A Most Reluctant Widow (The Reeves of Reeves Hall, Book 4)

A guarded widow. A steadfast protector. A voyage that will change them both.

Alice Ashcombe is a widow determined never to trust a charming gentleman again. After years trapped in a cold and controlling marriage in Calcutta, Alice is suddenly free—and utterly alone. With three young children to protect and a gruelling voyage to England ahead, the last thing she needs is the scrutiny of a perceptive and dangerously attractive stranger.

Simon Reeves has spent years navigating the world on family business. The guarded widow he once encountered in the East should be none of his concern. Yet when fate reunites them in Colombo, Simon finds himself unable to walk away—and drawn into a family he never expected to claim.

Trapped together on the high seas, an uneasy closeness grows between them. While Alice keeps her distance, her children have no such reservations. Before long, Simon finds himself drawn into their world in ways he never expected—and slowly breaching the walls around Alice’s carefully guarded heart.

But Simon is more than simply a merchant, and his origins are further from England than Alice could ever imagine. As they sail beneath the stars, Alice may discover that the man who saved her family carries a secret that challenges everything she believes about the world.

Prologue

A SURPRISING ENCOUNTER IN THE BAZAAR

July 1826

Damn the East India Company and its cursed officialdom! Simon strode out of the Company’s offices, railing at the delay. He would not be sailing for England this month, all because of some infernal error.

How had the Reeves shipment of silk been incorrectly assessed for duty? Some incompetent official, no doubt. And now, the Company was insisting on re-inspecting the cargo before his ship could depart. But the inspection officer was posted at one of the Company’s river stations and would not return to Calcutta for another week.

Struggling to hide his irritation, Simon left the building, braving the pounding rain outside. Quickening his steps, he made his way towards the waiting carriage and hopped inside, instructing the coachman to take him back home. Once the door had closed upon him, he removed his hat and shook off the droplets of rain. Damnation! He had hoped to be well on his way to England before the onset of the monsoons. And now, it seemed he would be stranded here for several weeks more.

Broodingly, he gazed out of the window, trying to rein in his annoyance. What was done was done. There was nothing for it but  to wait—though the delay of an entire ship, crew, and cargo for the sake of paperwork tried his patience sorely. As if in scornful mimicry of his plight, the carriage too was experiencing delay, travelling at an excruciatingly slow pace along the swamped, muddy roads of the city. It would have been faster to walk, if not for the rain and mud. Simon closed his eyes briefly, a memory stirring of a different life on a distant world. Back on Uvon, he would not have needed a horse or carriage to travel from place to place. But that was so very long ago that the memory felt almost like a flight of fancy.

Glancing out again, Simon saw that the rain had stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and a blazing sun now turned the wet ground into a hazy cloud of steam. The smell of damp earth and rotting vegetation permeated the air. He sat back, stretching out his legs, and heaved a long sigh. There was another reason for his frustration at the delay to his departure.

Luke.

The boy would be celebrating his fifth birthday this October, and Simon had wanted to be there for the occasion. It now seemed an unlikely prospect.

In their last communication, his brother had sent him a picture that Luke had drawn for his uncle together with an entreaty to please come home soon—and a reminder of the promise he had exacted from Simon all those years ago. Do not become a stranger. And yet, he had. He had been absent far too long. Goodness knew how changed the boy would be when next he saw him.

Simon blew out another frustrated breath, just as his eyes landed on the densely packed bamboo stalls of the bazaar further ahead to his right. An idea occurred to him. He could look in the bazaar for a special gift for Luke, one that would reach him in time even if Simon personally could not make it back to Reeves Hall before Luke’s birthday. The Reeves were a family with many secrets—among them, a means of sending messages across continents with unnatural speed. Luke’s drawing had reached him within the week. Tonight, Simon would reply, enclosing a gift small enough to fit within their flying device.

The decision made, he tapped the carriage wall with his cane, and the coachman obediently brought it to a stop. Carefully, Simon stepped out, taking care to avoid the muddy puddles. With a resolute stride, he made his way towards the bazaar, entering the crowded and chaotic thoroughfare. All at once, he was greeted with a cacophony of sound—vendors shouting prices and talking at speed in a mixture of dialects, bargaining in Bengali, Hindustani and the odd bit of English here and there. Seeing a well-dressed gentleman, they called out to him, pointing to their wares, promising the sahib a good price.

He walked on impassively, searching with his eyes for something that might make a good gift for Luke. He passed a stall laden with spices, the fragrant aroma of cardamom and turmeric infusing the air around him. Next were stalls lined with baskets of colourful limes and mangoes, and strands of golden saffron. A woman wearing a bright sari stood frying sweets in a hot cauldron of ghee. On seeing him, she smiled, revealing a missing tooth, and invited him to try one of her fritters. He smiled, shaking his head, and carried on his exploration.

On turning down a narrow alley, he finally spotted what he was searching for in a small stall tucked beside a cloth merchant displaying a variety of colourful silks. The merchant, seeing him pause, rushed to lay out before him a large piece of creamy white silk, exclaiming, “You like, sahib? I give you good price.”

“No, thank you,” Simon said firmly, pushing aside the proffered fabric and moving towards the smaller stall which had on display a variety of miniature toys. He inspected the wares, examining the brightly coloured paper kites, then going on to look at the intricately carved toys—wooden soldiers and horses mainly—but what caught his eyes was a quaint little elephant, painted in vivid colours. Yes, thought Simon. This would delight little Luke. He set it down, pretending disinterest, and began to peruse a set of ivory carvings, asking their price in a bored tone of voice, then shaking his head in disappointment at the response. On and on, he played the game, feigning disinterest in all that was shown him, until they came to the wooden elephant. “I give you this for eight rupees,” said the toy merchant ingratiatingly.

Simon shrugged, beginning to turn away, then stopped with an exaggerated sigh. “Very well,” he said, “I’ll take it for three rupees, no more.”

“But sahib—”

Simon ignored him, this time beginning to walk away in earnest.

“Sahib,” the merchant called urgently behind him. “Six rupees, final price.”

Simon pivoted on his heel. Raising a brow, he declared, “Five.”

The man nodded. “Five rupees. Very good price, sahib.” Simon doubted it—the toy was likely worth no more than three rupees—but he was not about to haggle over such an immaterial sum. He fished in his pocket for the requisite coins and watched as the merchant wrapped the toy elephant in paper. Simon paid the man and took the parcel. As he turned to leave, his attention was caught by the sound of a woman’s voice nearby. She was speaking Bengali, with enough fluency to bargain in a competent and assured manner, though he could tell from her speech that she was not a native speaker. Intrigued, he looked around and spotted an Englishwoman, a lady of quality from the cut of her clothes, speaking with the cloth merchant. Her back was to him, so he could not see her face, though something about her bearing seemed familiar to him.

“Ten rupees?” she spoke coolly. “For cloth of such mediocre weaving? You must take me for a fool.”

The shopkeeper responded in rapid speech, protesting the fineness of the material and the fairness of his price.

“Five,” the woman replied, her tone unmoved. “And not a paisa more.”

Simon’s lips curved into an amused smile. The lady was playing the very same haggling game he had just concluded with the toy merchant, and doing it far more capably, by the looks of it. He moved a little closer, wanting to know who this mysterious lady could be. It was most unusual for a gentlewoman to venture into the bazaar unattended, and rarer still to find one who could conduct a negotiation in the local tongue with such proficiency. Just then, the lady turned slightly, and Simon froze.

Alice Ashcombe? Surely this self-assured woman and the District Collector’s mouse of a wife, whom he had met at a dinner party last month, were not one and the same? And yet such was the evidence before his eyes. Simon observed her as she successfully concluded her purchase, then stepped forward in her direction.

“Mrs Ashcombe,” he said with a smile. “I had not realised you were such a formidable negotiator.”

The lady whipped round at the sound of his voice, her face clouding with concern as she recognised him. A shutter came down on her eyes before she hurriedly cast them down, mumbling, “It is merely a few choice phrases, Mr Reeves, nothing more.”

It was far more than that, but he let the matter drop. From his observations of the District Collector’s character, he would wager ten guineas that the man was unaware of his wife’s visit to the bazaar, and that he would certainly not approve of her haggling with shopkeepers in the local tongue. Well, well. It seemed there were hidden depths to the lady.

Hiding another smile, Simon inclined his head. “An impressive display nonetheless,” he murmured, then added, “Mrs Ashcombe, you will do me the honour, I hope, of letting me escort you to your carriage.”

Her lips tightened, a pinched expression appearing on her face. All life had left her countenance, transforming her once more into the dull and drab lady he had met before. “There is no need,” she muttered, almost under her breath. “I have not come here unescorted, sir. I have my ayah. Please excuse me.” Next moment, she was gone, a young servant at her side carrying the purchased cloth.

Simon narrowed his eyes, staring at her retreating figure in surprise mixed with dismay. One moment she had bargained coolly in Bengali; the next she fled like a startled hare. What the devil was that about?

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