The Luck of the Bride (The Cavensham Heiresses #3)
Janna MacGregor
To my darling Rachel
Acknowledgments
As always, my editor, Holly Ingraham, has my eternal gratitude. Thank you for your talent, insight, and direction. You always have the best suggestions. Jennie Conway, Marissa Sangiacomo, and Meghan Harrington—you all are priceless. Thank you to Lesley Worrell, Jon Paul, and the fantastic art department at St. Martin’s Press. My covers are simply divine. To everyone at SMP who had a hand in March and McCalpin’s story, I’m so grateful for your support.
Pam Ahearn, I’m simply in awe of you. Thank you for everything. Kim Rozzell, you make everything so easy for me.
Corinne DeMaagd, Charlotte Russell, and Christy Carlyle—your friendship is truly a gift.
Greg, thank you for putting up with me when I hole away for hours to write. You are my dream.
Finally, the most important thank you goes to you, my readers. You mean the world to me.
Prologue
Leyton, just outside of London, 1805
Lawson Court
Accustomed to the hustle and bustle of a busy household, March Lawson sat completely numb while the longcase clock marked the passage of time second by everlasting second. The rhythmic movement of the pendulum failed to interrupt the stony silence that entombed her in the study, her father’s domain. Since they’d returned, she spent most of her time here as the familiar smells of leather and ink provided some comfort with sweet memories of her father. His journal lay open on the desk as if waiting for him to return and finish the estate bookkeeping.
One week shy of her seventeenth birthday, March had calculated she’d spent two hundred and three months on this earth. One out of two hundred and three wouldn’t normally garner much attention, but that infinitesimal fraction of time had allowed chaos to steal everything.
Dark misery pounded through her with the strength of a rough surf in a gale storm. She and her three siblings had only been gone a month, twenty-seven days to be exact. Now, she was the head of her family, one that consisted of a one-year-old baby brother and two sisters, ages eleven and ten. Under siege by a grappling confusion, her mind reeled. Her siblings hadn’t a clue the devastation that had awaited them on their return from Brighton.
She didn’t possess such luck. She’d known for the last two weeks. A letter had arrived by special courier to inform her and Hart Pennington, the family’s escort, that her parents had succumbed to influenza. Wise or not, she’d waited until the return trip to share the tragic news.
Thank God she’d had Hart or she would not have survived the journey home. Kind and gentle, he’d taken great care to distract her siblings during the carriage ride so March could consider their future and her new duties as head of the family.
Thirty years older than March, Hart Pennington had been in her father’s employment for over ten years serving as personal assistant and secretary. He was the one her father had chosen to rush them out of Leyton to avoid the influenza outbreak. When it was safe to return to Lawson Court, Hart had escorted them to their parents’ graves and gave comfort as the place markers were set into the ground. From that day forward, he was Uncle Hart and as much a part of their family as she was. Unfortunately, he wasn’t currently there to help, as a close friend had needed him to visit.
It made little difference whether Hart was there or not—this was her responsibility.
The house had grown eerily quiet. The pendulum of the longcase clock had suddenly stopped as if afraid any noise or movement would draw the attention of Death back to their doorstep.
The rotter.
The great thief had stolen the most vibrant and vivacious individuals of their small community into its cold embrace—including her parents. When her mother had fallen violently ill, her father had sent March and her siblings away in hopes they’d escape the illness while he stayed to nurse his wife. After two days, her mother had died. Her father had lasted less than a week. Knowing the love her father had for her mother, March doubted he expired from the assault of the disease’s high fever.
He’d died of a broken heart.
“March?” A small voice cracked, exposing the inability to withstand any more tears. Juggling their brother Bennett in her small arms, ten-year-old Julia struggled with the weight of the healthy baby as she closed the distance to stand by March’s side.
She pasted on the best smile she could muster. Once again, her youngest sister needed comfort. “What is it, my love?”
“Who will take care of us now?” Like the gentle beating of an angel’s wings, her sister’s whispered words floated like wisps of air toward her.
“I will.” March leaned forward and brushed her forefinger against Julia’s pink cheeks.
“What about Faith?” Julia’s thin voice grew ragged as if ready to burst into hysterics again. “Where is she?”
Julia, her youngest sister, had been practically inconsolable when she’d discovered their parents were gone and the secure home they’d all taken for granted had changed forever. Since then, Julia needed an immediate accounting if she couldn’t find her siblings.
“Faith went to bed early,” March answered. “She’s exhausted.”
“Who’s going to take care of Faith?”
“Sweetheart, we’ve discussed this.” March had tried her best to reassure her sister over the last two days, bestowing all the extra attention she could to alleviate Julia’s haunting fears. She’d spent hours holding Julia as her sweet innocence had been destroyed by each tear that stained her cheeks. No matter what comfort she offered her sister, it didn’t seem to help. In the lonely hours of the night, Julia nightmares tore open every one of March’s newly closed wounds of worry.