The Earl and the Mud-Covered Maiden

By GL Robinson

 

Can a Haughty Earl Find Love in the Country?

When a handsome Lord driving his curricle much too fast, splashes a country girl with mud, he's not expecting to find the love of his life.

She's affronted by his haughty demeanor but can't help being attracted to him. But he's not straight-forward and she feels manipulated. Then a long-kept secret threatens their happiness. It's certainly true for this couple that the course of true love ne'er did run smooth!

Though it can be read as a stand-alone novel, The Earl and the Mud-Covered Maiden is the first book in the House of Hale Trilogy. It introduces characters you will love to follow as they set out on their rocky path together.

• Language: English
• Publisher: GL Robinson
• Release date: May 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201215927

Book preview

Welcome to the wonderful world of Regency Romance!

For a free short story and to listen to me read the first chapter of all my other Regencies, please go to my website:

https://romancenovelsbyglrobinson.com

Thank you!

GL Robinson

The House of Hale

Book One

The Earl and the

Mud-Covered Maiden

A Regency Romance

By

GL  Robinson

©GL Robinson 2020.  All Rights Reserved.

As always, in memory of my dear sister, Francine.

––––––––

With thanks to my Beta Readers,

to Thomas E. Burch and CS for their

patient technical help.

And to Andy Skelton, many thanks for your eagle eye for dates and geography.

Cover art by Daniel Peci

Used with grateful thanks by permission of the artist.

For more information on this wonderful artist:

www.danielpeci.com

Contents

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

Regency Novels by GL Robinson

About The Author

Chapter One

In which Miss Hawthorne makes the acquaintance of Mr. Barrington

Sophy Hawthorne trudged along in the pouring rain thinking ruefully that she would never have been remotely friendly to the solicitor’s clerk if she had known what he was intending. She had met Mr. Frimpton just over two months ago at the vicarage. When the vicar’s wife Mrs. Bradshaw had invited her to tea, she had given her no inkling that the invitation was for anything more than the little chats they quite often enjoyed. It was an unpleasant surprise to find another guest there, a rather bumptious young man with very high collar points and thin hair brushed forward onto a greasy brow. He turned out to be clerk to the local solicitor and a newcomer to the village. She had seen him in church on Sunday and had responded to his bow with a nod, but they had never been introduced. Nor had she sought an introduction.

It was unclear whether Mrs. Bradshaw had decided to bring them together, or whether he had asked her to perform that service, but there she found herself, making polite conversation with a person who obviously thought a great deal of himself and expected her to do so too. He held forth at some length about his education at Harrow and his intention of completing his clerkship in three years, so that he might, as he said, set himself up on his own account. His success, apparently, was only a matter of time. She listened politely, asking what she hoped were intelligent questions whenever he paused for breath. When the time came for her to leave, she could not prevent him walking her home, though it was only a quarter of a mile. She was astonished that anyone who had such a high opinion of his own future should deign to explain it all to her, as clearly unsuccessful as her background was. He only had to look at her drab, old-fashioned gown and threadbare cloak.

After that, he had taken to approaching her after services on Sunday and walking her home, in spite of her albeit false protests that she enjoyed the quiet walk as an opportunity to think about the vicar’s sermon. She had tried sitting in the back and slipping out before the Dismissal to avoid him. Then, two Sundays ago he had obviously been on the look-out for her departure and had hurried after her. When they arrived at Hawthorne House he had begged to be allowed to enter and speak to her father. In vain had she tried to dissuade him. He overrode all her protests and strode into the house, unfortunately running into her father in the hall. Taken by surprise before his first glass of port of the day, Mr. Hawthorne had been as powerless against Mr. Frimpton as Sophy herself. They had disappeared into the study, to emerge a short time later.

Well, Sophy, exclaimed her father, congratulations are in order, it seems. Mr. Frimpton here has asked and received my permission to pay you his addresses. My word, you are a sly one! You never mentioned to me anything about a beau!

But father, cried Sophy, I never mentioned it because I never imagined it!

Come now, Miss Hawthorne, or may I call you Sophy, said Mr. Frimpton silkily, you cannot be insensible of my attentions. They have been most marked for some weeks now. I am conscious of your maidenly modesty, however, and commend you for it. You will find me a most understanding husband, I assure you. No criticism will ever pass my lips as to your lack of dowry when you come to me, or even, I may say, a suitable wardrobe.

You go too fast, Mr. Frimpton, indeed you do! protested Sophy. I have not yet accepted your offer. And I must tell you at once, I cannot. I thank you for... for distinguishing me with your attentions, but it cannot be. I would not be a suitable wife for you, and without wishing to injure you in any way, I must say that you are not the husband for me.

Daughter! said her father, more angry that he might have been made to look a fool than because she had refused an eligible suitor. Be careful what you say! You may never receive such an offer again. Mr. Frimpton is in every way a man on the rise. You may rise with him or... he seemed unwilling to complete the sentence, since it appeared inevitably to compare a rise with Frimpton to a descent with himself.

I wish Mr. Frimpton nothing but success, said Sophy as calmly as she could. In fact, I am sure he will achieve it much more easily with another wife than myself. In refusing him I am convinced I am helping him to reach the heights he no doubt deserves.

In that case, bowed her suitor, an angry flush rising from his neck. I bid you good day. I could only wish, Miss Hawthorne, that you had not wasted my time. I see I was mistaken in making you my first choice, but I have no doubt that there are other young ladies who will be happy to accept my suit.

An angry retort rose to Sophy’s lips to tell him that if she had known what he was about she would not have wasted her own time, but instead she said, Forgive me, Mr. Frimpton. I have been foolish. I wish you every happiness with whomever your favor falls upon.

She had shown him to the door and having closed it behind him, leaned against it with a sigh of relief.

Since then, her father had allowed her no respite. His ill-humor had been unrelenting. For the next two weeks he had continued to harangue her at every opportunity. When they had re-heated mutton for dinner, he complained that with a well-fixed-up husband, she might have afforded him beef. When they had to barter household effects for wood, he said it was entirely her fault. In his cups, as he often was, his anger reached such proportions she frequently felt it prudent to retreat to her room.

She now gripped the neck of her cloak more tightly, trying to hold on to her hood as she walked into the driving rain and wind of a late September afternoon in the country. The autumn had been unusually cold and wet. It had threatened rain all day, but, tired of her father’s endless carping, she had decided to take a walk. She was now regretting her decision to leave the house, as the promised rain had finally arrived in a deluge, along with a biting wind. It whipped her hood from her head and soaked her second-best bonnet (not that the first best was much better), so that the blue ribbons recently attached in a not very successful attempt to improve it, were now sodden and sticking to her cheeks. Nevertheless, she trudged gamely onward, thinking that in a few minutes she would be home and able to strip off her wet things, have a cup of tea and dry her hair in front of the kitchen fire.

As she rounded the last bend in the road home she became aware of the pounding of horses’ hooves behind her. Before she knew it, a curricle driving much too close to the side of the road dashed past her, its wheels throwing up a slush of muddy water from the deeply rutted road. She let out an involuntary shriek as what seemed like a wave of mud hit her full in the face. She stood stock still, momentarily stunned and unable to think, her eyes blinded. Then she became aware that the horses had stopped and the driver of the curricle was addressing her.

A thousand apologies, Madam, came a well-bred voice with a more than a hint of impatience. I did not imagine anyone would be out walking in such filthy weather.

Evidently not, said Sophy tartly, trying to wipe the water out of her eyes but only succeeding in making them sting even more. At the rate you were going in these conditions, I doubt you could see anyone even if he were in the middle of the road.

Please allow me to help you up into the carriage and to drive you home, came the voice, which while totally ignoring her comment, now held a trace of surprise.

I am perfectly able to walk the rest of the way. I haven’t far to go and my clothes are now so muddy I am in no state to be taken up into any conveyance.

Nonsense. You will be home much quicker if you let me drive you. Her stinging eyes could just make out a tall top-hatted figure approaching her. Don’t let’s stand here discussing it in the pouring rain when we could have been there by now.

So saying, the owner of the voice half walked, half carried her to the curricle and bundled her unceremoniously up onto the seat. Sophy managed to wipe her eyes with the edge of her cloak as her savior strode around to the other side. Saying, Let ’em go, Jeb, he took up the reins. She became aware that a very small person had been holding the horses’ heads and now ran to the back of the carriage, muttering what sounded like,

Wimin – I don’t ’old with takin’ up no wimin.

Hold your tongue, Jeb, commanded the owner of the voice curtly. As the small person jumped swiftly up onto the curricle, still muttering darkly, the driver made a slight movement to his reins and the horses took off at a smart trot.

You must forgive my tiger, Ma’am, he said. For reasons that have never been satisfactorily explained, he is a confirmed misogynist and always complains if I take a female up in my curricle.

He did not add that in fact he never took a female up in his curricle, much to the despair of many a young lady and her aspiring mama. Sophy looked sideways and, as the curricle provided a sort of canopy that held off some of the rain and she had managed to wipe her eyes on the corner of her cloak, she was able to see more clearly the figure beside her. He was broad shouldered and clad in a many-caped riding coat, and though sitting down, he seemed very tall, even without the hat on his head. She had the sense he towered over her, though she was, at five feet seven inches, held to be an uncommonly tall girl, a regular Long Meg, in fact. She did not know how to respond to his comment, so said nothing.

After an awkward moment he turned towards her and said, Of course, I should make myself known to you. He hesitated, Lysander Barrington at your service, Ma’am.

Miss Hawthorne, Sophy Hawthorne, replied Sophy, with as much dignity as a mud-covered, rain-soaked maiden wearing an old cloak and a sodden disreputable bonnet could muster.

He looked at her for a minute, as if considering. I wonder that you are permitted to walk the highways alone, Miss Hawthorne, especially so late in the afternoon and in such weather. I should not permit it in my sister or daughter.

She thought with a rueful inward laugh that the only male who could impose such limitations on her was her father. Since he was probably already at the bottom of his first bottle of port, he almost certainly had not even noticed her departure. She replied tartly, Then it is as well I am neither your sister nor your daughter, sir, and therefore you can have nothing to say on the matter.

At this, her savior turned and looked at her fully for the first time. He was met with a steady gaze under a lamentable bonnet with dripping blue ribbons, that were nonetheless the exact blue of her startlingly frank eyes. The chestnut brown curls escaping from her bonnet were stuck to a dirt-smeared face. Her cloak, obviously darned in spots, was very worn at the edges, and her brown stuff gown, from what he could see of it, was serviceable and far from elegant. He had at first taken her for a maid or housekeeper, except that her mode of speech indicated better breeding. The whole effect would have been laughable except for the tilt of a decided chin and the complete lack of deference in her expression. Who was this woman, he wondered, who looked like a housemaid and spoke like a queen?

If Miss Hawthorne had known anything of Society, and had ever been to London in her life, she would have recognized that Barrington was the family name of the House of Hale, and she was speaking to the Earl himself. He was the fifth of the name and had large holdings in Buckinghamshire, as well as an elegant townhouse in Mayfair. Unlike many of his contemporaries, he loved the country and was as happy on his estates, which he managed with a firm hand, as he was in the salons of London. He was amongst the most marriageable bachelors of the ton, being both good-looking and wealthy, but he had so far avoided the many lures cast his way. He preferred the company of experienced women who never expected more than handsome gifts and understood the short duration of his interest.

He had been invited to the shooting party of an acquaintance a few miles away in Middlesex, which he had accepted only because he had been assured of meeting there the doe-eyed beauty of relaxed habits with whom he had been carrying on a flirtation. He had hoped to bring matters to a head. The shooting had been indifferent, the company insipid, and the lady, alas, had proved more talk than action. Leaving the place as soon as possible, his lordship had sent his baggage ahead with Winton, his valet, and was now on the way back to London frustrated and not a little angry at himself for his miscalculation. It was this that had allowed the momentary lapse in concentration resulting in his driving too close to the hedge and drenching this disconcerting female who spoke back to him in such a decided manner. The Earl, who had succeeded to his title when he was just twenty and was now thirty years old, was not accustomed to being told smartly that things he chose to comment upon were not his business.

His eyes narrowed for a moment, but when Miss Hawthorne’s gaze continued to hold his steadily, he swallowed his rising temper and replied evenly, As you say, Madam.

Then the gateposts to her home appeared some yards ahead. Sophy said calmly, You may let me down here, if you please, but not before she had seen the quick flash of anger in his eyes and wondered who this stranger was.

Ignoring her, and turning his horses expertly between the gateposts from which the gates hung open at awkward angles, Lord Hale surveyed the building before him. It had been a fine old manor house, built sometime in the last century, not very large, of two stories only, but with a classical order and balance in the arrangement of the windows and the now crumbling stone pediment. The creeper that covered most of the facade had encroached on the upstairs windows, the guttering was broken in spots and a grey-green lichen crawled down the blackened walls. What had once been the front lawn was an overgrown wasteland, now brown and sodden in the wet late