The Fairest Heart (Once Upon A Regency Book 1) Read online

  The Fairest Heart

  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.

  http://www.heatherchapmanauthor.com

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

  Contents

  Dedication

  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

  About the Author

  For Charlotte, Ruby, and Ivy

  There is nothing more beautiful than kindness.

  Chapter 1

  Hampshire Countryside, England

  May, 1814

  Memories were curious things, one moment slicing through one’s reverie—often at the least expected times—then evading one in a moment of need. Rose Grant had often wished she could command such recollections, summoning the pleasant and banishing the sorrowful. But life hadn’t played out to be so simple, nor so neat. Memories had a will of their own and showed themselves at the least convenient times.

  She brushed her fingers across the stone ledge of the well where she sat. Her heart teetered, half in pain, half in pleasure. The memory of her mother had come so suddenly, without the slightest of warning. An aching pulsed in her chest, and Rose took in a deep breath.

  Her mother’s features came to mind once more. Rose attempted to memorize her mother’s smile, the way her teeth aligned against her full and crimson lips, the slant of her darkened eyes, and the dark lashes that held a cheery curl.

  A single tear slipped down her cheek. The picture was already fading, slipping into fogginess and forced imaginings. Rose sighed and looked down the dark hole below.

  Twelve years prior, Rose had sat in that exact spot and watched with wonder as her mother had dropped the bucket into the well. “This might as well be a wishing well,” her mother had said, eyes widening when the bucket made a splash at the bottom. “For no matter how many times I drop the bucket, there is always water to be found.”

  The act had seemed magical at the time, as if Rose’s mother had conjured something out of nothing, and Rose had often leaned against the stone walls of the well to watch as servants collected water. Years of watching and wishing, and only rarely did the memory come in its purest form.

  Horse hooves clipped against the gravel drive, crashing into Rose’s thoughts. She flinched at the sound but did not rise to survey the guest. The footman would undoubtedly be waiting on the bottom steps of Grant Estate, ever at the ready to assist the guest into the parlor where Aunt Prudence would be waiting.

  The well, situated among the kitchen garden, was a much more suitable place for Rose. She was curious—yes. Guests seemed to flock to Grant Estate more days than not, and Aunt Prudence entertained the most fashionable, reputable ladies of Hampshire—some guests traveling from as far as London. Though, Rose often wondered whether those guests came to visit her aunt or Grant Estate.

  While Aunt Prudence was well known to be an established beauty, she paled in comparison with the country charm of Rose’s childhood home. The house itself was built in the Queen Anne style. Red and blue brick, set in English bond, covered the front of the house. The three levels boasted eight family bedrooms, a reception hall, two drawing rooms, a cozy breakfast nook, a dining hall that could seat up to twenty guests, a sizable library, a snug study, and—perhaps Rose’s favorite—a comfortable room for dancing.

  If ever there was a perfectly situated estate, Rose believed it to be Grant Estate. For more than the charming architecture and impeccably well-kept condition, the wild beauty of the gardens and countryside stretched as far as the eye could see. Spring was especially delightful.

  “Miss Grant.”

  Rose startled, rising in an instant.

  The butler stood at the arched doorway. His bushy brows were tangled together in a customary scowl, and his oversized mouth rested in a frown. “Your aunt requests you join her in the drawing room,” he said, dipping his chin.

  “Thank you, Mr. Browning. If you could be so kind as to inform her I am on my way. I have only to put my flowers in water.” Rose bent to retrieve the basket at her feet.

  The dog-roses in the field adjacent to the stables had been too exquisite to pass by on her morning walk. The light pink flowers were a cheerful distraction from the heaviness in the house beyond the butler.

  Mr. Browning cleared his throat. “If you will allow me, I will take the flowers to the housekeeper to arrange.”

  Rose hesitated. She had spent the better part of her entire life with Mr. Browning as butler, but she hardly knew him. She handed him the flowers with reluctance. “I shall join my aunt as you suggest. Please have the flowers sent to my bedchamber. Thank you.”

  He dipped into a bow. “As you wish, Miss Grant.”

  Aunt Prudence rarely requested the presence of Rose, and if she did, it was invariably to scold her niece. Rose ran a hand over her chignon. Loose curls escaped, and she sighed. Working in the garden, however therapeutic, would be sure to earn a bold chastisement. Such things always did.

  At times, Rose believed her aunt to rather enjoy humiliating her. There was something about the way Aunt Prudence’s nose pinched and her lips curled into a sardonic smirk that hinted at the possibility—not to mention the way her aunt’s voice lifted in excitement whenever she relayed one of Rose’s unfortunate happenings. Rose shivered; such thoughts were unkind. Allowances were to be made for such people as Prudence.

  Her aunt, as handsome as she was, was single and nearing six and forty. Her life had been filled with caring for another’s child, and not just any child—the daughter of a much-preferred brother.

  Rose passed through the kitchen, trying her best to avoid the notice of the cook. Mrs. Blackburn was already preparing midday tea, busied about the stove and cakes on the nearby table.

  “Out in the gardens again, Miss Grant?” Mrs. Blackburn said, turning. Her light eyes seemed to twinkle, but then her lips fell into a frown. “Your aunt has expressly forbidden you from venturing outdoors without a bonnet, and where are your gloves?”

  Rose studied the tiles beneath her feet. The coolness of the stones seeped through her slippers, sending a shiver up her spine. She hung her head. “Please do not tell her, Mrs. Blackburn. The day was lovely, and the sun was not so hot as to require a bonnet.”

  The cook placed a heavy hand against her hip and let out a raspy complaint. “I quite agree, but you know how your aunt carries on. She’ll only continue making your life more difficult if you do not comply.”

  “I know,” Rose said, shaking her head. She had likened Aunt Prudence’s presence to a dark cloud, looming over Grant Estate,
too many times to count. Her aunt was unbearably strict and stern and disapproving of everyone—and nearly everything. “I will try to be better.”

  “Do,” Mrs. Blackburn said before turning back to her cakes. “And I shall forget I saw you.”

  A smile snuck across Rose’s cheeks. Despite her aunt’s role as appointed lady of the house—and her constant efforts to appear so—Mrs. Blackburn and most of the other servants still regarded Rose with more consideration. “Thank you.”

  Rose scurried down the hall, pausing to stop in the foyer. She fanned her cheeks and steadied her scattered breaths, before inching toward the open door to the east drawing room. Muffled voices and laughter drifted to her ears. Another step revealed three guests, seated at the side of her aunt—Mrs. Lockhart and her two daughters.

  Rose exhaled in relief. They were some of Rose’s oldest acquaintances, and Mrs. Lockhart had been particularly close to Rose’s mother.

  “Goodness, no. My niece would do just as well to stay home with her grandfather… No, I’m quite certain. She would not wish the company, sad girl that she is.” Aunt Prudence let out a nasally giggle. “She hardly speaks to anyone besides her grandfather and the horses.”

  Uneasiness nearly choked Rose, but she tapped against the open door to announce her presence. “Aunt,” she said, offering a low curtsy. “Mr. Browning said you requested to see me.”

  Aunt Prudence’s eyes narrowed. “And not even a greeting to our guests, my my.”

  Rose winced. “Forgive me. Good day, Mrs. Lockhart. Good day, Miss Lockhart and Miss Mary. I do hope you are well.”

  Mrs. Lockhart stood, followed by her daughters. She took Rose’s hands in her own. “Dear Rose, I was hoping you would join us on an afternoon walk. The flowers are so lovely this time of year and none lovelier than here.”

  Excitement flickered across Rose’s face. Months had passed since she had visited with the Lockhart family. “I would be glad—”

  “Not at all,” Aunt Prudence interrupted. “I’m afraid Rose is indisposed this afternoon. I have only called her here to remind her that her grandfather has not been attended to. My father does so like his readings every day.”

  “But he would not mind if I were to postpone our reading an hour.” Rose knew Mrs. Lockhart would appreciate the dog-roses as much as she did, and the Lockhart daughters might be fast friends, if Aunt Prudence would allow it. “I am sure he would wish me to attend to our guests.”

  Her aunt inhaled sharply, rolling her eyes. “My guests—the Lockhart ladies are my guests, Rose. You would do well to remember your manners. Attend to your grandfather.”

  Disappointment sunk into Rose’s stomach. Her lips parted, but she stifled the response. Arguing her case would only bring worse consequences.

  Mrs. Lockhart squeezed Rose’s hand. “We shall miss you very much.”

  Aunt Prudence stood from the sofa. “Come, she makes very little conversation. Besides, you were my friend long before my niece was ever born. Do not be so unfeeling, Rebecca.”

  “Forgive me, Prudence.” Mrs. Lockhart released Rose’s hand with marked disinclination. She gestured to her daughters. “Come, girls. Let us take a turn about the gardens with Prudence.”

  The four women passed by Rose, collecting their bonnets and gloves from the footmen, and left out the front door.

  The empty foyer seemed to stretch on forever; isolation increased the empty space. Rose’s shoulders caved forward. She did not mind visiting her grandfather. On the contrary, her readings were the highlight of her day. Rose’s disappointment had far more to do with the familiar ache in the back of her throat. Mrs. Lockhart was a kind and nurturing woman, and as the closest friend of Rose’s mother, Rose felt a great affection for the woman. Seeing her would have been a rare treat.

  Rose swallowed, trying to dispose of her unspoken complaints. Perhaps a visit to her grandfather would be enough to lift her spirits. She climbed the grand staircase and walked down the hall of portraits to the end, where her grandfather’s room lay.

  Lord Josiah Grant, the Right Honorable Baron of the county, was a dutiful grandfather. At seventy-five years, Rose’s grandfather was still in remarkable health, except for his eyesight. A hunting accident nineteen years prior—the very one that took Rose’s father—had stolen her grandfather’s sight.

  With the loss of his eyesight, came the loss of freedom. Rose’s grandfather had attempted, especially in her years as a child, to navigate the house on his own. He’d become quite accomplished in finding his way to the nursery, and they had spent many satisfactory days sprawled across the floor, telling stories and playing imaginary games.

  Rose hesitated at the closed door. Her hand hovered over the brass handle. The last two portraits hung just feet away—those of her parents. The picture of a young woman, only seventeen at the time, never ceased to steal away Rose’s breath. The woman’s hair, as dark as ebony, paired exquisitely with her milky complexion and red lips.

  Rose stared at the portrait with awe; her mother had been a rare beauty. It was of little wonder that her father, Augustus Grant, had fallen for her.

  “Rose, is that you?” her grandfather said from the other side of the door.

  She turned the knob in response. Her grandfather’s impeccable hearing did not allow for much sneaking around. “Yes, I have come for our reading.” She opened the door, squinting in the darkness. “Or would you rather I come back?”

  Her grandfather was as close to a father figure as she had in her life, and she adored him, but he was prone to moodiness. Rose never knew what kind of temper she might find him in.

  He was strewn beneath the domed canopied bed, his back propped against two pillows. “Please, come in. I have been hoping for conversation.”

  The sage-colored curtains hung on both sides of the four-poster bed. Rose pulled them back, stifling a cough at the cloud of dust. “How long has it been since the maid has washed these curtains?”

  Her grandfather shrugged. “Prudence thought I complained too much. She said my maid had more important rooms to attend to.”

  “More important rooms?” Rose clicked her tongue and moved to the window. The curtains hanging there were just as heavy material, and when they were shut, the room seemed more a dungeon than the impressive place it was made to be. She pulled them back and cracked open the window. “You are not so feeble that you must stay locked up in your bedchamber. The day is quite possibly the prettiest yet.”

  He laughed, the result of which sent him into a hacking cough. “You are quite right, my dear. Come, let me see you.”

  Rose knelt at his bedside, guiding his hands to her cheeks.

  His hands brushed against her facial features, and his clouded gaze seemed to ignite. “You most likely tire of my saying so, but you have quite my son’s look about you. Your nose and chin and your brows—the very same.”

  Rose sighed, pulling his hands to her own. “So you tell me each day.”

  Josiah’s brows twitched. “And one day you shall see for yourself.”

  Since Rose’s mother’s passing, Aunt Prudence had ordered the removal of the entire estate’s mirrors—save hers only—claiming Rose needn’t become like the other silly girls of the ton, always doting upon their looks.

  Guilt stabbed against Rose’s ribs; she did so wish to see her reflection. Prudence ascribed Rose’s desire to vanity, but Rose’s wish had far more to do with the portraits hanging outside her grandfather’s chamber. She wished to see her features as her grandfather did. Though looks had little to do with the heart, Rose often wondered if they hinted at something more. She wanted to see a piece of her mother shining back at her—and more than just her black hair.

  “This day that you speak of—will it do an old man’s heart some good?” her grandfather asked, pulling himself straighter against the headboard. “I hardly sense the sunlight from the darkness anymore.”

  Rose scowled. “What a thing to say.”

  He laughed. “Fetch my valet and we shal
l have a turn about the gardens.”

  Her heart swelled, and she stumbled forward to kiss his cheek. “Are you sure? It has been months since you requested such a—”

  “Rose.” He shook his head and pressed his fingers against her cheek. “Do not doubt the words of your elders.”

  She laughed, leaning against his chest. That day was decidedly the loveliest of the year—in terms of both sunlight and disposition. “Certainly. I shall call Mr. Brooks directly.”

  Chapter 2

  The thundering of hooves echoed across the hillside. Wind whipped against Rose’s cheeks like fiery flames, burning and brightening her fair complexion. The countryside sprawled out before her. She savored the scene, taking in each tree and patch of flowers.

  Rose’s mare, named Honey for the color of her coat, flew down the final slope, carrying Rose across the imaginary finish line four strides before her competitor. Rose pulled against the reins and collapsed against the horse’s neck. Her heart seemed to beat out of her chest and in her ears, with each staggered breath.

  She grinned, despite the stabbing pain at her side. “Well done,” she said in raspy whispers, patting Honey’s back. “Well done.”

  A young man pulled his horse to a stop beside her. His freckled face was beat red, and he swallowed before speaking. “My horse nearly tripped over that last fence. I hadn’t expected you to jump.”

  Rose straightened in her saddle and lifted a brow at Paul. “You thought I would follow the entire length of the fence? Have I ever been known to do such a thing?”

  Her childhood friend dropped his chin to his chest and laughed. “No, but I still thought the jump rather risky. Your aunt would have never allowed me to see you again.”