Page 1 of Papa's Captive
Chapter 1
Lord William Caldwell, the sixth Earl of Bridgeport, leaned against the fence surrounding the track at Hampstead Racecourse, his fist raised and mouth open as he exhorted the horse upon which he had wagered—Papa’s Girl—as the mare rushed toward the finish line. Exhilaration pumped through his veins. William preferred speed over slowness, change over staying the same, surprise over predictability. For him, the race track embodied all those things, as well as an opportunity to fatten his wallet.
The horses thundered past his position, kicking up dust, and the smell of sweat, both equine and human, filled his nostrils as they roared by. Papa’s Girl was two furlongs in the lead with four furlongs to go. He had picked a winner. The crowd surged toward the finish line and he moved with them.
Most gentlemen of his station observed the races from the reserved boxes, but not William. Within him burned a need to be in the thick of the action. Passive spectating was not for him. Amongst the cluster of working class men who had come to the track for a bit of merriment on a Saturday afternoon, he stood out by his dress and demeanor, as well as the amounts which he wagered.
He fed upon the energy of the crowd and his pulse quickened. Earlier that day at White’s, a lively conversation had taken place over the virtues of various steeds which would be racing that day. He had intended to call upon his betrothed that afternoon, but when he glanced at the racing form and saw the name Papa’s Girl, he felt certain it was a sign from above and he had altered his intentions in order to visit the track.
Although he did not mention it in conversation with others, William believed in signs, fate, kismet, particularly as it related to his fiancee, Rosie. She had literally fallen at his feet a few weeks earlier and the moment he set his eyes on her, he knew the fates had intervened on his behalf, sending her to him in an unmistakable sequence of events which could only be the result of forces which were not of this earth.
Rosie had not been so easily convinced. “I find it difficult to believe, sir, that my future should be decided by a weakened board that caused me tofall at your feet like a gift from the heavens, as you have so eloquently put it.”
“But you would allow your guardian, Miss Wickersham, to choose your husband, is that not true?”
“Miss Wickersham is a sentient being who has made brilliant matches for many young ladies over the years. A weakened board is best used for kindling, not matchmaking,” she had said with a sniff and a haughty lift of her chin.
Oh, how he enjoyed the challenge of persuading her otherwise. Her prim and proper ways, adherence to the rules, ramrod straight posture….it all brought out something in him which he could not control, a desire to make her laugh and be silly. He wanted to be the one to see beneath her somewhat frosty exterior.
A stirring in his loins reminded him of his intense desire to see beneath her starched pantalettes as well. Her beauty arrested his thoughts, invaded his dreams and sent him into a near hysteria of desire.
He had finally prevailed upon her to accept his proposal of marriage. Miss Wickersham had been nearly as hard to convince, though her resolve was softened with a bag of gold coins.
Rosie, however, was nonplussed by his gifts. Or so she seemed, though he noted that upon his most recent visit she wore a broach which he had given her and the sight of it pinned above her breast had filled him with joy. ‘Twas though it was a badge of honor proving he had won her heart.
Despite those successes, the young lady continued to put him off when it came to setting a wedding date.
As he watched Papa’s Girl rushing around the track, he felt certain it was a sign that his Rosie was ready and would be his, running into his arms, very soon.
He was removed from his thoughts when the crowd of spectators erupted in groans and shouts of dismay. Glancing up, he saw that Papa’s Girl had, for no apparent reason, stopped stone cold in her tracks, nearly tossing the jockey over her head, while the rest of the pack surged past her.
Uninjured, but determined, the horse refused to budge until the stable boy covered her eyes with a fabric sack and led her away.
William wondered if this too was a sign from above.
Perhaps Rosie simply needed a little push to help her overcome whatever anxieties were keeping her from agreeing to set a date soon. His mind filled with all the ways he might help her overcome her hesitancy, some of them not quite as innocent as his little bride-to-be.
Indeed, some of William’s ideas were downright scandalous.
* * *
Everything was changingand Rosie did not care for it. No, she most certainly did not. Each morning for nearly two months, she had opened her eyes in the large bedchamber at Talcott House and the first thing she saw was the empty bed of her beloved friend Daisy. And each morning as her eyes took in the neatly arranged counterpane and lace edged pillows of the unused bed, loneliness and anxiety washed over her.
She missed Daisy. Truth be told, she missed Cynny and Cammie too. She wished with all her heart that things could go back to how they had been just a few months earlier when the four friends had lived together in the big corner bedchamber, their days filled with lessons and hijinks, their nights consisting of giggles and whispered secrets.
Though they all knew their most important role in life was to be a proper wife for the papas their guardian, Miss Wickersham, would select for them, Rosie never imagined matters would move as quickly as they had in recent months. First Cammie got married, and that seemed fine, but when Cynny and Daisy got married in rapid succession, Rosie’s well-ordered world went topsy turvy. Rosie hated topsy turvy.
Sitting up in bed, she gave herself a bit of chastisement at her unfair and selfish thoughts. Cammie, Cynny and Daisy had all married and were, if their letters were any indication, blissfully happy with their papas. And she was glad for them, truly she was.
And yet…
Fighting off the urge to bury her head under the blankets and hide from the world, Rosie reached into her nightstand and pulled out the stack of letters she had stored there.
During the two years since her arrival at Talcott House, she had never received a piece of correspondence. A letter for any of the residents there was rare, all of them having come from backgrounds which they were all too happy to forget and leave in the past. Had they any relations or connections in the world outside Talcott House, there would be no need for them to accept the benevolence of Miss Wickersham.
Miss Wickersham was unlike anyone Rosie had ever met with her sharp eyes and sometimes sharp tongue, she cared for her charges with a firm hand—and sometimes a firm spanking—and singular devotion. Though not afraid to turn one of her little ladies over her knee or send her to the naughty chair for an infraction, Miss Wickersham also protected her girls with a ferocity which Rosie had come to see was unconditional.
The walls of Talcott House provided safe haven. Rosie recalled her first few nights at the stately country home and how once she had realized she was truly protected, she had slept soundly for two days straight. The weight of the world which had pressed down upon her, nearly to the point of suffocation, had lifted. Not entirely. No, it would never be completely gone, for shame—once painted upon a person’s soul—always left a stain. But being able to sleep without jumping to panicked wakefulness at every little sound had made a world of difference and helped her to begin the long process of healing. Or rather, trying to heal. To start feeling physically and mentally sound enough to finally move on with her new life. The sad truth was she would never feel completely untarnished by the stark circumstances which had led to her arrival at Talcott House.
