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A Most Noble Heir

By Susan Anne Mason

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CHAPTER 1

Derbyshire, England, March 1884
Nolan Price scanned the fields of newly budding greenery that stretched out as far as he could see and inhaled the scent of grass, soil, and freshly spread manure. Warmth curled through his chest with a feeling of such intense satisfaction that he wished he could ring the village bell to let everyone know of his joy. This moment would remain etched in his memory as the day he’d finally taken a bold step toward his future.
His future with Hannah.
He’d been planning this for seven years now, and at last, his patience had been rewarded.
Nolan turned to see Mr. Simpson, the farmer who owned the property, coming up beside him. He was a small, wiry man, still full of energy that belied his advanced years.
“It’s been good doing business with you, son.” Mr. Simpson stretched out his hand. “I’m glad to see the place go to someone who will love it and nurture it, the way I did.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate this more than you know.” Nolan shook the older man’s calloused hand. The hand of a farmer, seasoned by years of hard, honest work. The type of life Nolan would soon become very familiar with. He held no illusions that his job as a groom in the Stainsby Hall stables these past eleven years had been in any way as arduous as the path that lay ahead. Still, he was prepared to trade in his life at the manor to become master of his own destiny, and not the servant of a rich nobleman.
“You’re a smart lad,” the farmer said as they turned back toward the barn. “Saving up to buy your own land, a small piece though it might be. Me and my Sarah, God rest her soul, had a good life here. I’m sure you and your young lady will, too.” The man’s smile revealed several missing teeth. “You come by here at the end of the month and we’ll take care of transferring the deed to your name. A short trip to the bank in Derby will take care of that.”
“I look forward to it.” Nolan settled his cap more firmly on his head and untied the stallion’s reins from the hitching post. “Thanks again, Mr. Simpson.” He pulled himself up onto King’s back and with a quick nod at the farmer, set off down the lane toward the main road.
Partway along the path, he couldn’t resist looking back for one more glimpse at the farm that would soon belong to him. A rush of pride filled his chest. Imagine being a landowner at the age of one and twenty. Not many men born into his station of life could boast the same.
Nolan smiled to himself. Not many men had such strong incentive—a girl of uncommon beauty named Hannah.
He could recall with stunning clarity the exact moment that he—then a bold youth of fourteen—had first met Hannah Burnham, a waif of a girl with sad eyes the color of new spring grass. She’d captured his heart from that first glance.
He’d vowed, even then, that one day he would make her his wife.
The black steed snorted and tossed his head, a sure sign that they were nearing home. Nolan tightened his grip on the reins and lifted his head. Sure enough, the tall peaks of Stainsby Hall became visible over the trees in the distance. Around the next bend, the estate’s imposing structure—his home since his mother had come here eleven years earlier to take a position as housemaid—came into full view.
For the first time, Nolan found he could be objective in his assessment of the mansion and observe it as someone who would soon no longer call it home. Stone walls towered high above the tree line—its many turrets and peaks seeming to scrape the sky. Nolan would never describe the building as beautiful. Majestic, yes. Stately, intimidating, even imposing. But there was nothing comforting or endearing about the structure. No warmth or sense of welcoming.
Just like its owner.
The overbearing Earl of Stainsby was one person Nolan would not miss when he left Stainsby Hall.
Nolan glanced at the sun overhead and tried to gauge the time. A little before noon if he calculated correctly. His half-day off was over. Time to get back to work. He gave King a gentle nudge and set the stallion to a swift trot. Soon they had traveled the main road that led to the estate. On reaching the stables, Nolan swung down from the saddle and led King into the impressive building. The finest stable this side of London, Bert always said. And Nolan couldn’t disagree.
Bert had been the blacksmith on the estate for nigh on thirty years. A better man Nolan had yet to meet. His chest tightened. Leaving Stainsby meant he wouldn’t get to see the crotchety Scotsman every day. He’d surely miss the big man and his words of wisdom.
Nolan grabbed a brush from the hook and began to smooth out King’s black coat. Another shaft of regret sliced through him. “I wish I had enough money to buy you too, boy. But we won’t have need for a stallion on the farm. Working horses only. And I could never see you pulling a plow.” He smiled at the ridiculous thought.
On a burst of fresh resolve, he grabbed a pitchfork and threw some clean straw into the stall. He would not allow any trace of disappointment to ruin this day for him. Instead, he focused on the happy fact that soon he’d be able to take his dear mother away from the hard life she endured here. As head housekeeper, she put up with long days, constantly overseeing the underlings, as well as every minute detail of life in the manor. As a result, her health had suffered as of late. This winter had been especially harsh on her, leaving her with a cough she couldn’t seem to shake.
Nolan put King in his stall and latched the door, then returned the grooming brushes to their proper spot. If luck were with him, he might catch Hannah coming outside to sit under the tall elm for a break. He couldn’t wait to give her the wonderful news that Mr. Simpson had agreed to sell him the farm and they could soon be wed.
He hurried over to the water trough, scooped a handful of cool liquid, and splashed it over his dusty face. With damp fingers, he attempted to tame his wild locks into some semblance of respectability and went to stand at the open stable door, his spirits lifting even higher at the possibility of a few stolen moments with the girl he loved. By all rights, he should have a ring and propose to her properly. She deserved that much at least.
Well, ring or no, tonight once they were both off duty, he would tell her how much she meant to him and ask her to be his wife.
“Don’t tell me you’re mooning over young Hannah again?”
The booming voice snapped Nolan to attention. He turned to find Bert McTeague standing behind him, grinning.
“I’m not mooning over anyone.” Nolan fixed him with an annoyed glare.
The big man belted out a laugh, his blue eyes twinkling with merriment. “Ach, there’s nothing wrong with eyeing a pretty lass. Wouldn’t be normal if you didn’t notice her. Especially now that spring’s in the air.” He winked at him. “Have you kissed the girl yet?”
Nolan jerked back from the doorway, heat infusing his neck. “No.”
“What are you waiting for, lad? You’re not getting any younger.”
The burly Scot had taken an interest in Nolan soon after he’d started as a stable boy, becoming more friend than mentor. Nolan usually tolerated Bert’s good-natured ribbing, but for some reason today it chafed. Maybe because it concerned Hannah, and Nolan would let nothing besmirch her reputation.
“That’s a private matter between Hannah and me. Besides, you know how his lordship feels about the servants…interacting.” Nolan bent to pick up a forgotten piece of rope coiled on the dirt floor and returned it to its peg. “Just by sneaking a few moments to talk to her each day, we risk a reprimand if caught.”
“Ach, I’m sure there are many below-the-stairs romances going on under his lordship’s nose,” Bert said.
“Well, I’d never do that to Hannah. Or bring shame to my mother.” When Nolan and Hannah left Stainsby Hall, it would be on their own terms, not because the heartless earl had fired them.
Bert’s expression softened. “One of these days you’ll have to put your own needs ahead of your mother’s.”
“Nothing’s more important than Mum. She’s all the family I’ve got.” He itched to tell Bert his news, that he’d soon be able to rescue his mother from this life of drudgery, but he owed it to Hannah to let her know first.
“You’re not still fretting over your lack of a father, are you? Because you’re a fine man in your own right.” Bert crossed his arms over his large chest, pulling the material tight on his muscled upper arms. “Finding out who sired you canna change that.”
Nolan heaved out a weary sigh. Why couldn’t Bert understand the deep need to know the identity of his father? It was as if a huge piece of the puzzle had been missing Nolan’s whole life and he wouldn’t find peace until he knew where he came from. “You needn’t worry, Bert. I’ve put the issue to rest—for now.”
A sound in the distance made Nolan’s pulse sprint, and despite the fact he might have to endure more of the smithy’s teasing, he couldn’t help looking out over the expanse of lawn.
Sure enough, Hannah had closed the servants’ back entrance and started across the yard toward the chicken coop.
A slow grin stretched Nolan’s lips. He clapped Bert on the back. “If you’ll excuse me, my friend, there’s something I need to do before I get back to work.”
***
With a few minutes to spare after the noon meal, Hannah strolled across the grass, hoping the sunshine and gentle afternoon breeze would lift the worry from her soul. She ducked around the side of the chicken coop and took a seat on a wooden crate beneath the welcoming branches of a stately elm tree.
She took a moment to scan the lush Stainsby gardens with the majestic reflecting pond at its center and wished she could take refuge there among the fragrant spring flowers. But servants weren’t allowed to linger in the gardens in case the master or one of his guests wished to partake of its loveliness. Perhaps one day she’d have a garden of her own, where she could sit and admire the blossoms whenever she wished.
If Nolan had his way, her wish would be granted sooner than expected. Her pulse sprinted at the thought of his meeting with Mr. Simpson that morning. Had Nolan succeeded in purchasing the farm? If so, would he take possession in time to help her sister as he promised?
The knot of worry tightened once again in Hannah’s chest as her thoughts turned to the unsettling news in the latest letter from her mother.
Hannah removed the envelope from her starched white apron. With trembling fingers, she opened the flap and drew out the pages she’d all but memorized. She skipped the beginning of the correspondence, which contained the usual description of life on her step-father’s farm, and skimmed to the part where her mother talked of her sister.
“Now that Molly is of marriageable age, Robert has picked a suitable husband for her. Mr. Elliott lost his wife last year and needs someone to help with his children and the farm. Robert is most pleased to join with his neighbors to the south. The combined acreage will be of benefit to both of them. The betrothal will be announced very soon.”
Hannah’s fingers curled around the pages and then released the crumpled paper to drift to the grass below. It was bad enough to pledge Molly in marriage, but did it have to be to Mr. Elliott? Hannah had met the man briefly on her last visit to the farm. The image of a straggly beard, a sweat-stained shirt that barely covered a large belly, and teeth blackened from tobacco came to mind. Worse than the man’s poor hygiene was the fact that he had to be approaching forty.
Just as she’d always feared, Molly had become a bargaining tool for her step-father, sold to the highest bidder. How could her mother allow such an atrocity?
Are you really surprised? a bitter inner voice taunted. Didn’t she ship you off into servitude at around the same age?
But back then, her mother had been desperate—widowed, penniless, and turned out of their home. She was not desperate now, wife to Robert Fielding, a farmer of over two hundred acres. This had to be his idea—that dreadful man who always put his own welfare above all else. Now he would condemn Molly to a loveless marriage to a man who would likely view her as his property. Much like how Mr. Fielding treated Mum.
Hannah lowered her face into her hands. Please God, help me to save Molly from such a horrible fate.
***
Nolan rounded the side of the hen house and stopped cold. The sight of Hannah, seated on a chicken crate with her head in her hands, had all thoughts of his news flying from his mind. Was she praying or crying? Either way, she seemed far from happy.
“Hannah? What’s wrong?”
She raised misty eyes to his and blinked several times. “Nolan. I didn’t hear you.”
“No wonder. You seem rather preoccupied.” He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers and passed it to her.
She dabbed the white square of cotton to the corners of her eyes. Loose strands of blond silk escaped her cap and clung to her damp cheek.
Tension coiled in his stomach as he crouched in front of her. “It’s not that Bellows character, is it? If he’s bothering you again—”
“It’s nothing like that. I promise.”
A small measure of comfort eased the tautness in his muscles. He’d be glad when he could claim Hannah as his wife, so all the eligible men, especially a certain shady footman, would leave her alone. With her flawless skin and golden hair, Hannah’s beauty caught the eye of many a male in the area.
Hannah sniffed and returned the handkerchief to him, then twisted her hands in her lap, offering no explanation for her tears.
“If it’s not Bellows, then why are you crying?”
She let out a soft sigh. “It’s Molly.”
“What about her?” Hannah tended to worry overmuch about her younger sister, but not usually to the point of tears.
“My step-father has arranged a marriage for her. He’s set to announce the betrothal very soon.”
“But Molly’s too young for marriage.”
“I know.” She plucked at a thread on her apron. “I wish Mum would let her come here with me. At least then she could earn some money and have a decent life, without having to look after some old farmer.” Her lip trembled.
The need to comfort Hannah overcame the need for propriety. Nolan rose, tugging her to her feet, and with a quick glance around to make sure they weren’t being watched, he gathered her to his chest. She laid her cheek against his shoulder with a sigh.
His arms tightened around her, a fierce protectiveness rising up through him. How he wanted to promise her the world. Yet all he could offer was life as a farmer’s wife. He hoped it would be enough.
He rubbed her back in a soothing manner, inhaling the scent of fresh bread and apples that always seemed to surround her. “We’ll find a way to help Molly. I promise. As soon as—”
“I know. As soon as we leave here.” She sniffed again, then her head snapped up. “Oh, I haven’t even asked how it went with Mr. Simpson.”
Despite everything, Nolan couldn’t suppress a giddy grin. “He accepted my offer. The farm will be mine at the end of the month.”
“Oh, Nolan. That’s wonderful. I’m so proud of you.” She squeezed him in a tight hug, then pulled away, a soft hue coloring her cheeks.
The admiration shining on her face humbled him. How had he ever earned the affections of such an amazing woman? He’d wanted to wait until a more opportune time to propose, but maybe now was the perfect time. He turned her hand to press a kiss into her palm. A soft gasp escaped her lips and her eyes widened.
“Have you kissed the girl yet?” Bert’s question echoed through his brain as he focused his gaze on her mouth. He knew he should resist, but heaven help him, it was way past time.
His heart beat double time in his chest. He could almost imagine the sweet taste of her lips. His pulse thundered as he lowered his head toward her.
The swish of approaching footsteps in the grass beyond the henhouse snapped him to attention. Quickly, he released Hannah and took a step away. Surely the earl wouldn’t come looking for him here if he needed him.
“Nolan. Are you there?” His friend Mickey’s urgent call echoed across the open air.
Relief trickled through Nolan’s tense muscles. At least he needn’t worry that Mickey would fuel the servant gossip mill. His friend and fellow stable hand abhorred gossip as much as Nolan. He stepped out into the open. “Here I am. What is it?”
Mickey Gilbert turned and jogged over, his linen shirtsleeves flapping in the breeze. Instead of his usual jovial grin, a frown creased his brow. “I’m sorry, Nolan. It’s your mother.”
The air in Nolan’s lungs thinned. “What about her?”
“She collapsed in the kitchen. They’ve taken her to her room and sent for the doctor. She’s asking to see you.”

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