Sweet Surrender

KINDLE
EDITION

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This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to institutions or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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CHAPTER ONE

Rural England, summer, 1814…

"Are you sure this is the right place?"

"I’ve lived in the area all my life.  Of course, I’m sure."

Grace Bennett stared up at the teamster—Mr. Porter—in whose wagon she’d been riding for most of the morning.  He seemed competent and truthful, yet she was completely confused.

"You’re certain this is the entrance to Milton Abbey," she said, "home of the Scott family?"

"None other."

"Is there another Scott family in the vicinity—perhaps in the village or the surrounding towns?"

"There are likely other Scotts all over the world.  But you asked me to drop you at Milton Abbey. 
This
is Milton Abbey."

She peered at the massive gate next to which they’d stopped, then her gaze swept down the long, tree-lined lane.  At the end, she could discern the contours of a mansion, and it wasn’t the sort of comfortable abode she’d anticipated.

It was an edifice where a king might reside.  There was a courtyard with a fountain, marble steps leading up to an ornate front door, a sloping green lawn tended by gardeners.  The corners had turrets—turrets!—as if it had once been part of an ancient castle.

"They can’t be merchants," she mused more to herself than to him.

Mr. Porter scoffed.  "They wouldn’t dirty their hands in such a low way."

"I don’t understand this, at all." 

"I don’t, either," her younger sister, eighteen-year-old Eleanor said.  "It’s not even close to what I was expecting."

Grace frowned at her ward, nine-year-old Michael Scott.  "How about you?  Does this make any sense?"

"No, Grace."  Michael was the most confident child she’d ever met, but he appeared even more unsettled than she was.  "Do you suppose my grandmother is here?"

"I have no idea.  I can’t believe this is her home." 

She stared up at Mr. Porter again.  "Were you acquainted with a Mr. Edward Scott?  He died nine years ago in a carriage accident."

"Not
mister,
Miss Bennett.  You mean Lord Milton."

"What?" 

"Edward Scott wasn’t a commoner.  He was
Lord
Milton, the earl of Milton." 

"That just can’t be."  She shook her head.  "The Edward I’m talking about was a merchant."

"He wasn’t a merchant, and he didn’t die nine years ago.  He passed away over the prior winter.  From the influenza."

"Are you positive there isn’t another branch of the family that might have had a son named Edward?  Maybe there was a cousin or a nephew."

"Anything is possible, Miss Bennett, but as I mentioned, you were interested in Milton Abbey.  The Edward who lived at Milton Abbey was Lord Milton, and he died last winter."

"Hmm…"

Grace’s confusion soared.

For a few brief months a decade earlier, her best friend Georgina had been married to Edward.  They’d had a short and wonderful love affair, but tragically, he’d been killed in a carriage accident.  Before he’d ever learned of Georgina’s pregnancy.  Before she’d had the chance to tell him they were having a baby.

Georgina had recently perished from her own bout with the influenza, and her final words had been about Edward, about how much she still missed him.

"The Edward to whom I refer," Grace haltingly stated, "was very charming, very handsome.  He had dark hair and blue eyes and—"

"Yes, yes," Mr. Porter interrupted, "that’s the one.  He looked like this lad."  From his perch on the wagon seat, he pointed down at Michael.

"I look like him," Michael explained, "because he’s my father."

Mr. Porter gasped.  "Edward was your father?"

"Yes."

He nodded.  "I can definitely see why you’d think so."

"I don’t
think
so," Michael huffed in the autocratic manner for which he was renowned.  "I know so.  My mother always said I was his spitting image."

"You act like him, too," Mr. Porter muttered.

"I’ll take that as a great compliment, sir."

Mr. Porter studied the grand house hidden in the trees, Michael, the house again.  He gestured to Michael.

"Would you wait over by that hedge?  I need a private minute with your auntie."

"She’s not my aunt.  She is my guardian.  My mother entrusted me to her care.  It was her dying wish that Grace watch over me."

"Fine," Mr. Porter snapped, "she’s your guardian.  Now wait over there while I speak to her."

Michael peered up at Grace, silently asking if he should, and Eleanor eased over the awkward moment.

"Let’s let Grace talk to Mr. Porter," Eleanor said, "then we’ll continue on our way."

"Is that all right with you, Grace?" Michael inquired.

"Yes."

Michael picked up his bag—and Grace’s too—and he walked through the gate.  Eleanor grabbed her own satchel and followed him.

"What is it?" Grace asked Mr. Porter once they were far enough away that they couldn’t listen in.

"Does the Scott family know you’re coming?"

"No."

"You’re about to surprise them?"

"Yes."

"The lad seems convinced that he’s the earl’s son."

"He’s Edward Scott’s son," Grace corrected.  "I’ve never claimed that his father was an earl.  Edward was a merchant; that’s all I was ever told."

"I’m simply warning you:  I’ve never heard of another boy."

"
Another
boy?  What do you mean?"

"I’d like to be a mouse in that corner…" he grumbled.

"What?"

"Lord Milton—Edward Scott—was married.  He has a son, a
lawful
son, named Percival.  He’s already been installed as earl."

"What has that to do with Michael?  I’m sure you’re mistaken about these two Edwards.  They have to be different men."

"I’m not about to speculate as to why you believe Edward died a decade ago."

"He did die!"

"So you say, but use your head girl!  They won’t be too keen on you spreading stories about there being another son."

"It’s not a story," she indignantly scoffed.

"That’s as may be, but you should…ah…reconsider before you proceed.  You’ll be stirring a hornet’s nest."

"Michael needs their help."

"Why are you so certain they’ll give it?"

"I’m not.  I’m just…just…" 

Her voice trailed off, her worry and fatigue acute.  She gazed over at Michael and Eleanor, at the gray stone of Milton Abbey.  Throughout their lengthy journey, she hadn’t wanted them to sense her concern over Edward’s relatives.

Now, they were literally at the gate, and she was more anxious than ever.

"We don’t have anywhere else to go," she finally said.

"It’s a fine pickle you’ve sliced for yourself, Miss Bennett."

"Yes, it is.  Would you know if Michael’s grandmother Beatrice is at home?"

His brows flew up.  "The dowager countess?  No, she’s in London, lucky for you."

"Why would you say that?"

"When you meet her, you’ll see."  He nodded toward the house.  "Edward’s brother is here."

"Edward has a brother?  What’s his name?"

"Jackson Scott—recently back from the wilds of Africa.  He’s an adventurer."

"My goodness."

"He’s come to take charge of young Percival, but the earl and his mother are still in the city.  Mr. Scott is entertaining a few of his old school chums.  It’s not a suitable environment for your sister and ward."

"Why not?"

"There are a hundred lewd rumors circulating in the village, Miss Bennett.  Mr. Scott has been away from England for an eternity, and he’s
enjoying
his return."

Grace snorted with disgust.  "I’m not afraid of some drunken school boys."

"They’re not boys."

"I’m not afraid of drunken men, either."  As a midwife and healer, she’d observed the very worst that human beings had to offer.  Nothing surprised her; nothing scared her.  "Besides, it’s only eleven o’clock.  Who would be imbibing of spirits this early?"

"You’d be amazed at what a rich, idle fellow can find to occupy his time."

"No, I wouldn’t."  She reached up her hand.  "Thank you, Mr. Porter.  I appreciate your advice and your many kindnesses."

"You’re welcome."  Mr. Porter clasped her extended hand and gently patted it.  "I’ll be in the village until Friday, then I’m off to London.  If this doesn’t end as you planned—"

"We’ll be all right," she stated with more confidence than she felt.

"—ask for me at the blacksmith’s shop.  They’ll locate me for you.  I’m happy to take you with me."

"We won’t need a ride anywhere."

"You just never know," he sagely replied, then he clicked the reins, and his horses pulled with all their might.

Gradually, the wheels on the wagon turned, and the animals drew him away.  She watched until he rounded the bend in the road, and as he vanished from view, she was bereft, as if she’d lost her last friend.

"Are we going on or not?" Eleanor called.

Grace pasted on a smile.  "Yes, of course, we’re going.  Why wouldn’t we?"

"You have the strangest expression on your face.  You seem…worried."

Michael wasn’t looking at Grace, and she gave a slight shake of her head, warning Eleanor to avoid words like
worry
or
concern
.  She had enough on her plate without making Michael anxious.  He was too astute; he always sensed when something was wrong, and she didn’t want him fretting.

And nothing was
wrong
precisely.

She merely wasn’t positive they’d tracked down the correct people.  Edward had been estranged from his family, so Georgina had few details about any of them.  But they haled from Milton, and Milton Abbey was their home.

What were the chances that there could be another Milton Abbey in England?

Grace refused to accept Mr. Porter’s version about Edward.  They couldn’t be mistaken.  She had justice on her side, and if it killed her, she would ensure that Michael received the recognition and assistance he deserved.

She walked over and grabbed her portmanteau.  It contained all that remained of a life of work and effort.  When they’d been evicted, when the sheriff had arrived and forced them to leave Georgina’s small cottage, he’d let them each fill a bag.

The ordeal had been humiliating, searching cupboards and drawers, pondering, sorting, choosing.  What did they need?  What could they carry?

The furniture had come with the house when Edward bought it for Georgina, so it belonged to Edward’s relatives.  Grace hoped—once she’d contacted them—that some of their possessions could be retrieved.  She wouldn’t consider any other conclusion.