Grace
The Shackleford Sisters Book One
Beverley Watts
BaR Publishing
Copyright © 2020 BaR Publishing
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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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To my darlings Isaac and Tobi-Rose, without whom this book would have been finished years ago
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Epilogue
Author's Note
Claiming Victory
Books available on Amazon
About The Author
Prologue
The Reverend Augustus Shackleford rested his hands contentedly on his ample stomach and belched loudly, the stew he’d just consumed resting a trifle heavily on his stomach. It was noon at the Red Lion Pub in the village of Blackmore in Devonshire, England, and while he could have quite easily have had his luncheon back at the vicarage, the Reverend much preferred the ale and conversation the pub provided as opposed to the never ending arguing and bickering that came with the unfortunate position of having nine females residing in his house. Though he’d never asked him, the Reverend was content that his dog Freddy was also of the same opinion. The Foxhound was currently curled up under the table happily chasing rabbits in his dreams.
Reverend Shackleford was not a man of immense wealth and fortune, and under normal circumstances would be quite content with the fact that the coin in his pocket would more than suffice the cost of the meal he had just consumed.
These were not normal circumstances however and the coin in his pocket – or anywhere else for that matter would certainly not be sufficient to provide the money to set up his only son in the manner befitting a gentleman.
His only son after eight daughters. The Reverend sighed. It had taken three wives to finally produce an heir, but the cost of paying for the eight females he’d been blessed with in the first instance was sorely testing even his creativity – something he’d prided himself on up until now.
He sat morosely staring into his pint of ale next to his long-suffering curate and only friend Percy Noon.
“You know me Percy, I’ve got a mind as sharp as a well creased cravat, but I’ve got to admit I’m completely flummoxed as to what to do to raise the coin.”
“Perhaps you can find some kind of work for your daughters, something suitable in polite society for ladies of a gentle disposition,” Percy suggested as he pushed his plate aside.
The Reverend snorted. “Have you seen any of my daughters lately?” he scoffed, shaking his head glumly. “Ladies of a gentle disposition? They don’t possess a single ladylike bone in the eight bodies they have between ‘em. They have no clue how to follow orders or how to comport themselves in any society let alone a polite one.
“If I wish to secure even a modest fortune for Anthony, then I have no recourse but to marry ‘em off. Though I can’t imagine a man who’d be bacon-brained enough to encumber himself with any of ‘em. Unless he was in his cups of course.” The Reverend was silent for a while, clearly imagining a scenario where he could take advantage of a well-heeled male whilst the unfortunate victim was suitably foxed. In the end he sighed.
“Percy, the situation is dire indeed. If I don’t come up with a plan soon, there’s going to be no coin left for Anthony at all. And not only that, we could well find ourselves in the workhouse.” He glared at Percy as if it was somehow all his curate’s fault. “If that happens Percy my man, there’ll be no more bread and butter pudding for you of an evening."
Percy repressed a shudder. He wasn’t sure if it was at the prospect of ending up in the workhouse or the thought of Mrs. Tomlinson’s bread and butter pudding – the last of which could probably have been used to keep out the drafts. The curate suspected the vicarage cook was a little too fond of Blue Ruin to give much attention to her culinary skills.
“Then your only recourse Sir is to marry them off and marry them well,” he stated decisively, settling deeper into his chair. “Somehow.”
The Reverend stroked his chin, thinking about his wayward daughters. Each daughter was entirely different than the last. The only similarity they all shared was unruliness. Four of them were already at a marriageable age with the eldest, at twenty-five, a confirmed bluestocking. What chance did he have of marrying any of them off to a gentleman wealthy enough to secure a fortune for his only son?
He was sure that given time he could do it. But it would
