.’


The landowner pursed his lips thoughtfully. He was interested but did not wish to appear too keen. Allow the Whitby man to
see that and he might place himself at a disadvantage in getting the best price. ‘I would have to know which trees have caught
your eye. I presume you have assessed some on your way here?’


‘I have, sir. And if I had not liked what I saw I would not be here now.’

‘Very well. Give me a few moments to change and I will ride with you.’ He rose from his chair as he was speaking.

‘Are you sure?’ There was concern in Edward’s voice.

Richard gave a grunt. ‘You mean, am I fit enough to do so? I’ve been mollycoddled too long. It’ll be a relief to be back in
the saddle and out in the countryside. My wife’s away for the morning so she won’t know. I’ll get my son George to come with
us too. He’s but eighteen, but as heir to the estate should be kept informed. Stir their interest when they are young and
keep it is what I say.’


Edward nodded. ‘I look forward to meeting him.’ He had started to move from his chair.

‘Sit there until we are ready. I’ll tell Bates to bring you a drink. Sack?’

‘Thank you. That is most hospitable of you.’

Edward relaxed with his drink and viewed his immediate surroundings. There was clearly money here. It was a house of grand
proportions and, if the outside was anything to go by, well-maintained, as were the immediate grounds. All this, he was sure,
reflected a well-run estate, a fine inheritance for the young man he was about to meet.


When father and son appeared, Edward stood up and greeted the younger man whose handshake was firm and eager.

‘I am pleased to meet you, sir,’ said George Chilton-Brookes with the genuine pleasure of one who liked to meet people and
had the ability to make strangers feel comfortable.


‘And I you,’ returned Edward. In this young man he sensed an assurance beyond his years, but it was an assurance which was kept under strict control and not allowed to dominate others. He liked the open, handsome face, the eyes that were
bright yet had an attractively diffident expression which he calculated hid a keen awareness of everything and everybody around
him. His slim build revealed by well-fitting clothes, George was slightly taller than his father. His dark brown hair was
neatly cut and brushed back around his ears. His chin was firm but not over-prominent and was finely proportioned to the rest
of his face.


‘You are interested in timber, sir?’ he enquired.

‘Aye,’ replied Edward, and went on to explain about his shipbuilding, making sure that these two men appreciated they were
dealing with the owner of the most prominent yard in Whitby.


As they were speaking a groom appeared from around the side of the house, leading two horses.

‘Shall we go?’ suggested Richard.

‘Father, should you?’ George raised his concern again, just as he had when his father had first told him about their visitor
and what he proposed to do.


Richard brushed aside his son’s query with a dismissive wave.

As they rode away from the house, Edward reflected on the information that no one had previously approached them for timber.
If he got them interested today and negotiated favourable terms he might gain exclusive rights to timber from the Cropton
Estate.


As they moved across the countryside, viewing more stands of trees than he had seen on his earlier ride, he realised that
George had been well schooled by his father. His knowledge of trees and timber surprised even Edward who considered himself
something of an expert. He felt renewed admiration for the young man, not only for his knowledge but his modest demeanour.
He never pushed himself forward as the person with whom the visitor should deal but clearly respected his father’s authority.
Some people would say George was shy but Edward soon realised that this impression was wrong. He was simply a young man who knew his place before his elders. That attitude influenced his
whole approach to life. It was purely respect for others that made him seem reserved.


On returning to the Hall they rode straight into the stable yard. The sound of hooves brought the groom hurrying from the
tack room followed by two young under-grooms.


‘See to Mr Coulson’s mount as well,’ Richard ordered. ‘He’ll be staying for a meal and won’t need the animal until late-afternoon.’

‘That’s very civil of you,’ said Edward, ‘but I can’t impose.’

‘Nonsense.’ Richard dismissed his objection with a wave of his hand. ‘You must be hungry and we cannot see you leave before
you have had some sustenance. Besides, we have an agreement to sort out.’ He had started to lead the way to a side door.


‘You are interested in selling then?’ Edward put the question with eager anticipation.

Richard cast a glance towards his son. ‘We are, aren’t we, George?’

‘I think it would be a good idea. It would enable us to thin various stands before Nature intervenes for us, and we have continued
the planting programme the previous owners instigated so there will always be new timber available.’


When Edward met Esther, Richard’s wife, he could see from whom George had inherited his good looks, for she still retained
the prettiness of her early-twenties, though she was almost double that age, and exuded a charm which was captivating.


Out of deference to her presence, the sale of timber was not discussed during the meal but once that was over, knowing there
were business matters to be taken care of, Esther left the men. She told Edward she hoped he would have a pleasant ride and
expressed the wish that if ever he was near Cropton he would call on them again.


‘If our talk is successful, my dear, I am sure Mr Coulson will visit us soon,’ said her husband.


‘Then I look forward to seeing you, Mr Coulson.’

‘And it will be my pleasure too, ma’am.’

The next hour was spent in discussion and negotiation until a satisfactory agreement had been struck. Edward was pleased to
secure three-quarters of the trees he had picked out at a price which brought smiles and amicable handshakes from everyone.
Responsibility for felling was assumed by the Chilton-Brookes, Edward being accountable for the cost of transporting the timber
to Whitby, but as father and son knew the best local hauliers for such work Edward was pleased when George said he would organise
the hiring of teams.


From that day a friendship had grown between Edward and the Chilton-Brookes. Though never close it was always amicable and
Edward enjoyed his visits to negotiate for more timber at felling time. Now, three years later, the friendship had taken a
step forward with this invitation to him and his family to join in the celebrations for George’s twenty-first birthday.


‘Well, there you are, something to look forward to,’ said Edward, beaming at his wife and daughter.

‘Oh, my goodness,’ cried Lavinia. ‘Cropton Hall no less.’

‘Aye, lass, no less.’

‘You’ve talked about your business with the Chilton-Brookes, but I didn’t know you were on these terms,’ said Lavinia. She
herself had come from a well-to-do Whitby family whose interests had expanded, three generations ago, from alum production
to ship owning, the latter taking precedence in the last fifteen years. It was through their common connection to ships that
Edward had met Lavinia, and it had been love at first sight for him. From that moment he had been determined to wed her, and
had painstakingly won her devotion and love. She had become a great support to him and was proud of his achievements. Though they moved freely in Whitby society she had never imagined them being on intimate terms with the landed gentry of Yorkshire.
But now – well, if this was something Edward wanted she would be delighted to play her part.


‘I’ve cultivated them carefully,’ replied Edward. ‘Never in their pocket and they never in mine. We have developed a very
friendly business relationship and a real understanding of each other. Richard saw that I knew timber and that pleased him.
You may remember, he came to Whitby for a day. You and Olivia were away in Scarborough for the week so you didn’t meet him.
I wanted him to see how the timber from his estate was being used, and that delighted him. He saw I cared for it and used
it in the best possible way for the most important parts of the ship. I showed him—’


‘Father!’ Olivia interrupted, knowing that if she didn’t they would be subjected to a eulogy about the business that they
had heard many times. ‘Tell us something about the family and Cropton Hall, so that we know what to expect?’


‘Richard, Esther and their son George are likeable, unassuming gentlefolk.’

‘He’s an only child?’ queried Lavinia.

Her husband nodded. ‘Aye. Seems Esther was told she shouldn’t have any more after George was born.’

‘I suppose they inherited from Mr Chilton-Brookes’s father?’ said Olivia.

‘No, that wasn’t the case. The previous owner, known as Squire Hardy, was a bit of a stickler – kept his workers and tenants
firmly in their place, I hear. “I’m right, you shouldn’t have an opinion, keep your place and do as you’re told,” was his
attitude.’


‘He had no family?’ queried Lavinia.

‘He had a son but he was killed in a fall from the cliffs not far from Rigg House, so that afterwards there was a search for
his nearest living relative, a very distant connection, and that was Richard. Apparently the Chilton-Brookes were a branch
of the family who had once owned considerable property in Lincolnshire, but an ancestor who was a bad manager and a gambler to boot lost practically everything. The family moved to Hull, seeking work, and it was there that
the gambler’s descendant, Richard himself, was found working as a shipping clerk.’


‘So they had a big surprise?’ commented Olivia.

‘Oh, aye, but there must have been hereditary traits of refinement and business acumen that served them well, and they were
fortunate to find a competent manager already running the estate for them.’


‘And Richard’s wife?’ prompted Lavinia, who wanted to know what to expect from the lady who would be their hostess.

‘Charming,’ replied Edward. ‘Gentle but not at all overpowered by her menfolk. In fact, I would say she subtly organises their
lives to a great extent, though of course not on the business side. She is wise enough not to invade that territory. You’ll
like her, I’m sure.’


‘And the young man whose birthday we are celebrating?’

Olivia had been wanting to ask this question but had not wanted to put her interest and curiosity to the fore. She was glad
her mother had made the enquiry.


‘Not bad-looking. A quiet, retiring sort of man, but very competent where the estate is concerned.’

Olivia was exasperated. She could have stamped her foot in annoyance. She would