The Silk Merchant's Convenient Wife Read online

  A convenient marriage

  An inconvenient passion...

  His parents’ loveless relationship has left silk merchant Jonathan Harcourt suspicious of marriage. But in order to expand his mill and have an heir, he must marry his neighbour Aurelia Upford. Even more surprising than finding himself with a clever, beautiful society wife is the unexpected passion that flares between them, and the unsettling emotions it leads to. Sharing a bed was part of their arrangement, but can Jonathan risk sharing his heart, too?

  “Miss Upford, there is something I should like to speak to you about.”

  His face became grave. Did he imagine she would be displeased at his coming to ask for Cassandra’s hand? Had they breached etiquette too greatly by allowing their hands to almost touch?

  “I have been speaking to your father this evening, and...”

  But he got no further because loud and rapid footsteps came echoing down the stairs and through the hall, and then both Sir Robert and Lady Upford entered the room.

  “Mr. Harcourt,” Sir Robert said, “I apologize for the delay. I cannot find my daughter anywhere.”

  Lady Upford gave a small cry. “Why, she’s here already,” she said, gesturing at Aurelia. “Look, they’ve already found each other.”

  She crossed the room and gave Aurelia a beaming smile. “Aurelia, Mr. Harcourt has something he would like to ask you.”

  Aurelia felt herself grow cold. This was wrong. It was Cassandra he wanted to marry. She was the eldest daughter. It was right he should marry her. He walked slowly back toward her, as if each foot was encased in lead. He stopped in front of her and fixed her with a look so intense that it sent shivers hurtling up and down her spine and turned her legs to jelly.

  “Miss Aurelia,” he said. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  Author Note

  The idea for this story grew out of a workshop run by Harlequin at the 2019 Romantic Novelists’ Association conference. Thank you to my two fellow attendees who let me take the piece of paper away (I’m sorry I can’t remember your names).

  Changing time period by such a large number of centuries was a daunting but exciting prospect. Two books that helped me get into the period in particular were How to Be a Victorian by Ruth Goodman and Unmentionable: The Victorian Lady’s Guide to Sex, Marriage, and Manners by Therese Oneill.

  I enjoyed bringing Jonathan to my adoptive town and I am fortunate to have a wealth of resources on hand about the silk industry and mills in Cheshire and in Macclesfield itself. I urge readers to pay a visit to Quarry Bank Mill and the Macclesfield Museums if they ever get the chance. Thanks go to my children for visiting with me and not being too embarrassed when their left-handed mum got picked on for that crime in the apprentice house tour. Thanks also to my husband for walking round Lyon in the rain looking for silk industry murals.

  ELISABETH HOBBES

  The Silk Merchant’s Convenient Wife

  Elisabeth Hobbes grew up in York, England, where she spent most of her teenage years wandering around the city looking for a handsome Roman or Viking to sweep her off her feet. Elisabeth’s hobbies include skiing, Arabic dance and fencing—none of which has made it into a story yet. When she isn’t writing, she spends her time reading and is a pro at cooking while holding a book! Elisabeth lives in Cheshire, England, with her husband, two children and three cats with ridiculous names.

  Books by Elisabeth Hobbes

  Harlequin Historical

  Falling for Her Captor

  A Wager for the Widow

  The Saxon Outlaw’s Revenge

  Beguiled by the Forbidden Knight

  A Midsummer Knight’s Kiss

  Uncovering the Merchant’s Secret

  The Silk Merchant’s Convenient Wife

  The Lochmore Legacy

  A Runaway Bride for the Highlander

  The Danby Brothers

  The Blacksmith’s Wife

  Redeeming the Rogue Knight

  Visit the Author Profile page

  at Harlequin.com for more titles.

  To Julia, without whom this book would be a lot longer and more rambling. x

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Excerpt from The Flapper’s Scandalous Elopement by Lauri Robinson

  Prologue

  1837

  Δεν θα παντρευτώ ποτέ

  I shall never marry

  Jonathan Harcourt laid his pen down and looked at his words in satisfaction. The hand was untidy and the Greek lettering uneven but the language itself was accurate.

  He added the date with a flourish.

  twenty-eightth of August 1837

  He crossed out the errant ‘t’ with a frown. Nevertheless, it was an acceptable start for the first entry in his new journal—a rare gift from his father to a son about to embark on his journey to boarding school.

  ‘I shall never marry.’

  Jonathan said it out loud, having no fear of anyone hearing him. His parents’ current icy argument was keeping them occupied downstairs, pointedly ignoring each other. He had no idea what Mother had done now to raise Father’s ire. Presumably something insignificant which no rational person would consider worthy of more than a slight admonishment. Of course a husband had the right to chastise his wife, but Christopher Harcourt’s silent disapproval could last for hours and turn the whole house into an Arctic of animosity.

  There was the sound of both voices raised in a rapid cacophony that Jonathan tried to ignore. Jonathan ground his fists against his ears to try to block out the sound of sharp voices. It was either that or storm downstairs into the parlour and demand that Father stopped shouting. He knew better than to intervene, but Jonathan promised himself that one day, when he was older than twelve, Christopher Harcourt would pay for the misery he had caused.

  There was the sound of the study door slamming, followed shortly afterwards by the sound of the front door slamming. Jonathan sat up. This was unusual. Normally matters were concluded by both parents retiring to their own, separate, bedrooms. He wondered which parent had stormed out into the night and whether they were now walking in the dark around the parkland behind Darbrough Court or along the bridle path into Chester-le-Street itself.

  The question was answered shortly afterwards when Anne Harcourt crept into Jonathan’s room, her silhouette in the door frame plunging it into shadows.

  ‘Are you awake?’

  There was no point Jonathan pretending he had managed to sleep through the noise now they knew he was old enough to listen and have his opinions.

  ‘Yes. Are you all right, Mother?’

  He should know better than to ask. Whenever he tried to comfort his mother she immediately leapt to his father’s defence. Not this time, however. She glanced over her shoulder.

>   ‘No, Johnny, I’m not. But I will be soon. We both will be.’ She walked around the darkened room. ‘Are you packed and ready for tomorrow?’

  Jonathan was due to leave at first light to begin his new life at St Peter’s School in York. His uniform, books and a few other precious belongings were packed in the wooden trunk that stood, corded and labelled, at the end of his bed. His journal would go into his carrying case along with his purse of money and a couple of apples and slices of bread. The journey would be split into two parts. Jonathan would travel with the family coachman as far as Durham and from there he would take a public stagecoach to York where he would be welcomed by staff from St Peter’s and taken to the school.

  ‘I’m ready.’

  His mother found him in the darkness and drew him into a hug. He was twelve and his father disapproved of shows of affection that he thought should have ended when Jonathan was first breeched. Jonathan couldn’t recall ever seeing his parents touching, much less embracing. It felt almost like a rebellion for Anne to do it now and he wasn’t entirely comfortable with it. He stiffened and she released him.

  ‘Be ready for the carriage. Stepney will have everything waiting for you.’

  She left and Jonathan settled back, trying to sleep.

  * * *

  Jonathan arrived in Durham, shivering and yawning in the watery, dawn light as planned. Autumn was making its appearance known even though it was only the twenty-ninth day of August. He bid farewell to Mr Stepney, his father’s coachman, and stood at the coaching inn alone, determined not to be daunted by the bustle. Other passengers, horses and coachmen paid no attention to the undersized twelve-year-old until someone tapped him on the shoulder, causing him to jump.

  A man dressed in a shabby cloak was smiling at him.

  ‘Master Harcourt, heading to York? Come this way, please.’

  He didn’t look like an employee of the stagecoach company, but as he had called Jonathan by name, Jonathan obediently followed as the man dragged the heavy trunk around the corner. He expected to find a coach waiting, but instead came face to face with his mother sitting on a trunk similar to Jonathan’s own. She was dressed in a plain blue travelling cloak and bonnet he had never seen before with a black veil covering the upper part of her face.

  ‘Are you coming to York with me?’

  ‘No.’ She stood and brushed her cloak down purposefully. ‘And you are not going there either.’

  She pointed to the mail coach that stood with a pair of horses ready across the street. ‘We’re taking this instead. Make haste.’

  The messenger had begun loading their two trunks on to the roof of the coach and securing them. Mrs Harcourt climbed inside and Jonathan followed. They were not the only passengers. An old man sat with his legs sprawled in the seat opposite but moved them grudgingly in the presence of a lady.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

  Mrs Harcourt looked at him. ‘Not now. We’re stopping again soon and then I’ll tell you.’

  * * *

  Jonathan never learned the name of the first town they arrived in. The trunks were transferred to an open wagon and Jonathan found himself sitting on hard boards beside his mother.

  His mother said nothing until the whip cracked and the wagon gave a slow lurch into movement. Only then did she seem to relax.

  ‘Mother, now please explain what is happening,’ Jonathan urged.

  ‘I have left Darbrough Court. I have left your father and my marriage.’

  Jonathan reached for her hand, remembering at the last moment that contact was strictly discouraged by his father. The implications of his mother’s words sunk in and he took her fingers anyway. If what she said was true, his father’s commands no longer mattered. She met his eyes and, for the first time in years, Jonathan saw hope, not defeat, staring back at him. Jonathan’s scalp prickled in fear and anticipation. He was expected at St Peter’s in two days. What would happen when he did not arrive? More to the point, what would happen when his father discovered his mother’s absence? She must have guessed his thoughts.

  ‘Your father thinks I am visiting a friend from my school days. He won’t expect me back for a week. I very much doubt he will care in any case. This is the start of a new life for both of us, Johnny.’

  * * *

  And what a new life it was. After three further changes of coach and two nights in travelling inns, they arrived in a small town at mid-afternoon. The narrow streets of terraced houses seemed to close in around them as they stopped outside a tall, single-fronted, three-storeyed house in the middle of a row of eight.

  Jonathan frowned. This couldn’t be right? Darbrough Court had six grand rooms on the ground floor alone and four bedrooms. It had stood in large grounds with rose gardens and a lake. His mother looked at him apologetically.

  ‘This is all I can afford with the annuity my parents left me and that is only because the landlord was generous to an old acquaintance. But it’s ours and we’re safe from your father here. As far as everyone here is concerned, I’m a widow and we have had to leave our home, forced out by an unfeeling heir to the estate.’

  A man was swaddled in a dark cloak beside the door. He handed Mrs Harcourt the keys and together she and Jonathan dragged their trunks inside. The house was sparsely furnished: a parlour and kitchen on the ground floor, a scullery behind that with a door leading to the yard and a privy shared between all eight houses. On the second floor were two bedrooms and on the third was a single room with long, low windows at front and back.

  ‘It’s a weaver’s cottage,’ she said as she came to stand beside him. ‘No boarding school and no luxuries, but we’ll be safe and we can be happy. This is Macclesfield. It’s a town of silk.’

  A thrill went through Jonathan. The description sounded exotic and romantic, but grey skies huddled over row after row of grey-slate rooftops and the grey mill that loomed on the hills appeared to enclose the town within a wall. It felt like anything but silk.

  * * *

  The first month was bliss. They remained undetected by Mr Harcourt and gradually Jonathan stopped looking over his shoulder, waiting for the hand of his father to descend. Conscious of taking him from the school he had been set to attend, Mrs Harcourt taught Jonathan herself as best she could. They pored over French and Latin together by lamplight. She sang as she worked with Kitty, their one maid. She learned to do laundry and cook meals, much to Jonathan’s astonishment. She even taught Jonathan how to sew, joking that when he eventually married, his wife would find it a welcome surprise. Jonathan said nothing. He’d already decided long ago never to marry and saw no reason to change his mind. Why would he when marriage was such a joyless, unpleasant experience?

  ‘We have a queen on the throne now, Johnny.’ She laughed. ‘A woman can do anything she sets her mind to.’

  ‘Then I shall earn and support us,’ Jonathan told her. ‘I’m old enough now.’

  He set out the next morning and found work delivering messages around Macclesfield, competing with other lads for the penny errands. The other boys mocked his accent and what they saw as encroachment on their territory from a toffee-nosed boy, but Jonathan was quick on his feet and soon learned his way around the backstreets and alleys of the town. He learned to play down his background and play up his accent and the amusement it generated when he asked for bread or which way to go. A cheeky request with a grin often earned him a tip simply for being a novelty. His life was a far cry from the lessons he should have been having at his school in York, but he relished this freedom.

  * * *

  It was on his third week of walking the streets with parcels and letters when his life changed for ever. He was bearing a message from the haberdasher to Mr Edward Langdon, Esquire, at Langdon’s Mill on the edge of town. The red-brick building seemed to grow even bigger as Jonathan walked closer, following the path along the river. This mill was somehow more welcom
ing than the ones closer to the centre of town which stood like sentinels or the grey edifice on the hillside. From a distance the rattle of machinery was thunderous. He knocked on the door of the mill offices with a loud thump and kicked his feet against the cobbles while he waited. The door opened and Jonathan was greeted unexpectedly by Mr Langdon himself.

  Jonathan stared in surprise, not expecting to see the mill owner. He knew Mr Langdon by sight, having seen him at a distance promenading around the centre of Macclesfield on Sunday afternoons. He was a bachelor in his early forties and Jonathan had heard his name spoken around Macclesfield by women wondering in frustration why he ignored all their daughters. There were rumours of scandal in his past, but wealth, it seemed, wiped out any indiscretion when it came to marriage. Another reason for Jonathan to hold the institution in contempt.

  Jonathan held out the note silently.

  ‘You’ll want paying, I suppose,’ Mr Langdon said.

  ‘Aye, sir,’ Jonathan agreed. Then, unexpectedly, he found himself adding, ‘No.’

  Langdon peered down at him. He had softly drawn-back gingery hair that was beginning to grey at the temples and a pointed chin that gave him the demeanour of a fox. It was a handsomely interesting face, made remarkable by a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles balanced on the end of a straight nose. He peered over the top of them and Jonathan felt the examination of the older man’s blue eyes on him. His confidence deflated a little.

  ‘I mean, yes, I want paying for this, please, sir. But I want a job.’

  The idea came to him in a rush. The imposing mill with three storeys of windows and high iron gates was daunting, but the location by the river had caught Jonathan’s eye. The machines continued to bellow mysteriously from inside and his curiosity prickled. Mr Langdon made silk, Jonathan knew, but he had no idea how or what went on behind the high doors.