Beauty's Rose (Once Upon A Regency Book 4)
Beauty’s Rose
By Rebecca J. Greenwood
Copyright © 2019 by Rebecca J. Greenwood
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
Front cover design by Amanda Conley
Editing by Laura Walker
www.rebeccajgreenwood.com
Beauty’s Rose
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
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Would you like a free Regency romance?
Coming soon
Regency Romances by Rebecca J. Greenwood
About the Author
To my niece Isabelle E.,
born the week I was finishing this story.
You are beautiful.
Chapter 1
February, 1819
Gloucestershire, England
Beauty looked up from her darning as the front door opened with a blast of cold air. A figure lumbered in, obscured by heavy-layered woolens and a coating of snow. The figure groaned, and Beauty’s heart leaped with relief.
“Father, you’re back!” She rushed forward, helped him push the door closed, and unwrapped the muffler from around his neck. She brushed snow from his shoulders as he stomped his boots onto the threadbare rug.
When he was free from the outer layers and most of the melting snow, her father held out his arms. “Oh, my little Beauty!”
“Papa!” She hugged him close, relief coursing through her. He was home and safe.
“Father!” Thundering footsteps came from overhead, and her two older sisters rushed down the stairs, long skirts caught up in their hands. Her three brothers soon arrived as well, pulled from their occupations around the cottage by the noise.
Father’s face lit with a bright smile as his six children greeted him with excitement.
Nine-year-old Edmund threw his arms around him. “Papa!”
“Is there a carriage that needs to be secured, Father?” her older brother Michael asked.
“Need help with the horses?” younger brother Isaac asked with eagerness.
“Do you have my new London dresses, Papa?” middle sister Frederica said with a clap of her hands, her brown ringlets bouncing.
Father’s face fell. “Well, my dear . . .”
Beauty stilled at his unhappy expression.
Eldest sister Elizabeth looked Father up and down, her carefully crafted blonde ringlets smooth around her coldly beautiful face. “You don’t have jewels or horses or any such thing, do you, Father?” Mouth pinched, she stepped back and folded her arms, her eyes narrowed.
Beauty turned to their father and studied him as well. He was wearing the same suit of clothes he had worn when he left them two months earlier to go to London, but now more threadbare. His worn down boots were the same, and she thought she spotted a new patch on the leather. His shoulders were sloped, his face haggard.
Her spirits fell.
Father gave a great sigh. “No, no jewels or horses. I’ve put poor hardworking Phillip in the barn already, thank you, Isaac. I have none of the gifts you asked of me, but one.” He opened his coat and drew out a long, narrow box tied with string. He handed it to Beauty. “Here, my Beauty, for you.”
Her sister Elizabeth made a scoffing noise from behind her, but Beauty’s heart lifted at the sight of the package. She held her breath as she pulled the twine and loosed the box lid. Inside, nestled into a bed of tissue paper, was a beautiful rose of a color she had never seen before — a deep dusky purple. “Oh, it’s beautiful, Papa.”
“You asked for a rose, and I brought one. But it comes at a heavy price.”
“What do you mean?” Beauty asked.
“What is this, Father?” Elizabeth snapped. “What happened? And the ships, what news of the ships?”
“Peace, Elizabeth. Let me get warm and some food in my belly, and I’ll tell you all.”
***
Father sat back in his chair, a blanket around his shoulders, and nightcap already on his head. Through his hastily warmed meal, all Beauty’s siblings had hovered, whispering and sniping at each other. Tension hung thick.
Beauty trimmed the lowest leaves from the stem of the rose, nipped the bottom of the stem, and placed it in an earthen jug of water. With reverence she set it in the center of the table. It was the most beautiful thing she had owned since they had sold off all the family’s treasures three years ago.
“Alright, my children. You may settle and sit.”
“What happened, Father? And why did you bother with Beauty’s rose if we are still destitute?” Elizabeth’s voice was sharp and commanding. When she wasn’t shut up in her room, she ruled the family with her whip-like tongue.
Father gave another long, drawn out sigh. “Would to Heaven that I hadn’t.” He shifted in his chair. “Two ships were recovered, as we had heard. But they were delayed so long, and had taken in so much water, that much of the cargo was spoilt. It was thrown overboard to keep the ships afloat. Rice, spices, sugar sweetening the seawater for the fishes. Tea and tobacco, waterlogged. The cottons can be recovered with much work in laundering, driving the price down. The silks ruined.
“What was recoverable was sold when the ships finally reached England. The majority of the money went to the creditors and investors, and a small amount was left. But it appears Smythe and Bunker reported me dead when we left London. They divided the rest of the profits between the two of them. Had no thought to my heirs, even if I was dead.”
“Those snakes! Those absolute snakes!” Frederica cried.
“No! How horrendous! We must fight them, sue them!” Nineteen-year-old Michael pounded his fist on the table.
“I did. That is why I have been gone so many months. But fighting in court takes money for solicitors and fees. But I had hope, great hope . . . especially . . . “
“Yes?” Elizabeth prodded.
“I somehow came under the notice of the Duke of Rosden.”
“The Duke of Rosden!” They all sat back with surprise.
“I do not know how he even learned of my existence, but he did. He heard of my plight, took an interest, and invited me to stay in his townhouse while I fought my legal battles.”
“No, really?”
“How wonderful!”
“A patron!”
“An ally!”
“Why, Father?” Elizabeth demanded. “What connection do we have with him?”
“We do have a connection, Father,” Beauty interrupted, “a tenuous one, but the Duke of Rosden owns Clayden Hall, not two miles from here. The Owenses are tenants of his. It’s just one of many estates he owns, of course, and he doe
sn’t live there. It has a steward to oversee, but in that way, we are neighbors.”
“Clayden Hall! I had no idea.” Her father’s eyes widened. He rubbed his face, his brow furrowed.
“The Owenses.” Elizabeth’s expression was sour, as it often was. “Beauty, that you even associate with that family—why, they are poorer than we are, and as ignorant as beetles.”
“Elizabeth! They are good people, salt of the earth,” Beauty said. “Mrs. Owens has shown such kindness to us. We wouldn’t have clean linens if she had not taught me how to wash them properly. If she had not—”
“Enough of this, children.” Father’s voice was tense, and he stared down at the table.
Beauty knew how much her father hated to be reminded of the work she did. The family had no servants now. If they did not wish to live in filth, they must do the work themselves. Beauty had decided not to live in filth. But her father hated that she did the washing and indoor housework. The boys did the farming and outdoor work, Frederica cooked with Beauty, and Elizabeth . . . she sewed, sometimes, when she deigned to do anything at all.
Father continued his story. “The duke took notice of me, and took me into his townhome. I rarely saw him but at a distance. The duke is not known for hosting or entertaining. I was humbled to be invited at all.
“I hoped, with so great a patron, that my lawsuit would prosper. Smythe and Bunker, the cads, claimed there was no money left, for if the judge ruled in my favor, they would owe me. But in the middle of it all, Smythe and Bunker were seized and thrown into debtors' prison over another matter entirely. A different speculation of theirs had gone south.
“I could add my complaints to the others, but I would likely never see a ha’penny. I was in danger of debtors' prison myself. I do believe the only thing keeping my creditors from seizing me was my lodging at Rosden House.
“I determined it was best if I left London for home before they overcame their reluctance. I wrote to the duke, thanking him for his generosity, and telling him of the outcome of the failed suit. I had hopes—well, no matter my hopes. I informed him I would be leaving in the morning.
“The next day, I rose early. I was despondent that I would be bringing nothing home to my dear children but continued debt and poverty.” Father clenched and unclenched his hands on the tabletop. “And well, you see, the duke had a lovely conservatory in his townhouse. Large, glassed windows and roses blooming in the middle of winter. The room is kept quite warm, you see, and the roses, they bloomed beautifully. Red and white and pink, orange and yellow. All the beautiful colors of a sunrise.
“And one bush, in the center, of deep violet, like dusk. I had never seen roses of such a color.
“And my Beauty, she had asked for a rose. I could not bring back what my other children had asked for: no horses, no jewels, no gowns, no money for school for Michael. But a rose . . . “
Father fidgeted with his teacup. “The duke had been so generous, you see. He had lent me a set of clothes, so I looked more respectable at court, and fed and housed me. I thought, surely, such a great man would not begrudge a rose, a single rose when he had so many . . .”
“Oh, Father.” A deep foreboding filled Beauty.
A tear rose in his eye, and his voice tightened. “I chose a lovely bud, soon to bloom, and I cut it . . . I cut it from the bush with my pen knife. And . . . the duke saw me do it.”
Beauty’s stomach dropped.
“I heard an angry yell, and I was seized from behind. He shook me, and his face—it was terrible—such anger.
“He called me . . . such horrible things he called me. But the worst, was a thief. And ungrateful. A poacher, and a coward.”
Beauty’s stomach swooped, and her blood raced through her. She clutched her skirts under the table.
“I begged forgiveness, his pardon. He said he thought I was an honest man. That I had honor.” Father’s face was stricken. “I have tried so hard to be an honorable man. To lose that, over a rose . . . I asked, could I make restitution? And he told me, he told me what he had done for me, all that he had been doing for me . . .
“I didn’t know.” He looked up at his children, as if begging their clemency. “I didn’t know that he had bought up all my debts. I still—I still don’t know why he would do such a thing. Or why he had welcomed me into his home. Why he had shown me any such favor. Such great favor.” His hand rattled the teacup he held. He set it down. “But his favor is gone now, quite lost, I’m afraid. He demanded that the debt be paid immediately, else he would send me to debtors' prison. I had not to pay the debt, as you know, as he knew.”
“Then he told me it was his actions that had located the surviving ships and got them released from Spanish customs, which had seized them. The duke said he had not known about Smythe’s and Bunker’s dishonesty but was alerted of it after I had arrived in London and discovered the state of things. That is why he had invited me into his home.
“And, he told me, he had been buying up my debts because he was planning to forgive them, and invest in a new merchanting venture, and employ me as the head of it. But now, now he saw that I was just as dishonest as Smythe and Bunker, my partners. He was the one who had them thrown into jail for their dishonesty. And now he would throw me in debtors' prison with them.”
The faces of Beauty’s siblings were all white, as appalled and bewildered as she felt. Her heart was lodged in her throat, constricting her breathing.
“I begged him, oh, how I begged him. What would become of my children if I was jailed? I told him of my strong sons, but young, not able to take over yet. And my beautiful daughters, unable to wed because they have no dowries. Would they end up in the workhouse? Or worse?
“The rose, the rose was for my daughter, my Beauty, I told him. It was all she asked for. One rose from her father. And I couldn’t give her even that.”
Father’s hands were shaking. “I should never, should never have mentioned my daughters.”
“What? What, Father?”
“The duke offered a solution. That one of my daughters come and work as a servant in his castle. That she would work off my debt.”
“What!” Elizabeth’s voice was a muffled shriek.
“She must come willingly, he says. But it is either that, or debtors' prison for me. He would not accept me as the servant. Nor one of the boys. He has manservants aplenty, he says, but he has a position available for a scullery maid.”
“A scullery maid!” Frederica cried.
“The insult!” Elizabeth shrieked.
But hope rose up in Beauty’s heart. “No, Father, this is wonderful! We can work with this!”
Her father’s face reddened with anger. “Wonderful? My daughter, an indentured servant in a duke’s house? Working off a debt that can never be worked off, slaving in the kitchens, over fires with scalding, boiling water . . .”
“Washing pots and pans, yes, Papa, but it is honest work. And so much better than you languishing in debtors' prison.”
“Yes, Beauty, the scullery maid.” Elizabeth nodded, her face lit with a caustic satisfaction.
“We can’t lose Beauty!” twelve-year-old Isaac protested.
“No, Beauty, no!” little Edmund cried and ran to her, throwing his arms around her.
“Who says it must be Beauty that goes!” Michael said. “Why, Elizabeth or Frederica—!”
Her sisters gave out outraged squawks.
“Absolutely not!” Elizabeth stood. “It was Beauty’s ridiculous rose that got us into this mess. She should go! It was stupid and nonsensical to ask for it at all! How impractical—”
“And jewels are so practical!” Isaac scowled at his eldest sister.
“Of course they are!” She glared down her nose at him. “They are insurance and status.” She bit the words. “They can be sold to stave off hunger—as we have experienced—but while we have them, they mean status. But we don’t have them. All we have is a stupid rose!” She gestured
sharply at the rose in the center of the table.
“Yes, my rose.” Beauty rubbed Edmund’s back and stared at the flower. The rarity of the color, the elegance of the petals, the sweet fragrance—what a price it would cost.
“The duke said he would send a carriage in two weeks’ time to fetch the daughter who agreed to go.” Father’s face was stony.
“I will go, Father,” Beauty said.
Her father put his face in his hands and slumped forward.
“Well then, it is settled.” Elizabeth said in a loud, satisfied voice.
“No, Beauty!” Little Edmund clung tighter to her.
“But what will we do without you, Beauty? Why, we can scarce manage now!” Isaac’s face fought between anger and tears.
Chapter 2
“We didn’t hear from you in London, Father,” Beauty said the next morning as she washed the breakfast dishes. Michael and their father lingered at the table as Isaac and young Edmund pulled out their few schoolbooks, chalk, and slate.
“I did not want to waste our few coins on letters,” Father answered.
“The duke could not have franked your letters?” Michael asked.
“I did not see him often, and he did not offer. Forgive me if I did not dare ask. He is quite intimidating.”
Beauty set a steaming cup of chamomile tea in front of Father. Black tea was expensive, but chamomile and other herbs grew readily in their kitchen garden. “The duke is not the best landlord. The steward he employs at Clayden Hall is unjust and unscrupulous, Mrs. Owens tells me.”
“For someone who is so concerned with honesty . . .” Michael grumbled.
“Does the steward line his pockets?” Father asked.
“Almost assuredly, from what Mrs. Owens has observed,” Beauty said.
“Does the duke not know, then?” Father took a sip of the unsweetened tea with a grimace.
“He must, if he is at all overseeing his employees. Perhaps the steward increases the profits of the estate and the duke overlooks his perfidy.”
“The duke is despicable!” Isaac burst out. “The steward treats them most abominably.” Isaac was friends with the Owenses’ middle son.