by Jocelyn Kirk
Table of Contents
Excerpt
Brambles and Thorns
Copyright
Dedication
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
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
“Willa!” she cried.
“Look what you’ve done!” While the gentleman assisted Willa, Elena gathered her belongings and stuffed them into the valise. The effort left her splattered with mud, and her temper rose in proportion to the abatement of her dignity.
As she attempted to brush off her dress, she became aware that the gentleman was staring at her. She faced him and his angry dark eyes.
“Madam,” he said coldly, “I do not know your city of origin, but if you are an example of its inhabitants, they are a heartless set of beings.”
Elena gave him an icy glare and pulled her eyes away, too shocked to reply. Hoisting her valise, she said, “Come, Willa,” and turned to move away. The gentleman, to her utter amazement, reached out and seized her arm.
“Will you have the goodness, madam, to take notice that this young lady has injured herself?”
Elena jerked her arm away, but she looked at Willa, who was on her feet but leaning heavily on the gentleman.
“Willa, are you indeed injured? I did not realize…”
“It is nothing, Miss Bellwood. If the gentleman could assist me to the boat, I’m sure I will be well in a few minutes.”
Brambles and Thorns
by
Jocelyn Kirk
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Brambles and Thorns
COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Joyce E. Back
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
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Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First American Rose Edition, 2017
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1748-9
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1749-6
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To Heather and Eric and Jen and Josie—my world.
Prologue
Rosalie
Mystic, Connecticut, September 15, 1840
Early evening was pulling shadows across the hills as Rosalie walked home. She had traveled farther than usual into the forest in search of wild herbs and mushrooms, and now she shivered as the evening air crept into her shawl.
“Must hurry,” she whispered to herself. She stepped up her pace, climbing the next hill at a trot and hurrying downhill. She jogged past a stand of white birches showing spring leaves of soft green. She left the forest and entered a bushy expanse, the result of tree-felling. Thorns and vines had taken over, and thousands of rabbits made their home in them.
Rosalie slowed on the narrow path to ease her way around the vicious thorns. A dark shape on the ground next to a thicket surprised her, and she froze with a gasp.
“What on earth…?” she whispered. She cautiously moved toward the shadowy form, pushing the vines and briers aside as she scrambled through them. As she neared the thicket, the shifting shadows revealed a wolf lying prone, with one hind leg ripped and shattered by the trap into which it had stepped.
Rosalie knelt and felt the body. Cold but not stiff—the animal was out of rigor. The teats were enlarged for nursing, and nearby lay the bodies of four pups, dead of starvation.
“How could anyone be so cruel?” she cried. “To leave this creature to die in agony and her pups to starve…how horrible!”
Rosalie removed the ugly trap from the wolf’s leg and tossed it as far away as the chain would allow. The trap hitting the ground disturbed a creature in the thicket, and it mewled weakly. She peered into the brambles. Something moved within the dense foliage.
“A pup! One of the pups is alive!”
Rosalie pulled her herb-gathering shears from her pocket and began to cut away at the brambles. She scrambled into the thicket on her hands and knees and spotted a tiny pair of yellow eyes watching her. She frantically cut away more thorns, seized the pup, and backed out of the brambles.
Rosalie clutched the pup against her chest to keep him warm and began running. Her basket jumped and jostled on her arm as she ran across the meadow. Gasping for air, she stumbled into her own barn, startling the sleeping chickens and cows. She moved quietly to her milk cow so as not to frighten the animal and thrust the pup’s face against a teat. Rosalie squeezed gently and milk ran into the pup’s tiny mouth. He wheezed and coughed, but she tried again, and little by little he swallowed the rich warm milk and had a fine meal.
“You, little bramble puppy, are a survivor,” said Rosalie as she carried the pup out of the barn. The little creature, his belly full, gazed at her with his amber eyes and then promptly fell asleep.
Chapter One
Elena
New York City, January 1, 1842
Mrs. Clyde Bellwood preferred her blue and ivory parlor to any other room in her elegant townhouse. She adored the room’s pale blue watered-silk draperies, flowered settees, and Persian carpet with its blue hues as deep as the sky and sea. She proudly ran a hand over the smooth silk of her chair and brushed a tiny speck of dust from its curved arm.
Mrs. Bellwood leaned forward to pour tea but paused as her daughter entered. She smiled with maternal pride as the young woman gracefully seated herself.
“Do you doubt that you have made a conquest, Elena?” asked Mrs. Bellwood, handing her daughter a cup of tea.
Elena raised the teacup as if she did not intend to answer, but then returned it to its blue-patterned saucer. She moved to a seat next to her mother.
“Mama…on that subject I have something to tell you.”
“What is that, my dear?”
“When the duke and I were dancing last night…the second time…he asked…”
Mrs. Bellwood leaned toward her daughter and unconsciously set the teapot on the hassock instead of the table. “Yes? He asked…?”
“He asked if he might call today.”
“What! The hour is already ten! Pull the bell!”
“Mama…please do not fuss. He did not indicate that he would declare himself…”
“Naïve girl! Of course he is going to! Bella! Bella, come here!”
Bella hurried into the parlor, brushing crumbs from her bodice as she curtsied. Mrs. Bellwood began to issue frantic orders for the proper reception of Sir Lionel Harding, Duke of Simsbury, fourth in line to the British throne, to her breathlessly nodding housekeeper.
“Mama, Mama,” Elena cried. “Have you forgotten the doctor’s orders? You are not to rush about in your usual manner! The heart flutter could return!”
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“Nonsense!” rejoined Mrs. Bellwood as she followed the housekeeper out of the parlor. “One must prepare for such a visitor, and who is to do it besides myself? Elena, go immediately to your chamber and begin your toilette. And be sure to wear—”
“Mama, stop! Surely the duke will not call until the afternoon. Gentlemen do not make morning calls!”
“Do not interrupt, my dear! You are very pale this morning, so you must use a bit of rouge. And wear a blue gown. Nothing flatters your golden hair as well as blue.”
“Indeed, ma’am,” added Bella. “Miss Elena’s lily complexion and flaxen hair in blue…I declare…”
“Bella, go about your duties.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Elena sighed and slipped from the room, carrying her tea to the conservatory. From there, sheltered among her mother’s ferns and palms, she could observe the street beyond the gate, where well-dressed ladies and gentlemen strolled and high-stepping horses pulled sleek carriages along the cobblestones.
Elena shifted her view toward the east, trying to catch a glimpse of the tall masts of sailing ships in the harbor. She shaded her eyes against the winter sun lying low on the horizon, surrounded by pink clouds. The sun had festooned the handsome brick houses of Hegler Avenue with bright golden streaks. Elena gazed at the elegant New York City neighborhood, which had been her home for all of her twenty years.
She picked up a small porcelain figurine depicting an elegant lady curtseying, her skirts swirling about her. “Will I say yes today?” she asked the porcelain lady. “Will I say yes and leave you…and all this…behind?” The little figure made no comment as Elena carefully replaced her on the alabaster table.
She pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, took a sip of tea, and placed the cup on a table. She breathed deeply, rose to her feet, and ambled across the solarium, past the ferns in gaily painted pots and the palmetto in its large tub with the rim circled round with figures of Japanese dancers. She brushed her hand across the fronds, feeling the familiar wispy texture.
She reminisced on her first marriage proposal when she was only seventeen. Longing for romance, she wished to accept it, but her mother, with the assistance of her friend Mrs. Lang, dissuaded her.
“Plainer girls must accept the first gentleman making an offer,” Mrs. Lang had stated in her deep, authoritative voice, “but you, Miss Bellwood, may—and must—be discriminating.”
Elena returned to the window, but her eyes refused to focus on the houses and trees and the curving avenue. “I must be charming to the duke,” she whispered. “If I lose this opportunity to marry, I will face another year as a deb, but with the humiliating knowledge that I am older than most of the new beauties…all with mamas determined to marry them well.”
Yesterday, she had attended what would no doubt be her final engagement as a debutante. She and her mother had driven past the harbor en route to tea at Park House. As the barouche made its way slowly through the crowds of carriages and carts, a ship in full sail swept out to sea. A thrill of excitement shot through her at the thought of travel and adventure.
How she would love to see new places…experience adventures…even dangers. Rattling along safely in the barouche, she pictured herself bravely holding the rail of a clipper ship as it surged out to sea…or disembarking from a steam train in a distant city. In her daydream, she was alone and fearlessly facing what lay ahead.
Bella entered the solarium. “Forgive me, Miss Elena. Mrs. Bellwood told me to find you and make sure you were dressed.”
“Very well. I was about to go upstairs.”
“Are you quite well, miss? You look a bit pale…and…worried.”
“No, Bella, I am quite well. I was reminiscing and entertaining silly fantasies about adventure and romance.”
“Adventure and romance…you being a beauty, Miss Elena, you can have romance, for certain.”
Elena shook her head and smiled. “My dreams are not at all related to my destiny, Bella. I will no doubt marry the Duke of Simsbury.”
“And it will be the social event of the season!”
“Yes, I suppose it will, but—oh Bella!—it all sounds rather boring. We will take a wedding voyage to England, I suppose, and spend some weeks on his ancestral estate…then on to France, perhaps…”
“Indeed, miss, how could such a thing be boring?”
“I-I do not know, but…”
“But?”
Elena shook her head to clear her mood. “I must keep reminding myself Mama is not wealthy enough for another year of debutante gowns, and indeed, I will never do better than an English duke. So many girls pursued him, and yet it appears that he has chosen me. I must remember that I am very fortunate!”
“Indeed you are, miss.”
“I had better go dress, Bella.”
“Aye, miss. And I’d better get to my business in the kitchen.”
But Elena lingered, recalling a debate with her friend Prudence on the subject of love.
“How wonderful it must be to fall in love,” she had sighed, as the girls walked along Hegler Avenue enjoying the sunshine of a mild fall day.
“Indeed,” Prudence replied, “but one must not mix love with marriage. The decision to marry should be based on cold logic.”
“Cold logic!”
“Of course. Is he wealthy? Does he have a reputation as a man of honor? These are the considerations appropriate for marriage.”
Elena stretched and glanced at the tall clock standing in a corner. Ten thirty…she really must dress. She paused to look about the conservatory. Everything was so familiar—her mother’s plants flowing forth from an array of Oriental urns, a great pottery bowl where goldfish darted, the carpet with stylized leaves and branches woven along its border, the warm olive walls…
A crash, followed by a scream, jerked her from her poignant reflections. Someone, probably the new maid, Willa, had dropped a dish—no doubt from the stress of highly wrought nerves.
The door crashed open, and Willa ran into the room. “Miss, miss, come, come now!”
“Willa! What on earth is the matter?”
“It’s Madam! She fell! Come! Come!”
Elena ran out the door at the maid’s heels. A sudden ghostly voice sounded in her head, whispering, “Nothing will ever be the same.”
Chapter Two
Love and Loss
Elena leaned over the bed, grasping her mother’s hand and shaking with sobs. Her tears fell on the embroidered pillow where her mother’s head rested. The hastily summoned physician stood nearby, and in the doorway the servants hovered, their faces as pale as the snowy linens on her mother’s four-poster bed.
“Come, Miss Bellwood,” Dr. Dryden urged gently. “Go into the parlor and let one of the maids give you a glass of sherry. The other can assist me in preparing the body.”
Elena cried harder at these cruel words, but she allowed Willa to lead her to the parlor. The maid poured sherry and stood quietly near her. Elena sipped the sherry and forced herself to sit up straight and smooth her dress and hair. Turning to the maid, she struggled to speak quietly and rationally.
“Willa, c-can you please sit down for a moment…I want to inquire….”
“Yes, miss.” The young maid settled on the edge of a straight chair.
Elena dabbed at her face with a handkerchief and sipped her sherry, holding the glass with two shaking hands.
“Willa, can you tell me exactly what happened?”
“Yes, miss. Mrs. Bellwood was giving me instructions as to the laying of the table, and…I was on the far opposite side of the table…otherwise—” Willa gave a little gasping sob and tried to continue. “Mrs. Bellwood…swayed a bit…then she made a sound like a little scream…then she fainted…she fainted and dropped straight down. I tried to run to her and catch her, but I was on t’other side of the table, miss…and before I could get to her, she fell! And her head…”
“Her head struck the hearth. I heard you tell the doc
tor.”
“Yes, miss.”
“Did it seem that she cried out from pain before she fainted?”
“I don’t know, miss. It happened so fast.”
“What did you do next?”
“I dropped on the floor next to Mrs. Bellwood and called to her, but she didn’t answer…or move. So I ran for you, miss.”
Elena barely heard Willa’s last words. Her mother, alive and all aflutter an hour ago, now dead and silent…gone…gone forever. It appeared she had fainted—probably from overexcitement acting on her weak heart—but her head had hit the hearth in such a way that it had ended her life. It was incredible.
Elena suddenly remembered the reason for her mother’s overexcitement. The duke! He must be put off!
“Willa, tell the butler to go immediately to the Duke of Simsbury bearing the news of my mother’s sudden death and asking that he defer the honor of his visit to another day.”
“Yes, Miss Bellwood.”
Willa rose, but Elena retained her. Gently taking the maid’s hand, she forced a wavering smile. “Willa, you acted very quickly and intelligently in this emergency, and I thank you.”
“Thank you, miss.” Willa curtsied and left the room.
Shortly after Willa had departed, the sound of a visitor at the front door interrupted Elena’s compulsive pacing of the room. She gasped, expecting it to be the duke. He must not see her tear-streaked face! She began to hurry away, but she was too late. The parlor door opened, and the butler ushered in not the duke, but her mother’s solicitor, Phineas Coakley.
“My dear Miss Bellwood!” he cried, hurrying toward her. He was a very heavy man, and the jiggle of his tummy as he rapidly crossed the room caused his waistcoat to ride up and expose the wrinkled cotton shirt beneath it. But his expression was one of sincere sympathy, and Elena greeted him with outstretched hands.
“My dear Miss Bellwood, this is such a shock!”
“Indeed it is, Mr. Coakley, and how kind of you to come right away. But how did you—who informed you?”
“Good Dr. Dryden sent a messenger. He feared for your nerves and thought I might be of some comfort and support.”