The Bachelor's Bargain
Visit Tyndale’s exciting Web site at
www.tyndale.com
Check out the latest about Catherine Palmer at
www.catherinepalmer.com
TYNDALE
and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.
The Bachelor’s Bargain
Copyright © 2006 by Catherine Palmer. All rights reserved.
Cover illustration copyright © 2006 by Cliff Nielsen. All rights reserved.
Designed by Jessie McGrath
Edited by Kathryn S. Olson
Scripture quotations are taken from the
Holy Bible
, King James Version.
Scripture quotations in the epigraph and Miss Pickworth’s Ponderings are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organization, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Palmer, Catherine, date.
The bachelor’s bargain / Catherine Palmer.
p. cm.
eBook ISBN 978-1-4143-2923-9
I. Title.
PS3566.A495B33 2006
813'.54—dc 22 2006011425
Printed in the United States of America
12 11 10 09 08 07 06
7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For the newest member of our family, Phyllis Miller Cummins. I love you, and I’m so grateful God brought you into my father’s heart. Welcome!
The L
ORD
directs the steps of the godly.
He delights in every detail of their lives.
Though they stumble, they will never fall,
for the L
ORD
holds them by the hand.
Psalm 37:23-24
And we know that God causes everything to
work together for the good of those who love
God and are called according to his purpose
for them.
Romans 8:28
Contents
M
Y THANKS
to everyone at Tyndale who helped bring Miss Pickworth and her friends to life: Kathy Olson, Ron Beers, Becky Nesbitt, and Karen Watson. Also those in sales, marketing, public relations, author relations, and all who see my books from manuscript to bookshelf. My gratitude also to Anne Goldsmith, who now works elsewhere but is certainly not forgotten. I also thank my husband, Tim Palmer, whose guiding pen is always the first to cross the pages I write. Thank you, honey. Bless you, Andrei and Geoffrey, for loving and supporting good ol’ Mom. May God richly bless you all.
And most of all, thank You, Lord, for holding me by the hand.
Devon, England
1815
Like the finest silk threads twisted and crossed to form a net of gossamer lace, Anne Webster’s plan had to be executed perfectly or it would unravel into a thousand strands. The seedcake must be steaming, the ripe quinces baked to perfection, the tea piping hot. The Limoges cup and saucer must gleam in shades of blue and gold on the black lacquer tray. Every facet of the silver teapot must reflect the fire crackling on the grate. Nothing could be out of order, for this afternoon Alexander Chouteau, son of the Duke of Marston, was taking tea alone.
A shaky breath clouded the creamer Anne took down from the Welsh cupboard at the back of the large, dimly lit kitchen. Lifting the hem of her apron, she buffed the silver vessel. She must not tremble when she poured Sir Alexander’s milk. Her voice must not quaver when she offered the sugar. Above all, she must remember to shut the door behind her when she went in. If anyone heard her speaking to him . . . if anyone knew what she had planned . . .
“Anne, do stop your dawdling.” Mrs. Smythe slid a dish of baked fruit down the slick boards of the scrubbed pine worktable. The glass clinked as it hit the tea tray. “Sugar those quinces, and be quick about it. I shall not have Mr. Errand screeching at me because the tea was late and His Grace complained at it being tepid. The duchess cannot bear cold toast, and you certainly know how their son demands punctuality.”
“Of course, Mrs. Smythe.” Anne glanced at the pink-cheeked cook and wondered what the portly woman would do if she knew about the roll of delicate Honiton lace tucked into the pocket of her housemaid’s dress.
Mrs. Smythe must never know. If she found out, Anne would be forced to sell her work to the laceman who came out in his chaise every month from London. The long, narrow panel of lace had taken her three months to design, its pattern two months to prick onto parchment, and its silk threads another ten months to weave with her pillow and bobbins.
In France, where it was illegal to own lace, such a panel would be worth a king’s ransom. Even in London, the lace-man could sell her work for a small fortune, though he would pay her only a fraction of its value. Thus she had designed the pattern for the Chouteau family alone, praying that her plan would succeed. Into this bit of lace she had woven her future.
Quickly Anne took the nippers and broke several lumps from the hard sugar cone. She slipped one lump into her pocket as a treat for Theseus, the duke’s mastiff; then she sprinkled a spoonful of sugar crystals across the peeled quinces.
Dear God
, she lifted up in a swift and silent prayer,
please
let these satisfy Sir Alexander’s exacting tastes
.
As she carried the dish across the kitchen, the chill of the black-and-white-tiled floor crept through her thin slippers and around her ankles. Her toes ached. She had been on her feet since before dawn, and she would work at Slocombe House until the last dinner plate was cleared and washed that evening. In between, she must pray that the duke’s son would have the temper to listen to an impertinent, headstrong housemaid, that he would have the patience to inspect her length of Honiton, and that he would have the wit to realize the value of the lace.
As she set the dish of quinces on the tea tray, Anne squeezed her eyes shut.
Lord and Father above, this is my only
hope
, she reminded Him. God already knew her dire predicament, of course, but she felt it behooved her to call it to His divine attention one more time. If Sir Alexander paid her even half the market value of the Honiton, she would have enough money to quit her position at Slocombe House and return to her family’s home in Nottingham. She could hire a barrister to secure her father’s release from prison and save her sisters from the mills.
Satan’s workshops, her father called the drafty, machine-filled buildings with their deafening clatter and sooty windows. The mills, he had preached in more than one sermon, caused women to sicken and children to die early deaths. As the eldest child in the Webster family, Anne knew that what her father said was true, and she had supported his association with the Luddites even though their activities had landed him in prison.
Now the family’s only hope rested in her hands. Could a length of lace, more air than thread, be their salvation? Anne swallowed at the gritty lump in her throat. It had to.
“Head in the clouds, as usual,” the cook huffed as she bustled past with a plate of steaming cinnamon and currant scones. “Have you remembered to put tea in the pot, Anne?”
“Yes, Mrs. Smythe.”
“She probably put in coffee.” Sally Pimm, the first kitchen-maid, eyed Anne as she sifted salt into a copper pot of soup on the stove. In the scullery a cluster of maids giggled at the notion while they scoured stewpans, colanders, and utensils.
“Will not Sir Alexander be surprised,” Sally continued, “if he sips up a mouthful of coffee when he is expecting his afternoon oolong?”
“No more than when his oxtail soup tastes as though it were made with water from the English Channel,” Anne returned.
Mrs. Smythe’s wooden spoon cracked across Sally’s knuckles, and she let out a shriek.
“Have mercy!” Sally cried.
“Then stop your chatter and pay heed to the supper, girl! Shall we all be tossed out on our ears thanks to your heavy hand with the salt? Have this as a reminder!”
Forcing herself to turn a deaf ear on Sally’s wails as the cook added another whack for good measure, Anne laid a starched cloth over the tray and set the tea things on it. She knew the kitchenmaid was envious of her position. Under normal circumstances, Anne would have joined the staff as a scullery maid. After several years, she might have worked her way up to second kitchenmaid, first kitchenmaid, and then, possibly, cook.
Circumstances were not normal. After the Luddite riots and her father’s subsequent imprisonment in Nottingham, Anne had journeyed by coach to the south of England. In London, she had found a position at Trenton House on Cranleigh Crescent in the tony Belgravia district. Hired as a housemaid, she displayed a wit and propriety that soon elevated her to the station of lady’s maid to the widowed homeowner’s sister, Miss Prudence Watson. Not long afterward, Lady Delacroix had returned from a sea voyage to the Far East. When the young, wealthy baroness took up residence in Trenton House once more, Anne became her trusted assistant and companion.
In that position, Anne had hoped she might earn enough money to pay for a legal defense for her father. But it was not to be. To the shock of London society, Lady Delacroix fell deeply in love with a common tea tradesman. Their winter wedding stripped her of her title—though not her immense fortune—and she was now known simply as Mrs. Charles Locke. Sadly, she had informed Anne that their association could not continue, for she intended to travel with her husband. He had formed a partnership with two men, one of whom was Sir Alexander. Because of this relationship between the two families, Mrs. Locke had penned a glowing referral that led to Anne’s joining the staff of Marston House, also on Cranleigh Crescent.
Despite Mrs. Locke’s commendation of the clergyman’s daughter, the housekeeper at Marston had intended to put Anne into the kitchen, until Mr. Errand intervened.
“Look at the girl, Mrs. Davies,” the butler had intoned, one bushy white eyebrow arching as he inspected the newcomer. “With that face she will be wasted in the kitchen. She has kept all her teeth, her eyes are clear, and though she is no great beauty, she has a certain grace to her carriage. The letter from Mrs. Locke indicates she may have a measure of wit, as well. Put her in the house, and you will please His Grace, for you know the duke despises the fishermen’s daughters we normally get.”
Anne had been given a position in the grand home, though she was once again a housemaid and earning very little. While most of the
ton
went to London for the spring social season and thence to the beach for the summer, the Duke of Marston preferred Slocombe, his country house in Devon. And in March, he went there with his wife, his younger son, and most of his staff, Anne included.
Not long after their arrival, however, word came that Miss Prudence Watson had fallen prey to a nervous malady and would benefit from a sojourn away from the city. The duke and his wife insisted she be brought to them at Slocombe, and once again, Anne had the pleasure of waiting upon her as a lady’s maid. Anne attended solely to Miss Watson’s needs except on Saturday afternoons. On that day, Miss Watson kept to her rooms to write letters, the footmen took their leave, and Anne was given the honor of serving tea to Sir Alexander.
A knock sounded on the door. “Now what?” Mrs. Smythe mopped her forehead. “More charity? Sally, see to them.”
