The Best Intentions, page 1
Cover image © Arcangel / Shelley Richmond
Cover design copyright © 2022 by Covenant Communications, Inc.
Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.
American Fork, Utah
Copyright © 2022 by Sarah M. Eden
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., PO Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of Covenant Communications, Inc., or any other entity.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Eden, Sarah M., author.
Title: The best intentions / Sarah M. Eden.
Description: American Fork, Utah : Covenant Communications Inc., [2022] | Series: Huntresses ; 1
Identifiers: LCCN 2022940562 | ISBN 978-1-52442-229-5
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022940562
First Printing: November 2022
Praise for Sarah M. Eden
“Sarah M. Eden’s The Best Intentions is book one of the Huntresses Series. Gillian Phelps knows that her standing in society is on shaky ground. She may have the huntresses and Artemis as her closest and dearest friends, but a devastating secret can quickly destroy her and her family’s reputation. She is wary and careful when she meets Scott Sarvol at her first house party. Scott realizes immediately Miss Phelps’s discomfort with him and assures her that he is a decent person and she has nothing to fear from him. Eventually, Gillian warms to him, but as her feelings for the handsome gentleman go deeper, she realizes that she has more to lose than she initially thought.
“Sarah M. Eden creates the perfect historical society setting in her novel Best Intentions. The first book of the Huntresses Series is filled with intrigue, gossip, and the usually complicated machinations and silently agreed-upon rules that every noble must follow not to be shunned or looked down upon by high society. This historical romance took me on an unforgettable ride. In this historical timeframe, I bore witness to the blossoming love between Gillian and Scott. I have also experienced Gillian’s heartache and fear as she tried her best to fit in with society and hide the secret that could change how everyone sees her. There is a classical feel to this story that called to me and I was helplessly drawn in by the amazing, distinctive characters, the smooth plot, and the beautifully described setting. Best Intentions charmed me with its exceptionally detailed story-telling and allowed me into a world I have only ever dreamed of.”
—Readers’ Favorite five-star review
“A masterfully woven tale of an impossible love match historical fans will eagerly devour!”
—InD’tale Magazine
“Sarah M. Eden’s characters are so real and so charming they linger in your heart long after her books end.”
—Sian Ann Bessey, award-winning author of The Georgian Gentlemen series
“The Regency romance Charming Artemis is pure escapism. Set in 1818 England, the novel revolves around an upper-crust young man and woman who initially detest each other but gradually resolve their animosity. Charlie and Artemis’s repartee and a realistically portrayed Georgian milieu will keep those pages turning.”
—Historical Novel Society
“Sarah Eden’s ability to portray real, raw emotions is incredible.”
—Karen Thornell author of To Marry an Earl
“Highly recommended!”
—Melissa Tagg, Carol award-winning author of the Walker Family series and Now and Then and Always
“Eden is a talented writer who makes historical, Regencies, Westerns, or whatever genre she tackles exciting and informative.”
—Meridian Magazine
“What a treat! Old friends and new ones abound in this delightful new series.”
—Esther Hatch, INDIES Silver Medal Award winner and author of the Proper Scandals series
Dedicated to that one time in second grade when the playground game I invented, we’re all birds, resulted in damage to multiple trees and mrs. sutliff, while acknowledging I had the best intentions, still banned the game in the name of arboreal preservation
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to
Jolene Perry for letting me whine and plot and celebrate and “give up” all while managing to always keep me writing
Traci Abramson and Sian Bessey for being sounding boards, sources of encouragement, and enablers of much-needed procrastination
Annette Lyon and Luisa Perkins for Tuesday writing days and words that wouldn’t have happened otherwise
Jesse Perry and Ginny Miller for getting me through galleys
Liz Swick and Jonathan Eden for helping keep things running
Pam Pho and Bob Diforio for advocating for me and cheering me on
Everyone at Covenant Communications for enthusiastically embracing this new series
Chapter One
County Durham, September 1818
The London Season was over, and Society had retreated to its various country houses to continue their revelry in more private settings. For her part, Gillian Phelps retreated to Houghton Manor in Durham and embraced the revelry of time well spent on the grounds and in the surrounding countryside, tending to plants in the conservatory and indulging in a bit of correspondence with her closest friends. It was precisely how she spent all her time away from London.
She didn’t dislike the social whirl. She simply needed the balance of time in the country surrounded by nature after months in Town among the ton. This year, however, she was leaving Durham—after not nearly enough time there—to attend a house party. She had never been a guest at a house party before, though she’d heard many tales of them, both from those she knew in Society and from Mrs. Brownlow, her benefactress and the mistress of Houghton Manor. Gillian fluctuated between being disappointed at leaving the peace and quiet of Houghton Manor and worried that she would make an utter cake of herself at her very first house party.
She considered herself intelligent and clever. Society hadn’t declared her a complete disaster, though that was owed more to the tutelage and support of her friends than to any social ability on her part. She belonged to a group of friends known throughout Society as the Huntresses, their fearless leader being Artemis Jonquil, whose ancient namesake was the goddess of the hunt and leader of her own band of huntresses. The seven members of Artemis’s band were the very closest of friends.
Gillian would not have admitted to having a favorite, but she didn’t imagine it had escaped the notice of the Huntresses that she and Daria Mullins, one of their number, were particularly close. Indeed, Daria was at Houghton Manor now, the two of them having decided to make the journey to Cumberland together. Daria had arrived two days earlier, and their time together had been as delightful as ever. The Mullins family hadn’t the financial hardships Gillian’s family did, but they had struggles of their own: animosity, anger, and general misery. Perhaps that was what had endeared the two of them to each other so quickly—their families had proven more a difficulty in their lives than a comfort.
Their traveling trunks were packed, and they would be departing that very day. Daria, friend that she was, had agreed to a final walk around the grounds. Gillian took a moment to enjoy the flowers and the lush green trees. Autumn would settle in soon enough. She didn’t mind the change of seasons but loved nature all year round. For the last seven years, Mrs. Brownlow had allowed Gillian to have a hand in the gardens and lawns and expanses of Houghton Manor. Gillian had adored every minute of it.
“Artemis says there will be gentlemen at the house party.” Daria sounded nervous about that possibility.
“She does love a crowd.” Gillian knew that well enough.
“These gentlemen are Charlie’s friends, and they’ve studied at Cambridge.” Now Daria looked as nervous as she sounded. “They’re likely intellectuals and academics like he is. They will think me an utter featherhead.”
“Only if they are complete dunderheads themselves,” Gillian declared. Daria was not the most scientifically or logically minded, but she was far from stupid. “Artemis would not invite people to her house who would mistreat her Huntresses, no matter their friendship with her husband. I believe we can move forward with some confidence on this matter.”
“But what if they’ve hidden their nefariousness well and even Charlie doesn’t realize what they are truly like?”
Gillian set her shoulders and faced her dear friend. “Then we will do just what Artemis has taught all of us to do in the face of Society’s disagreeableness. We know how to do battle.”
Some of Daria’s confidence returned. “Retreat. Wield a shield. Return fire.”
Those were Artemis’s three strategies for facing Society, ones she had long ago instilled in all the Huntresses, and the strategies had proven invaluable. When faced with cruelty or mistreatment or insults or any number of unpleasantries Society so often doled out, they would choose from that list. Retreat: ignore or leave the situation. Wield a shield: deflect the attack or change the topic. Return fire: stand firm and defend themselves .
“What is the strategy if a gentleman proves more handsome than one was expecting?” Daria asked with a glint of laughter in her eyes. “Swooning, I assume.”
“I have no intention of swooning,” Gillian assured her.
“I’ve seen you swoon over enough gentlemen to know it is entirely possible that you will.” Daria grinned. “I know all your secrets.”
Oh, but she didn’t. Gillian made perfectly sure of that. “Swoon is too strong a word. I have appreciated a few gentlemen over the years, especially those who were handsome and not scoundrels.”
Their path took them near the house once more. Mrs. Millard, the housekeeper, stepped out onto the terrace as they passed. “Begging your pardon, Miss Phelps. Mrs. Brownlow is requesting that you visit with her before your departure.”
Daria nudged Gillian toward the door. “Go on. I’ll meet you at the carriage.”
Gillian slipped into the corridor. She didn’t mind the delay in their journey to the house party, and not merely because she was nervous about undertaking something so new to her. She adored Mrs. Brownlow. Time spent with her was never a burden.
Mrs. Brownlow had known Gillian’s mother when they were younger. Upon hearing of the Phelps family’s reversal of fortune a few years after Mother’s death, the dear lady had extended an invitation for Gillian to come stay with her at Houghton Manor. Father had sent Gillian along to County Durham but hadn’t joined her on that journey. When he had come to Houghton Manor months later, he had not done so out of fatherly concern. He’d not truly been a part of Gillian’s life in seven years. He’d chosen not to be, something Gillian tried hard not to think about.
Mrs. Brownlow had introduced Gillian to the household and any and all of her visitors as the treasured daughter of a cousin. She had shown Gillian such kindness. When the time had come, the dear lady had even secured for Gillian a London Season, arranging for her to make her bows and ensuring that, despite the Phelps family’s poverty and her status as an unofficial orphan, she never had to look the part of a poor relation.
Gillian stepped into Mrs. Brownlow’s sitting room and crossed to her benefactress. Mrs. Brownlow motioned for Gillian to join her on the settee, which she did with the ease of familiarity.
“I realize you are leaving in the next few minutes,” Mrs. Brownlow said. “I wished to offer you a moment to ask any questions you might have. I have attended countless house parties over the years.”
“All I know of such things are the stories I’ve heard, either from you or Artemis,” Gillian confessed. “Even Daria has attended a couple.”
“It is fortunate for you that your first foray into such things will be amongst friends. You are comfortable among them, which will make the experience far less difficult.”
Gillian was grateful that Mrs. Brownlow meant to give her a few words of wisdom and guidance, but she found herself momentarily distracted by the weariness in the lady’s eyes. Mrs. Brownlow had, on a few occasions since Gillian’s arrival at Houghton Manor, been laid low by various ailments. Gillian hoped another was not soon to descend upon her.
“I suspect you don’t realize the guests at a house party are expected to present the staff of the house with money as an acknowledgment of the additional work they are doing,” Mrs. Brownlow said.
The cold grip of worry enveloped Gillian’s heart. She hadn’t any extra money. How was she to manage this? Keeping the panic out of her voice, she offered a calm, “I did not know that.”
“I did not tell you in order to worry you,” Mrs. Brownlow said. “On the table beside you is a reticule. Inside, you will find money enough for your obligations to the staff, enough for your journey there, and a little bit extra should the house party choose to make a journey to a nearby village so the ladies can undertake a bit of shopping on the high street.”
Gratitude warred with embarrassment inside her. “You have already done so much for me over the years. I confess, I feel guilty that you are providing me with yet more funds. You already give me pocket money during the Season.”
Mrs. Brownlow squeezed her hand. “Neither that nor this is done out of obligation. If Houghton Manor and its income weren’t entailed to the Brownlow family, I would leave the entirety of it to you, and I would do so gladly.” It was generous but also unsurprising. Mrs. Brownlow was not overly close to her late husband’s family, to whom the estate would be left after her passing. “As it is, my man of business has managed to secure only £10,000 free of the entail. All of that, of course, will be yours when I pass on.”
Gillian shook her head. “You know I don’t like to hear you talk of dying.”
Mrs. Brownlow offered one of her soft smiles, a sight Gillian had taken comfort in since she’d first come to live with the lady. “Never fear, dear, I have no expectation of meeting St. Peter anytime soon.”
“I, for one, am exceptionally grateful for that.”
“I fully intend to leave this life in a state of peace.” Mrs. Brownlow adjusted her shawl. “Except in the matter of you.”
“Me?” Gillian hadn’t expected that.
“You’ll have money enough to live on, and for that, I am grateful. But I worry that you will be alone. Before you came to live with me, I was very alone. That is a painful thing.”
Gillian was, in many ways, still “very alone.” She did have the Huntresses though. And they could be depended upon.
“You have your friends, of course,” Mrs. Brownlow said, echoing Gillian’s thoughts. “Though, I do wish you had a gentleman in your life who cherished you and loved you the way Mr. Brownlow cherished and loved me.”
Gillian was certain her eyes were dancing with merriment. “There will be gentlemen at this house party, you know. From what I understand, all of them, other than our host, are single and eligible. Perhaps I will, quite by accident, secure the love of my life there.”
Mrs. Brownlow laughed along. “Well then, I fully expect you to return home with one.”
“Gentlemen are not like puppies,” Gillian said. “One can’t merely look over the litter, take her pick, and claim the unwitting creature forever and always. In fact, reality tends to be quite the opposite, with the gentlemen looking over the lot and making their selections. And I don’t know any gentlemen whose preference in ladies runs toward those in possession of more brains than dowry.”
“The ones worth having do,” Mrs. Brownlow said, conviction in her voice.
“Should I meet an eligible, single ‘puppy’ who takes particular delight in a young lady with no money to her name, who lives as a poor relation in another person’s house and is more comfortable with her feet on a garden path than on a ballroom floor, I solemnly vow to drag him back to Houghton Manor without delay.”
“See that you do.” Mrs. Brownlow placed the reticule in Gillian’s hand. It was surprisingly heavy. Gillian had clearly been provided with a more than generous amount of money. There would be no need for embarrassment when funds were required during the next few weeks. “Make me one more promise, my dear.”
“Anything,” Gillian said.
“While you are away, enjoy yourself. Life is too fleeting to waste the most glorious bits of it.”
“I will do my utmost to be deeply pleased with my time away,” Gillian said.
With her benefactress motioning for her to be off, Gillian made directly for the entryway, where a housemaid provided her with her coat. “Safe travels, Miss Phelps.”
“Thank you.” She stepped through the front door, fully intending to go directly to the carriage and settle in for the journey. The butler, Mr. Walker, was just then making his way from the carriage to the door, and they blocked each other’s paths.
“I am for Cumberland,” she said, watching for some response, wondering what he thought of her departure and her journey.
“Very good, Miss Phelps.” His tone matched his indifferent expression.
