A Most Noble Heir

ESV

Chapter

1

Derbyshire, England

March 1884

Nolan Price scanned the fields of newly budding greenery that stretched as far as he could see and slowly 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.

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 callused 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—we 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 into 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 property 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 a strong incentive—a girl of uncommon beauty named Hannah.

He could recall with stunning clarity the exact moment he’d first met Hannah Burnham. A waif of a girl with sad eyes the color of new spring grass, she’d captured his heart from the very first glance. Even then, at the tender age of fourteen, he’d vowed that he would one day 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—the mansion’s many turrets and peaks seeming to scrape the sky. Nolan would never describe the building as beautiful. Majestic, yes. Imposing, certainly. But there was nothing comforting or endearing about the structure. No warmth or sense of welcome.

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 over thirty years, and a better man Nolan had yet to meet. His chest tightened at the realization that leaving Stainsby meant he wouldn’t get to see the burly 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 you could come with me too, boy. But even if I could afford to buy you, we won’t have need for a stallion on the farm. Working horses only. Besides, 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 he’d soon be able to take his dear mother away from the hard life she endured here. As head housekeeper, she put up with long days, overseeing not only the underlings, but every detail of life in the manor. It was hard work, and her health had suffered as of late. This winter had been especially harsh, 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 news that Mr. Simpson had agreed to sell him the farm and that 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, then 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 for Hannah and propose to her properly. She deserved that much at least.

Well, ring or no, once they were both off duty tonight, he would tell her how much she meant to him and ask her to be his wife.

Dinna 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 bonny 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 broad-shouldered blacksmith had taken Nolan under his wing soon after Nolan had started as a stable boy. Maybe it was because he’d learned Nolan had no father, or maybe because he and his wife, Franny, had not been blessed with children. Whatever the reason, Nolan had forged a strong bond with Bert, who’d eventually become more friend than mentor.

Usually Nolan tolerated Bert’s good-natured ribbing, but for some reason today it chafed.

That’s a private matter between Hannah and me. Besides, you know how his lordship feels about the servants . . . fraternizing. Nolan bent to pick up a forgotten piece of rope coiled on the dirt floor and returned it to its peg. Sneaking a few moments to talk each day is risky enough.

Ach, I’m sure there are many below-the-stairs romances going on under his lordship’s nose, Bert said.

Well, I’d never compromise Hannah that way. Nor 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 sacked them.

Bert’s expression softened. One of these days you’ll learn to put your own needs ahead of your mother’s.

Nothing’s more important than Mum. She’s all the family I’ve got. Nolan itched to tell Bert that he’d soon be able to rescue his mother from this life of drudgery, but he owed it to Hannah to hear the news 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 arms. Finding out who sired you canna change that.

The familiar ache that resided deep within Nolan reared its ugly head, fueling a rush of insecurity. Why couldn’t Bert understand Nolan’s need to learn the identity of his father? Sometimes he felt he’d never have peace until he knew where he came from. But Nolan didn’t intend to rehash that subject again. You needn’t worry, Bert. I’ve put the issue to rest.

For now.

Three years ago, Nolan had been prepared to leave Stainsby to seek the answer of his paternity, one his mother refused to disclose, but Hannah had begged him not to leave. Only his love for her had kept him from going. But one day, when the timing was right, he intended to travel to the town of his birth and solve the mystery of his parentage, no matter what the outcome.

A sound in the distance made Nolan’s pulse sprint. Eagerly, he scanned the expanse of lawn and spotted Hannah starting across the yard toward the chicken coop.

A slow grin stretched Nolan’s lips as 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 midday meal, Hannah strolled across the grass, hoping the sunshine and the 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 the stately elm.

For a moment, she looked over at 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.

Hannah’s thoughts turned from daydreams of the future to the unsettling news contained in her mother’s latest letter. The knot in her chest tightened as she removed the envelope from her starched white apron 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 stepfather’s farm, and skimmed to the part where her mother mentioned Molly.

Now that your sister 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 neighbor to the south, since the combined acreage will be of benefit to both. Their betrothal will be announced very soon.

Hannah’s fingers tightened, crumpling the pages. 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 man with 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 appalling personal habits was the fact that he had to be approaching forty.

Just as Hannah feared, Molly had become a bargaining tool for her stepfather, sold to the highest bidder. How could her mother allow such an atrocity?

Are you really surprised? a bitter inner voice taunted. Did she not ship you off into servitude around the same age?

But back then, her mother had been desperate—widowed, penniless, and turned out of their home. She wasn’t desperate now. She was the wife of Robert Fielding, 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 with 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 terrible fate.

Nolan rounded the side of the henhouse and stopped cold. The sight of Hannah seated on a chicken crate with her head in her hands had all thoughts of his happy news flying from his mind. Was she praying or crying? Either way, she seemed far from her usual cheery self.

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 his trousers and passed it to her.

She dabbed the white square of cotton to the corners of her eyes. Loose strands of blonde silk escaped her cap and clung to her damp cheek.

Tension coiled in Nolan’s 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 tension in his muscles. Nolan would be glad when he could claim Hannah as his wife, so all the eligible men, especially a certain shady footman, would leave her alone.

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 lifted a letter from her lap. It’s Molly.

What about her? Hannah tended to worry overmuch about her younger sister, but not usually to the point of tears. She’s not ill, is she?

No. It’s my stepfather. He’s arranged a marriage for her and is set to announce the betrothal very soon.

Nolan frowned. What is he thinking? Molly’s too young for marriage.

Mr. Fielding doesn’t seem to care. Hannah slid the letter into the pocket of her apron. I wish Mum would let her come here with me. At least then she could have a decent life, without having to look after some old farmer and his brood. Her bottom lip trembled.

The need to comfort Hannah overcame the need for propriety. Nolan rose, tugged 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 Hannah’s distress, Nolan couldn’t withhold 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 incredible woman? He’d wanted to wait until a more opportune moment 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 Nolan’s gaze focused 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.

Nolan! Are you there? His friend Mickey’s urgent call echoed across the open air.

Relief trickled through Nolan. 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. Mickey’s eyes filled with sympathy. You’d best hurry. She’s asking to see you.

Chapter

2

Taking the steps two at a time, Nolan rushed up the narrow back staircase to the third-floor servants’ quarters, concern tumbling through his brain. He’d spoken with his mother just yesterday, and she hadn’t seemed ill. Though now that he recalled, she had looked pale, but he’d put it down to her lingering illness.

Yet to collapse like that, her health must have taken a sudden turn for the worse . . . unless she’d been hiding her infirmity for fear of losing her job. In all likelihood, she’d been pushing herself too hard, not letting her body fully heal from the constant bouts of bronchitis that had plagued her all winter.

Nolan silently gave thanks for the good news he could now share with her. That her days of slaving for the unfeeling Lord Stainsby would soon be over. That she could live with Nolan and Hannah, filling her time with pursuits that brought her pleasure. Planting flowers, reading, sleeping whenever it pleased her to do so, and looking after the grandchildren he and Hannah would give her. With her health restored, they would all live together as a loving family.

Nolan strode down the dank corridor to the very last room. Outside his mother’s door, he paused to contain his emotions, pushing back the waves of worry. He had to be strong—for her sake, if nothing else. After two deep breaths, he knocked on the door and stepped inside.

Heavy drapes had been pulled to cover the windows, leaving the room shrouded in darkness, save for the flickering candle by the bed. Nolan squinted to find his mother under the patchwork quilt. The sight of her frailty hit him as hard as a stallion’s kick.

A desperate prayer whispered through his mind. Dear God, I know I’ve been remiss at conversing with you lately, but I’m asking you now to please heal my mother. Help her withstand this illness and regain her health.

She opened her eyes and gave a weak smile. Nolan. Thank goodness you’ve come.

I’m here, Mum. He moved to the side of her bed and took her hand in his.

There are some things I need to tell you whilst I still can.

You mustn’t talk like that. He dragged a chair over to the bed and sat down, attempting to ignore the musty odor that permeated the room. Now that the winter’s over, you’ll soon be feeling better. In fact, I have some news that should help your recovery. He dredged up a smile for her benefit. Remember the farm I told you about?

Surprise and what might have been regret flickered in her eyes. I remember.

I met with Mr. Simpson today and made arrangements to purchase it. In a few weeks, you’ll have a place of your own where you can rest and recover your strength. And when you’re feeling better, you can plant a vegetable garden. I know how much you’ve missed that—

Nolan, please. I need you to listen. Bony fingers gripped his like a hawk’s talons.

The urgency in her tone raised the hair on the back of his neck. All right, Mum. I’m listening. He struggled to gain a foothold over his emotions. He needed to be his mother’s strength in her time of need, as she’d always been for him.

With a tender look, she smoothed the hair from his forehead as though he were still a boy. Though I may not have birthed you, Nolan, you are my son in every way that matters. I love you more than anything in this world. I hope you know that. Two tears slid down her pale skin.

His throat threatened to close. Why did this sound like she was saying good-bye? I love you too, Mum, he said hoarsely. More than my own life.

I know you do. But there’s much I need to explain. I only hope you can forgive me when I tell you everything. The anguish in her eyes took Nolan’s breath away.

It’s all right, Mum. He reached out to take both her cold hands in his, her skin as thin as parchment.

I should have told you the truth long ago. Now there’s no time to cushion the blow. Her voice quavered. I need to tell you about your father.

Nolan’s mouth fell open. Over the years, Mum had rarely spoken about her sister, who’d died giving birth to Nolan. The few times he’d dared to ask about his father, Mum had told him she didn’t know who his father was. And because the subject had always seemed to trouble her, Nolan had left it alone, figuring that when the time was right, he’d search for answers on his own.

Before my sister died, Mary got to hold you for a few precious moments. She made me promise to look after you but never to disclose the identity of your father. Another tear followed a path down her cheek. Though I struggled with that promise, I’ve kept it to the best of my ability.

The blood leached from Nolan’s brain, scrambling the thoughts in his head. I-I don’t understand.

As time went on, I didn’t know how to tell you. Or if I had the right.

A dark suspicion took shape, one that had lingered in the back of his mind all these years. Was he the illegitimate offspring of a shameful union? Worse yet, could his father be a criminal? Held in jail these last two decades? Chills raced up and down his spine. His world and everything he knew about it was unraveling before his eyes. He swallowed the bile in his throat. Just tell me, Mum. Who is my father?

Her gaze slid to the quilt, and a look of utter misery washed her pale features. She licked her dry, cracked lips, not meeting his eyes. He is a nobleman. Your mother was a maid in his family’s employ. Theirs was a forbidden love, and when Mary found herself with child, your father married her in secret, against the wishes of his family.

Nolan struggled to focus. His parents had been married at least, which lifted the burden of illegitimacy from him. But how had Mary ended up giving birth at her sister’s home without her husband? And what made her want to hide his identity?

Why didn’t my father claim me when she died? he demanded. Did he not wish to raise his son?

Her hands gripped the blankets. There was an estrangement. Your grandparents did not approve of the union and refused to accept— She clamped her mouth shut and shook her head.

Nolan waited while she seemed to wrestle with herself. What was she so afraid of?

A sharp knock broke the uncomfortable silence.

Mrs. Price? It’s Dr. Hutton. The door opened and the rumpled, gray-haired physician entered.

The lines on his mother’s forehead eased as though relieved at the interruption. "Thank you for coming, Doctor. You remember my son, Nolan?

Yes. Hello, Nolan. The man set his leather bag on the dresser near the bed. If you’ll excuse us for a minute, I need to examine your mother. His features looked pinched as if he didn’t expect a good outcome.

Of course. I’ll go down and see to your horse. Nolan rose from the rickety chair and gave his mother a pointed look. We’ll continue our talk later.

Outside in the courtyard, Nolan untied the reins of the doctor’s dapple gray, led him into the barn, and went to fetch fresh water. As he performed his tasks, Nolan struggled to come to grips with the enormity of what his mother had told him, all the while fighting to quell the anger that brewed beneath his skin.

All the assumptions he’d made about his lowly heritage had been wrong. It appeared noble blood ran through his veins. Now it remained to be seen if Mum would disclose the name of his father, and if so, what would that mean for Nolan? Would he go in search of him?

Remnants of his fondest boyhood wish flickered to life. Nolan used to dream that one day his father would come to find him and sweep him up in a boisterous embrace, regaling him with tales of bold adventure that had kept him away these many years. Then his father would take Nolan and his mother away from their lives of servitude to abide with him in familial bliss at long last.

Could any part of this long-held dream come true?

Nolan’s boot squished beneath him, and a foul odor met his nose. He bit back an oath and found a stick to scrape the offending dung from his sole.

Reality returned with an equally sickening thud at the mere thought of confronting a nobleman with news that Nolan was his son. Perhaps his father was dead. Surely that would explain why he’d never attempted to contact Nolan, never reached out to establish a bond.

Still, from the little Nolan knew about the rules of succession in the noble ranks, if he were the true son of a titled man, he could be wealthy in his own right.

The horse neighed and tossed his head against Nolan’s shoulder.

You’re right, boy. What would I do with a title and wealth? The thought of the chaos involved in attempting to prove such a claim made Nolan cringe. Better to leave well enough alone and continue on the path he’d chosen for his life. Forget he even had a father.

He closed his eyes against the rush of resentment that bubbled just under the surface. Against the sense of betrayal that his mother had lied to him all this time. Why hadn’t she told him the truth years ago? What difference could it have possibly made?

He inhaled and blew out a long breath. Knowing his mother to be an upstanding Christian woman, there had to be a good explanation for her actions, and until he’d heard the whole story, he would give her the benefit of the doubt, without judgment.

The crunch of carriage wheels over gravel penetrated the haze in Nolan’s brain. Lord Stainsby, who’d been out most of the day, must have returned. Nolan would need to see to the horses. He tugged his cap into place as he rushed through the open stable doors. The earl’s carriage came to a halt in front of him, the horses snorting in welcome.

Nolan pushed back his shoulders and clasped his hands behind him as he waited for the coachman to jump down and open the carriage door.

Seconds later, the earl emerged.

For a man in his forties, his lordship remained in excellent physical condition. Tall, lean, and vital—most likely a result of his love of the outdoors. Dressed in a black greatcoat and top hat, the master created a formidable picture.

Nerves skittered in Nolan’s stomach as he gathered his courage. As much as he disliked his employer, he needed to put his feelings aside—for his mother’s sake. Her health had to take precedence over everything else right now.

Excuse me, my lord.

What is it? The earl’s dark brows shot together in undisguised annoyance, apparently aggrieved at being bothered by a stable hand.

Nolan swallowed his impatience. "My mother, Mrs. Price, is ill again. She collapsed and was