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Claiming the Ashbrooke Heir is a shorter story than I usually write and presented me with a challenge. The story is set in Regency times when being an unmarried mother was a terrible disgrace; her reputation would be in tatters and marriage out of the question, no matter how mitigating the circumstances, so my heroine is in trouble from the start, ostracised and penniless. But she adores her tiny son and is determined to make a good life for them, despite all the obstacles. I hope you enjoy finding out how she overcomes these obstacles to find true love in the end. I certainly enjoyed writing it for you.
Mary Nichols
Born in Singapore, MARY NICHOLS came to England when she was three, and has spent most of her life in different parts of East Anglia. She has been a radiographer, school secretary, information officer and industrial editor, as well as a writer. She has three grown-up children and four grandchildren.
Claiming the Ashbrooke Heir
Mary Nichols
Table of Contents
July 1813
ANNETTE, carrying a brown paper parcel which contained the mending she had been given to do, dashed along the road so fast she was almost running. It was a hot day; the sun beat down mercilessly, reflecting the heat from the streets, and her chemise and underskirt were sticking to her. She hated leaving Timmy in the care of her slatternly landlady but she had no choice; she had to work to earn enough to pay their rent and buy food. Every minute she was away from him felt like an hour, and she imagined all manner of terrible things happening while she was absent. He might be taken ill, with Mrs Grosse not realising or even caring that something was wrong, or one of the woman’s brood of children might pick him up and drop him. He was only six weeks old, and very tiny, which was hardly surprising after all that had happened to her. His birth had not been easy, and she had been prepared not to take to him, but when he had been put into her arms by the woman who had been fetched in to help she had loved him at once. He was so small and helpless, with a little screwed-up face, a tuft of golden hair and tiny fingers that had a surprisingly firm grip. She had cried over him, knowing he had been born into a hostile world, and that she would have a struggle on her hands to keep them from starving, but do it she would. She had to make the best of the situation for both their sakes. The pavement was crowded with pedestrians, most of them in a hurry to go somewhere, though a few hawkers stood by their barrows, selling vegetables and fruit. She was dodging between them when she looked up and saw a man walking towards her and her heart missed a beat. It was Jeremy; she was sure of it. What was he doing in Norwich? Surely he had not come looking for her? She put her head down, hoping he had not seen her. She knew she had changed. Since her son’s birth the weight had dropped off her. Her once thick hair had become thinner and there were dark rings round her eyes from lack of sleep, because Timmy cried a lot. He was not thriving as he ought to be, and she supposed it was because she had been husbanding the little money she had very carefully and she did not get enough to eat, so that her milk held little sustenance. The man was almost level with her now. She slowed down to risk a glance at him from beneath the rim of her chip bonnet and realised it was not Jeremy, after all, but someone who looked like him. He was wearing a black frock coat with black velvet facings, black pantaloons and a double-breasted waistcoat. It was not his sombre clothes that reminded her of Jeremy, who favoured bright colours, it was his face. He had beautifully chiselled features, blue eyes and curly brown hair so like Jeremy’s it was uncanny. But this man was taller and broader than Jeremy, and his complexion was darker—as if he spent long hours out of doors; he was altogether a more mature man, though probably only a few years older. Her relief was so profound she smiled. The smile took him by surprise. Not because she had smiled; after all there were plenty of doxies on the streets of Norwich who habitually approached men with a smile in the hope of attracting their custom. No, it was the fact that it lit her face. It was like sunshine after rain. His own fanciful imagery made him smile too, and he found himself doffing his hat to her. Taken aback, she stumbled, and a man hurrying along behind her bumped into her. The parcel flew from her hands. She reached out to grab it and lost her balance. The gentleman moved so quickly she was not even aware of it until his strong hands steadied her. Miraculously he managed to catch her parcel at the same time. ‘Are you hurt, ma’am?’ His voice was deep and mellifluous. ‘No, not at all. Thanks to your swift action. And you saved my parcel too. I am indebted to you.’ Once again she surprised him. Her clothes, though clean, were well-worn, but her voice was cultured, the voice of someone educated, someone who could express herself among gentlefolk. He returned her package and bowed. ‘My pleasure, ma’am.’ She took it, thanked him, and then hurried on, faster than ever now. She had to get back to Timmy. The encounter with the man who had looked so much like Jeremy had shaken her and made her realise how fragile was the life she had built around herself, how easily it could fall about her ears. She left the busy streets behind and turned down an alley close to the river. Here the houses were huddled drunkenly together, and the air was filled with the stench of the river and the brewery close by. Ragged children played in the gutter and a couple of stray dogs fought over something loathsome. Annette hurried past them, in at one of the doors, and up the uncarpeted stairs to a room at the top of the house. She could hear Timmy crying. ‘Mama’s back,’ she said, dropping her parcel on the table and crossing the room to pick him up.
