The Vow
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To shape her life, she may have to sacrifice her heart.
Hannah Whitby’s dreams of marrying for love are dying too soon. Faced with backbreaking labor on her uncle’s tobacco farm or a loveless marriage, she chooses the lesser of the evils. Perhaps one day she and Reiver Shaw will become joined at the heart, as her long-dead parents once were.
Time and again she proves her worth not only in the childbed, but as a helpmate in making Reiver’s silk mill a success. Yet even as she earns his respect, the ultimate prize—his love—eludes her.
Only one man sees her true worth. Reiver’s artist brother, Samuel. Yet to succumb to Samuel’s desire to fulfill her, body and soul, could come at too high a price. As she fights a battle on several fronts—her marriage, her desire, and keeping the business afloat amid the escalating conflict between North and South—Hannah must come to a decision.
To break under the strain, or grow strong…and make the choices that define a lifetime.
This book has been previously published.
Warning: Contains a plucky heroine who learns her true worth lies beyond a man’s definition. You may not agree with all of her choices, but you’ll cheer for her all the same. Happy ending guaranteed.
eBooks are not transferable.
They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B
Cincinnati OH 45249
The Vow
Copyright © 2012 by Lindsay Chase
ISBN: 978-1-60928-985-0
Edited by Sasha Knight
Cover by Lyn Taylor
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Original Publication: December 1992
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: April 2012
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The Vow
Lindsay Chase
Author’s Note
Cheney Brothers of Manchester, Connecticut, was the oldest, family-owned silk manufacturing company in the United States. Founded by five brothers in 1840, the company survived until 1983.
Although the Cheney family’s history provided me with valuable information about Connecticut’s silk industry in the nineteenth century, The Vow is a work of fiction and not intended to be an account of the Cheney family.
For providing me with additional research materials, I would like to thank the staffs of the Lucy Robbins Welles Library and the Connecticut Historical Society, and Dr. John F. Sutherland, professor of history, Manchester Community College.
Chapter One
If he succeeded, he would make a fortune. If he failed, everyone in Coldwater would say, “What else could you expect of Rummy Shaw’s son?”
Reiver Shaw listened to his silkworms feeding, the sound as loud as the drumming of rain against a tin roof, and smiled to himself. He would succeed where so many others had failed. He had to.
Blackest night still pressed against the rearing shed’s windows, the only illumination coming from several oil lamps hanging from the ceiling. Below stood row upon row of shallow trays, all filled with thousands of ravenous white silkworms, eating, eating, eating fresh leaves from the Morus multicaulis—the mulberry tree.
“Don’t you ever get tired?” Reiver took care not to touch them as he fed the greedy little bastards even more from the basket he rested against his hip. “If you stopped eating, I could get some sleep.”
But even as exhaustion made him giddy and light-headed, he knew he wouldn’t stop until he had to. One day these ugly, squirming creatures were going to spin delicate golden threads of silk and make him the wealthiest man in Coldwater, Connecticut.
When his basket was empty, he went over to yet another and dumped its contents on a table and sifted carefully through the glossy green leaves, discarding those that weren’t perfect and coarsely chopping the rest as if he were a master chef preparing a meal for a king.
The Vow
The sound of a door slowly opening caused Reiver to look up. Twenty-two-year-old James, his youngest brother, stood framed by the doorjamb, a lock of straight brown hair falling in a slant across his forehead, his heavy eyelids drooping. His grease-stained fingers held a broken gear as lovingly as he would a mistress, if he had one.
“Close the damn door,” Reiver hissed. “A draft will upset them.”
Annoyance flared briefly in James’s eyes, then he shut the door with exaggerated care. “Don’t worry, Reiver. I won’t harm your precious worms.”
“See that you don’t,” he said without looking up. He moved to another tray and spread out more leaves, making sure that he didn’t miss a single worm.
“I have a stake in the success of Shaw Silks, too, you know,” James said. “I keep the looms running, and Samuel has lent you money to keep Shaw Silks afloat on more than one occasion.”
Samuel, the middle Shaw brother, was a successful artist who sold engravings of demure young ladies and pastoral scenes to lithographers for three hundred dollars apiece, an obscene sum in Reiver’s opinion.
Reiver made no comment, but as much as he hated to admit it, he knew that James spoke the truth. Without Samuel’s generosity and James’s mechanical wizardry, Shaw Silks would sink into oblivion like so many other silk mills before this year of 1840 ended. But Reiver was so obsessed with the silk mill—his silk mill—that the thought of entrusting the care of his precious worms to anyone else rankled.
James said, “Go back to the house and get some sleep. I promise not to let the worms starve.”
Reiver was about to growl some retort when another wave of light-headedness washed over him, causing the room to teeter ominously from side to
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side. He realized then that if he didn’t do as James said, he risked collapsing into the trays and crushing the worms himself.
He sighed in capitulation. “I’ll go, but I want you to wash your hands before you handle the leaves. And if they’re not fresh, go out and pick some right off the bushes. The worms won’t eat them if they’re wilted.”
James gave him an exasperated look. “Don’t worry. They’ll all still be alive when you come back.”
“See that they are, or I’ll have your hide.” Reiver carefully opened the door, slid through the crack, and left.
The moment he stepped out into the cool morning air, he breathed deeply to clear his head. The eastern sky had already turned the pale gray of ashes with the coming dawn, enabling Reiver to notice that a heavy dew coated the grass.
He almost turned back to tell James to remember to dry the mulberry leaves before he fed them to the worms, then thought better of it. James knew that.
He strode away from the rearing shed, pausing only at the top of Mulberry Hill to survey the long rows of bushes flourishing there.
Reiver smiled. There were few places in the United States where the soil and climate were suited to growing mulberry trees, the silkworms’ only food source, and Connecticut was one of them. There were even fewer men who envisioned a flourishing American silk industry that would produce cloth to rival the finest from France and Italy.
He looked beyond Mulberry Hill. “Someday I’ll own this town.”
The town he wanted to own still slept. Coldwa
ter’s central green stood deserted, with no boys chasing hoops or stray dogs across its length, and no farm wagons raising dust as they lumbered down the street on their way to market.
The clapboard shops and houses, as sturdy and enduring as the Yankees who built and inhabited them, remained dark and hushed, with not so much as a light 8
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shining in an upstairs window. Even the bell in the tall white church spire breaking through the treetops waited to greet the day.
Stifling a yawn, Reiver turned and headed for home.
Hannah Whitby stared out over the endless sea of green tobacco shimmering like a mirage beneath the cloudless, hot blue sky of a Connecticut August. Her eyes stung with sweat and tears of frustration. She would never pick ten bushels of tobacco before early afternoon. Never. Later Uncle Ezra’s new wife would shriek at her like a Gloucester fishwife and send her to bed without her supper as she had last night. Or she might let one of her sons beat Hannah.
Nate Fisher, the eldest, would enjoy that.
Hannah shuddered and tried to breathe deeply, fighting against the dizziness that had been plaguing her all morning, but the relentless whalebone stays permitted only a shallow breath. As much as she longed to loosen them, she couldn’t unbutton her gray homespun dress in the open where her uncle’s stepsons might come upon her. She finally made herself a little more comfortable by rolling up her long sleeves, past caring that the merciless sun would soon bake her soft white arms as brown and leathery as a field hand’s.
“That’s what you are now, Hannah Whitby, a common field hand,” she muttered, “not a Boston gentlewoman. Life’s dealt you a hard blow, but you’ll accept your fate, if you know what’s good for you.”
Determined to avoid a beating, she bent her aching back to the hated task and tried to work faster. Without warning, the sickness welled up inside her.
Hannah staggered on shaking knees over to the low dry-stone wall running the length of the field and sat down, fighting to keep from fainting.
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The clopping of hooves distracted her. She looked up and saw a sleek bay horse pulling a wagon down the wide dirt road that ran past the field.
When the driver halted beside her, Hannah saw that it was her uncle’s neighbor, Reiver Shaw. Even though she had been living in Coldwater for only six months, since February of 1840, Hannah felt as though she knew all about this man. Uncle Ezra talked about Shaw often enough, ridiculing his grandiose plans to manufacture silk.
Shaw looked down at Hannah from his high seat. “Are you all right, miss?”
he asked, his voice deep and resonant.
Hannah rose and regarded him from under the rim of her poke bonnet.
Shaw wasn’t at all good looking, for his nose was too prominent and his jaw too long and wide. But his face had a warmth and vitality that was quite compelling, and his blue eyes sparkled with enthusiasm and determination. In his white shirt, open at the neck, faded trousers, and scuffed black boots, he resembled a farmer more than a mill owner.
“I felt light-headed for a moment,” she explained.
“It’s no wonder. You must be mad to pick tobacco on a day like today. Why aren’t you home, out of the noonday sun?”
“I am here because my uncle wants this tobacco picked,” she replied, reaching for her basket. “And I do as I am told,” she added sarcastically.
Shaw scanned the field. “If he is so desperate to have his crop harvested, why isn’t he out there as well, with his three stepsons? Those strapping boys are more suited to the work than”—his gaze flicked over her—“a slip of a girl.”
Hannah felt her cheeks grow warm from Shaw’s frank appraisal. She shrugged. “My uncle’s word is law.”
“I take it your uncle is Ezra Bickford?”
“Yes.”
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“Then you must be Hannah Whitby, from Boston.”
“I am. And you must be Mr. Shaw, Uncle Ezra’s neighbor.”
He grinned, transferred the reins to his left hand, and tipped his wide-brimmed straw hat with his right, revealing hair as thick and light brown as Hannah’s own. “Reiver Shaw, at your service, Miss Whitby.” His smile died. “I heard about your parents. I’m sorry.”
He sounded as though he meant it, and Hannah felt tears sting her eyes. Both her parents had been killed unexpectedly this winter when their carriage skidded off an icy road, rolled down a steep hill, and crashed into a tree. After the lawyers settled her father’s many gambling debts, there was no inheritance to speak of for his treasured only daughter, consigning her to a life of hardship and misery with her only surviving relative.
She thanked Shaw for his sympathy, then added, “If you’ll excuse me, I have nine more bushels of tobacco to pick.”
Shaw swore under his breath, looped the reins around the wagon’s brake, and jumped down. He climbed over the low stone wall effortlessly and strode over to Hannah. “I think you’ve picked enough tobacco for one day,” he said.
“I’m taking you home. Now.”
Hannah regarded him as if the sun had addled his brains. He wasn’t much taller than she, but his broad shoulders and stocky build told her that he was strong enough to tuck her under his arm and carry her off. “I can’t go home until I finish picking tobacco,” she said, stepping back apace.
Reiver Shaw placed his hands on his hips. “Look at you. You’re as white as a sheet and the sweat’s pouring off you. You stay out here and you’ll die of heat exhaustion in five minutes.”
“It’d be preferable to slavery,” she muttered, turning away to return to her work.
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Shaw took her arm and turned her around to face him. “What’s that old skinflint doing to you?”
He works me in the fields until I’m exhausted, Hannah wanted to say. Then his wife makes me work in the house. She calls me lazy and threatens to beat me, and her sons threaten me with worse.
But all she said was, “It’s none of your affair, Mr. Shaw. You’ll only get us both into trouble if you interfere.”
A stubborn glint appeared in the man’s eyes. “I’m not afraid of Ezra Bickford.”
“Well, I am!” Hannah regretted her impulsive words the moment she blurted them out. Desperate to convince him to leave her alone, she placed a hand on his arm. “I know you mean well, Mr. Shaw, but Uncle Ezra doesn’t take kindly to outsiders interfering with his family. You’ll do me a much greater kindness if you let me return to my work.”
“I’m taking you home. And don’t worry about your uncle. I’ll deal with him.”
Before Hannah could blink, Shaw placed his hand beneath her elbow and urged her forward. When she balked, he gave her a stern look. “I can’t leave you here to die, Miss Whitby, whether you want to or not. Now, are you coming with me willingly, or shall I have to carry you?”
One glance at his implacable expression told Hannah that he meant it. She sighed and let him escort her to his waiting wagon.
Reiver prayed this chivalrous act wasn’t going to cost him Ezra Bickford’s good graces, but he never could resist a pair of wide blue eyes and graceful feminine figure. His brother Samuel always warned him that women would be his downfall.
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He glanced across at the puzzling Hannah Whitby. She may have accepted her fate, but she wasn’t resigned to it. She sat as far away from him as she could on the wagon seat, her back stiff and straight, her long fingers knotted tightly in her lap as if she was preparing herself for the ordeal to come. She looked straight ahead, so her bonnet’s rim hid her face, but Reiver didn’t need to look at her to recall its beguiling ivory beauty.
He drove in silence down the dusty, tree-lined road windi
ng its way around Ezra Bickford’s land. Reiver knew all his neighbor’s property by heart, the several hundred acres of rich tobacco fields, woods, rolling hills, and the land adjacent to Racebrook.
He thought of that Racebrook land with a lust that almost became a physical ache in his groin. He would do anything to get that land.
He glanced over at Hannah again. “You must find Coldwater vastly different from Boston,” he said, attempting to draw her into conversation.
“Yes.”
That’s all she said, leaving Reiver to listen to the clopping of hooves, the rattling of wheels, and the buzzing and thrumming of cicadas on a hot summer day.
Since he was a man who prided himself on his winning ways with women, he tried again. “I’m sure I would prefer being a doctor’s daughter to a farmer’s niece.”
She looked at him, her blue eyes startled. “How did you know my father was a doctor?”
Reiver shrugged. “Coldwater is a small town. When your mother eloped with Dr. Horatio Whitby, it was gossip fodder for years.”
“How do you know? That was nineteen years ago. You couldn’t have been more than a boy at the time.”
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“I was only eight years old, but our housekeeper was much older, and she remembered it well.” He didn’t tell her that according to their housekeeper, most of the townsfolk disliked Hannah’s mother because she put on airs and thought herself too good for the likes of Coldwater. “She never came back, did she?”
Hannah’s shoulders relaxed a little. “We came for Aunt Ruth’s funeral last year, but that was all. Mother never liked Coldwater. She thought it was…”
Hannah’s voice trailed off and she blushed.
“Too sleepy?” Reiver suggested. “Too dull?”