A Debt Paid (Clean and Wholesome Regency Romance): Dorothy (The Stainton Sisters Book 2) Read online

  A Debt Paid

  The Stainton Sisters: Dorothy

  Amy Corwin

  Scarsdale Publishing

  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

  Sneak Peek at Love Lost

  Blurb

  Chapter 1

  Other Titles by Amy Corwin

  About the Author

  A Debt Paid © Copyright 2018 Amy G. Padgett

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art by Rebecca Poole Dreams2media

  SP

  Chapter One

  “When do you believe Martha will realize that we have every stitch of clothing she owns?” Grace’s giggles made the question almost indecipherable as the two Stainton sisters bounced along in the back of Farmer Cavell’s wagon. She braced her feet against the lumpy portmanteau containing most of Martha’s belongings.

  But Dorothy was too distracted to answer immediately. Her gaze remained fixed on the distant spires and higgledy-piggledy chimneys and rooftops growing clearer in the distance.

  London. Her nervous stomach clenched and twisted as her hands gripped the ends of her shawl. She hardly knew if excitement or fear had the upper hand on her emotions.

  “Dorothy!” Grace nudged her with a small, gloved fist. “Are you listening to me?”

  “Yes—what?” Just as Dorothy turned her head in her sister’s direction, the wagon hit a bump. Both girls uttered a small gasp in unison and gripped the rough wooden sides of the wagon to keep from bouncing out of it.

  “You girls hold tightly, now,” Farmer Cavell threw over his shoulder. “Road’s a bit rough in this patch—easy, now, Rose—steady, Daisy,” he clucked to the huge pair of draft horses. Both animals appeared oblivious to his blandishments and clopped steadily forward without even twitching their soft ears. “We’ll be in London within the hour.”

  “An hour!” Grace’s blue eyes glowed as she reached over to clasp Dorothy’s wrist.

  Patting her sister’s hand, Dorothy smiled. It would be all right, wouldn’t it? After all, Aunt Mary wasn’t an ogre… precisely. Then Grace’s original question leapt into her mind, and her forced smile became genuine. “I suspect Martha realized it at the same moment we disappeared around the bend in the road.”

  “Oh! How deliciously dreadful.” Grace laughed, her bright blue eyes twinkling in the soft yellow and peach late afternoon light. “Lord Ashbourne will be quite annoyed if he must buy her an entire wardrobe immediately, will he not?”

  “I suspect his efforts to economize will not be disrupted too much,” Dorothy answered dryly.

  While not precisely rich, Dorothy suspected that Lord Ashbourne was far from the penniless noble everyone assumed he was. And Martha would not press him. She was not a frivolous, extravagant woman and was far more likely to request a new laboratory for her chemistry experiments than a new wardrobe.

  So, in fact, the pitiful contents of Martha’s portmanteau would hardly be missed by anyone except perhaps the rag and bone man. Dorothy let out a soft sigh thinking about Martha and Lord Ashbourne. They were so perfectly matched that it made Dorothy wish she had a long-time friend, as well, who could fall in love with her. The future looked so bright for Martha and Ashbourne, even if Lord Ashbourne did have to acquire a new trousseau for his betrothed.

  Grace leaned closer, her round cheeks flushed. “Should we have stayed? Perhaps Lord Ashbourne—”

  “No.” Dorothy cut her off firmly. “You forget—we are in mourning. It is best that we continue, as planned, to Aunt Mary’s. Martha and Lord Ashbourne will have a quiet, private wedding. They do not need the two of us interfering while they attempt to adjust to wedded bliss. No, proceeding to London is the right thing for us to do.” She gave her sister a quizzical glance. “Do you not want to go to London?”

  “Oh, yes!” Grace clasped her hands and stared ahead at the jumble of rooftops and dusky clouds of smoke hanging over them. “Though I wish…” She cast a forlorn glance over her shoulder in the direction of the little village where they grew up.

  Dorothy could guess very well what she wished, and the knot in her stomach returned with a twisting wrench. They were leaving behind not only their sister, Martha, but also Mr. Blyth, who had become a dear friend to Grace. Perhaps even more than simply a friend.

  Another instance of a friend becoming something more…

  The wounded look darkening Grace’s blue eyes deepened, her mouth drooping as she sighed. Dorothy leaned closer and gave her sister’s forearm a reassuring squeeze.

  They were leaving everything behind; their childhood home, their sister, and Grace’s friend, the curate, Mr. Blyth. Even the cheerful Mr. Cavell would vanish from their lives like a puff of smoke after he delivered them to their aunt in London.

  Their father had been dead less than two weeks, and Dorothy already desperately missed his wry good humor and reassuring presence. He was often abstracted and busy in his laboratory, performing goodness-knows-what experiments—often with Martha assisting him—but just knowing that he was nearby gave them the sense that all was right with the world. Nothing ill could happen to them while he was there. Not even when whatever he was working on exploded in a cloud of richly stinking fumes.

  Now, more often than not, it seemed that all was not right with their world, although Martha had certainly, and unexpectedly, landed upon her feet. A feeling of ill-usage burned in Dorothy for a moment. The middle sister was marrying before the eldest. It simply wasn’t right.

  Dorothy swallowed the unworthy feeling and straightened—almost immediately hunching to grab the side of the wagon before she flew out as they hit a rut. Glancing at her youngest sister’s lovely face, Dorothy decided that Grace might also land upon her feet, as well, if Aunt Mary gave her the opportunity.

  That would leave just the eldest sister: Dorothy.

  Unfortunately, it was too late for her. They were in mourning now and could not attend any balls, suppers, or other entertainments. And even if they were not mourning, the Season in London would already be winding down for the summer. Next year, Dorothy would be three-and-twenty, and nearing the dreaded age when one was considered a hopeless spinster and ape-leader in comparison with the fresh-faced young women of eighteen coming to London for their first glorious Season.

  How could she possibly compete against the next tide of ingenues?

  Nonsense. Three-and-twenty wasn’t that old, and she wasn’t entirely hideous. There would always be other mature ladies present, widows and such, searching for a second husband. Let the younger ladies giggle and whisper maliciously behi
nd their hands about Miss Dorothy Stainton’s advanced age, she would still make a respectable alliance. She was sure of it.

  Perhaps she could marry an older gentleman with children to raise. Such a man would be grateful for help from a mature lady.

  Children… What she really wanted was her own child, holding her hand and giggling with her as she stretched out her plump hand to pick her first daisy. The wistful thought brought a stinging, unwanted warmth to her eyes. She squeezed them shut and straightened against the swaying of the wagon.

  Maudlin idiot. She was being overly sensitive, and she knew it. Her emotions were unstable and raw since the loss of Papa. The oddest things brought a heated rush of tears that she could scarcely control. She needed to be strong—she was the eldest sister. She had a duty to Grace to guide her and help her through the next few months. Once Grace came out next Season, everything would be all right.

  Grace would surely find a worthy young man, fall in love, and marry well. It may even be that Mr. Blyth would find a living as a vicar and send for her to become his wife. Dorothy merely had to ensure that Grace had as many opportunities as possible to find happiness, as Martha had already done.

  Then Dorothy could make arrangements for her own future. If no gentleman was interested, she could become a governess, perhaps. After all, it couldn’t be that onerous. Many women led quite satisfactory lives as governesses to children they dearly loved. They wouldn’t be her own children, of course, but they would need her and love her just as if they were.

  Absorbed in her thoughts, she missed the hustle and bustle of the outskirts of London. Even Grace’s chatter blended with the wooden rattle of the wagon, the clatter of horse hooves, and the faint sloshing of cider coming from two of the barrels roped together next to Dorothy to form a hum of indistinguishable noise.

  “London Bridge is just coming into view, Miss Stainton, Miss Grace,” Farmer Cavell called over his shoulder as he nodded and flicked the reins. “A bit worn and crumbling this one is, but the new London Bridge is due to open in August.” He nodded to the west, but the buildings around them kept them from seeing more than a few quick glimpses of the wide span of the new London Bridge.

  If Mr. Cavell intended the horses to pick up their pace, he must have been sorely disappointed. If anything, Rose and Daisy’s plodding steps seemed to slow infinitesimally. Or perhaps Dorothy simply wished their pace would become slower.

  Unfortunately, her wishes were granted in the worst possible way. Their forward progress halted altogether at the old bridge. A burly gatekeeper, who eyed Mr. Cavell with a twisted smile as if hoping for a fight, ordered them to bring the wagon to a halt. He demanded that they unload it so that he might assess an appropriate tax, his annoying smile deepening over the word tax.

  Dorothy and Grace stood aside during this operation, wondering if they should go into one of the inns nearby for a cup of tea.

  Mr. Cavell stopped them, however, before they took a step. “Just a few barrels of cider, a basket of old apples from this autumn past, and a few other odds and ends—nothing old Jimmy here hasn’t seen many times before,” Farmer Cavell joked. He poked the gatekeeper in the ribs with a grin.

  Dorothy sucked in a breath, sure that the gatekeeper would flatten the much smaller farmer.

  Jimmy was as broad as he was tall, and he looked like a towering mass of scowling muscle. His wide face, reddened by the wind and sun, would never be described as a friendly one, even by the most inebriated gentleman.

  Stepping back, Dorothy deliberately let out her breath. However, instead of lifting Mr. Cavell and tossing him over the edge of the bridge into the Thames, the man just grunted—his twisted smile broadening. It took a moment for her to realize that the strange noise he’d uttered was his version of a laugh.

  True to Mr. Cavell’s prediction, their load was assessed. Jimmy even assisted him to replace it with an efficiency that had them jostling for position on the west side of the bridge in less than an hour.

  The crowds milling around were appalling. Dorothy had never seen so many carts, wagons, and pedestrians in her entire life. Every single person appeared to be shouting to be heard above the swelling noise.

  Pulling her shawl more closely around her, she wasn’t surprised when Grace leaned closer and took her hand.

  Dorothy gave her sister’s fingers a squeeze and smiled at her. “Look ahead—I believe that is the tower of St. Magnus at the end of the bridge. It has a clock, as well. Do you see it?”

  Her sister nodded, though she didn’t appear particularly excited by the edifice or its clock. “Do you really think Aunt Mary will be pleased to see us?”

  “Of course! And we shall soon be best friends with our cousins. You’ll see.”

  “I do not care for Cecilia—she’s a spiteful little cat, as you very well know. And Jane and Katherine are hardly better.”

  Dorothy gave her sister’s hand another squeeze, trying to think of a reassuring response. The fact that Cecilia had spent a good deal of her time two years ago teasing Martha by hiding her glasses and then taunting her as she fumbled around blindly, made it difficult for Dorothy to completely dismiss Grace’s assessment. Neither of them had been pleased with their spiteful, vapid cousins on their previous visits. The only bright spot was that Martha had managed to escape without having to explain her actions to anyone, including Aunt Mary.

  She’d left that wonderful task to Dorothy.

  “It will not be so bad. You will see,” Dorothy replied at last. An uncomfortable twinge in her stomach informed her that even she failed to believe her words. She pressed one hand against her stomach and forged on. “Cecilia is older now and will most certainly behave with more kindness and maturity. Honestly, I am sure it will not be so awful.” Most likely, it would be far worse now that their situation with their aunt and cousins was permanent and not a short visit. However, she could hardly say that.

  Grace snorted inelegantly.

  “At least we shall be in London,” Dorothy said.

  “There is that,” Grace agreed grudgingly.

  They both glanced around at the crowded streets and clung to the sides of the rattling wagon. Perhaps they simply weren’t used to the bustle, but the further into London they traveled, the more overwhelming it seemed.

  Despite the mild June weather, a pall of acrid smoke hung high above over the distant rooftops. Curling wisps drifted between the buildings crowding around them, the gray curls merging with the lengthening shadows.

  As the wagon shuddered through the gloom stretching across the road from a tall brick townhouse, Dorothy pulled her shawl even more tightly around her shoulders. Grace did the same. The younger girl’s blue eyes were wide as she looked around, jerking toward Dorothy when a harsh male voice reverberated through the narrow alley on their right.

  The noise of wagons, merchants hawking their wares, carriages, horses, and thousands of voices rolled and crashed around them.

  Even Farmer Cavell had to raise his voice when he called over his shoulder, “Nearly at my brother’s shop, Miss Stainton. We’ll stop there for a bit to unload—no need for Rose and Daisy to pull a loaded wagon through London. Ain’t as young as they used to be.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Though that can be said for all of us, eh?”

  “Indeed.” Dorothy smiled at her sister. “That sounds like an excellent plan to us, does it not, Grace?”

  Grace nodded and shifted against the side of the wagon, where she was awkwardly wedged between a barrel of apple cider and another barrel containing last year’s only slightly wrinkled apples.

  The horses dragged them around a corner. The rear wheel of the wagon bumped over the curb and forced both women to hold on tighter. To their relief, they went less than three more jostling blocks before Mr. Cavell turned the team into the black mouth of a narrow alley.

  “Just a moment, Miss Stainton, and you ladies will be enjoying a cup of Mrs. Cavell’s finest tea—Mrs. Frank Cavell, that is.” The farmer secured the reins around
his armrest and clambered down stiffly. He paused, hands braced against his lower back, to stretch before glancing up at Dorothy. “Won’t be a moment.”

  “We shall be quite all right. No need to worry about us,” Dorothy assured him.

  Next to her, Grace nodded, though she wrapped her arms around her middle and peered around the gloomy area. The alley held the dank odor of constant moisture and, every once in a while, a more acrid odor—something decaying, perhaps—wafted by on a chilly gust of air. The lower bricks of the shop had the greenish tinge of moss, growing luxuriantly in the damp shade.

  He nodded and slipped around to a narrow wooden door, tapped several times as he called loudly, “Frank! Come out, you rascal! It’s your loving brother Toby come with the cider and apples, blast you!”

  With a shriek like a dying cat, the door opened far enough for Farmer Cavell to disappear behind it.

  “We will be all right here, will we not? Alone?” Grace whispered, her glance fixed on the bright gap at the mouth of the alley.

  “Certainly! Farmer Cavell would not have left us here if we were not quite safe.” Nonetheless, Dorothy looked around uneasily and moved a little closer to her sister.

  She’d hardly wedged herself next to the barrel of apples when she heard an odd whisper. Catching Grace’s startled gaze, she pressed a finger to her lips and looked around.

  A grubby little hand, attached to a thin wrist—hardly wider than a willow branch—reached over the side of the wagon. The fingers twitched and felt around, finally finding one of the withered apples. Before the hand could disappear with its treasure, Dorothy grabbed the fragile wrist.

  A gasp caught in her throat when a dirty face under the rattiest cap Dorothy had ever seen peered over the side of the wagon. The urchin’s gaze caught Dorothy’s.