Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for Velda Brotherton
Dedication
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
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Rowena’s Hellion
by
Velda Brotherton
The Victorians, Book Two
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.
Rowena’s Hellion
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Velda Brotherton
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.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Cactus Rose Edition, 2014
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-593-7
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-594-4
The Victorians, Book Two
Published in the United States of America
Praise for Velda Brotherton
“ONCE THERE WERE SAD SONGS touched my heart from the first scene all the way through to the book’s final, elegant line. Only a master storyteller like Brotherton could weave together so seamlessly the weaknesses and strengths of her characters. I fell in love right along with Mary Elizabeth, fought against the attraction to war-wounded Steven, experienced passion’s struggle against duty. The human cost of war and the courage of those who fight to overcome those wounds is brilliantly exposed in this fine novel. Simply put—I loved this book.”
~Pamela Foster, author
~*~
Other books by Velda Brotherton
available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
WILDA’S OUTLAW, The Victorians, Book One
STONEHEART’S WOMAN
ONCE THERE WERE SAD SONGS
Dedication
To the women who have loved and supported
wounded veterans of all wars
Chapter One
Rowena’s Journal, October 28, 1875
Since my sister Wilda ran off with that outlaw Calder Raines six months ago, I have waited for Lord Blair Prescott to turn his attention to me. I have loved him since first I saw him in the gardens at St. Ann’s the day he chose Wilda for a wife and broke my heart. Heaven knows she is the beauty of the family, while I am hardly notable to look at and am nearly an old maid at twenty-five.
I fear he is ill, for he grows gaunt and no longer exhibits his famous temper. He is eating less and drinking more, and I’m convinced he is haunted by much more than losing an intended wife who did not care a whit for him. He appears to have lost interest in Cousin Tyra’s antics and increasing absences, which once irritated him no end.
What haunts him I have no notion. I know not how to help him, but sense that if I do not, he shall wither up and die, as if of old age.
One night as I passed by Blair’s chambers on the way to my room, I heard him cry out. Without shame, I pressed an ear to the door and listened but heard no more. Eventually, I continued on down the hallway, the candle casting dancing shadows up the walls like hovering spirits.
It is lonely here, and I long for companionship. The Chesshires, who accompanied the three of us Duncans to America last spring, have moved into their own place in Victoria, having built living quarters above their shop. I visit with Marguerite occasionally.
I miss my sister, but she chose to leave us behind and go off with that bedraggled outlaw. So be it. I cannot believe Blair grieves for her loss, as they were at each other’s throats from the moment we arrived in Kansas and moved into Fairhaven. Her arranging a kidnapping to escape the marriage was the last straw.
At first, when he still thought she would agree to marry him, he and I had many discussions about her behavior. We even shared some private opinions and beliefs. I thought we had become friends, and my company made his ebony eyes spark occasionally, but now he shuns me and I am bereft.
Sometimes I think I should find myself a man amongst those who emigrated here to Victoria from England and Scotland, but the thought leaves quickly. Besides, what man of means would look twice at me? Blair’s expressive dark eyes and the way he holds himself, his charming smile, even the scar that mars his exquisite features, reach out to me. The heart, not the head, chooses love, and the soul suffers when it is unrequited. He may never return my feelings, yet I must find a way to help him before he is so far gone he cannot find his way back.
Rowena cleaned the pen’s nubbin, carefully tucked the journal under a stack of handkerchiefs in the night table drawer, and rose to dress for the day. Writing about her heartache over Blair without taking steps to help him was not good for either of them. She had to do something, and soon.
After eating breakfast alone, she went in search of Simmons and found him in the great room tidying up. The housekeeper had fled after one of Blair’s explosive tirades, and no one had been found to replace her.
“I will require the buggy. I’m going to town and may be gone until midafternoon.”
His raised eyebrows irritated her. “His lordship might need it.”
“Rubbish. All he does is ride over the prairie all night as if it were the English moors and he were Heathcliff. Worse, he returns at dawn to drink himself into a stupor. He won’t even know it’s gone.”
“You should not speak of him in that way. However, I shall take care of it.” Simmons gave her the evil eye and stalked off.
Probably going to ask his lordship’s permission to allow use of the seldom-used conveyance. He might have done so, but it was not long before the buggy was brought to the front entrance. Rowena grabbed her reticule, draped a shawl over her shoulders, and stepped out into a chilly November wind that grabbed at her skirts and tugged at her carefully pinned hair. Because of the Kansas wind, she’d given up wearing the gaudy Victorian hats so popular in England. Frontier women wore straw-brimmed hats tied under their chins or those ugly bonnets that hid their features. She’d never worn such adornments in England, for they were frowned upon at St. Ann’s, an orphanage and workhouse with strict religious rules. She had grown accustomed to covering her head with a woolen scarf to keep out the cold.
Settling into the seat behind a new man hired when Layton left to marry, she glanced up at Blair’s windows. Clothed in his robe, he stared down at her through the glass. Such a forlorn figure. Tears filled her eyes.
What would he do if she ran up the stairs, burst into his room, and told him to get in the buggy and ride out across the plains bundled up beside her? Thighs touching, holding hands. Laughing together. Not a chance of that. Who could blame him for shunning her? Having inherited her father’s build, she was long and lean, with small breasts and hips. Her hair, neither the rich red of her sister’s nor the golden red of Tyra’s, was alm
ost devoid of color, pale as alabaster, and so she pinned it severely into a bun at the back of her head. She had her mother’s azure eyes, but her features were plain. Why any man would spare her a look, she could not fathom. That did not keep her from loving Blair and yearning for him. Fool that she was.
A deep loneliness, a desire for his touch, and a growing sexual passion had her taking care of her own needs while imagining Blair lay beside her, black hair tousled, long fingers trailing through her loose hair, mouth at her… She shuddered and shook herself. Such an act would have brought out the whip from the nuns at St. Ann’s. Not something she cared to dwell on. The scars across her back itched as if something evil crawled there.
The small settlement of Victoria soon appeared in the distance beyond the rise. The town had spread out on the Kansas plains like the sprouting of mushrooms and had taken on the look of an English village. From the railroad tracks to the north, streets and alleyways were laid out in precise rows. Victorian-style homes were built on each lot surrounding the business district, where new shops opened on a regular basis. George Grant’s vision of bringing English life to the West appeared to be well on its way to fruition. All that was missing were hedgerows of delicate roses and blooming shrubs.
The air smelled of wood smoke and fresh lumber, the richness of turned soil and horse manure, though the streets were cleaned regularly. Many westerners walked or rode around town. They were employed by remittance men and other Englishmen of means who preferred to fox hunt or breed horses and cattle or sheep, rather than work. Land ownership was not possible for them in England, and they had become the new landed gentry of this wild, wild west. Near the railroad depot was the imposing two-story Manor House, constructed by Grant. Emigrants could stay there while their homes were built by hired help.
The driver didn’t speak until they reached the busy streets of town. “Where to, miss?”
“Take me to Chesshire’s, please.”
He reined the horse toward the boardwalk in front of Chesshire’s Dry Goods Emporium, jumped down, and offered his hand to assist her in stepping from the buggy.
Without making eye contact, she said, “Thank you. Come back in an hour.”
The driver kept her hand for a moment, and she glanced up to see him staring at her with what she could only take as sincerity. She struggled to remember his name and, wanting to be polite, finally asked.
“Grady, it’s Grady, ma’am.” He was a presentable man, perhaps a bit younger than she. About her size, though broader through the chest, he had shaggy blond hair that escaped from under a wide-brimmed western hat. When he smiled, dimples popped in his cheeks and blue eyes sparkled in his tanned, pleasant face. She couldn’t help but return the smile, then lowered her glance.
“Will do, miss.” He released her hand and touched the brim of his hat with respect.
Not bad, if she were inclined to take up with the help. Oh, dear. That sounded like she was titled or something. Good heavens, what was wrong with her? Thinking like that? If she were back home in Manchester, she would be even lower than the help. Thanks to Blair, she lived in a fine castle built of stones shipped over from England. Alone, for all intents and purposes, in a castle built for her sister Wilda.
Raising her shoulders, she walked briskly across the boardwalk. The bell tinkled above her head when she pushed through the double glass doors. The scent of fabrics hung thick in the air. Heels clacking on the wooden floor, Marguerite rushed to embrace her. She smelled of rose toilet water and perfumed soap. A tendril of graying hair escaped to hang over her wrinkled forehead.
“I’m so happy to see you, my dear child.” Marguerite took her by the shoulders to get a good look at her, then untied the scarf and tugged it from Rowena’s head. “It’s been much too long.”
“Yes, it has. I’ve wanted to come for a while, but—”
Marguerite held up a hand. “No excuses expected. You’re here now. I do hope everything is all right out at Fairhaven. How is his lordship? I’ve worried so much about him since that precocious Wilda abandoned him. What a shame, and after all he has done for you Duncans. How do you think she can bear living the life of an outlaw’s woman?”
It was sometimes difficult to reply to Marguerite’s questions, she rushed on so, but Rowena stopped her as she opened her mouth to continue.
“They are not living like outlaws. Calder was pardoned, and they went to Colorado. I think he started a business of some sort out there. I am not sure.”
“Oh, yes, Colorado. They have a ranch there. At least that’s what her letters say, but I’m sure that’s just to make me feel better. I imagine the two of them waving pistols and robbing banks or the like.”
“Oh, Marguerite. You do have a great imagination. I do wish you would urge her to write to me. I truly would love to hear from her, but I know she thinks I have not forgiven her for taking off like she did.”
Marguerite stared into her eyes a long moment. “And do you mean that you have?”
“Why, yes, of course.” Rowena fiddled with the trim on the bodice of her dress.
“Well, perhaps. But what about poor Lord Prescott?”
“He is a different matter. I’m sure he’ll never forgive her. That is difficult to understand, since he never cared a whit for her in the first place.” She shrugged and took off her gloves. “That is why I have come to see you, not my sister’s welfare. I am so worried about Blair. He does not eat, he drinks too much and stays up half the night, often riding in the dark of the moon. If he does sleep, he cries out like some lost soul. I am afraid he is ill.”
“Blair, is it? And you know his manner of sleeping?” Marguerite tilted her head and frowned.
Was that all the woman took from her statement? That she referred to Lord Prescott as Blair and had seen his bed? “I was hoping you would have some ideas of how I—we could help him. You have known him since he was a boy.”
Marguerite patted her arm. “Be careful, my dear. I don’t believe it’s such a good idea for you to live out there alone with him. People are talking.”
“It is none of their business, but we are not alone.”
At that moment the bell on the door tinkled and two women entered, chattering and laughing. Rowena breathed a deep sigh. Though she certainly felt alone, she and Blair couldn’t be said to be living in the castle unchaperoned, what with Nellie and Annie and Simmons wandering about inside and outside. She wanted to rush on, to explain that, if only to satisfy Marguerite. To the devil with what people thought. And surely Blair would not care a whit, one way or another.
“Why don’t you go to the back and sit down,” Marguerite said. “I’ll join you in a moment.” She turned toward the customers. “Good morning, ladies. How may I help you?”
Rowena tuned them out and fingered a bolt of fine silk of the purest blue, her favorite color. Perhaps while she was here she’d purchase some and have Blair’s seamstress sew her a new dress. After Wilda left, he had hired Nellie to care for his clothing and hers. But she’d had nothing new since coming to America. He had outfitted her, Wilda, and their cousin Tyra with a few traveling garments, and nothing since. One could scarcely blame him, considering that Wilda had broken her promise to marry him. They were lucky he had not tossed both of them out to fend for themselves when Wilda arranged that kidnapping. Charging the fabric to his account would be simple, and she was so piqued at him she might do just that. But on the other hand, what did she need with a dress of such a fine fabric? Where would she wear it?
In one of his more sober moments, he had told her he did not blame her or Tyra for Wilda’s betrayal and would not go back on his promise to continue to be their guardian until they married.
Remembering that conversation and his light manner renewed her longings for those infrequent, intimate conversations she and Blair had enjoyed before Wilda left.
With a sigh, she lifted her shoulders and carried the heavy bolt of fabric to the back of the store, propped it against the wall, and continued to wande
r through the aisles, studying threads, fabrics, needles, and the like while Marguerite finished with her customers. Perhaps she would have Nellie teach her how to sew so she would have something with which to occupy her mind. It would be enjoyable to turn out some lovely embroidery work. If she were fated to live as a spinster, she might as well develop some useful hobbies.
Marguerite soon joined her and heated water for tea on the potbellied stove in the center of the store. Marguerite took out her silver service, brought from Manchester, and served the tea along with some biscuits, also from England. Nothing from America was used in Victoria, which was a huge mistake.
How good the heat felt coming off the ugly little black stove, so different from the huge fireplaces in the castle that did well to keep them from freezing on cold Kansas nights. And it wasn’t true winter yet. Perhaps she could speak to Simmons about installing some of these quaint western wood heating stoves. There were some fine products made here in the west, items better suited for the life than their English wares.
Sipping at her tea, Marguerite eyed Rowena. “Do you know Lord Prescott’s history?”
“Not much. Simmons told me he fought with les Zouaves French army, but why or when or where, I do not know. Do you suppose he has a dark past, one that is now haunting him?” Life at the workhouse at St. Ann’s had been tough, the thing of which frightening dreams were made, but she had managed to put that behind her, for the most part. She could not imagine what horrors went along with war.
“Yes, that is true. And some of the battles were bloody and dangerous,” Marguerite said.
“No doubt we are all somewhat influenced by what happens to us. Do you suppose he was actually involved in those battles? I know little of this Zouaves except that they fought under Napoleon the Third and were in Paris when it fell to the Prussians.”
“Oh, my dear, yes. Mr. Chesshire read about their adventures in journals and has spoken of their prowess. He often said that the British, who were their allies in the battle against Russia, praised them to the high heavens. But that would have been before his lordship joined up, I’m sure.”
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