Edenbrooke Read online

  © 2012 Julianne Donaldson.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Shadow Mountain®. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of Shadow Mountain.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Visit us at ShadowMountain.com

  This is a work of fiction. Characters and events in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are represented fictitiously.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Donaldson, Julianne, author.

  Edenbrooke / Julianne Donaldson.

  pages cm

  Summary: When Marianne receives an invitation to spend the summer with her twin sister in Edenbrooke, she has no idea of the romance and adventure that await her once she meets the dashing Sir Philip.

  ISBN 978-1-60908-946-7 (paperbound)

  I. Title.

  PS3604.O5345E34 2012

  813'.6—dc23 2011041093

  Printed in the United States of America

  Alexander’s Printing, Salt Lake City, UT

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To kindred spirits everywhere

  Table of Contents

  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

  Chapter 27

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discussion Questions

  Q&A with Julianne Donaldson

  Chapter 1

  Bath, England, 1816

  It was the oak tree that distracted me. I happened to glance up as I walked beneath its full, green canopy. The wind was tossing its leaves so that they twirled upon their stems, and at the sight I was struck by the realization that it had been much too long since I had twirled. I paused under the branches and tried to remember the last time I had felt the least need to twirl.

  And that was when Mr. Whittles snuck up on me.

  “Miss Daventry! What an unexpected pleasure!”

  I started with surprise and looked around frantically for Aunt Amelia, who must have continued up the gravel path while I had stopped in the shade of the tree.

  “Mr. Whittles! I—I did not hear you approach.” I usually kept at least one ear tuned to the sounds of his pursuit. But the oak tree had distracted me.

  He beamed at me and bowed so low that his corset creaked. His broad face was shiny with sweat, his thinning hair plastered across his head. The man was at least twice my age, and more ridiculous than I could bear. But of all his repulsive features, it was his mouth that held my horrified fascination. When he spoke, his lips flapped about so as to create a film of saliva that coated the edges of his lips and pooled in the corners of his mouth.

  I tried not to stare while he said, “It is a glorious morning, is it not? In fact, I feel moved to say, ‘Oh, what a glorious morning, oh, what a glorious day, oh, what a glorious lady that I met on my way!’” He bowed, as if expecting applause. “But I have something better than that ditty to share with you today. I have written a new poem, just for you.”

  I took a step in the direction where I suspected my aunt had gone. “My aunt would be very pleased to hear your poetry, Mr. Whittles. She is ahead of us but a few paces, I am sure.”

  “But, Miss Daventry, it is you I hope to please with my poetry.” He moved closer to me. “It does please you, does it not?”

  I hid my hands behind my back in case he attempted to grasp one. He had done that in the past, and it had been most unpleasant. “I fear I don’t have the same appreciation for poetry that my aunt has . . .” I looked over my shoulder and sighed with relief. My spinster aunt was hurrying back along the path to find me. She was an excellent chaperone—a fact I had never truly appreciated until this moment.

  “Marianne! There you are! Oh, Mr. Whittles. I didn’t recognize you from a distance. My eyesight, you know . . .” She smiled at him with a glow of happiness. “Have you come with another poem? I do enjoy your poetry. You have such a way with words.”

  My aunt would be the perfect match for Mr. Whittles. Her poor eyesight softened the repulsive nature of his features. And since she had more hair than wit, she was not appalled by his absurdity, as I was. In fact, I had been trying for some time to turn Mr. Whittles’s attention from me to her, but so far I had not been successful.

  “I do have a new poem, as a matter of fact.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his coat pocket and caressed it lovingly. He licked his lips, leaving a large drop of spittle hanging off the edge. I stared at it even though I didn’t want to. It jiggled but did not fall off as he began to read.

  “Miss Daventry is fair and true, with eyes of such a beautiful hue! Not quite green, never dull brown; they are the color of the sea, and they are round.”

  I tore my gaze away from the quivering drop of spittle. “That is such a nice idea. The color of the sea. But my eyes often look more gray than blue. I would enjoy a poem about my eyes looking gray.” I smiled innocently.

  “Y-yes, of course. I have thought many times myself that your eyes do look gray.” He furrowed his brow for a moment. “Ah, I have it! I shall say that they are the color of a stormy sea, as a stormy sea often has the appearance of gray, as you know. That will be simple to change, and I will not have to rewrite the poem, as I have had to do the last five times.”

  “How clever of you,” I muttered.

  “Indeed,” said Aunt Amelia.

  “There is more. Miss Daventry is true and fair, I love the color of her hair! It shimmers in the candlelight, its amber hue, oh so bright.”

  “Well done,” I said. “But I never knew my hair was an amber color.” I looked at my aunt. “Did you ever happen to think that, Aunt Amelia?”

  She tilted her head to one side. “No. I never have.”

  “You see? I am sorry to disagree with you, Mr. Whittles, but I do feel it is important to encourage your best work.”

  He nodded. “Did you prefer it when I compared your hair to the color of my horse?”

  “Yes,” I sighed. “That was infinitely better.” I was growing tired of my game. “Perhaps you should go home immediately and rewrite it.”

  My aunt lifted a finger. “But I have often thought that your hair is the same color as honey.”

  “Honey! Yes, that is just the thing.” He cleared his throat. “It shimmers in the candlelight, its honey hue, oh so bright.” He grinned, displaying his entire wet mouth.

  I swallowed convulsively. How did one person produce so much saliva?

  “Now it is perfect. I shall read it for everyone at the Smiths’ dinner party this Friday.”

  I cringed. “Oh, that would spoil it, Mr. Whittles. A poem as beautiful as this is best kept close to one’s heart.” I reached for the paper. “May I have it, please?” He hesitated, then put it in my hand. “Thank you,” I said with real sincerity.

  Aunt Amelia then asked Mr. Whittles about his mother’s health. As he began to describe the festering sore on his mother’s foot, my stomach churned.
It was simply too revolting. To distract myself, I stepped away from them and gazed up again at the oak tree that had caught my attention earlier.

  It was a grand tree, and it made me miss the country with a fresh longing. The leaves were still twirling in the breeze, and I asked myself the question that had given me pause moments before. When was the last time I had twirled?

  Twirling had once been a habit of mine, though Grandmother would have called it a bad habit, had she known of it. It had kept company with my other habits, like sitting in my orchard for hours at a time with a book or bounding across the countryside on the back of my mare.

  It must have been at least fourteen months since I had last twirled. Fourteen months since I was taken from my home, fresh from grieving, and deposited on my grandmother’s doorstep in Bath while my father took himself off to France to grieve in his own way.

  Fourteen months—fully two months longer than I had initially feared I would be left in this stifling town. Although I had never been given a reason to believe it, I had hoped that a year of grieving separately would be punishment enough. And so, two months ago, on the anniversary of my mother’s death, I had waited all day for my father’s return. I had imagined, over and over, how I would hear his knock at the door, and how my heart would leap within my chest. I had imagined how quickly I would run to throw open the door. I had imagined him smiling at me as he announced that he had come to take me home.

  And yet, on that day two months ago, he had not come. I had spent the night sitting up in bed with a candle burning, waiting to hear the knock at the door that would signal my release from my gilded cage. But morning dawned, and the knock never sounded.

  I sighed as I looked up at the green leaves dancing in the wind. I had not had a reason to twirl in such a long time. And nothing to twirl about at age seventeen? That was a problem indeed.

  “Oozing.” Mr. Whittles’s voice recalled my attention. “Oozing right out.”

  Aunt Amelia looked a little green, and she held a gloved hand over her mouth. I decided it was time to intervene. Taking her arm, I said to Mr. Whittles, “My grandmother is expecting us. You must excuse us.”

  “Of course, of course,” he said, bowing again so that his corset creaked loudly. “I hope to see you soon, Miss Daventry. Perhaps at the Pump Room?”

  Of course he would suggest the social hub of Bath for another “chance” encounter. He knew my habits well. I smiled politely and made a mental note to avoid taking tea at the Pump Room for the next week at least. Then I pulled Aunt Amelia toward the broad green lawn that separated the gravel path from the Royal Crescent. The building curved in a graceful half-circle of butter-golden stones, like a pair of outstretched arms ready for an embrace. Grandmother’s apartment within the Royal Crescent was among the finest Bath could offer. But luxury could not make up for the fact that Bath was town living at its worst. I missed my life in the country so desperately that I ached for it day and night.

  I found Grandmother in her drawing room reading a letter, occupying her chair as if it were a throne. She still wore mourning black. At my entrance, she looked up and let her critical gaze sweep over me. Her eyes were sharp and gray and missed nothing.

  “Where have you been all morning? Scampering around the countryside like some farmer’s brat again?”

  The first time I had heard this question, I had quaked in my shoes. Now I smiled, for I knew this game we played with each other. I understood that Grandmother gloried in a good verbal sparring match at least once a day. I also understood, although I would never charge her with it, that her gruff exterior masked what she considered the greatest of all weaknesses—a soft heart.

  “No, I only do that on odd days, Grandmother. I spend my even days learning how to milk cows.” I bent down and placed a kiss on her forehead. She gripped my arm for a moment. It was the closest she came to affection.

  “Humph. I suppose you think yourself funny,” she said.

  “Actually, I don’t. It takes a lot of practice to learn how to milk a cow. I find myself horribly inept at this point.”

  I saw the quivering muscles around her mouth that meant she was trying to conceal a smile. She twitched at her lace shawl and motioned for me to sit in the chair next to hers.

  I peered at the stack of mail on the side table. “Did I receive any mail today?”

  “If you are asking about that care-for-nothing father of yours, then no, you did not.”

  I looked away to hide my disappointment. “He is probably traveling right now. Perhaps he does not have the opportunity to write.”

  “Or perhaps he has forgotten about his children in his self-centered grieving,” she muttered. “Handing his responsibilities off to someone who never asked for them, especially in her old age.”

  I flinched; some of Grandmother’s barbs were sharper than others. This was an especially painful topic, as I hated the thought of being a burden, and yet I had nowhere else I might go.

  “Do you want me to leave?” I could not help asking.

  She scowled at me. “Don’t act like a ninny. I have enough of that to endure with Amelia.” She folded the letter she had been reading. “I have had more bad news about that nephew of mine.”

  Ah, the Nefarious Nephew. I should have guessed. Nothing put Grandmother in a sour mood as surely as hearing about the latest scandal involving her heir, Mr. Kellet. He was a rake and a scoundrel and had gambled away all of his own money while waiting to inherit Grandmother’s sizeable fortune. My twin sister, Cecily, thought he was dashing and romantic; I thought him anything but. It was one of many things that she and I disagreed about.

  “What has Mr. Kellet done this time?” I asked.

  “Nothing fit for your innocent ears.” She sighed, then spoke in a softer voice. “I believe I may have made a mistake, Marianne. He will come to ruin. The damage he has inflicted on the family name is great, and irreparable.” She raised a trembling hand to her brow, looking frail and weary.

  I stared at her in surprise. Grandmother had never exhibited such vulnerability before me. It was most unlike her. I leaned toward her and took her hand in mine. “Grandmother? Are you unwell? Is there something I may get for you?”

  She shook off my hand. “Don’t coddle me, child. You know I have no patience for such behavior. I am simply tired.”

  I bit back a smile. She was well enough, if she could respond like that. But her reaction was unprecedented. She could usually dismiss Mr. Kellet’s bad behavior and remember why he had always been a favorite of hers. (I thought she liked him because he was not afraid of her.) But I had never seen her so worried, nor so despondent.

  Grandmother gestured at the pile of letters on the table. “There is a letter for you there. From London. Read it and leave me alone for a few minutes.”

  I picked up the letter and walked to the window, letting the sunlight fall on the familiar handwriting. When Papa had brought me to Bath, he had found an even more suitable situation for my twin sister, Cecily. She had been staying with our cousin Edith in London for the past fourteen months and seemed to have enjoyed every moment of it.

  For being twins, Cecily and I were remarkably different. She excelled me in every womanly art. She was much more beautiful and refined. She played the pianoforte and sang like an angel. She flirted easily with gentlemen. She liked town life and had dreams of marrying a man with a title. She was ambitious.

  My ambitions were quite different from hers. I wanted to live in the country, to ride my horse, to sit in an orchard and paint, to take care of my father, to feel that I belonged, to do something useful and good with my time. But most of all, I wanted to be loved for who I was. My ambitions seemed quiet and dull compared to Cecily’s. Sometimes I feared that I seemed quiet and dull next to Cecily.

  Lately, all I heard from Cecily was about her dearest friend Louisa Wyndham and her handsome and titled eldest brother, whom Cecily was determined to marry. Cecily had never told me his name—he was simply “the brother” in her letters.
I supposed she was afraid of her letters being seen by someone less discreet than I. Perhaps it was my maid, Betsy, that she was worried about, who was, after all, the most incurable gossip I had ever known.

  I had not told Cecily this, but I had recently asked Betsy the name of the eldest Wyndham son, and she had discovered that it was Charles. Sir Charles and Lady Cecily had a nice ring to it, I thought. Of course it followed that if Cecily chose to marry him, then marry him she would. She had never failed to get something she really wanted.

  Before I broke the seal on her letter, I closed my eyes and made a silent wish: Please don’t let her go on and on about dear Louisa and her handsome brother again. I had nothing against the Wyndhams—after all, our mothers had been close friends as children, and I had just as much a claim on the acquaintance as Cecily—but I had heard of little else for the past two months, and I was beginning to wonder if I was as important to her as the Wyndhams were. I opened the letter and read.

  Dearest Marianne,

  I am so sorry to hear that Bath feels like a prison to you. I cannot comprehend the feeling myself, loving London as I do. Perhaps as twins I received all of the civilization in my heart while you received all of nature in yours. We are certainly not divided evenly in this instance, are we?