A Provision For Love (Entangled Inheritance Book 1)

  A Provision for Love

  Heather Chapman

  Copyright © 2019 Heather Chapman.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

  Front cover design by Amanda Conley

  Edited by Jolene Perry

  Printed by Heather Chapman, in the United States of America.

  First printing edition 2019.

  www.heatherchapmanauthor.com

  Contents

  Untitled

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Author’s Note:

  About the Author

  For a complete list of Heather Chapman’s books or to sign up for her newsletter, visit www.heatherchapmanauthor.com

  For Andrew Amanda, one of my very favorite people,

  and

  For the little old couple who left a letter in Amanda’s basement:

  Your wisdom and wit live on. See the Author’s Note for more of the story.

  Chapter 1

  Years of governesses, along with additional tutelage, served as my only preparation for the test before me. The true sign of a refined lady rested in her ability to remain calm in the face of fire, and nothing was as fearsome as a bitter woman. My grandmother, the baroness, Lady Margaret Barrington, was more heated than a roaring flame against a hillside, more bitter and unpredictable than flickering flames themselves.

  I was either too docile or too brazen, too persuadable or too headstrong, and winning her approval seemed impossible. If it were not for her enduring affection for her late-husband Percival, I would quite wonder if my grandmother approved of anybody.

  I dabbed the napkin at my lips and pulled back my shoulders; I would cling to my lists of lessons. From her expectant gaze—beautiful yet as dangerous as fire itself—I knew she demanded an answer to some question or another, a question I had missed due to my internal reflection. I lifted an eyebrow. “Yes?”

  She sighed. “Well, Ivy? Is not Mrs. Kensington making an absurd spectacle of her daughter, parading her all around the countryside?”

  I dipped my chin in affirmation, looking to my hands that rested in my lap. My voice remained as smooth as the fabric of my muslin dress. “As always, you are quite right, Grandmother.”

  A moment of silence followed.

  “Miss Worthington has almost finished you off, my dear,” she said in between sips of tea. Her frown lines pulled downward, and her nose pinched. “You’ve lost your pluck. I should never have insisted on extra tutelage.”

  I nearly choked on my biscuit. Grandmother’s unceasing badgering was a poor substitute for affection. I took my own sip of tea. “I only agreed to the lessons the last two years to fulfill your wishes.”

  “Undoubtedly.” Her honey eyes, nearly the same shade as mine, searched below the terrace, settling on a patch of green grass. “You think I am that senile, that I should forget my own requests—not to mention expenses? Ivy, I am well aware of my mistakes. Insisting you study under Miss Worthington, no matter her outstanding reputation—and before your first season—only shows how my judgment is failing. Perhaps another year, and my body will have failed too.”

  I drummed my fingers across my knees, swallowing back a dry retort. Manners. Grandmother had a flair for the dramatics; I need not answer hers with my own. “You are not so ill, Grandmother. I suspect you will live another ten years at least. You are as strong as Bridgestone’s white-rock walls.”

  “Funny you should mention the walls. I sent a note to the mason yesterday. Seems the crack in the dining hall is growing. Even stones deteriorate.” Her lips puckered, and the wrinkled skin hanging from her chin wobbled. “Heaven knows I have.”

  I closed my eyes, inhaling a waft of blossoms. Spring was my favorite time of year for the scent of snowdrops and crocuses alone.

  Grandmother adjusted the black shawl at her shoulders. “As I said, you’ve lost your pluck. Your lessons on decorum and dancing seem to have overshadowed the allure you once possessed. How will you secure a profitable match, my dear? You cannot attract a man with silence and manners… If only your mother had not died those years ago.”

  I fluttered my lashes in irritation. My mother’s death was not for casual discussion, at least not in my mind. Keeping my mouth shut was all I could do to keep from engaging in a debate. Grandmother had grown increasingly careless in her topics of conversation. “I assure you, I have not lost one ounce of my spirit. Do not mistake my silence for any degree of passivity. If I were to tell you my true opinions about the things you choose to discuss, I fear we might have a row, and I cannot risk that—not when my time at Bridgestone Manor is the highlight of my year. I will not jeopardize any future invitations.”

  “I see.” She lifted a brow and leaned to the back of her chair. “But your time at Bridgestone is already in jeopardy—Percival’s heir will inherit everything…or so my late husband often suggested when speaking of his will. In fact, Henry is to visit on his way to London for the season and promised to be here for the reading of the will on Friday.”

  I winced. Tea on the terrace was a time-honored tradition in good weather, a ritual that ushered in a new day replete with joy. Why did she have to bring up Percival’s heir on such an enchanting morning? I had only recently come out of mourning, though I suspected Grandmother would remain in her blacks for the better part of the year.

  Imagining Bridgestone as nothing more than memories brought an ache to my chest, one that threatened to crack my composure. Grandmother had remarried when I was only six years old; this place was as much a part of my blood as Grandmother. I swallowed hard. “Henry often disrupts my visits. He cannot stay away. Sometimes I think he rather enjoys reminding me that Bridgestone will be his.”

  Grandmother snickered, and humor flickered over her tired yet bright eyes. “I doubt that. Henry loves this place as much as you do. You cannot fault him for seeing to its care. In fact, I rather like his attention. I take comfort in knowing he will know how to care for my home. He has already promised me that I may spend the rest of my days here in peace.”

  Henry had been around Bridgestone as long as I had, but thankfully, I had managed to avoid him the past two summers. I gritted my teeth. “I shall never understand how Percival could leave the estate to Henry. Was I not more blood to him than a great-nephew?”

  Grandmother teetered forward, seeming to wince. Her face, once as smooth as porcelain, now favored a weathered and folded letter. With each of her expressions, different lines shot across the canvas of her skin. She blew out a puff of air. “Perciva
l considered you a granddaughter.” Her words hung in the air, and I knew there was more.

  “But?” I folded my arms.

  “But nothing.” Grandmother clawed at her neck and craned her head to one side. “Percival was tied to tradition, Ivy. He couldn’t bear to think of disappointing anyone, and, as you know, Henry is the next male in line to inherit the title and the property.”

  My shoulders tensed. Did I not deserve more consideration than that of a distant great-nephew? My mouth turned dry, and I scratched at my neck. “Yes, I am well aware of the line of succession.”

  Grandmother let out a long sigh. “Have you taken a stroll in your garden lately? I think you would appreciate the improvements. My gardener has already planted the flowers, at my request—a touch early but allowable considering the unusually warm weather this spring.”

  “What an idea,” I said, pushing to a stand. “I think a walk is just what I need.”

  She flinched and stopped me by the hand. “Ivy, Percival adored you.”

  My jaw clenched, but I recognized my foolishness. Jealousy did not serve me. If anything, it might rob me of my affection for the only grandfather-figure I had known. England’s tradition had dictated Percival’s will, not sentiment. “I never doubted his love, Grandmother. I only dread the loss of this place, almost as much as I hated to lose him. Why must things change? I could well stay eighteen and at Bridgestone forever.”

  “Is that so?” Grandmother scowled, and a new maze of lines deepened near her brows. She hadn’t the ability to disguise her feelings—that or she thought the effort useless. She cleared her throat. “You would rather stay young and never experience all that life has to offer? You would abandon the opportunity for marriage, for children of your own? Ivy, you are about to embark on one of the most memorable periods of life—your first season.”

  All my training had led to this, my first season with the ton; I would be forced to tackle adulthood and marriage, or at least that was the hope of Father, Grandmother, and Miss Worthington. I hardly knew what I hoped for, other than a match with a gentleman I might grow to love.

  That would be enough—the hope of love amidst the approval of those I already loved.

  Grandmother gave my hand another squeeze. “The seasons change, and so must we. I have not particularly enjoyed growing feeble, you know, but Providence seems to think it imperative to my experience. I have learned to wait out the winter, and so must you.”

  “Yes, I understand—” I huffed and clawed at the golden strands of hair blowing across my eyes. Why had I spoken freely? My efforts were futile. Grandmother could not understand; she would take her last breath at Bridgestone, never knowing the ache of abandoning this place. Further, she was sure to offer advice, advice I did not wish to hear.

  I clicked my tongue and folded my arms. “Understanding how things must be and liking the process are two very different things, Grandmother. I know that my life will change significantly in the coming weeks, but I have every right to feel as I do. I will not bid farewell to Bridgestone with glad tidings, ready to charge into the new season of life. No, I will mourn Bridgestone as much as any death, perhaps greater.”

  Grandmother dropped my hand and rubbed her lips together. “Perhaps you have not lost your pluck. I am glad to see that. Now, take a walk, and do not forget how Percival loved you.”

  I shifted my weight for a moment, studying her expression. If the curve of her lips were to speak again, I imagined it might say something like, “Ivy Linfield still has feeling. She has not gone completely numb.”

  Admittedly, I had not shown any emotion in the week since my arrival. How could I? My life had evolved into a series of lists. Rules governed every part of my conduct. Perhaps I was losing a bit of my pluck as Grandmother suggested.

  “Go on,” Grandmother said, shaking a hand toward me. “A walk will do you well.”

  I swallowed. “I believe it will. Enjoy your tea.”

  She lifted a brow. “I will, what’s left of it anyhow. And Ivy, do mind the path. The gardeners have not leveled it since that torrential storm two days ago. And that groundskeeper—he has been so preoccupied in training his young assistant—Tom, is it? The animals running amok have only worsened the condition. I would never forgive myself if you were to twist an ankle.”

  My shoulders relaxed, and I dipped my chin in acknowledgement. “I shall return before Lady Sefton comes to call.”

  * * *

  The dirt path sang to me like an echo from my childhood. I heard the trace of laughter in my mind, saw the pounding of bare feet against the ground as if a younger version of myself ran beside my hurried steps. Then, with astonishing accuracy, an image sprung across my mind—the face of the only person to spend as much time as me in my garden.

  Percival.

  My cheeks burned in shame. A week at Bridgestone and I had not visited my garden. Our garden.

  My feet conveyed me faster with each step, through a stone archway and past the kitchen gardens. Out of the sight of Grandmother at last, I quickened my pace even more, running until my throat burned and my legs turned numb from the exertion. I passed the gardener’s shed and the row of fountains beside the ballroom balcony but did not stop. I continued past the observatory and the reflection pool and on toward the maze of hedges. The fabric of my dress slapped against my legs, and my feet cramped against my leather soles.

  I nearly stumbled to a stop. My heart threatened to escape my chest. I laughed at my fatigue, making my attempts to breathe all the worse. I had run much farther and longer as a child. The fact gave reason to mourn. According to Miss Worthington, I had evolved into a mannered and picturesque match for any gentleman of fortune and standing in the last two years, but reality glared against the perspiration on my neck; I had turned into a ninny.

  Laughter broke through my staggered breaths once again. Oh, dear. Grandmother was right.

  I wondered at my transformation. Was it the product of my mother’s death three years previous or Percival’s six weeks ago? Or, was it the constant nagging of Miss Worthington’s tutelage that had drained my spirit?

  Without my mother and at only fifteen years old, Grandmother had insisted on assisting in preparing me for my first season. For two years, I had been under the strictest of observation and instruction. Miss Worthington was more than a governess or tutor. She was quite renowned for her ability to refine perfectly amiable ladies into the highest breed: women that attracted matches of nobility and wealth—dukes, earls, viscounts, and marquises. Anything less would be cause for disappointment.

  I had never wanted nobility nor fortune; I only wished for Bridgestone. However, if this beloved place could not be mine, I would settle for my own household—one I would not be forced to leave.

  I took in a slow breath and surveyed the land on each side of me. Perhaps, someday, with the help of gardeners and a generous husband, I would recreate much of what I loved about this place. In every direction, freedom whispered.

  The hedges reached far above my head and stretched into long aisles that twisted and turned into a disorganized madness.

  I grinned.

  The maze was Percival’s triumph. He had delighted in showing guests to the maze and watching them scramble to find their way to the center and back out again. He would take his pocket watch and sit at the entrance, timing his guests. If I hadn’t shared in his amusement, I might have thought him cruel. Many guests were lost for hours, and I was recruited on more than a few occasions to assist.

  I turned down the second set of hedges and followed it around a sharp corner. I ran my fingers over the greenery, stopping near the middle of the aisle when my hand met a knob.

  My pulse pounded in my ears, and my lips tugged into a smile. I clutched and turned the handle, opening the makeshift gate that was camouflaged in greenery. The door creaked. I released a long breath and ducked into the opening.

  My secret sanctuary was but a twenty-by-twenty-foot square. I moved to the center and spun around, taki
ng in each perfect detail. The lone tree, already decorated with new leaves, cast a shadow against a good portion of the area. My wooden swing remained looped around the widest branch, just as I had left it on my last visit.

  I turned the other direction and glanced upon the window. My breath turned shallow, and a heaviness hit against my chest…Or was it a lightness? I hardly knew what I felt. Between the happiness that encircled me at seeing my garden again and the pain of missing Percival, my heart hardly knew how or what to feel.

  When I was a stubborn seven-year-old, I had convinced him that Bridgestone was in desperate need of a secret garden. Percival, ever the dutiful grandfather figure, agreed, though he insisted on one element to this garden—a window amongst the hedges. And so, the gardener placed an enormous arched window on one side of the garden, and the hedges grew around it masterfully, as if housing a window amongst the brush was perfectly natural and common. The effect made the space even more cheery, and the window—bordering the back of the hedge maze—overlooked rolling hills and the lavender fields beyond.

  A window amongst the hedges—Percival often used that phrase before he died, usually in reference to my garden, but sometimes he used the phrase to describe me.

  My lips curved. Grandmother was right about that too; he did love me.

  I sighed. In my garden, my soul was perfectly contented and at home.

  Henry Thorne would take Bridgestone and Percival’s fortune, but Percival had left me with much more than any inheritance could offer. He had left me memories and love as tangible as the garden in front of me, offerings that remained as alive as the towering tree and hedges beside me.