by Kristin Holt
“Thank you.” Felicity couldn’t help wrapping an arm about her sister and hugging her as close as the journals allowed.
“I’m confident Father would be inordinately pleased to know you’re interested in him.” Temperance pulled away. “This book is one Father wrote a few years ago.” She delivered a leather bound volume, twice as thick as his journals. “You’ll like it. It’s mostly a compilation of his thoughts on marriage, courtship, and the duty of young men in regard to both. He’d counseled plenty of young people anticipating marriage, and when he compiled the sermons and essays, he published it. That’s where your inheritance came from.”
How did Temperance know this? When she’d been unaware, until one week ago, that she’d had a sister?
Temperance chuckled. “The moment I heard the dollar amount in your bank account, I knew. Mother told me how much Father’s royalty payments had been. We’ve always been comfortable and our needs were simple. Father set the money aside, in case of future need. But now I see, once he knew about you, he decided the money should be yours.”
Felicity let out a breath. What irony! Her father authored and sold books detailing a young man’s duty and moral obligations, when he’d failed in his obligations to her. The fact that he’d set aside the money he’d earned, chosen to give it to her, softened her heart a bit.
“But our inheritance amounts are identical. The will said your inheritance was the sum of your mother’s inheritance.”
“The rest of Mother’s money is in the household account.” Temperance smiled brightly. “We have an hour until it’s time to dress for the planning meeting. Why don’t you rest in your bedroom? I’m going to choose a pretty gown for you to wear to the meeting.”
She’d never been one to accept charity. “I’m quite comfortable in this dress, thank you.”
“Please, Felicity. I’ve never had the joy of sharing with a sister before. Don’t spoil my fun.”
Sharing was fun…everything but a man’s affections.
The thought of Rocky—again—wrenched her heart and left her aching.
She clutched the books to her chest and nodded because the lump in her throat had lodged too tightly to speak.
She’d read and savor her father’s words. And she’d give her sister the simple pleasure of sharing a dress.
Chapter Eleven
“The natural culmination of courtship is engagement and marriage. A properly courted lady will be as deeply in love with you as you are with her. You need not fear rejection for she will happily anticipate the moment you ask her to accept you as her husband.”
~ The Gentleman’s Guide to Courtship and Marriage
Fifteen minutes later, Felicity sat in the room her sister had given her…the bedchamber that had belonged to their father. Felicity could imagine Cedric Cartwright in this room, perhaps writing his book at the desk.
The two-story frame house had four bedrooms, one in each corner. Father’s, Annelise’s, Temperance’s, and the twins’. Felicity had seen Temperance’s discomfort in disturbing her brothers’ room, and no way would she be comfortable in Annelise’s bed. Of the three vacant rooms, Father’s had been her first choice.
Seated in the upholstered chair by the window, she thumbed through the most recent journal then through the typeset book Cedric Cartwright had written. The Gentleman’s Guide to Courtship and Marriage.
She noted chapters on the subjects on courtship, selection of a spouse, admonishments on conduct, ensuring happiness in marriage, and more.
A word caught her eye: seduction.
Had it only been one week earlier that she’d arrived in Mountain Home, vehement Cedric Cartwright was guilty of seducing her innocent mother? She hoped to clear up the story by carefully reading his journals.
She read the section about seduction with care:
“I cannot say it any better than the esteemed Dr. Fowler from which I quote, regarding his condemnation of the crime of seduction (from Fowler’s Sexual Science, 1870):
‘…Think how pure and happy she was, and would have always remained and rendered those around her, but how inexpressibly miserable you have rendered her; all her former friends disown her; her strong social nature yearns for society only to be tortured by all her old associates taunting, instead of loving her; all worth knowing discard her; you have made her a lonely outcast.’”
Felicity sat motionless, allowing the poignant, outspoken passage to resonate in her heart and mind.
Dr. Fowler’s statement had described Mother’s circumstances perfectly.
It seemed The Reverend Cedric Cartwright not only grasped the enormity of what he’d done, but he comprehended the consequences to Beth Percival, Felicity’s mother.
Rocky’s retelling of the tears the preacher had shed upon learning of Felicity, twenty-three years after her birth, made so much more sense when cast in the light of these paragraphs.
Had Father written these passages with remembrance and regret? Had he hoped Mother had escaped such consequences, had kept their indiscretion a secret and moved on with her life, untouched by condemnation?
Was that why he’d wept upon learning of Felicity’s birth?
The man who’d written these passages would fully comprehend his culpability.
She flipped to the front, seeking a publication date. 1876. At minimum six months prior to the summery day he’d learned of her existence. Perhaps as much as eighteen months.
He’d already come to these conclusions before he’d learned about Felicity.
She pondered further, and in the quiet moments of reflection, she found it easy to let go of the harsh image she’d constructed of her father. He had cared. He’d comprehended the wrong he’d done them. In the end, he’d risked his legacy and reputation to try and make things as right as he could for his illegitimate daughter.
As if a two hundred-pound boulder were removed from her back, she felt remarkably free.
“Friends, may I introduce Miss Felicity Cartwright.” Temperance’s arm, linked through Felicity’s, tightened. “My sister.”
Felicity froze. Yes, their father had asked that she bear the Cartwright name, but she’d not once thought of herself as Felicity Cartwright. Not even when she’d seen her reflection, finely attired in one of Temperance’s best gowns, gloves, bonnet, and matching button-up shoes.
The shocked faces of the well-dressed ladies, taking tea in the parlor of a fine home, seemed stunned into silence.
One of them dropped a teaspoon upon thick carpet.
Just moments ago, they’d been chatting away, laughing, enjoying the intimate society of trusted friends.
Felicity forced a smile, though she met their gazes head on—the same as she had four days earlier when they’d tried to persuade her to leave town. “Good afternoon, ladies.”
Whether they accepted her or not, she and Temperance had accomplished their purpose, establishing unity.
“Good afternoon,” Celia murmured, her golden curls a bit too perfectly arranged—at least compared to last Thursday when her coiffure had been spoiled by the tussle. She rose, and for a frightful moment, Felicity thought the woman might point at the doorway and order her out of the house. The scratch on the woman’s cheek had faded. “I am Celia Jones. Welcome to my home, Miss Cartwright. Won’t you join us?”
Quickly, the rest of the ladies followed suit.
Surreal, the experience of joining a circle of friends at tea. A first.
Tea was poured, a plate of little sandwiches passed, and within five minutes, the conversation flowed naturally.
Talk turned easily enough to the upcoming celebration, and the group asked Felicity’s thoughts, preferences, and ideas.
Never, not once, in her twenty-five years had she been included in her hometown’s Independence Day celebrations, church picnics, or the like. Out of necessity—out of habit—she’d lived on the fringes.
To be involved in the planning and preparations gave her a heady sense of inclusion.
“You
must bring a luncheon basket for the raffle, Miss Cartwright,” their hostess insisted, her eyes bright and her cheeks pinked from the excitement. “You simply must.”
The thought that someone would actually bid on, buy Felicity’s picnic hamper, sit with her intentionally—set a competing race of tingles and chills along her spine. “Oh, I don’t know—”
“Yes!” Temperance agreed with excitement. “You must. We’ll cook together that morning, prepare our baskets. It’ll be such fun.”
With the hearty endorsement from Temperance Cartwright’s seven closest friends, Felicity experienced a miracle unfold.
Maybe, just maybe, these women, with Temperance’s lead, had the capacity to overlook Felicity’s circumstances. And see her fully welcomed into Mountain Home’s society, such as it was.
Or maybe the miracle occurred, more accurately, within herself. Perhaps she’d compounded the negativity she’d encountered…and excluded herself.
Temperance may have loaned her a pretty summertime dress of lavender cotton, but she’d inadvertently wrought an even more significant change within Felicity’s heart and given her confidence, no matter where she eventually settled, she’d one day make genuine friends.
Warmth effused Felicity from fingertip to scalp to toe as she smiled at the eight women surrounding her in the Jones family parlor.
So, this is friendship.
Chapter Twelve
“More than one young lady, properly attended in courtship may at first decline your proposal of marriage. Take heart. She may yet accept you. Until she replies with a firm refusal, all is not lost.”
~ The Gentleman’s Guide to Courtship and Marriage
From the Journal of Cedric Adams Cartwright
Monday, August 29, 1853
St. Louis, Missouri
I have fallen.
In love. Into sin. Into despair.
Would that I could recall the sands of time, watch myself, resist sweet kisses and carnal urgency. Would that I’d never followed her along the banks of the creek on her father’s land. Would that I’d resisted the offer of my beloved.
I love Beth Percival more than my own life yet she has sent me away. Since that hot August afternoon when we yielded to temptation, she has shunned me. Today, she ordered me to leave, to return home. My employment will end in a few short weeks.
I fear I will never see her again.
I fear I have forever alienated my one great love.
I fear the sight of my face magnifies her guilt. I can do nothing to ease her sorrow.
I do not blame Beth for my weakness. The responsibility of this sin is mine and mine alone; I beg forgiveness of God, and of my beloved Beth.
I begged Beth to wed me, to make right our anticipation of marriage vows, yet she would not. I would have explained to Annelise; she would have understood. Our coming marriage is not a love match.
I do not comprehend Beth. She loves me, I know it. She knows my love for her is pure, complete, and I would wed her gladly and with rejoicing.
Would she have accepted me, wed me, had I not succumbed to temptation?
I am not the man she believed me to be.
I am not the man I believed myself to be.
What can I do but honor her wishes? She deserves so much better than I.
Dear God! Forgive me!
From the Journal of Cedric Adams Cartwright
Wednesday, May 22, 1877
Mountain Home, Colorado
Today, word came from Beth Percival, my beloved, never forgotten.
I grieve, my whole being anguished over the consequences of my actions, now nearly twenty-four years hence.
I have a daughter! Beth bore my child.
Beth’s letter revealed little, only my daughter’s name: Felicity Percival. She is well and living in St. Louis. My heart aches; I have missed the entirety of her life. I know her not. From all Beth did not reveal, I suspect our daughter knows nothing of me.
Percival is Beth’s surname. Felicity bears her mother’s name and not mine; I pray she did not suffer censure.
Oh, the pain of what might have been!
Why did Beth send me away?
I suspect Beth knew she had conceived and sought to test me. In my anguish, I foolishly obeyed her command. I believed she wanted me to stay away. Had I returned, tried once more to win her hand, would she have seen my love as trustworthy, true, and genuine?
I shall never know.
Tonight I confided the news in my beloved wife. We share all things. Joys and sorrows of ministering, the births and deaths of our sons, our joy in Temperance’s goodness. Annelise’s compassion offered absolution I do not deserve. The happiness we have found in our union is so much greater than I deserve.
Annelise’s condition worsens. She grows weaker. Our days together draw to a close; I suspect my own days are limited. My consumptive cough worsens and my heart is too poor to travel, or I would go to my daughter Felicity, and beg her forgiveness for all she must have suffered in absence of a father.
From the Journal of Cedric Adams Cartwright
Tuesday, March 18, 1879
Mountain Home, Colorado
It is done.
My last will and testament, in the law office of W.W. Stuart.
My fondest wish is for my daughters to meet, to acquaint themselves one with another, to develop a familial bond so that neither is alone in the world.
The letter I sent to Beth Percival, two summers ago, was returned unopened, informing me she was deceased. I grieved her loss, with Annelise at my side, her tears mingling with mine.
Now my Annelise rests, her soul with God. The depth of my sorrow accelerates my illness.
It is best W.W. Stuart brings Felicity here, introduces her to Temperance. I haven’t the strength or the heart. How could I bear the censure of either beloved daughter?
Nearly four weeks after her arrival in Mountain Home, Felicity had settled into living at the Cartwright house.
That didn’t mean she found chaperoning her little sister comfortable in the least.
Felicity returned the refreshment tray to the kitchen and stored the lemonade pitcher in the icebox. One by one, she placed the glasses on the table. She needed a few minutes away from the courting couple and sensed they wanted a few moments alone.
She’d thought she’d been prepared for the eventuality of Rocky’s coming courting. She’d lectured herself long and hard about how she would react, respond, and reply. The result? Muscles strung tighter than a vain maiden’s corset.
Serving as chaperone made her ache with bone-deep sadness. Like dying of thirst within inches of a fresh mountain spring.
Despite her intention of being the invisible but present chaperone, her book open on her lap, she’d seen far too much. Rocky had been admirably, wholly intent upon courting Temperance, as he should.
No matter that the last month had given her much of what she’d desperately wanted—a place to belong, friends, the companionship and love of a sister, knowledge of her father…living here, with her heart and head tied up in her sister’s intended destroyed her.
She might have told her sister she’d stay, but now, forced to witness them together as a couple, courting and falling in love, that proved impossible.
Maybe, once the pair married and moved into the grand house she and Temperance watched taking shape, living here would become easier. Father had left financial support equivalent to what she’d earned in twelve-hour work days in a farmer’s fields near St. Louis. Here, she enjoyed far more than a tiny, rented room in a boardinghouse. All she did was share housekeeping with her sister, enjoy Felicity’s company, visit friends, and minister to the sick.
She should want to stay.
But she had feelings for Rocky. Could she bear to watch him build a life and family with the woman he loved?
The conversation and laughter in the parlor ceased.
Trying to be a good chaperone, Felicity strained to listen.
“Oh, dearest Rocky, yo
u’re not—”
“Shh. Let me say this.” A moment passed, then two. “Temperance Cartwright, our courtship has endeared you to me, brought us near to one another, shown me what our future will be like.”
“Oh, Rocky—”
“Shh, darling. Please. Proposing to the woman I’ve selected for my bride is hard enough to do well without interruptions.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Temperance’s giggle revealed nerves, strain, and happiness.
Felicity’s heart jumped into her throat. Her pulse raced. Now? Really, must she listen to the man she’d developed tender feelings for propose to her sister?
She pressed her hand tightly over her mouth. Visions of the heat in his brown eyes as he lowered his head to hers, touched his lips to her mouth and leaned into that kiss—
Her nerve endings surged to life simply remembering that one glorious, forbidden kiss.
Temperance whispered something Felicity couldn’t quite hear, then, “Oh, my dearest Rocky. I’m forever fond of you, you know that, don’t you?”
Felicity choked. She couldn’t stand by, overhearing the lovers exchange words of affection. If she bolted, they’d hear her footsteps.
Every word, each declaration, every sentiment tore at her heart.
“I beg your understanding,” Temperance said, her voice tremulous. “I’m just so overwhelmed, with having just found my sister and grieving for my father.”
“You’re doing fine, sweetheart. Just answer this question: will you do me the extraordinary honor of accepting my proposal? Will you consent to become my wife?”
Silence.
Felicity strained to hear, the morbid scene on the other side of the closed door too awful to ignore.
A strangled sound—a sob? “I’m overwrought by loss.” Tears distorted Temperance’s melodic, lovely voice. “By autumn, Rocky, by autumn, I’m sure I’ll be ready.”