Cover image: Photographer Woman in Forest © Susan Fox/Trevillion Images
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Author Photo copyright © 2014 by Claire Waite Photography
Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.
American Fork, Utah
Copyright © 2014 by Sarah M. Eden
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect
the position of Covenant Communications, Inc., or any other entity.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.
ISBN 978-1-62108-681-9
To Jonathan, my “Corbin,”
so quiet, so good and kind, and too often unaware of your worth.
Know that you are loved just exactly as you are.
Chapter One
April 1815
Nottinghamshire, England
Corbin Jonquil knew he really ought to be listening to the sermon. That was the point of attending church, after all. Of late, he seldom heard a single word the vicar uttered—not since Mrs. Bentford had joined the congregation. Mrs. Bentford, a widow of no more than twenty-two or twenty-three, possessing more than her share of beauty and a sizable enough portion to have purchased a more-than-respectable cottage nearby, had taken the neighborhood quite by storm only a few months earlier.
Rumors abounded regarding the latest addition to the very small circle of families surrounding the minuscule town of Grompton. Some claimed she had been married to a nabob with more fortune than status. Others believed she had possessed a fortune of her own and married a man beneath her for love. Nothing, however, raised greater speculation than her children.
Mrs. Bentford had two: a boy and a girl. Her son appeared to be six or seven years old and looked absolutely nothing like his mother. Her daughter appeared to be about three years old and her mother’s exact copy in miniature. The neighborhood alternately labeled her son a stepchild, a product of her husband’s first marriage, or a ward left to her by a distant relative. For a lady of twenty-two to have a seven-year-old son required her to have become a mother at the almost unmarriageable age of fifteen. Naturally, the neighborhood was agog with speculation.
Corbin’s curiosity arose for entirely different reasons. Two months earlier, during an errand in Grompton, Mrs. Bentford had crossed his path. Corbin had raised his hat as she’d passed. She had looked directly at him and smiled. In that brief moment, she had stolen his heart.
Corbin had sat behind Mrs. Bentford and her children every Sunday since, watching the young family and thinking of hundreds of things he might say to her. Good morning. Good day. That is a lovely bonnet. Inevitably, when services came to an end, Corbin watched her leave without uttering a single word.
He was watching her again. She didn’t wear black or even gray, so her husband had, apparently, been gone for at least a year. That meant the little girl with hair the color of browned bread likely had hardly known her father. Corbin wondered if that was a tragedy or a blessing—he’d known fathers who fell under both categories.
The tiny Miss Bentford turned her head quickly, looking at Corbin out of the corner of her eye. The two of them played a game each Sunday. Corbin could not recall how it had begun, but he looked forward to it every week.
Little Miss Bentford looked at him again, not quite as quickly. Corbin smiled at her, and she turned her head forward once more. Three more times she looked back, and each time, Corbin managed to look surprised to find her looking at him.
The third time, the little girl began to giggle. Corbin laid his finger against his lips, reminding her to be quiet in church. She bit her lip and nodded, but her eyes danced with mirth. Corbin smiled, thoroughly pleased.
Mrs. Bentford bent toward her daughter, whispering something in her ear. The little girl smiled once more at Corbin, then turned to face the vicar. Mrs. Bentford, however, turned and, out of the corner of her eye, looked at Corbin.
He felt his breath catch. It was pathetic, really, being so aware of a lady who was entirely unaware of him. Being caught encouraging that lady’s daughter to misbehave in church proved particularly embarrassing.
Corbin managed what he hoped was an apologetic smile. Mrs. Bentford quickly returned her gaze to the front, but Corbin thought, hoped, he saw a hint of a smile on her face as she turned.
What if she thinks I’m an idiot? Corbin had asked one of his brothers that question not a month earlier.
You’re a Jonquil, Layton had answered. Of course she’ll think you’re an idiot.
Not the most encouraging brotherly advice.
He tried to think of something he might say to her. I am sorry for encouraging your daughter to giggle. No, that wouldn’t do. Your daughter is very pretty. No. You are very pretty. Definitely not.
The services came to a close before Corbin managed to think of anything suitable. They had not been formally introduced, so the chance of having a conversation with her was remote at best. The entire neighborhood knew Mrs. Bentford kept to herself. Corbin did not even know if anyone among the worshipers could be counted on to offer an introduction.
Mrs. Bentford’s daughter, it seemed, was unaware of the social conventions. She stood on the pew and turned to face Corbin. She whispered loudly enough for Corbin to easily hear her. “I saw you,” she enthusiastically told him.
Corbin nodded, fighting down a blush. Why was it he colored like a schoolgirl whenever he was spoken to?
“We quiet,” she added.
He nodded again.
“Alice,” Mrs. Bentford interrupted the one-sided conversation. She turned those green eyes on Corbin, and he only barely managed to not stare. “I am sorry she has been disturbing you, sir.”
She spoke to him. Mrs. Bentford actually spoke to him. She never had before.
“No, not . . . not at all,” Corbin said, then felt like a complete imbecile for stumbling over a simple reply.
Mrs. Bentford smiled at him, much the same way she had that afternoon in Grompton. Any words that might have sprung to mind at that very opportune moment dissipated as he stood there, entranced.
“Good day,” Mrs. Bentford offered, then took both of her children by the hand and made her way out of the church.
He’d missed the perfect opportunity. Good day, Mrs. Bentford. How do you do? He might have said any number of things. His brother Layton was apparently right: Jonquils were idiots.
Corbin nodded mutely to a few familiar faces as he stepped out of the Grompton chapel. His eyes immediately found Mrs. Bentford. A small group had gathered around and appeared to be peppering her with attempts at conversation. Her son clutched her hand as though it were his last remaining lifeline. Alice, her daughter, hovered nearby, not nearly as intimidated as her brother but with the same lack of enthusiasm over the gathering of strangers.
Not one of the Bentfords appeared pleased with the situation. I should extricate them, Corbin thought. He would probably make a spectacle of himself.
Mrs. Bentford attempted to work her way backward out of the crowd. They were closing ranks—she would never make it.
Corbin clutched his prayer book in his right hand. Excuse me. Maybe, Pardon me. After a fortifying breath, he stepped to the edge of the group. He smiled an apology before elbowing past the portly Mr. Chambers.
“Mrs. Bentford,” Corbin managed to get out without hesitation or a stutter.
She turned her
head and looked at him. There was no panic in her eyes but an air of calm. If her grip on her children hadn’t been white-knuckled, Corbin might have thought she had no need of assistance.
You left this. No. Did you leave this? Corbin fluctuated a moment. But everyone was looking at him, expectantly. “I think we”—he paused long enough to execute a much-needed swallow—“have one another’s prayer books.”
He stood stiff and uncomfortable. A great many people watched him.
Mrs. Bentford looked confused for the briefest of moments before understanding settled in her eyes. “Might we step aside for a moment and remedy this mishap?” she suggested.
Corbin nodded. He probably should offer her his arm, but suddenly, it was all he could do to simply walk.
Mrs. Bentford offered a quick good day to those nearest her as she made her way through the group.
You seemed anxious to be away from the crowd. He’d never get that out whole. The citizens of Grompton can be very curious. She already knew that.
They reached the edge of the churchyard, far enough from the curious crowd for a modicum of comfort. Mrs. Bentford looked up at Corbin expectantly. She had green eyes. He’d noticed before, but they were still mesmerizing.
“The prayer books,” she hinted.
“Oh, I, uh.” Corbin stumbled over the words once more. “I didn’t actually—” He stopped for a breath, frustrated with himself. He ought to have thought through this conversation more.
“I know it was a ruse, sir,” Mrs. Bentford filled in his explanation. “One that, I assure you, is appreciated. But if we do not exchange books, the curious onlookers will realize the deception.”
Corbin nodded. He held his prayer book out to her. She accepted it and gave him hers.
“We can—” Switch them back next Sunday. Switch them back next Sunday. “Switch them—around again next—later.”
“The vicar and his wife are coming to Ivy Cottage for tea on Thursday at two o’clock,” Mrs. Bentford said, her tone still quite calm and collected. “If you would like to come then, we could be properly introduced.”
Corbin felt a touch of color rise in his cheeks. Social conventions dictated he should not have spoken to her until the appropriate introductions had been undertaken. He’d gone about this completely wrong. “Forgive me,” he muttered.
“Your rescue was quite well executed,” Mrs. Bentford said. “Thank you.” She turned to her children. “Alice. Edmund.”
Alice appeared to barely hold back a giggle. Edmund kept his head low and his hand desperately wrapped around his mother’s.
“Good day,” Mrs. Bentford said to Corbin.
All he managed was something that sounded horribly like a gurgle.
The moment Mrs. Bentford left the churchyard, Corbin slapped his hat against his thigh. He’d muddled it, just as he knew he would. He was no orator. He could seldom even form coherent sentences.
Thursday at two o’clock. Corbin repeated that to himself as he rode home to Havenworth. He had four days to rehearse a few sentences, to go through the most likely topics of conversation. Perhaps he could manage to not make an utter fool of himself . . . but he seriously doubted four days would be enough.
Chapter Two
“No, Alice,” Clara said for what felt like the hundredth time in ten minutes.
“I want to stay,” Alice said with an almighty pout.
“I am sorry, dearest.” Clara spoke slowly to keep from snapping. “As I told you, you must take your nap while Mama’s visitors have their tea.”
“No nap,” Alice said once again.
“Yes nap,” Clara answered firmly.
“No.” Alice nodded decisively.
Clara wished she could blame Alice’s stubbornness on Mr. Bentford, but Clara was every bit as stubborn as he had been. She’d had to be.
“Suzie will have milk and cakes with you and Edmund before your nap,” Clara said.
Alice pulled a face.
Clara took two long, deep breaths and attempted to regain her calm. She was not usually so short on patience.
The past few days had been trying. Why she had invited an unfamiliar gentleman to tea was absolutely beyond her. Since she did not even know the gentleman’s identity—he hadn’t written his name anywhere in his prayer book—there had been absolutely no way of canceling the invitation. She was at loose ends over it.
She took Alice’s hand and led her up the stairs. Alice continued to declare her intention to stay but went willingly enough. Thank heavens the girl was tired. Alice could be difficult to physically subdue. She could throw a fit unmatched in nature when she chose.
Clara, still holding Alice by the hand, found Edmund precisely where she’d expected to find him: in a chair in his room with his nose in a book. The boy was forever reading. The only outdoor pursuit he had ever shown any interest in was horseback riding. Mr. Bentford had never been willing to part with the funds for a pony, and Clara certainly hadn’t the funds now. They lived comfortably at Ivy Cottage and could continue to do so, but there was not enough for a pony or horse.
“It is time for a break, Edmund.”
He nodded but didn’t look up.
“You can read after tea, dear.”
He nodded again, then reluctantly closed his book.
“Tea is in Alice’s room today,” Clara told Edmund, “so she can take her nap as soon as you have finished.”
Edmund kept a finger in his book as he followed Clara into the room next to his. He would be reading again the moment Clara left. She would have to insist he and Alice spend the evening out of doors before dinner. Spring had come to Nottinghamshire, and with their coats on, the children wouldn’t be too cold.
Suzie was just finishing setting out the children’s tea when Clara led them inside Alice’s room.
“Down,” Alice demanded sleepily. As she was not being held, Clara knew the girl meant she wished to return downstairs.
“Have your tea with Suzie.” Clara led Alice to a child-sized chair beside the equally miniature table.
“She’ll be ’sleep afore she finishes,” Suzie observed with a laugh.
“I hope so.” Clara managed a smile of her own. “She is quite determined to take tea with the adults today.”
“’Cause of your gentleman caller.” Suzie nodded her understanding.
“Suzie,” Clara lightly scolded. “He is not a gentleman caller.”
Suzie looked doubtful.
“He is a gentleman, and he is a caller,” Clara admitted. “But he is not a gentleman caller. Not in the way you are implying.”
“I just thought, maybe—”
“You know me better than that.” Clara, perhaps, spoke a little more forcefully than necessary. The topic of suitors and gentlemen callers and men in general was not one she wished to discuss.
Suzie had come with them from Mr. Bentford’s. A chambermaid then, Suzie had agreed to serve as the girl-of-all-work at Ivy Cottage. Not precisely a promotion but certainly a more appreciated position. She and Clara had developed some semblance of a friendship, as much as could be cultivated between a servant and her mistress. The arrangement was not unpleasant for either of them.
“I only hoped, Mrs. Bentford,” Suzie answered. “You deserve a good man in your life.”
If Edmund hadn’t been in the room and hadn’t had the uncanny ability to overhear remarks not meant for his ears, Clara might have corrected any notions Suzie had about the existence of a good man. Men had been making her miserable all her life. But she still held out hope for Edmund. He was a kind and loving boy. With any luck, reaching manhood wouldn’t ruin him.
“Enjoy your tea, dears.” Clara kissed Edmund and Alice on the tops of their heads.
Edmund blushed at the gesture but smiled. Alice’s attention was already on the plate of cake in front of her.
All was in readiness in the sitting room below. Mrs. Henderson, who came to Ivy Cottage twice a week to do the baking, would bring the tea tray in as soon as the g
uests arrived and then be on her way. A few cakes, a short conversation, and the visit would be over.
What on earth had possessed her to extend the invitation? she thought once more. She could just as easily have traded prayer books with the man at church the following Sunday.
She’d noticed him behind her during services each week. Alice insisted on playing peekaboo with him. Mr. Bentford would have ignored the little girl and scolded Clara for not keeping her perfectly still. The gentleman behind them had done neither. Clara hadn’t been able to decide if she found the man’s encouragement of Alice’s antics welcoming or frustrating.
Why did he sit behind them every Sunday? What was his interest in her? In her children? Thus far, she’d managed to avoid most of the neighborhood. She much preferred blending in and going unnoticed. More than preferred it, in fact. She depended on it.
She’d enjoyed her first taste of peace and safety the past six months. The only hope she had for maintaining her hard-won freedom was keeping her life free of men and the trouble they inevitably caused.
A knock echoed off the front door. Her heart all but stopped, as it always did when someone arrived at the house. She took a deep breath, willing her heart to return to its normal rhythm.
One disadvantage of having only two servants, one who was obliged to look after the children when visitors called and the other whose duties were exclusively in the kitchen, was having to answer her own door. She never knew who was on the other side or what his intentions might be.
She made her way slowly toward the front window. Keeping out of sight, she inched back the curtain, peering out. With an immediate surge of relief, she identified Mr. and Mrs. Whittle, the vicar and his wife. She knew logically that they would be the ones standing there. But a woman in her situation could never be too careful.
“Good afternoon,” she said welcomingly as the couple stepped inside.
They returned the greeting and were soon comfortably situated in the sitting room.
Mrs. Henderson brought in the tea tray and set it on the table near Clara. Just as Mrs. Henderson stepped from the room, another knock sounded.
As You Are Page 1