Joanne Bischof
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Praise for
The Lady and the Lionheart
"The sights, sounds and people of a turn-of-the-century circus come alive in this novel that captivates from word one. Every sentence is pitch perfect, while the characters embed themselves soul deep. Charlie Lionheart is the hero of heroes and a reflection of the fairy tale "Beast." He is so brilliantly multidimensional that he could easily live outside the pages." - RT Book Reviews, 5 Star TOP PICK!
"From the moment he bursts onto the pages, Charlie Lionheart splashes color across Ella Beckley's drab, confined world--and along the way he stole my heart." - Lori Benton, Christy-award winning author of Burning Sky
"The best stories are ones where you are torn between the desire to linger or read it all in one sitting because you simply have to know what's going to happen next. The Lady and The Lionheart put me into that delicious agony and held me there until that final page." - Sigmund Brouwer, author of Thief of Glory, Christy Award book of the year 2015
"Absorbing. Emotional. Colorful and clever... Bischof brings the world of the vintage circus to life with vibrant scenes and deeply poignant characters. It's a masterful portrait of redemption- with faith and hope deftly woven in- that grips the reader until the final page. I was swept away and didn't want to return." - Kristy Cambron, author of The Ringmaster's Wife
"Breathtaking and drenched in grace, The Lady and the Lionheart will sweep you away with the magic of the circus--and the miracle of redemption. This tale is one for the ages; Charlie and Ella will dance into your life with a story to settle deep within your soul." - Amanda Dykes, author of the critically acclaimed Bespoke: a Tiny Christmas Tale
"When it comes to depth and originality, Joanne Bischof delivers and this unique historical is no exception. If you're wanting a story that satisfies heart and soul, this richly woven novel is for you - a keeper you're sure to recommend to friends. Beautiful!" - Laura Frantz, author of The Mistress of Tall Acre
"The Lady and the Lionheart isn't a book to read so much as it is a world to inhabit, a story to relish, a love to cherish. It is lyrical, achingly beautiful, and larger than life. This novel is Joanne Bischof at her very finest." - Jocelyn Green, award-winning author of the Heroines Behind the Lines series
"One of the best works of historical fiction I have ever read, Bischof's alluring prose perfectly relays the heart-rending stories of Charlie, Ella and a populous of characters who leap from the page. Strewn with threads of redemption not unlike those found in Les Misérables, Bischof perfectly pairs an accessible and engaging historical romance with a deft nod to the classics." - Rachel McMillan, author the Bachelor Girl's Guide to Murder
"Only a handful of authors craft stories that leave an indelible mark on my heart - Joanne Bischof is one of them...guaranteed, every single time. The Lady and the Lionheart is simply stunning, from the provocative beginning to its exquisite conclusion, this story is mesmerizing." - Rel Mollet, Relz Reviewz & INSPY Award advisory board member
Contents
C H A P T E R 1
C H A P T E R 2
C H A P T E R 3
C H A P T E R 4
C H A P T E R 5
C H A P T E R 6
C H A P T E R 7
C H A P T E R 8
C H A P T E R 9
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C H A P T E R 3 8
E P I L O G U E
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
BIBLIOGRAPHY
READER’S GUIDE
LET’S CONNECT!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The Lady and the Lionheart
Copyright © 2016 by Joanne Bischof
Mason Jar Books
PO Box 1582
Idyllwild, CA 92549
Author represented by Sandra Bishop of Transatlantic Literary Agency
ISBN-13: 978-0-9975137-0-7
ISBN-10: 0-9975137-0-5
Scripture quotations and references are taken from the King James Version. Extracts from the Authorized Version of the Bible (The King James Bible), the rights in which are vested in the Crown, are reproduced with permission of the Crown’s Patentee, Cambridge University Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, posted on any website, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without written permission from the author, except for brief quotations in printed reviews and articles.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
2016907669
Photo images by Meghan Elise Photography
Design by Mason Jar Books
To Amanda,
for everything
Permanent may be the scars that we bear,
but there is a love that makes all things new.
C H A P T E R 1
__________
Roanoke, Virginia
Spring, 1890
With the hiss of smoothing irons and the starchy scent of soap trailing her, Ella toted a bundle of hospital linens up the steps. Snowy evening light whispered cool and gray through the stairwell window of the converted townhouse, and after an afternoon spent below ground, even the sight of fog and gentle flakes bolstered her spirit. Something so simple, but these days—years, really—she was thankful for anything. The wind curled the snow in swirls down the street and she halted at a flash of color drifting along with it. A string of pennants. Wet with the weather, the vibrant strand of cheery flags tumbled along the snow. Ella stepped closer to the window, but they vanished from sight.
Even so, she smiled.
“Excuse me, little miss scullery maid.”
At the sound of Clara’s voice, Ella slid out of the way as best she could. “Room to pass?”
Clara’s eyes were on her as she inched by. “Barely. And I’ve been waiting for those sheets all day.” Hair a few shades darker than Ella’s pale yellow, Clara slid a nursing cap into place as if back from a break. With a dismissive click of her tongue, the nurse pushed past, nearly making Ella drop her heavy bundle. Steadying both patience and feet, Ella lifted her eyes. One more flight to go. And she wasn’t a maid. She was a nurse.
Well…almost.
Upon applying at Dr. Penske’s private practice, the physician had wasted no time pulling it out of Ella that she’d had little schooling. While she had attended several years at the one-room schoolhouse where she was raised, she’d left altogether before completing her exams and instead had gone on to teach herself the art of nursing at home as best she could, even adding medical journals to the standard studies.
Of which he was not impresse
d.
Yet he’d given her a position under the strict understanding that she would be in the scullery—tidying jars and linens, boiling water, or running errands. Certainly not assisting patients. Though now and again, necessity allowed her to step in and help where needed. Proper education or not.
School. Oh, the very word she loathed. Just one of the failures that haunted her.
But there had been no time to finish school. Not when she was barely fifteen, knelt in her bed, giving birth to a stranger’s child. Eight months of fear and worry and then hours of suffering, only to crawl away from it all with empty arms and a cracked heart. Society’s righteous murmurs of how she was better off—God be thanked.
Yet her son’s death felt a wretched distance from the mercy they claimed it to be.
Hot chills covered her skin as she fought the memories of those dark, friendless days. She toted the clean laundry upwards, and when she neared the top hallway, the sound of violent footsteps had her turning. A tree of a man nearly crashed into her. Every stormy, trench-coated pound of him.
A yelp lodged in her throat, then Ella swung to a halt at the sight of a baby in his arms. Sheer surprise had her dropping the bound linens, and he gripped the handrail, steadying himself.
His wild brown hair stood on end as if tugged by a thousand worries. “I need a doctor,” he panted, using a ledge to climb around her mess with a balance that defied logic—and when he silently landed much too close on the other side, decorum. Her senses were struck with the scent of coal smoke and…
Caramel?
Ella made to step back, but there was nowhere to go. It mattered not when she looked once again to who he held. Bundled in a snow-dusted blanket, the baby glistened with sweat and perhaps tears. She reached for the babe, but he tightened his grip.
“A doctor!” Pale green eyes glittered fiercely.
Stunned to silence, Ella had to work to find her voice. “Uh…follow me.”
She shoved the linens aside then hurried up the last few stairs, him beside her. A few more steps and she pushed past the door that led them into the children’s ward.
“In here,” she called over her shoulder, then searched for the doctor. “Dr. Penske. I’ve a baby here who seems to be running a fever.”
Turning from the boy he was tending, Dr. Penske glanced from the man’s patched coat to the unlaced boots which thundered to a halt beside Ella’s. The stranger’s chest heaved as he swallowed a breath.
“Seems to be?” Dr. Penske’s tone was as dismissive as his gaze.
“I—I haven’t examined the child,” she said.
The doctor glanced around the children’s ward where two other nurses bustled with tasks. Using the back of his hand, he swiped a lock of hair from his forehead. “Well, why don’t you get to it?”
Me? She was only given the most mundane tasks from emptying chamber pots to changing linens. Hopefully the stranger didn’t sense that. “Please lay her here.” Ella moved to an open crib bed and lowered one side down. “I’ll check her temperature.”
The man eyed her warily but did as she asked. Ella’s fingers were suddenly unsteady as she adjusted the pillow beneath the tiny, blonde head. She’d never been assigned a patient before. Not once on her own. But she’d read the nursing encyclopedia forward and back and watched the nurses day in and day out. Besides, she was the oldest of five brothers and sisters. Ella forced herself to remain calm. When it came to fevers, she knew what to do.
A check of the girl’s pulse said it was just over one hundred and twenty beats per minute.
Ella unbundled her down to a wrinkled dress and sweater, then cast the blanket to the foot of the bed. “The child’s name?”
After lowering the other side of the crib, the man knelt there. “Holland.”
Flicking a glance to his face showed that he was serious. Ella pressed the back of her hand to the babe’s round cheek. She nabbed a thermometer and loosened her clothing enough to ease the glass tip under the girl’s arm. “How old is she?”
“Seven months.”
“How long has she had a fever?”
“A few days. But it’s gotten worse today.”
The mercury rose. “It’s a good thing you brought her in.” Ella waited another minute, freed the thermometer, and at the numbers, blew out a controlled breath. A very good thing. “Has she been seizing at all?” Ella tugged off the baby’s leather booties.
“No.”
“You’re certain?”
“I would know.” Irritation edged his voice.
Ella held up a hand to pacify him. “The doctor’ll be with her shortly. Please have a seat.”
She motioned toward the chair beside the bed and he pulled it forward, sitting as near to the girl as he could.
“Has she been taking fluids?” Ella asked. “Any food?”
“Not much food. A little water.” Looking lost, he glanced around the room, then back to the child. “We’ve had a hard time getting her to drink. She’s so sleepy.” The man leaned forward and touched the baby’s tiny fingers with a hand that looked like it could heft her in one scoop. “Hey.” He smoothed those pale blonde curls. “Wake up, baby girl.”
“She’s lethargic,” Ella said in response to the girl’s unmoving lashes. “I’ll mix her up a tea and see if we can’t get a little fluid into her.”
Excusing herself, Ella hurried away. In the scullery, she filled a dish with warm water and added licorice root, then a hearty pinch of sugar.
“Is he human?”
Ella needn’t look up to know the whispered question was from her friend, Abigail. “What are you talking about?”
“Look at that face.” Abigail wagged her eyebrows then faked a shudder, which was voided by her mischievous smile. “Seems rather intense to be the doting father. How can someone so handsome be so broody?”
“He’s just a little odd. I think.” Ella tugged on the strap of her apron, straightening the clinic-issued uniform. A reach for rags almost knocked over a basket of bandages in her haste.
“He’s a bit more than that, wouldn’t you say? Which has me wondering…”
“Don’t you have something to be doing?” Ella rummaged for a glass dropper, and finding one, prepared a tray.
“There are plenty of odd folk about with the circus in town. They came in on the front end of the storm and I hear they’ve been stranded with the weather.” Abigail’s eyes lit with her discovery. “I bet that’s where he comes from.”
“The circus?” Ella thought of the colorful pennants that had tumbled along with the wind.
“Don’t you read the newspaper? And that bizarre sound this morning—apparently those were elephants.”
Ella had to resist peeking out of the scullery as she caught Abigail’s final whisper that it was too bad the man hadn’t bumped into her.
“He didn’t bump into me,” Ella muttered as Abigail bustled out and Dr. Penske poked his head in.
“I just looked at the child. What was her temperature?” He polished his spectacles on the hem of his coat.
“One hundred and two point eight.”
He eyed the tea she was straining. “Good. Administer fluids, keep her uncovered, cool compresses. I’ll be by again shortly. Keep a close watch on her.”
“Yes, sir.” A little thrill coursing through her at such a task, Ella carried the tray back to the bedside.
The man in the chair watched the baby so intensely that Ella’s feet slowed. Dark circles rimmed his eyes. She’d seen many a worried parent before, but everything about him was amplified. He pulled at his hair just as his fierce gaze slid to Ella. Unsettled, she set the rattling tray down. The man straightened, but his watchful study of her didn’t waver.
The circus…
Her fingers started on the buttons of the baby’s sweater. Now was probably not the time to mention that she wasn’t officially a nurse. Perhaps she’d just keep it to herself entirely. The man rubbed at the side of his lightly bristled jaw. Glancing at him, Ella had
to work very hard to pretend she didn’t know what Abigail’s swooning had been about. Olive skin set off pale green eyes that were still watching her so closely, she almost popped the final button of the little yellow sweater clean off.
Though she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen one, the word Gypsy flitted to mind.
She lifted a damp rag and pressed it to the baby’s cheek.
Brow furrowed, the man leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs, hands clasped. Though they fluttered, the baby’s lashes didn’t open.
Ella smoothed a damp tendril of the girl’s hair. “Holland,” she said softly, taken aback by the sound of such a name, surprisingly befitting this tiny sprite with her blonde curls and rosebud lips. Such a wee thing. And in the care of this man…
“She is yours?”
The man nodded as Ella slipped the sweater off.
“Do I need to pay something?” He reached into his pocket.
“Not now. We can worry about that later.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.” She gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile, and settling on the bed, lifted the baby onto her lap. Holland was limp, just as she feared. “Hello, little one,” Ella whispered. The girl’s plump, tiny form declared just how young she was. Her dress was a series of colorful patches, stockings frayed in the knees. Paired with the pointed knit cap Ella had set aside, she looked every bit a Gypsy as her father. Ella filled the dropper with fluid and coaxed it past the baby’s sleeping mouth. Giving the tip a squeeze, a few drops slipped out and Holland’s mouth worked.
“Very good, sweet one.” She felt the man’s gaze boring a hole into her.
Ella caught a faint dribble with a rag, then settled the baby back in the crook of her arm. Another attempt proved successful, and soon the dropper was empty.
She looked at the man. “We’ll give her an ounce of fluid every fifteen minutes for now. I can try some ice chips as well. I’ll go prepare some.”