An Heiress at Heart

Begin Reading

Table of Contents

A Preview of
A Lady most Lovely

Copyright Page

In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

In memory of my mother

Margaret Wayt DeBolt

Who believed we ought to follow our dreams

                                          
Acknowledgments

I
owe a very large debt to the Romance Writers of America for opening so many doors in publishing and, most important, for giving me the tools to make the most of those opportunities and to grow as an author.

Many thanks to my local RWA chapter, the Heart of Carolina Romance Writers, who continue to provide an astonishing amount of wisdom and inspiration.

Thanks to my agent, Jessica Alvarez, and to my editor, Lauren Plude, who both got me to the fast lane rather quickly and have thus far managed to keep me on the road.

Thanks to my critique partners for this book, Sarra Cannon and Karen Anders: to Sarra for insight and encouragement, and to Karen for being the very best example of a mentor.

Thanks to Elaine Luddy Klonicki, my first ever beta reader, for being so excited about my book and providing valuable input.

I am most especially grateful to all my friends and
family. Not once did anyone tell me it couldn’t be done: everyone cheered me on from the beginning. I am thankful every day to have such amazing support.

Thanks to Frank DeBolt, Sr., my wonderful dad, who has given me so much over the years.

Last, and most, thanks to Jim Harrington for love, laughter, and believing—in short, for being a husband
extraordinaire.
Any resemblance to my books’ heroes is not entirely coincidental.

As far as the east is from the west,

So far hath he removed our transgressions from us.

Bless the Lord, O my soul.

—
PSALM
103

Ever the wonder waxeth more and more,

So that we say, “All this hath been before,

All this hath been, I know not when or where.”

So, friend, when first I look’d upon your face,

Our thought gave answer each to each, so true—

Opposed mirrors each reflecting each—

That tho’ I knew not in what time or place,

Methought that I had often met with you,

And either lived in either’s heart and speech.

—
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

                                                          
Prologue

New South Wales, Australia, February
1846

B
eyond this breach, my friends, lies the great Bathurst Plains!”

This announcement came from a man on horseback who was leading the procession of four bullock drays—large two-wheeled carts piled high with supplies and pulled by oxen.

From her perch atop one of the drays, Lizzie Poole strained to catch her first glimpse of the valley beyond the Blue Mountains.

It had been a long journey from Sydney. For three days they’d traveled the narrow road painstakingly cut through the mountain pass. The road had risen and fallen sharply and taken countless turns through narrow gorges. Lizzie thought they might never escape the dense woods, which were at times so thick she could barely see the sky above. And she did not care at all for the bird they called the kookaburra, whose call sounded to her like maniacal laughter.

But they were at last moving into bright sunshine. The drivers brought the rigs to a halt at the point where the road crested a ridge, and the western valley opened before them in a breathtaking vista. Beyond the steep cliffs with their dramatic rock formations, the land stretched away for miles: trees and plains making a tapestry of green and brown, dotted here and there with colorful flowers. Lizzie even glimpsed a sparkle of blue from a distant river. Although she had spent four months looking at the ocean’s endless horizon, the world never appeared as large to her as it did now.

“Tom, isn’t it magnificent?” she called down to her brother, who had been walking beside the dray.

“Aye,” agreed Tom. “It looks bigger than all of England.”

Lizzie could see the same awe she felt reflected on the faces of the other newcomers: there were three single men who had been hired straight off the ship in Sydney to work on the sheep farms, and a clergyman, Rev. Greene, who had traveled with his wife and two children to preside over the small church in Bathurst.

Their guide, Mr. Edward Smythe, appeared pleased at their reactions. He spread his arms wide and proclaimed in theatrical tones:

“The boundless champaign burst upon our sight,

Till nearer seen the beauteous landscape grew,

Op’ning like Canaan on rapt Israel’s view.”

Lizzie smiled. She was not surprised that Mr. Smythe should be spouting poetry at a moment like this. He was a handsome man, with dark hair and expressive brown
eyes, and Lizzie could easily picture him as an actor on the stage. He was young, too; like Lizzie and her brother, he looked to be still in his twenties. What intrigued Lizzie most, however, was that although his accent revealed him to be an English gentleman, he seemed perfectly at home in this rough and untamed land.

“Canaan,” repeated Mrs. Greene, who was seated on the dray with Lizzie and cradling an infant in her arms. “I suppose the Promised Land was indeed as beautiful as this.”

Lizzie considered these words as the drays once more took up their slow, steady advance. She and Tom had left behind everything in England. Would they really find a new beginning here, as Tom had promised her? She desperately hoped so.

After another hour or so, they came within sight of a group of men digging a ditch along the edge of the road. There were ten of them, and Lizzie thought she had never seen such miserable-looking creatures. Dirty and ragged, they worked with grim determination under the oversight of three men—the master of the crew, shouting orders from horseback; a tall man with a sunburned face, who was holding a shotgun; and a third very large fellow, who was wielding a whip.

When the master saw the caravan, he immediately rode up to meet them and exchanged greetings with Mr. Smythe, riding along with him for a few minutes as the caravan kept its forward pace. The other two men, Lizzie noticed, kept the road crew mercilessly at work.

“This is Captain McCann,” Mr. Smythe announced to the travelers. “He is in charge of keeping this road maintained and safe.”

“Welcome,” said the captain, riding his horse up the line of oxcarts so he could greet everyone. “I am happy to see more immigrants to the valley.” When he saw Lizzie, he lifted up his eyebrows in surprise, then turned and said over his shoulder, “What’s this, Smythe? Did you take your wife with you all the way to Sydney and back again?”

Mr. Smythe’s eyes glinted in amusement. “No, sir,” he said. “This is Miss Poole. Lately arrived from England with her brother.”

A look of confusion crossed the captain’s face. After a moment’s hesitation, he replaced it with an apologetic smile and raised his cap to Lizzie. “I beg your pardon, miss.”

“Are those… convicts?” the minister’s wife asked timidly, pointing to the workers.

“Indeed they are, ma’am,” the captain responded. “We’ve brought them up here to repair the culverts.”

Two of the convicts turned from their work to watch the drays as they passed, but a flash of the whip from the burly man sent them back to their labors once more.

“Poor creatures,” she said, echoing Lizzie’s thoughts.

“Do not give them too much pity, ma’am,” the captain said. “They brought it upon themselves by their evil ways. ’Twas no more than they deserved.”

“Why, what have they done?”

“Thieves, mostly,” he replied coolly. “Some are murderers, too. You’ll do well to stay clear of them.”

As their cart passed the convicts, two others managed to throw them dark glares without their overseer being aware of it.

Rev. Greene’s son turned to him and said, “Papa, do you suppose God has forgiven those fellows?”

“He has if they have repented and asked Him for forgiveness,” he replied.

“Do you really believe it is that simple?” Tom asked him. “Wouldn’t a just God exact vengeance?”