A Wish For Nicholas. Jackie Manning

shook her head, as though she knew she was talking to a lost cause. “You need to marry a man who’ll take care of ye.”

      “That’s why my mother wanted me to marry the old general. Poor man was dead in less than a year, and I still have to manage on my own. Besides, no man will marry me with a baby brother and a sister who’s unable to speak. He’d insist they be turned over to an orphanage, or worse. Marriage isn’t the answer, Molly.”

      Molly’s brows knitted together. “I ’eard Willoughby knew of a gentleman offering to buy the estate from Sinclair.”

      Becky had heard the rumor, too. Willoughby had a keen business sense, almost as astute as her own. He leased the river rights for his livestock from Thornwood Hall, but that was no guarantee he’d continue to do so unless he made friends with Sinclair. But there was no reason to worry Molly about it.

      “Sinclair might keep the property and ask me to manage it,” Becky answered with confidence, despite the wrench of fear in her stomach. She dared not reveal her plan to frighten any prospective buyers away, including Squire Willoughby. Not yet, anyway.

      “You and the other crofters have nothing to worry about, Molly. I’m taking care of everything.” She winked, then put on her riding gloves while she strode toward the cottage door.

      “I’ll see that your sister has extra bedding brought around for Nelda, and I’ll tuck in a basket with a ham joint and an extra bowl of eggs,” Becky said.

      She was rewarded with Molly’s broad smile. “God bless ye, Becky. Yer mum an’ da would be so proud of ye.”

      No need to upset Molly with the facts. If Becky’s plan failed, the new owner would throw out the old, frail crofters who couldn’t pay their rents, thus forcing them to join the bands of paupers who went on the tramp for food, only to be greeted by scorn and little charity.

      Becky forced a smile as she waved goodbye to Molly, then strode purposely toward her mare, waiting at the fence.

      A few minutes later, Becky rode along the hedgerow path, her thoughts tumbling around the greatest challenge of her life—Sir Nicholas Sinclair. For whatever reason, she couldn’t push back the threat from her mind.

      She chewed on her lip. Aye, she’d be thrown in prison, if Sinclair knew all the facts. What if he discovered her duplicity with the business ledgers? What if he found out she kept two sets of accounts? One ledger recorded the true profits, the other—kept for the tax assessor—registered only a tiny sum of the manor’s true bounty.

      But Sinclair wouldn’t find out. The servants were family, and the merchants who purchased their goods were related to her in some way. Furthermore, they were paid handsomely for their loyalty.

      She was safe. Besides, hadn’t Squire Willoughby’s wife said that Sinclair was a navy man who’d return to sea when his wounds healed? Aye, he’d only remain in the country long enough to see Thornwood Hall for himself and to find a buyer.

      And he wouldn’t find a buyer. For what man would purchase an estate that was haunted by the avenging ghost of her late husband, Ol’ Winky? Crops would be stunted, cattle would drop in the fields, all manner of bad luck would follow. Or so word would spread.

      Usually, thinking of her plan to invent her late husband’s ghost raised her spirits. But not today, for some reason. She needed to go to the one place that always brought her peace.

      Becky pressed her heels into the mare’s sides and rode across the field toward the wildflower meadow. She needed to talk to The Family.

      A short while later, Becky brushed aside the sun-dried flowers from her mother’s gravestone that the wind failed to blow away from yesterday’s bouquet. Then she laid the freshly picked buttercups and blue larkspur at the foot of the stone cross.

      Head bowed, she prayed silently. Afterward, she adjusted the sash, which held the general’s sword she always carried, and stepped back. Her gaze swept the tall, hand-carved headstone.

      “Mum, you’d be so proud of Baby Harry. Yesterday, Aphra dressed him up in Da’s Roundhead uniform. He paraded around the study, grabbed the poker like a sword and marched like a glorious little soldier.” Her throat felt thick and dry.

      “Sally is teaching Aphra to sew. Aphra tried to stick her with a pin, but I think it was because Sally had taken apart your yellow silk gown and was fitting it to her…” Becky bit back the sting of tears. To see her mother’s favorite gown in pieces had triggered a jolt of sadness in her.

      Becky squeezed the hilt of her sword. “I keep praying Aphra will speak again, Mum. It’ll be a year next month since…” Her bottom lip trembled.

      Becky paced back and forth. “This morning, I told Peter he could try his hand at repairing the old boat that Da had built. He gave me one of his rare smiles…” She grinned at the memory. “When Peter smiles at me like that, Mum, he reminds me so much of you. His warm brown eyes light up like yours when he’s happy.” She swallowed hard to fight back the tears while she poked at the grass with her sword. “Next month, Peter will be ten and two, and already he’s as tall as I am.” She smiled as she thought of her quiet, sensitive brother. “Remember what fun we had when Da took us to market in that boat? Peter says he remembers, but he was too young. He was Baby Harry’s age, then.”

      Becky closed her eyes, the sun warming her face as the memories comforted her. “So many years ago. I wasn’t much older than Aphra, myself.”

      The sun hid behind a cloud, and Becky opened her eyes. She stepped to the next grave, a massive stone cross and circle.

      Her dear da. She laid a few yellow wildflower sprigs on the tufts of green grass beside the stone column. “Geer and I sold the best pieces of furniture at market last week, Da. Got three times what I had hoped for them. You’d have been proud at how I wrangled the bid. Told the story of how Cromwell, himself, had lain on the table while his aide dug a musket ball from his arm.”

      She chuckled. “Those royals will believe anything.” She rubbed her hand over the carved letters on the marker. The stone felt warm in the July sun.

      “Don’t worry, Da. I’ll find a way to send Sir Nicholas Sinclair back to sea before he sells our home. I’ll keep my promise to take care of everyone.”

      Becky strode past the shady rise to the three distant headstones. Her older sister, Betty, lay beside their grandparents. Betty had been taken ill within a fortnight before the plague had claimed their parents.

      Becky scattered the buttercups among the remaining graves. Memories rushed at her like an unsuspecting gale. She could hardly put her feelings into words.

      “God help me, I’ll take care of Aphra, Peter and Baby Harry, just as you took care of me.” Her eyes stung with unshed tears while the memory of her sister’s high spirits rang on the soft breeze of the sunlit meadow. Her heart wrenched with loss.

      A few minutes later, Becky climbed the steep hill near the cemetery fence. Scattering flowers onto the bright green blades of grass surrounding the older headstones, she moved to the last marker. She released the remainder of the wildflowers at the bottom of the stone of her late husband.

      “General,” she said, addressing him by the title she had always used in his presence, although she referred to him since his death as Ol’ Winky, as he was affectionately known by everyone. “I’ll stand fast against this Sinclair fellow. I won’t give up Thornwood Hall without a fight.”

      She wondered what the old general might have done if he were alive. Ol’ Winky had been almost seventy when she’d married him. Even in his dotage, his iron will and feistiness earned him respect among the shire.

      She rubbed her fingers across the rough stone. “I’m sorry for the lie I’m about to tell, General. But I thought if you knew that a Royalist was taking over your estate, you’d tear off on one of your rides, like you did on the anniversaries of the great battles, your shouts echoing throughout the valley.” She smiled. “So loud even Squire Willoughby