A Stranger at Fellsworth Read online

  ACCLAIM FOR SARAH E. LADD

  “Beautifully written, intricately plotted, and populated by engaging and realistic characters, The Curiosity Keeper is Regency romantic suspense at its page-turning best. A skillful, sympathetic, and refreshingly natural author, Ladd is at the top of her game and should be an auto-buy for every reader.”

  —RT Book Reviews, 4½ STARS, TOP PICK!

  “An engaging Regency with a richly detailed setting and an unpredictable suspenseful plot. Admirers of Sandra Orchard and Lis Wiehl who want to try a romance with a historical bent may enjoy this new series.”

  —Library Journal ON The Curiosity Keeper

  “Ladd’s story, with its menace and cast of seedy London characters, feels more like a work of Dickens than a Regency . . . A solid outing.”

  —Publishers Weekly ON The Curiosity Keeper

  “A delightful read, rich with period details. Ladd crafts a couple the reader roots for from the very beginning and a plot that keeps the reader guessing until the end.”

  —SARAH M. EDEN, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF For Elise ON The Curiosity Keeper

  “My kind of book! The premise grabbed my attention from the first lines, and I eagerly returned to its pages. I think my readers will enjoy The Heiress of Winterwood.”

  —JULIE KLASSEN, BESTSELLING, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR

  “Ladd proves yet again she’s a superior novelist, creating unforgettable characters and sympathetically portraying their merits, flaws, and all-too-human struggles with doubt, hope, and faith.”

  —RT Book Reviews, 4 STARS, ON A Lady at Willowgrove Hall

  “[E]ngaging scenes of the times keep the pages turning as this historical romance . . . swirls energetically through angst and disclosure.”

  —Publishers Weekly ON The Headmistress of Rosemere

  “This book has it all: shining prose, heart-wrenching emotion, vivid and engaging characters, a well-paced plot, and a sigh-worthy happy ending that might cause some readers to reach for the tissue box. In only her second novel, Ladd has established herself as Regency writing royalty.”

  —RT Book Reviews, 4½ STARS, TOP PICK! ON The Headmistress of Rosemere

  “If you are a fan of Jane Austen and Jane Eyre, you will love Sarah E. Ladd’s debut.”

  —USATODAY.COM ON The Heiress of Winterwood

  “This debut novel hits all the right notes with a skillful and delicate touch, breathing fresh new life into standard romance tropes.”

  —RT Book Reviews, 4 STARS, ON The Heiress of Winterwood

  “Ladd’s charming Regency debut is enhanced with rich detail and well-defined characters. It should be enjoyed by fans of Gilbert Morris.”

  —Library Journal ON The Heiress of Winterwood

  “This adventure is fashioned to encourage love, trust, and faith especially in the Lord and to pray continually, especially in times of strife.”

  —CBA Retailers + Resources ON The Heiress of Winterwood

  BOOKS BY SARAH E. LADD

  TREASURES OF SURREY NOVELS

  The Curiosity Keeper

  Dawn at Emberwilde

  WHISPERS ON THE MOORS NOVELS

  The Heiress of Winterwood

  The Headmistress of Rosemere

  A Lady at Willowgrove Hall

  A Stranger at Fellsworth

  © 2017 by Sarah Ladd

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.

  Thomas Nelson titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Ladd, Sarah E., author.

  Title: A stranger at Fellsworth / Sarah E. Ladd.

  Description: Nashville: Thomas Nelson, [2017] | Series: A Treasures of Surrey novel; 3

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016053266 | ISBN 9780718011857 (paperback)

  Subjects: | GSAFD: Christian fiction. | Love stories.

  Classification: LCC PS3612.A3565 S73 2017 | DDC 813/.6--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016053266

  Printed in the United States of America

  17 18 19 20 21 LSC 5 4 3 2 1

  I dedicate this novel to George

  in loving memory

  Contents

  Books by Sarah E. Ladd

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Acknowledgments

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  Prologue

  SUPERINTENDENT’S COTTAGE, FELLSWORTH SCHOOL

  SURREY, ENGLAND, 1807

  She shouldn’t be listening. It was not polite to eavesdrop. But the daunting temptation was too much to bear.

  Annabelle Thorley pressed her thin frame against the rough plaster wall just outside her uncle’s private library. She leaned close to the paneled door and strained to hear the hushed conversation within the chamber.

  Under normal circumstances Annabelle would not care to listen to a conversation between her mother and her uncle, but a chilly autumn drizzle had forced her to abandon her painting in the garden, and boredom now compelled her to seek another form of entertainment.

  Her mother’s laughter traveled through the wall and rose above the rain’s incessant pitter-patter.

  Annabelle frowned. Her mother’s laugh did not sound like a happy one, like the one she used when she was amused or surprised. It was the high-pitched, shrill sound she made when she was nervous.

  Annabelle looked to her right and her left to make sure no one would witness her snooping, then settled back against the wall to learn the source of her mother’s discomfort.

  Her uncle�
��s words were low. “Rumors of your husband’s business failings, not to mention his sharp temper, are far-reaching, Mary. As your brother, I feel I must intervene on your behalf. So I ask you directly: Is Thorley in trouble?”

  Annabelle tightened her grip on her painting box and bit her lower lip. Why were they talking about her papa?

  A pensive silence trailed the pointed question, then her mother finally responded. “I admit he is a different man than the one I married, but one thing has remained constant: Robert is a determined individual, with lofty ambitions and exacting expectations. Nothing incites chatter more than success, so please bear in mind that the tales you hear are merely rumors. They will fade, as gossip always does.”

  Annabelle sensed the hesitation in her mother’s tone. Mama would not talk negatively about Papa. Such a tactic was not her way. Instead, she would dance around the subject, like the Christmastide street performers Annabelle had seen prancing dangerously close to open fires.

  Her uncle’s voice lowered. “Lofty ambitions can cause even the most scrupulous man to crumble. I do not trust him, Sister. I never have and I never will. I am uncomfortable with your situation, and if I am to be completely transparent, I fear for you and your children.”

  Her mother huffed. “For heaven’s sake, Edmund. You speak of him as if he is a monster.”

  “No, not a monster, but the more we know a person, the more acquainted we become with his character. You are hardly the first woman to fall in love with a man and marry, only to find he does not possess the character you believed he did. That is why my door is open if you or your children are ever in need.”

  “Thank you, but that is not necessary,” Mama snapped. “We are quite safe.”

  “But are you happy?”

  At this, no response followed.

  Annabelle bit her lip. Why would her mama not be happy? True, her papa’s voice rose from time to time, and his face was often red, but his outbursts seemed to have little effect on her.

  Annabelle gathered the courage to peek through the half-open door. She glimpsed the back of her mother’s pale-blue silk gown and the pearls woven into the ribbons adorning her chestnut tresses. Annabelle inched farther to see her uncle’s profile, his straight nose so like her mother’s . . . and her own.

  She bit her lip and assessed what she could see of the chamber. Mama would call it simple. Papa would call it impoverished. A worn woven rug covered most of the rough-planked floor. Dusty books haphazardly occupied several of the shelves lining the walls, and a single large desk stood in the center of the room. Motes balanced in the thick air, illuminated by the gray morning light seeping in the dirty windows. Her mama and uncle were seated in two faded chairs next to the fireplace.

  How different it was from her home in London.

  Uncle Edmund stood from his chair. Not wishing to be discovered, Annabelle straightened and turned, but her paintbrushes slid from the top of her mahogany watercolor box and tumbled to the floor. The resounding clatter echoed through the silent space.

  She froze.

  Sounds from the library ceased.

  Sharp footsteps snapped toward her, then stopped.

  Annabelle held her breath and looked up.

  Uncle Edmund’s tall frame filled the doorway, his expression stern. He pinned her to her spot with his keen gray eyes. Did he use this same displeased expression with his students? Her tolerant governess would have turned a blind eye to her indiscretion and sent her on her way.

  “Annabelle. Come in.”

  Annabelle locked eyes with her mother’s hazel ones, silently pleading with her mother to intervene. But she did not.

  Her uncle cleared his throat. “We are waiting.”

  Annabelle retrieved her paintbrushes from the floor and forced one foot in front of the other. She stepped near the fire . . . and closer to her mother.

  Uncle Edmund returned to his chair by the fire and settled himself. “Tell me, child. Are you in the habit of listening to other people’s conversations?”

  Annabelle shook her head.

  “I know your mother has taught you better manners than to respond to an adult by merely shaking your head. So I’ll ask you again. Are you in the habit of listening to other people’s conversations unannounced?”

  Annabelle’s mouth dried. “No, sir.”

  “I didn’t think so.” He leaned back in his chair. “How much did you hear?”

  She swallowed. “Not much.”

  “I will take this opportunity to remind you that it is unladylike to listen to private conversations without making your presence known.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Several moments of silence lingered, and Annabelle braced herself for more reprimands.

  “We’ve not had a great deal of time to visit since you have been here.”

  Her shoulders relaxed slightly when his tone softened.

  “It amazes me that you have been on this earth for these nine years and this visit is the first I have seen of you. I’ve no wish to lecture you, but I would be remiss if I did not correct you in this instance.”

  Annabelle eyed him with care. She could not decide if she liked him or not.

  He inclined his head to the center of the room. “Follow me to my desk, child. I should like to give you something.”

  At the prospect of a gift, Annabelle’s interest increased.

  Uncle Edmund pulled open a side drawer and retrieved a tiny carved statue. “When you arrived, I knew this should be in your possession.”

  She stepped closer, reached out, and accepted the trinket. It was an intricately carved hunting dog, painted with browns and blacks and small enough to fit in her palm.

  “This belonged to your mother when she was about your age. She gave it to me when she tired of it, and I’ve had it ever since. I couldn’t bear to part with it. Now I think it should be in your possession, do you not agree?”

  Maybe her uncle wasn’t as frightening as she thought. “Thank you, sir.”

  His angular face softened. “Perhaps whenever you see that, you will remember you have a friend in Fellsworth. Do not forget it. Now run along. And no more eavesdropping.”

  Annabelle curtsied and quit the room, still uncertain whether she liked her uncle or was frightened of him.

  Chapter One

  WILHURST HOUSE

  LONDON, ENGLAND, 1819

  Annabelle gasped at the sight that met her eye as she passed the parlor door. Her steps slowed. Her eyes focused.

  A strange man, clad in workman’s attire of dirty linen trousers and a shabby tan coat, hoisted her mother’s teak writing desk.

  Annabelle balled her fist at her side. “You there. Stop this instant!” she ordered from the corridor, employing her most authoritative voice.

  But the massive man paid her no heed. Once the desk was balanced on his shoulder, he reached for the matching carved chair.

  Her shoulder clipped the door’s frame when she marched into the bright parlor. “I said stop. Put that down immediately!”

  As she drew closer to the man, he turned to face her, annoyance evident in the firm set of his wide jaw. “You say something?”

  Heat rose to her cheeks at his irreverent tone. “Yes, I said something. I demand you return those items to where you found them before I call for the magistrate.”

  The man’s low, gritty laugh ignited her anger further. He shifted his weight, and his dirty boots squeaked on the polished floor. “You? And who are you?”

  Annabelle jutted her chin up. “I am Miss Annabelle Thorley, and I will not be spoken to in such a manner. Now do as I say and leave my home at once.”

  “Are you Mrs. Thomas Thorley?” he demanded.

  “I am not. I am Mr. Thorley’s sister. But that is my mother’s desk, so return it to where you found it.”

  His bushy eyebrow lifted in amusement. He lowered the chair, pulled a piece of paper from his faded waistcoat, extended it out as if reading it, and then crumpled it in his thick fingers before he
returned it to his pocket. “My orders come from Mr. Thomas Thorley, and he says this desk, and the rest of the furnishings in this chamber, are all to go to auction.”

  Without another word he pushed past her, leaving the scent of brandy and filth in his wake.

  As the meaning of his words sank in, dread trickled through her. Thomas intended to sell their late mother’s belongings. Annabelle had known her brother was in financial distress, but this?

  Sensing she was fighting a losing battle, she scurried to a cupboard while the man was out of the room and scooped personal belongings from it. A book of verses. A miniature portrait Mama had painted of Papa. The odiferous man might be a barbarian, but she would not allow him to leave with her mother’s letters. Irritation blurred her vision as she clutched the precious mementos to her chest and rushed from the room.

  Annabelle marched down Wilhurst House’s narrow hall to the back of the home. There was no question in her mind.

  Thomas needed to answer for this.

  Annabelle found him in his study, as expected, but instead of sitting at his desk, he reclined on the settee beneath the window with his arm over his eyes.

  She discarded her treasures on a small side table, stomped toward him, and poked his arm. “Wake up, Tom. Merciful heavens, it is late morning and here you are, sleeping.”

  He grunted but made no movement. “I don’t recall asking for your opinion on how I spend my time.”

  Annabelle ignored his snide remark and pulled the curtains open, allowing the bright summer sunshine to spill into the chamber. “There is a man in the parlor removing furnishings. He said you instructed him to do so, and I told him there must be some mistake.”

  Thomas heaved a bothered sigh. “No, no mistake.”

  Frustrated at his lack of interest, Annabelle poked him again. “Get up and make them stop.”

  Thomas eased his bloodshot eyes open and pulled himself up from his reclining position. He swung his boots to the polished floor, yawned, then tugged at the snowy-white cravat hanging around his neck. “I can’t stop them from taking what belongs to them.”

  “What belongs to them?” Annabelle shook her head. He was not making sense. “Tom, those are Mama’s things.”