His Sunshine Girl

By Tracy Edingfield

From the moment Stephen Lord Kempner lays eyes on the reverend’s daughter, Chastity Spencer, he thinks she embodies sunshine. To a man banished from his home for a sin he didn't commit, Chastity is a welcome sight. Lord Kempner has vowed never to love again, but his new bride must coax him into forsaking that vow and honor the ones he's made to her. Chastity tempts and terrifies Stephen at the same time. Trust his heart to a woman? Unthinkable!

He finds it hard to put the sweetness of his wife's honeysuckle kisses from his mind, though.

Book 2 in the Reluctant Unions series

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tracy Edingfield
• Release date: Feb 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9780997055177

Tracy Edingfield

Tracy Edingfield lives near Wichita, Kansas, with her husband and two sons. She graduated from the University of Kansas School of Law and enjoyed practicing law before embarking upon her second career as an author. She has published the Alex Turner trilogy under the pseudonym Tracy Dunn. You may contact Tracy on any of these social media platforms: Twitter: @TEdingfield Instagram: @tracyedingfield Facebook: Tracy Edingfield, Writer Reddit: @TEdingfieldWriter

Book preview

Chapter 1

March 13, 1809

Outside Kingston, Jamaica

The plantation’s sugar cane stood taller than Stephen Hawksley’s head. Gently, it moved in the breeze, which whistled along the island’s leeward side. Stephen walked through the cane, cutting samples of foot-long lengths and stowing them in the sweat-stained pouch slung across his chest. Next planting season, he’d integrate these grafts with other sugar cane to produce a hybrid, one more resistant to beetles.

Nuru! he called for the water boy.

Making his way across dark brown loam, a painfully thin boy traveled as fast as his spindly legs allowed. Water sloshed from Nuru’s wooden bucket, causing the corners of Stephen’s mouth to lift. Pride shone in the small boy’s face, and when he gave a toothy grin, Stephen answered in kind.

Nuru plunked down the bucket. Water slopped over the rim.

Resting his palm on the boy’s wiry, close-cropped hair, Stephen cautioned, Easy, my friend.

The seven-year-old boy made a careless wave, acting as if he had no worries. Pressing his thumb to a puffed-out chest, Nuru boasted, I’m getting stronger every day, boss!

Stephen’s gaze took in the boy’s skinny legs, noting the widest part was his kneecaps. The boy was a veritable bag of chocolate-dipped bones. Only by sheer dint of will did Stephen keep the corners of his mouth from twitching.

Overseers weren’t supposed to show their humanity. Most certainly, they weren’t to display a sense of humor.

You have some way to go.

I’ll get there.

Outside his immediate family, Stephen Hawksley didn’t hold many people in affection. Nuru was the exception, but then Nuru was easy to love.

Chuckling, the boy offered up the ladle.

Stephen drank deeply then re-dipped and dribbled water over the back of his neck.

Say, boss, look what I got! After digging into his pocket, Nuru brought forth a grubby fist. Slowly, his fingers spread to reveal the treasure that rested in his palm—a few mangled rose petals. The boy sniffed them, closing his eyes to better savor their scent. With a grin, Nuru brought his palm toward Stephen, offering him a whiff.

Years dropped by the wayside, transporting Stephen across time and an ocean. He returned to Devon, nineteen and bloody, lying face-down in the dirt behind the Penhaven stables. Badly hurt, he’d struggled to stand. He pulled himself up by grasping a vine of climbing roses. Thorns ripped his flesh, although he didn’t discover that until the next day. In that moment, he was conscious only of the roses’ heavy scent and Priscilla’s cruel laughter.

Boss?

With a speed that was unsettling, Stephen returned to Gables Plantation in Jamaica. He looked into the face of the master’s by-blow.

Smells good, eh? said Nuru.

Not to me, sport. Can’t stand the smell of roses. Stephen flicked his wrist, and Nuru shoved the petals into his pocket.

Good one, the boy chuckled, thinking he was being teased.

Stephen had meant what he said but let it pass.

Pointing across the field, Nuru said, Master must be busy. Kwasi would never come out here otherwise.

Master Gables was always busy, rutting one of the slave girls, damn his blackened soul. A pit lodged in Stephen’s belly as he saw the lanky form of his friend, Kwasi, a house slave, waving a pack of papers. Kwasi’s white teeth flashed in the broad grin spread over his narrow, angular face.

Letters from England, Stephen! From a fancy lord!

The pit grew heavier and sunk deeper. It had to be his uncle who corresponded with him. Dear God, he hoped his brothers and sister were well and alive.

The house slave placed the packet of letters into Stephen’s outstretched palm as carefully as if he were handing over a newborn babe, and just as delighted.

Slowly, Stephen’s glance flickered over the top envelope. It was battered, yellowed, and franked by Lord Kempner. His uncle, an earl. Hoping the tremor of his hands went unnoticed, Stephen tucked the packet under his cotton shirt, next to his skin.

Kwasi’s jaw dropped. You’re not going to read it?

No. Now isn’t the time to catch up on correspond—

Are you mad, boss? Nuru asked, both hands riding his bony hips.

I’ve waited four years. Stephen’s voice was harder than flint, and he made no effort to soften it. I can wait a little while yet. Get back to work before Master Gables spots us. Off with you!

The rest of the afternoon, Stephen continued cutting cane lengths, ignoring the heavy packet so close to his heart. After the sun set, he sat alone in his humble abode and stared at it. Hefting the bulk in his hand, he scanned his environs.

Less cottage than hut, his dwelling boasted a rickety table, a wooden chair, and a lumpy bed. He’d stacked books along the walls (that being the only place for them), which served the additional purpose of insulating his home and plugging the gaps in the wattle structure. Oilcloths draped over the books to keep them dry and prevent rats from chewing the pages.

Certain of his solitude, he took a deep breath, withdrew the first letter from the pack, and turned it over thoughtfully. It was written in his aunt’s hand.

Aunt Edwina, who raised Stephen and his siblings, hadn’t wished to be a mother but performed that duty after his father abandoned his brood to her care. The daughter of an earl who married an earl, Lady Edwina’s blood was as blue as that of the Prince of Wales. Very high in the instep, Edwina counted her ancestors among those who fought at the Battle of Hastings.

His ears pricked. Raindrops splattered on his plantain-leaf roof, tumbling through holes and into his hut. Sighing, he stood and leaned his straw mattress against the wall. He flung his blanket over the chair where it might stay dry.

English rain, if he remembered correctly, was gentle, a short step above misting, whereas the rains in the Caribbean? He made a humorless guffaw. Zeus must hate Jamaica. Missiles of water pelted the island whenever it rained.

Regaining his seat, he recalled his last encounter with his relative. Aunt Edwina had pounded the desk, swearing if he didn’t marry Priscilla Penhaven, she’d send him to her brother’s in Jamaica. He’d shouted she could send him to China, and he still wouldn’t marry the light-skirt.

Good times.

With trepidation, Stephen opened her concise letter. He had to read it twice before the words assumed meaning.

10 Nov. 1808

Stephen,

It is my duty to inform you that the earl has died. Enclosed is his signet ring, which belongs to you now. Kempner’s Last Will & Testament is in the solicitor’s separate letter. I have instructed Mr. Jones to include a goodly sum to see you speedily home. The children are safe. Victoria remains with me. The twins are at Harrow. The earldom requires your immediate presence.

Lady Edwina Kempner

A raindrop, perhaps a tear, splattered onto his aunt’s letter, bringing Stephen back to an awareness of his surroundings. It would be nothing short of maudlin sentimentality to shed any tears for his uncle. Stephen had met his relative a handful of times. The earl hardly ever visited Exminster House. Stephen’s sister, Victoria, had written him that the earl visited his country seat last year, but Aunt Edwina hadn’t been welcoming. The earl and countess had never rubbed along well. It was common knowledge his uncle openly lived in his London townhouse with an opera dancer. Stephen did not wonder at his aunt’s coldness to a husband so steeped in scandal broth.

Stephen lifted the oilcloth and pressed the letter between the pages of a horticulture book. Next, he unstopped the cork to his fresh bottle of rum and drank as he read the solicitor’s letter and recent will. Fixing his gaze upon Mr. Jones’s report, Stephen commended the gentleman’s concise statement of estate assets and liabilities. His uncle had been a good steward of the earldom, leaving behind a robust balance sheet.

His uncle’s Last Will and Testament was executed shortly before his death. There were modest annuities for certain servants, all male. Rather surprisingly, given their animosity toward one another, the earl had bestowed a generous jointure upon his widow. He had also directed a yearly stipend be paid to the gardener who maintained the Hawksley family graves at Exminster House.

Mr. Jones had also provided a separate accounting of Stephen’s father’s assets, which would be held in trust until his twenty-fifth birthday. Stephen had planned to return to England in two more years to collect his inheritance. Now that he was an earl, he would not have to stay in Jamaica.

He spread the documents across his tabletop.

Along with the duties of an earldom, Stephen could now assume the privilege of looking after his younger siblings. He would ensure his sister, Victoria, had a dowry and the twins, Leslie and Andrew, finished their education.

He took a swig of rum, recalling that Victoria had written that the twins were not particularly enthused with their studies. Stephen relied upon his sister’s level-headed judgment. Victoria was one of his precious links to England, Devon in particular.

A rare smile curved Stephen’s lips as he thought of his bluestocking sister. He would take her to London for the season. He would squire her about town, escort her to balls and the theater, and it would probably be to no avail. Victoria most likely would not find her future husband in those environs. Instead, she’d be happiest in libraries or lecture halls or the astronomical observatory. If she never married, she could always purchase a fine telescope with her dowry funds.

But what should be done with Leslie and Andrew? Stephen rubbed his chin, contemplating how England was forever at war somewhere. The twins had a natural talent for wreaking havoc. Might as well send them to foreign shores and encourage them to destroy one of the Empire’s enemies. Perhaps he’d purchase colors for them.

Filled with these happy plans, Stephen couldn’t wait to return home and be reunited with his siblings. A bubble of hope formed in his chest, slowly rising within him. His time in purgatory would soon be over. Deeply inhaling, he savored the moment.

How would his aunt react to his return? Her letter hadn’t contained any friendly overtures, just an informative missive. No salutation of ‘dear’ nor any affectionate closing.

That iridescent bubble plateaued then floated to the bottom of his belly.

He wiped his face, banishing the weariness that accompanied those thoughts. What did it matter if Aunt Edwina still didn’t believe him after all these years? Or if the Penhavens had besmirched his good name throughout Devon County? Stephen scoffed and pretended he didn’t care, but the truth was he did care. Both of those matters pained him. Very much so.

Stephen! Open up, it’s Kwasi.

Go away.

Hawksley, I need your help.

Quickly, Stephen crossed the dirt floor and moved the curtain that served as a door. What is it? he asked before pulling the curtain completely back. Kwasi shuffled sideways through his doorway, carrying Lettice, a cook’s assistant, in his arms. Tears glazed the apples of her cheeks, and the sleeve of her blue dress had separated from the shoulder.

Lettice? What’s happened?

He beat her, Kwasi said curtly.

It wasn’t necessary to specify who the ‘he’ was—only one person on this plantation engaged in such heinous acts, and that was Master Gables, his aunt’s brother.

Pivoting soundlessly, Stephen hauled the mattress onto the ropes in the bed frame, noting as he did so that droplets of blood were smeared on Lettice’s skirt. She choked, catching a sob in her throat. She lifted her face, revealing bruises and a cut lip. Already her cheek was swelling.

Egads. Stephen waved toward the bed and fetched the blanket from the back of his chair.

Once Kwasi laid Lettice on the bed, she croaked out, He’s a monster.

He is, Lettice. I’m so sorry. I’ll fetch some clean water. Stephen grabbed a pitcher then went outside.

By the time he reappeared, Kwasi’s shirt was untucked with a strip torn from the hem. The cotton cloth dangled from his palm like the dead skin shed from a snake. Kwasi’s shoulders were hunched, tensed.

Stephen shot him a look of inquiry.

The skinny house slave shook his head. Tried to clean her. She’d have none of me.

Is there any salve for her cuts?

I know where I can lay my hands on a jar. Kwasi spoke stiffly, his voice vibrating with anger.

I’m sorry, Lettice sniffed from the farthest corner of the bed.

Kwasi slashed the air with his hand. The strip of linen flowed like a ribbon, its graceful movement at odds with the slave’s tightly leashed anger. You have nothing to be sorry about, my dear. I shouldn’t have pulled my shirt tail out like that. I wasn’t thinking.

She stared at him, agog.

Gently, Kwasi offered the strip, Take it now. Use it to clean yourself. You’ll feel better.

Slowly, Lettie took it from him then dipped it in the water and dabbed at her cheek.

Rum? Stephen lifted the bottle.

I don’t drink spirits, she whispered, flinching as she cleaned her cuts.

Tonight, you do, Kwasi said firmly.

Lettice tipped the bottle, darting a wary gaze between Stephen and Kwasi.

Easy, Stephen said, not sure if he meant that caution for the frightened girl or his angry friend. You’re safe.

Nodding, Stephen encouraged Lettice to take another swig. Would you like to tell us what happened?

She leaned against the crude bedpost, wincing with the movement. I stay in the kitchen as much as I can because, normally, he won’t bother us there. We needed some carrots, so I…

You went outside?

Yes. I was in the garden. He caught me from behind and hauled me to the shed. She closed her eyes, but tears flowed anyway.

Kwasi stretched his hand out, as if to touch her, but she shied, and he let it fall to his side. Swearing beneath his breath, Kwasi exchanged a kindling look with Stephen.

Stephen jerked his head, indicating he should follow him outside. Kwasi and I will step out, Lettice. Give you some moments to collect yourself. Call us when you’re ready.

You’re safe here, Lettice, Kwasi added.

This wasn’t the first time Master Gables had beaten a female slave; it wasn’t the first time he’d raped one. That didn’t make it easier, however. Reaching the canopied green space outside his hut, they stood beneath the swaying shick-shack trees with their brightly colored blossoms.

You all right?

Me? It’s Lettice I’m worried about. He had no business defiling her. Someday that man’s soul will rot in hell for all he’s done.

Silently hoping his friend was right, Stephen said nothing. He’d misplaced his faith these past years. Having lived on a slave plantation, Stephen had a fairly good notion of hell but no longer believed heaven existed. Especially not on nights like this.

She’s a taking thing.

Yes, she is, Stephen agreed. How’d you get involved?

Gables called me into his study, very angry. He ordered me to auction Lettice day after tomorrow. Said if she can’t be sold, I’m to sell her to the brothel.

Stephen grimaced.

Clasping Stephen’s shoulder, Kwasi said tightly, I can’t let that happen, Stephen. I’ll take her away from here if I have to.

What? Have a bounty on both of your heads? You wouldn’t even get off the island! Don’t be rash, man.

"I have to do something."

"What you have to do is the right thing, Stephen said firmly. For now, Lettice needs you to fetch some salve."

Right. Kwasi inhaled so deeply, his chest moved. He gave himself a little shake then strode away. His long legs quickly ate up the distance, but he pivoted and returned to say, Thank you, Stephen.

Go on now. Fetch the salve. Stephen watched Kwasi’s departing figure. His friend’s devotion to Lettice shouldn’t astonish him. She was a taking thing, but to run away? That was foolhardy. Kwasi must care for the girl to even consider it.

Once Kwasi returned with the salve, Stephen explained to Lettice that it needed to be slathered onto her cuts.

Do you want one of us to help you?

For an answer, she dipped her fingertips into the jar and spread the unguent over her cheeks. Then Lettice wiped her hand and dropped into a rummy sleep.

Kwasi, I’ve inherited the earldom of my uncle.

Congratulations, Kwasi murmured, staring at the girl huddled in the corner.

Stephen shook his head. Listen to me, Kwasi. In the morning, bring fresh sheets of paper. Give me tonight to think up a plan and promise me you won’t do anything rash until you hear it.

A plan for what?

To prevent Lettice being sold at auction or to the brothel.

After agreeing, Kwasi left, casting a concerned glance over his shoulder at Lettice.

Stephen sat in his wooden chair and ruminated. Gazing at his uncle’s—now his—signet ring, Stephen appreciated having the force of an English earldom behind him.

Counting the bank notes sent by the efficient Mr. Jones, Stephen calculated the asking price for three slaves. He just might have enough to cobble together a makeshift family.

Carefully, he planned his strategy for the morrow, refusing to allow luck or hope to play a part. Hope, like a bubble, was a fragile thing. Truth be told, Stephen Lord Kempner had grown afraid to hope.

Chapter 2

Stephen and Kwasi met Master Gables in his study the next morning before breakfast. The overseer wasted no time with preliminaries.

Aunt Edwina calls me home, Master Gables. My uncle, Lord Kempner, has died. He closely followed that announcement with this observation, You will wish me to take your bastard child and the battered slave girl, I suppose.

Nuru? What do you want with him? Gables’s bushy brows drew together on his plump forehead.

"I don’t want anything with him, Stephen lied, careful not to reveal his plans. He flicked an imaginary piece of lint from his worn jacket sleeve. Nuru has weak lungs. He’ll probably be dead by month’s end. Haven’t you heard the death rattle in his chest? I’ve been told his cough keeps the slaves up half the night. As a favor to you, I thought to take him with me and spare my aunt the knowledge that you allow innocent children to die."

Master Gables squirmed in his chair. What do you intend to do with Nuru?

Stephen shrugged. If the boy survives the voyage—against house odds, I’ll add—he’ll either become a chimney sweep or a pickpocket. Leaning forward, he rubbed his palms together in gleeful anticipation. You want to contribute to your by-blow’s upkeep?

Of course not! Gables slapped away Stephen’s outstretched hand. Fine. Take the brat, but I already have plans for the girl. Going to sell her to the brothel. Let her earn her living on her back.

Can’t. A brothel wouldn’t take her now. Her face is swollen and cut up. Besides, I’ll be damned if I play nursemaid to your brat. Might as well take the disfigured freak with me, make use of her on the voyage.

From the corner of his eye, Stephen watched Kwasi’s figure stiffen as he stood by the closed door.

Plan to let her play nursemaid to you, too, eh? Master Gables barked.

Stephen shuddered, but the gleam in Master Gables’s eyes revealed disbelief and sardonic humor. A man without integrity couldn’t comprehend the motivations of a