The Unsuitable Suitor [NOOK Book]

Read an Excerpt

"Where is it?" Miss Miranda Fraser cried, her anxiety rising as she frantically riffled through the desk drawer. "It should be right here!"

A bewhiskered man stood in the doorway of the small room, his icy gaze following Miranda's every move.

"It has been here ever so many years," Miranda added. "Ever so many!" She shot an anxious glance at the elderly man, who only moments ago had appeared at the door to Fraser Cottage, an ancient half-timbered manor home situated in a pretty glen a few miles beyond the tiny hamlet of Halifax.

Today had begun much the same as countless others for Miranda and her sisters, who lived alone in the country now that both their parents had passed on. Soon after luncheon, Katie and Lucy had set off for the village and Miranda had curled up in her favorite overstuffed chair in the great room with a tattered copy of Ellen, Countess of Castle Howel, a widely circulated Minerva novel lent to her by their closest neighbor, Mrs. Willy-Harris.

Less than a quarter-hour later, however, Miranda's attention had been shattered by the insistent crunch of carriage wheels on the graveled drive in front. Thinking that perhaps a stranger had become lost in the tangle of country lanes and needed help in finding his way back to the main road, Miranda laid her book aside and proceeded to the front door of the cottage. Confused travelers at their doorstep were not an uncommon occurrence. Many were the times Miranda had listened to her papa, the late Vicar Fraser, steer lost souls back to the right path, both literally and figuratively.

Papa was the kindest man Miranda had ever known and she and her sisters dearly loved him. His sudden death justabove one year ago, coming so quickly upon the heels of Mama's passing, was something the three Fraser girls had not yet got over. Still, despite their deep sorrow, the young ladies knew they had a great deal to be thankful for.

Although Papa had left them very little in the way of worldly goods, he'd always said that no matter what, they'd always have their home--Fraser Cottage. Though not the official rectory in the parish where Papa had held his living, the right to occupy the lovely manor home had been granted to Great-grandfather Fraser and any, or all, of his descendants who wished to remain there. Many times throughout her one and twenty years of life, Miranda had watched her papa carefully withdraw the aged yellow parchment from the top drawer of his desk and solemnly read over each and every word, then nod his head with satisfaction and slowly return the ancient document to its resting place.

So, why--Miranda frantically flung open another drawer in her father's large desk--could she not find the document now?

"A fortnight, Miss Fraser," said the gentleman darkening the doorway. "You and your sisters have a fortnight in which to vacate the premises."

"No!" Miranda cried. She flung another frightened gaze at the unfeeling stranger. The solicitor, named Mr. Fitch, had traveled all the way up from London to personally deliver the wretched news to whomever was currently occupying the cottage. It was clearly apparent to Miranda that the man did not believe in the existence of Papa's grant.

But it did exist! It did! Miranda's heart thundered wildly in her breast as she turned her attention again to her search. Where had the document got to? Already, Miranda had scattered the entire contents of three long drawers onto the desktop. Now, stooping over the row of smaller drawers to the side of the kneehole, she frantically worked her way to the bottom of them.

It must be here! It must be!

A mere week before Papa's passing, he'd again gathered his three daughters together and shown it to them once more. Miranda tearfully recalled the hollow sound of her papa's once-strong voice as he solemnly reiterated the terms of the agreement made between his great-grandfather George Fraser and ... Miranda's stomach clinched fearfully as she valiantly tried to recall the other signature that appeared alongside that of George Fraser, but she was too overset now to remember what the other name was. It was obviously a distant relative of the gentleman who had sent this Mr. Fitch up from London to deliver the terrible news to the Fraser girls that the dilapidated estate upon which their home sat had been sold and the new owner meant to take immediate possession of the cottage himself!

"I assure you, Mr. Fitch..." Miranda tried to remain calm as she pulled herself to her full five-foot-two-inch frame and addressed the man again. "My sisters and I do have a legal claim to occupy our home. Fraser Cottage is called Fraser Cottage for the simple reason that it has always been--"

A sharp tone cut her off. "The estate has been sold, Miss Fraser. No entailments to it exist. Any verbal agreement made between your father's predecessors and those of the former owner are now null and void."

"No!" Miranda gulped down her terror and fought the sudden rush of tears that sprang to her eyes.

The solicitor turned to make his way back to the foyer. Numbly, Miranda followed the cold-hearted man. She watched as he paused before the arched opening that gave onto the sunny great room. Blue chintz curtains fluttered at the mullioned windows, three of them standing open, a bright swath of afternoon sun spilling onto the freshly scrubbed hardwood floor and the hand-woven rug before the hearth. A breath of fresh air, rich with the heady scent of cool, dark earth and the new growth of spring reached Miranda's nostrils. Her heart lodged fitfully in her throat as she watched the man's gaze calculatedly assessing her beloved family home.

She and her family loved every nook and cranny of the quaint old house, from the strong-beamed ceilings overhead to the sturdy oaken floors beneath their feet. Never in her life had she contemplated living anywhere but here. She and her older sister Katie, three years her senior at four and twenty, had already accepted the fact that they would live here forever. With few to no likely candidates for marriage hereabouts, neither she nor Katie had given much thought to becoming any man's wife.

Lucy, of course, would marry. The youngest of the three Fraser girls, at sixteen, she was by far the prettiest and most outgoing of the three. Lucy was like Mama. Papa had always said that he had only to take one look at Maryella Brantley and he knew he would spend the rest of his life with her. It had been love at first sight for Mama and Papa. Miranda expected the same sort of romantical thing would happen to Lucy. She was that pretty.

Not so Miranda, or Katie. Not unattractive, they had both inherited Papa's even features, slender build, and brown hair, though Miranda's eyes were a lovely shade of sea green, whereas Katie's were brown, like Papa's and Sir Oliver's, his older brother. But Lucy, with her thick auburn hair and bright blue eyes, was much more vibrant than either of her sisters. Lucy already stood a good head taller than they and her figure was more rounded, one might even say buxom. Lucy would indeed marry, but Miranda and Katie would stay right here, the same as they always had, enjoying the simple, peaceful life they loved at Fraser Cottage.

Although without the precious document in hand, how was she to convince Mr. Fitch of that?

A fierce longing for the life she had always known gripped Miranda. She could never leave their home! Never! Despite the family's reduced circumstances now, she and her sisters wanted for nothing. So long as they had their home and one another to love and care for, they were happy. They were safe. Even with Papa and Mama gone, life had changed very little for them. For the past year, the girls had managed quite well on Papa's pension, and there was still the hope of someday receiving the money Uncle Oliver, a baronet in his own right, had left to them. Although lately, Miranda had begun to seriously doubt that Uncle Oliver had had any money at all when he passed on. Given his penchant for excess, it seemed far more likely that he'd have exited this world with all his pockets to let than with anything to bequeath.

Oh, dear Lord, what was to become of them?

With no other living relatives, at least none that would welcome them, they truly had nowhere else to go!

Miranda thought again of her papa's disorderly desk in the study. Surely, in her haste to find it, she had simply overlooked the precious parchment. Surely, once Mr. Fitch was gone, she would find it. She must find it!

She hurried after the gentleman, who was now making his own way through the heavy front door that still stood ajar where Miranda had left it after the solicitor had so abruptly stated his business. One gloved hand resting on the latch, the man flung a backward nod at her. "'Twill make a fine hunting lodge," he said. The door slammed shut behind him and he was gone.

Miranda gasped aloud.

A hunting lodge! Not their home! Papa would roll over in his grave; Mama, too. They were the kindest, gentlest people to ever walk the earth. Papa would never turn anyone from their home!

And ... and ... neither would she!

"Mr. Fitch!" she called after the man. She heard his boots crunching on the pebbles beneath his feet as he made his way again to his carriage. Darting onto the drive after him, she shouted, "My sisters and I will not be turned from our home, Mr. Fitch! Not ever!"

The man from London did not even glance up. Glaring at his retreating backside, Miranda's nostrils flared with fury. Her small breasts rose and fell with frustration and indignation. How dare the man ignore her!

After the coach door had snapped shut, a swirl of dust and pebbles filled the air as the dusty black carriage made a wide turn, then hurled down the lane, headed toward the fork in the road that, unless one was paying close attention and did not miss the sharp turn to the left, would not take one straight back to the main highway.

Miranda's head ached with anger. She hoped Mr. Fitch's driver was as clunch-headed as he was and had not noted the markers on the way here. She hoped the pair of them became hopelessly lost in the thick woods that lay north of Fraser Cottage and that they never made it back to London! She hoped--

Oh! What was the use?

She felt her chin begin to tremble as anguish and yes, hatred! for the bearer of the bad news filled her to overflowing. She fought the flow of hot, stinging tears that of their own accord were already trickling down her cheeks.

But, a scant second later, she bit down hard on her trembling lower lip and squared her small shoulders. Self-pity was not in her character. She would find the proof of their claim to Fraser Cottage and take it to the new owner herself! London was not so very far away.