My Wild Heart (Regency Shakespeare Book 2) Read online

  My Wild Heart © 2020 by Martha Keyes. All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover design by Martha Keyes.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Martha Keyes

  http://www.marthakeyes.com

  Contents

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Other titles by Martha Keyes

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Dedicated to Mom, the woman who taught me—and seventeen years’ worth of sixth graders—to love and appreciate Shakespeare.

  Preface

  “Contempt, farewell, and maiden pride, adieu!

  No glory lives behind the back of such.

  And Benedick, love on; I will requite thee,

  Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand.

  If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee

  To bind our loves up in a holy band.

  For others say thou dost deserve, and I

  Believe it better than reportingly.”

  —Beatrice

  Much Ado About Nothing by William Shakespeare

  Creating a retelling is a challenging task—I knew that when I set out to begin the Regency Shakespeare series. Deciding how closely to keep to the original while also bringing a fresh take on a story is no small task, and certainly not less so for being one of Shakespeare’s beloved plays.

  I have long enjoyed Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing. When I set out to evaluate which of his plays I wanted to use as inspiration in a series of Regency era retellings, it was the only one I knew I wanted to do. But when I contemplated the play, I found myself more drawn to the humorous situation and engaging relationship of Beatrice and Benedick than to the fairly melodramatic story of Hero and Claudio. So, I decided to flesh out what takes up a relatively small part of the original play and to reimagine the events resulting from it.

  Whether you are a lifelong Shakespeare lover or have never read one of his plays, I hope that you find My Wild Heart to your liking.

  Chapter One

  No doubt, the best thing to do was ignore her cousins. But Edith Donne had never been good at holding her tongue, and certainly not when the topic of conversation was love and marriage.

  “Edith thinks herself quite above falling in love.” Her cousin, Mercy Kennett, shot Edith a provoking glance, eyebrow tipped up and a hint of mischief in her eye. “But that was also the case for Sarah Brailey, and look at her now.”

  Edith satisfied herself with a slight roll of the eyes, letting the periodical in her hand fall open and tipping it so that the candlelight fell upon it. She knew Sarah Brailey—or rather Sarah Pickard since her surrender—and knew her well enough to take issue with the comparison. She kept her eyes on the periodical as she responded with a bite to her tone, “Yes, Sarah was very vocal in her supposed protestations against love.”

  “Supposed protestations?” Mercy said with a laugh.

  Edith looked up, meeting her cousin’s skepticism with a clear gaze. “Certainly.”

  “They sounded very convincing to me.” Edith’s cousin, Viola Pawnce, was curled up in the window seat, the customary book open in her lap. Her finger was poised on the page, keeping her place. The curtains were pulled back from the window behind her, revealing an evening landscape washed in twilight’s soft blues and the deeper shades of rainclouds.

  Edith let out a little scoff, nodding at the book in Viola’s lap. “You are reading Hamlet, are you not? Can you not tell an Osric when you see one, then? All affectation and pretense? Sarah’s act was nothing but ill-disguised despair of ever finding love. Those protestations were a manipulative way to garner attention—they were a cry for love, not a determination against it. Only look how quickly she submitted to Mr. Pickard’s attentions and with what haste she agreed to marry him once he began fawning over her.”

  She returned to her perusal of the periodical, content that she had made her point. How her cousins managed to doubt her sincerity—comparing her even to Sarah Pickard, of all people—was beyond Edith’s understanding. No matter how firm and steady she was in her opinions, they seemed to think she simply hadn’t yet found the right gentleman to pique her interest.

  With time, they would know better, but Edith couldn’t help wishing that they would simply believe her.

  The two men were lingering over their port, and Edith would have been content for them to do so for some time yet. She had nothing against Mercy’s husband Solomon—indeed, she liked him very well—but she preferred spending time with Mercy without the displays of mutual affection that the couple was wont to engage in. In a few short weeks, Mercy and Solomon would sail for Jamaica, and Edith didn’t know when she would see her cousin again.

  “But you have truly never fallen in love?” Viola looked puzzled as she asked the question.

  Edith smiled widely and shook her head. “Terribly provoking of me, isn’t it?” She came up beside Viola, a hand on the curtain as she watched raindrops speckling the window.

  “Provoking? No.” Viola’s frown deepened. “It is just that…”

  “It offends your sensibilities. I quite understand.” Edith gave Viola a teasing pat on the shoulder. “But don’t let it trouble you, love. I am an anomaly, you know.”

  “Only because you choose to be.” Mercy perused the music sheets on top of the piano.

  “What’s this now?” Edith said in a rallying tone, folding her arms. “I had thought that at least you understood me.”

  Mercy smiled and set down the page she held, tilting her head to the side in thought. “Yes, well, that was before I was married. Now I know what you are missing by holding so tightly to your cynicism.”

  Edith didn’t respond. She couldn’t deny that Mercy was at her happiest since marrying. And Edith wasn’t so steeped in her cynicism, so determined to make others miserable, that she had any intention of saying what dissatisfaction she foresaw. Indeed, she hoped for Mercy’s sake that she would be proven wrong. But she had watched it happen too many times to believe that even two such decent people as Mercy and Solomon would be immune to it. Edith lived in a house where it was evidenced daily in the interactions of her own parents.

  Even those marriages that started out happily—and Edith suspected there were fewer of
them than people wished her to believe—invariably became less so with time. She had come to the conclusion that this was a result of people misunderstanding their own motivations in marrying. Marriage in the name of love sounded much more noble than marriage in the name of convenience, but the truth was, they were both selfish—both an act of union between two people hopeful of extracting every last ounce of happiness from one another.

  The initial haze of novelty and excitement invariably wore off in time—Edith had seen it happen shockingly fast—leaving the two souls to reflect upon the truth of the phrase that William Congreve had so aptly coined: “Married in haste, we may repent at leisure.”

  Edith did not take for granted how fortunate she was in having no obligation to marry. Her aunt’s deathbed bequest could certainly not have been bestowed upon someone more grateful. The bequest was poetic—from a confirmed spinster to one in the making. It made Edith smile.

  But Viola was not satisfied. “Perhaps you need only find someone who shares your—your—your—”

  “Pessimism?” Edith offered. “Skepticism? Misanthropy?” She well knew how she was viewed by others.

  Viola’s brows came together. “I was going to say your wit.”

  Mercy let out a laugh as she seated herself on the piano bench. “What? And have them at each other’s throats all night and day? What a frightening prospect you paint.”

  “Then perhaps someone more docile? Quiet and meek?” Viola sounded skeptical of her own idea.

  “A church mouse, perhaps?” Edith suggested, feigning interest.

  “And have her frighten the poor man to death?” Mercy said with a grin.

  Viola let out a disappointed sigh. “No, it wouldn’t do, would it? But then who?”

  Mercy lifted her shoulders, and Edith laughed. “I am pleased you have come to the conclusion—quite inevitably, I might add—at which I arrived years ago. And now not only can I pursue my path of determined spinsterhood in peace, but we can move on to more interesting topics of conversation. Don’t make me regret having invited you.” She winked. Even if she had to endure this same conversation every day of their two weeks at Shipton House, Edith would be glad of her cousins’ presence.

  Mercy opened the lid of the piano. “Very well. We shall be on our very best behavior. Is Lydia to come?”

  Edith thought of her sister, cooped up in her small house with her children. Edith had written to invite them, but she had known it a lost cause from the beginning. “No. You know how she frets over the health of her youngest—James has never done well on carriage rides.”

  Mercy nodded with a sympathetic frown.

  There was more to it than that, but Edith didn’t trust herself to say it without sounding embittered. She was fairly sure Lydia would have chanced the journey if she’d had a trustworthy escort. Her husband was entirely useless for something so chivalrous—or for anything other than making Lydia’s life miserable—and Edith’s father had excused himself from the task with the familiar justification that he was too busy with his latest political venture to take three or four days racketing about the countryside. Indeed, he and Edith’s mother were even now dining with a family in hopes of garnering support for the vote. It was a singularly united gesture by a couple normally divided in their politics. Edith mistrusted it.

  She only hoped that the peace would last the duration of the house party. At least her brother Matthew would be there to help her diffuse any awkward moments that might crop up during evenings when they were all together.

  Edith considered herself fortunate that Matthew had even agreed to join the spontaneous group—he generally spent his summers bouncing from house to house among his friends. But in order for Mercy’s husband Solomon to feel at home in the group of women, they had needed Matthew. In the end, the house party would just comprise Edith, Matthew, their parents, Viola, and the Kennetts. It was small and very familial, certainly, but far preferable to spending the two weeks alone with her parents. And there was something to be said about spending time with a gathering of people who already considered themselves such close friends.

  The door to the drawing room opened, and Edith let out an audible sigh. “Good heavens. Who invited you?”

  Elias Abram stepped into the room, grinning widely at her. “I considered declining your brother’s invitation, but he assured me that you would be in a state of the mopes for the duration of the house party if I didn’t come, so”—he held his hands out, palms up— “me voilà, as the French say.”

  Edith directed a raised brow at her brother Matthew, who followed Elias into the room. Solomon Kennett trailed behind them, his eyes finding his wife Mercy’s immediately.

  Edith looked away from the unmistakable warmth that passed between the couple, directing her attention to her brother. “You might have warned me he was coming along.”

  “I told you I wanted to invite him.” Matthew said. “I just thought he couldn’t come.”

  “Yes, and I was lulled into a false sense of security when you never brought it up again.”

  “Oldest trick in the book,” Elias said, disposing of his person in the chair Edith’s father normally occupied—a grand, imposing piece of furniture, with far too many tufts and a tendency to resemble a throne. It was just the sort of chair that would appeal to Elias’s bravado.

  “Yes,” Edith said, putting her reading material down and making her way to the door. “I suppose someone with your penchant for repelling people must resort to such tricks, taking people unawares—the element of surprise is essential, isn’t it?” Before he could respond, she bid the company a good evening, gave a quick dip of the head, and shut the door behind her, a satisfied smile on her face.

  Elias Abram’s gaze lingered on the door Edith had shut, his eyes narrowed but the corner of his mouth turned up in acknowledgment of his having come off the worse in that particular battle. “Does she never exhaust her wit?” He stretched out his legs a bit farther and tucked one ankle under the other.

  “If she does, I have yet to observe it,” Matthew said. “You’d do well to take a page out of my book, Eli.”

  “What? And let her trammel me underfoot?”

  “No.” Matthew shot him an annoyed glance. “Simply refrain from provoking her. And if you can’t manage that, don’t engage with her at all. It is that simple.”

  Elias shook his head. It wasn’t that simple at all. He and Edith had been engaging in this type of warfare for longer than Elias could remember, and to back down now would be tantamount to offering her his pride on a silver platter. “A woman like your sister will wither away if no one provokes her. I am providing a service, in fact—a kindness and a condescension.”

  Matthew shot him a skeptical glance. “You merely can’t forgo an opportunity to cross swords when it’s presented to you. But even if what you say were true, you do the rest of us an unkindness, for we are caught in the cross hairs of your supposed service to Edith. I think that the good of the whole must supersede whatever imagined good you think you are doing my sister. Do you not agree?” He looked to the others for confirmation.

  Elias waited for the others to throw in their lot with Matthew. He didn’t anticipate anyone in the room would side with him in such an argument. It made people uncomfortable to witness Elias and Edith engaging as they just had. But he could never help himself. There was too much satisfaction in it. Edith was overconfident, and no one else seemed the least bit interested in helping her realize it.

  “I certainly agree.” Solomon seated himself next to his wife on the piano bench. It was far too small to allow for two, but they didn’t seem to mind in the least. He pressed a kiss onto his wife’s forehead. “If she truly enjoys such encounters, it seems strange indeed that she would choose to retire so immediately after your arrival.”

  Confound the man. Elias smiled genially. “Perhaps she was feeling less mentally astute than usual—not having had enough time to prepare for my arrival, I mean, for I am convinced she must rehearse these qu
ips—and wished to make her escape before she could be bested?”

  A laugh escaped Mercy. “An unlikely hypothesis, I’m afraid. Like you, Edith cannot resist an opportunity to showcase her wit—unless she feels victory is too easy.”

  “Ha!” Elias said, shaking his head. “I stand with my own interpretation of her departure—a cowardly escape.”

  Matthew let out a dramatic sigh. “It is merely a sad case—certainly not without precedent—of you not understanding women, Eli.”

  Elias let out a scoffing laugh. “On the contrary. I understand them all too well!”

  Matthew grasped his shoulder and pinched his lips together pityingly. “If that were true, you would be married, wouldn’t you?”

  “Or” —he removed Matthew’s hand from his shoulder unceremoniously— “perhaps that is precisely why I am not married. I know women too well to trust them. What is your excuse?”

  Matthew gave Elias’s shoulder another squeeze, much tighter than the first, and rose to his feet. “Take a damper! Are we to play a game of whist or sit here forever discussing your lack of address?”

  “Address I lack not. It is value for their affection that I lack, rather. But by all means, let us sit down for a rubber.”

  Chapter Two

  Edith was the last to join the other five in the echoing entry hall late the next morning, having spent the prior hours in her corner of the library.