|
For over six years, Thomas Ferraunt’s thoughts have been of war. Newly returned to England from occupied Paris, he must ask himself what his place is in this new world and what he wants from it. More and more, his thoughts turn to Arabella Malvin, but would Lord Malvin agree to a mismatch with the rector’s son for his daughter, especially when she is being courted by Lord Henry Danlow?
About to embark on her fourth Season, Arabella is tired of the life of a debutante, waiting in the wings for her real life to begin. She is ready to marry. But which of her suitors has the potential for love and who will agree to the type of marriage she wants? As she struggles to make her choice, she is faced with danger from an unexpected quarter while Thomas is stunned by a new challenge. Will these events bring them together or drive them apart? L |
Read an extract from The Potential for Love
Chapter OneArabella squinted into the midday sun, desperate to make out the features shaded by the peak of the tall, black shako that sat foursquare on the head of the officer approaching her. His uniform was concealed by the boat cloak hanging from his shoulders—Arthur had purchased just such a one before he left for the continent. General Kempt’s letter had left no room for doubt but—one heard of such mistakes. Yet he strode so confidently through the Abbey gates, as if he were indeed coming home.
“Arth—?” Heart in her mouth, she stretched out trembling hands just as the newcomer turned his head. Dark eyes stared into hers from beneath black brows that drew together above a beak of a nose. Black, curling side-whiskers, longer than usual, angled towards a grim, disapproving mouth that showed no sign of softness. She swallowed hard as a wave of desolation swept through her. There was no comfort to be found in this forbidding face.
She jumped when the lodge-keeper’s wife spoke behind her. “Good day, Miss Malvin. Is something wrong? Good day, sir,” she added to the visitor, with a rising inflection as if to say, ‘what may I do for you?’
Arabella forced herself to smile. “Good morning, Mrs Smith. It was foolish of me, I know. I could not see this gentleman clearly, just his silhouette against the sun, and for a moment I thought—” Her voice broke.
“Oh, Miss Arabella!” Mrs Smith’s voice was full of shocked sympathy.
“Miss Arabella Malvin!”
The stranger came to life. He swept off his shako and bowed. “Forgive me. Major Thomas Ferraunt of the Twenty-third Foot, at your service.”
“Thomas Ferraunt,” Arabella repeated faintly. “Dr Ferraunt’s son?” The rector’s son had been wounded at Waterloo and was now with the army of occupation in France. Drawing on all her reserves, she conjured up a smile. “Welcome home, Major.”
“Thank you, Miss Malvin.”
“You brought the sun with you. It has been a long, dreary winter.”
“‘Fill February, fill dyke’,” he quoted. “English weather has not changed, apparently.”
“I suppose not. You will find it very different to France or Spain.”
His mouth twitched. “There were many times in Spain where I longed for our cooler climate, I assure you.”
“My brother said the same.”
He hesitated and then said, “I had thought to call on Lord and Lady Malvin, but now wonder if my presence would distress them.”
“Oh, no; they will be most happy to receive you. I was just about to turn back towards the house, if you would like to accompany me.”
He smoothed down the hair on the right side of his face. “I should be delighted to, Miss Malvin.”
When he turned she had to suppress a gasp at the sight of the raised scar that ran from above his right ear to the corner of his mouth, tweaking and puckering the mottled skin and turning his lips down in that disapproving sneer. Poor man! Did he grow the whiskers to conceal the disfigurement or because the area was too tender to shave?
His arm was firm under her fingers as they started back up the avenue, and he had no difficulty in adjusting his longer stride to her shorter one so that they quickly fell into a comfortable rhythm. The air was definitely warmer today. Not precisely balmy, of course, but no longer so cold that her breath puffed in front of her as she walked. The blanket of snow and ice on the lawns had thinned and the banks of piled up snow along the sides of the avenue dripped incessantly, creating little rivulets that trickled merrily downhill.
They stopped to watch a pair of blue-tits chase one another through the branches of a tall lime tree.
“Oh look! The buds are beginning to swell at last,” she said. “Spring is on the way.”
“Indubitably. Look there.” He pointed to two hares zig-zagging across the snow. As they watched, the animals reared up on their hind legs to bat at one another with their front paws as if they were boxing.
"March hares.”
“They are even a day early.”
“Perhaps in celebration of leap year,” he offered, surprising a little spurt of laughter from her.
A pair of brindle hounds darted from a small copse and arrowed across towards the combatants who immediately bounded away, their pursuers on their heels. Arabella watched, aghast, as the hounds closed on their prey despite the hares’ rapid jinks and turns. The day was too beautiful to be marred by bloodshed. To her relief, the dogs’ onward rush was halted by a piercing whistle. They looked back with all the appearance of children whose fun had been unfairly curtailed, but returned obediently to their master who had changed direction to intercept Arabella and her companion.
When he neared, she said, “Do you remember my eldest brother, Major? Julian, this is—”
“Thomas Ferraunt, by all that’s holy,” Julian interrupted her, extending his hand. “How many years has it been?”
“A little more than five, I think, just before we were sent to the Peninsula. I was home again in ’14, but I don’t think we met then.”
“I hope you are coming up to the house. My parents will wish to see you.”
“That was my intention.”
Julian snapped his fingers at the dogs sniffing interestedly at the newcomer.
“A handsome pair.” The major bent down to pat the inquisitive heads.
“They are young—suffer from an excess of energy,” Julian said as they continued towards the house, the hounds padding at their heels. “When did you arrive home, Ferraunt?”
“Five days ago.”
“You are stationed in Paris, I believe.”
“Not any longer. We have recently moved to Cambrai, nearer the border to Belgium.”
“We, that is my parents, my brothers and I spent several months in Brussels after the first peace,” Arabella put in.
“Did you like Brussels, Miss Malvin?”
“Yes, although with so many English there, in many ways we might as well have remained at home. Before we knew it, we were riding in the Park and going to the same round of entertainments, as if we had brought our world with us, like snails with their shells. You did not feel you were really abroad.” She sighed. “I would love to travel properly one day, up the Rhine perhaps, or even across the Alps. You must have seen a lot of the world, Major.”
“I have, although not by choice. A solider must go where he is sent. In the eleven years since I joined, I have served in Nova Scotia, the West Indies, the Peninsula, the Netherlands and now France. But I could not honestly say I have lived in those countries. The army, too, brings its customs and traditions with it; to a great extent we live in our own world, especially when on campaign.”
“Perhaps now the war is over you will be able to travel privately,” she suggested.
“First, I should like to get to know my own country,” he said seriously. “Apart from the few months I was stationed here, I know England only as a schoolboy and a student.” He stood back to let her precede him into the vaulted hall of Malvin Abbey.
“Julian, you two go ahead,” she instructed her brother. “It will be best if you take the Major directly to the library. Papa will be there and I’ll run up and tell Mamma. I’m sure they would like to talk to him undisturbed.”
Julian looked blank for a moment and then smiled slowly. “Good God, yes. We have a maiden aunt squatting in the morning room,” he explained to their visitor. “She is one of those tabbies who must be a part of every conversation.”
“James will take your cloak,” she told the major. “I’ll join you as soon as possible with Mamma.”
Major Ferraunt repressed the urge to knuckle his forehead and mutter, ‘yes ma’am’. A young lady who knows what she wants, he thought as he obediently unfastened his cloak and handed it to the footman. Amused, he watched her hurry upstairs, her skirts raised to reveal a sturdy pair of boots, more like a man’s. Much more sensible for such weather, he supposed, but he could not but regret the foregone glimpse of slim ankles and a lady’s delicate footwear.
“Arth—?” Heart in her mouth, she stretched out trembling hands just as the newcomer turned his head. Dark eyes stared into hers from beneath black brows that drew together above a beak of a nose. Black, curling side-whiskers, longer than usual, angled towards a grim, disapproving mouth that showed no sign of softness. She swallowed hard as a wave of desolation swept through her. There was no comfort to be found in this forbidding face.
She jumped when the lodge-keeper’s wife spoke behind her. “Good day, Miss Malvin. Is something wrong? Good day, sir,” she added to the visitor, with a rising inflection as if to say, ‘what may I do for you?’
Arabella forced herself to smile. “Good morning, Mrs Smith. It was foolish of me, I know. I could not see this gentleman clearly, just his silhouette against the sun, and for a moment I thought—” Her voice broke.
“Oh, Miss Arabella!” Mrs Smith’s voice was full of shocked sympathy.
“Miss Arabella Malvin!”
The stranger came to life. He swept off his shako and bowed. “Forgive me. Major Thomas Ferraunt of the Twenty-third Foot, at your service.”
“Thomas Ferraunt,” Arabella repeated faintly. “Dr Ferraunt’s son?” The rector’s son had been wounded at Waterloo and was now with the army of occupation in France. Drawing on all her reserves, she conjured up a smile. “Welcome home, Major.”
“Thank you, Miss Malvin.”
“You brought the sun with you. It has been a long, dreary winter.”
“‘Fill February, fill dyke’,” he quoted. “English weather has not changed, apparently.”
“I suppose not. You will find it very different to France or Spain.”
His mouth twitched. “There were many times in Spain where I longed for our cooler climate, I assure you.”
“My brother said the same.”
He hesitated and then said, “I had thought to call on Lord and Lady Malvin, but now wonder if my presence would distress them.”
“Oh, no; they will be most happy to receive you. I was just about to turn back towards the house, if you would like to accompany me.”
He smoothed down the hair on the right side of his face. “I should be delighted to, Miss Malvin.”
When he turned she had to suppress a gasp at the sight of the raised scar that ran from above his right ear to the corner of his mouth, tweaking and puckering the mottled skin and turning his lips down in that disapproving sneer. Poor man! Did he grow the whiskers to conceal the disfigurement or because the area was too tender to shave?
His arm was firm under her fingers as they started back up the avenue, and he had no difficulty in adjusting his longer stride to her shorter one so that they quickly fell into a comfortable rhythm. The air was definitely warmer today. Not precisely balmy, of course, but no longer so cold that her breath puffed in front of her as she walked. The blanket of snow and ice on the lawns had thinned and the banks of piled up snow along the sides of the avenue dripped incessantly, creating little rivulets that trickled merrily downhill.
They stopped to watch a pair of blue-tits chase one another through the branches of a tall lime tree.
“Oh look! The buds are beginning to swell at last,” she said. “Spring is on the way.”
“Indubitably. Look there.” He pointed to two hares zig-zagging across the snow. As they watched, the animals reared up on their hind legs to bat at one another with their front paws as if they were boxing.
"March hares.”
“They are even a day early.”
“Perhaps in celebration of leap year,” he offered, surprising a little spurt of laughter from her.
A pair of brindle hounds darted from a small copse and arrowed across towards the combatants who immediately bounded away, their pursuers on their heels. Arabella watched, aghast, as the hounds closed on their prey despite the hares’ rapid jinks and turns. The day was too beautiful to be marred by bloodshed. To her relief, the dogs’ onward rush was halted by a piercing whistle. They looked back with all the appearance of children whose fun had been unfairly curtailed, but returned obediently to their master who had changed direction to intercept Arabella and her companion.
When he neared, she said, “Do you remember my eldest brother, Major? Julian, this is—”
“Thomas Ferraunt, by all that’s holy,” Julian interrupted her, extending his hand. “How many years has it been?”
“A little more than five, I think, just before we were sent to the Peninsula. I was home again in ’14, but I don’t think we met then.”
“I hope you are coming up to the house. My parents will wish to see you.”
“That was my intention.”
Julian snapped his fingers at the dogs sniffing interestedly at the newcomer.
“A handsome pair.” The major bent down to pat the inquisitive heads.
“They are young—suffer from an excess of energy,” Julian said as they continued towards the house, the hounds padding at their heels. “When did you arrive home, Ferraunt?”
“Five days ago.”
“You are stationed in Paris, I believe.”
“Not any longer. We have recently moved to Cambrai, nearer the border to Belgium.”
“We, that is my parents, my brothers and I spent several months in Brussels after the first peace,” Arabella put in.
“Did you like Brussels, Miss Malvin?”
“Yes, although with so many English there, in many ways we might as well have remained at home. Before we knew it, we were riding in the Park and going to the same round of entertainments, as if we had brought our world with us, like snails with their shells. You did not feel you were really abroad.” She sighed. “I would love to travel properly one day, up the Rhine perhaps, or even across the Alps. You must have seen a lot of the world, Major.”
“I have, although not by choice. A solider must go where he is sent. In the eleven years since I joined, I have served in Nova Scotia, the West Indies, the Peninsula, the Netherlands and now France. But I could not honestly say I have lived in those countries. The army, too, brings its customs and traditions with it; to a great extent we live in our own world, especially when on campaign.”
“Perhaps now the war is over you will be able to travel privately,” she suggested.
“First, I should like to get to know my own country,” he said seriously. “Apart from the few months I was stationed here, I know England only as a schoolboy and a student.” He stood back to let her precede him into the vaulted hall of Malvin Abbey.
“Julian, you two go ahead,” she instructed her brother. “It will be best if you take the Major directly to the library. Papa will be there and I’ll run up and tell Mamma. I’m sure they would like to talk to him undisturbed.”
Julian looked blank for a moment and then smiled slowly. “Good God, yes. We have a maiden aunt squatting in the morning room,” he explained to their visitor. “She is one of those tabbies who must be a part of every conversation.”
“James will take your cloak,” she told the major. “I’ll join you as soon as possible with Mamma.”
Major Ferraunt repressed the urge to knuckle his forehead and mutter, ‘yes ma’am’. A young lady who knows what she wants, he thought as he obediently unfastened his cloak and handed it to the footman. Amused, he watched her hurry upstairs, her skirts raised to reveal a sturdy pair of boots, more like a man’s. Much more sensible for such weather, he supposed, but he could not but regret the foregone glimpse of slim ankles and a lady’s delicate footwear.