The Thanksgiving Day Bride: Mail Order Bride Novels

by Sandee Keegan

  “Mister Towers!” She exclaimed, praying that she could talk sense into the man before he hurt her uncle, “Uncle Dennis is correct. I was not anywhere near Charleston when your slaves escaped. If I came across them, I might have felt sympathy for them, but I was in the care of my carriage man from the train to Shamballa.” She gasped as he pivoted and she saw the stark evil burning in his eyes. “Please don’t take out your anger on my family. We have done nothing to harm you.” She added softly, opening her hands palm up, in a gesture of peace.

  He nodded and continued to pace the room then shook his head and stared out the window.

  “I understand that you did not arrive until after the slaves escaped,” he admitted as he stared out the window. “But, I also know you spoke to the driver of your carriage and money exchanged hands when you arrived. Money, he said when questioned, given to him to spirit my slaves over the state line to aid them in making their way north.” As he spoke, Taggert stepped into the room, dragging a broken, bloodied man by the neck. His face was so damaged; Emma could hardly tell it was the man who had driven her hired carriage the day she had arrived.

  “I’m sorry,” the man mumbled, casting his one open eye upon her. “I tried to tell them it wasn’t so, but they wouldn’t believe me.”

  “I did no such thing.” Emma declared, hot rage at the sight of the poor old man bleeding in her aunt’s parlor burned away her fear until she felt reckless and indignant. “I gave him money because my father taught me to treat those who provided me with good service well. I absolutely would have helped any slave to escape you, was I given the chance, because you are evil,” she spat at him, shaking and white with anger. “But I would never have endangered this kind old man or put him in your path to do so.” She tried to step toward her uncle, but he motioned her to stay back with his good hand.

  “What have you done to my family? They are your neighbors, good people who have never done you wrong.” She gasped as his hand appeared out of nowhere and struck her across the face hard. She tumbled to the floor and stayed there for a long moment, waiting for the room to stop spinning before she looked up at his sneering face. “I wish I was a man today, Mister Towers, so I had the right to beat you as you beat the old man,” she snarled, shaking her head to clear the cobwebs forming at the very edge of her peripheral vision.

  She glanced up at Taggert, who was holding up the carriage driver and staring into the room with disgust.

  “You are a monster, Mister Taggert,” she hissed.

  “I did not do this,” he replied. “Everything you see here is courtesy of a bottle of cheap whiskey and your fat friend over there.” He looped the old man’s arm over his shoulder wincing as the other man gasped in pain. He led him to a couch and set him down. “This is not what I was hired to do, or what I wish to be known for. I believe it is time for me to escort you home, Harold.” The pudgy, mealy man curled his thick fingers into a fist and shook it at Emma.

  “I’m not done here.” He growled. He took two steps toward Emma and she closed her eyes and flinched back from the fist that was bearing down on her. Instead of a fist against her skull, she felt air whoosh past her face and looked up in alarm to see Stephen grappling with Towers, as Taggert rushed to her side. He helped her to her feet and led her from the room as the men fought. Emma tried to break his hold on her arm to go back to Stephen and her family, but Taggert held fast and didn’t let go until she was well away from the house, hidden among the dismal little building the field slaves called home.

  “I must go back. You can’t make me stay here!” She lashed out at the bounty hunter.

  “No. I must go back, and you must stay here. I will tell your man where to find you once we get Towers out of the house and into a jail cell to sleep off his whiskey.” She backed away and nodded once.

  “Run.” She commanded, and Taggert bowed and obeyed without a word. Minutes passed and Emma paced the dirt floor of the hut, nauseated and scared. She nearly screamed when the door opened and Izzy poked her head into the hut, then dragged her into her arms and hugged her tight.

  “I’m all right, Miss Emma, and your aunt and uncle are too.” She reassured her mistress, who broke down in ragged sobs of relief.

  “And Mister Du Morney, is he hurt?” Emma choked out the words as she struggled to control her weeping.

  “I am well, Dearest Emmaline.” Stephen stepped into the darkness of the hovel and swept her into his arms. “Your uncle is fine, as is your aunt. Do not fear, Edwin sent the house boy running into town to fetch the constable, and they said he didn’t stop running the whole way. He nearly collapsed and had to be carried back. Towers is likely going to spend a couple of days in a cell, while the rest of us enjoy the Thanksgiving celebration without him.”

  “Good riddance to bad rubbish.” Emma replied tartly, relaxing a little when Stephen laughed. “I am glad you are not hurt,” she sighed, her eyes searching for any sign of pain or injury. He kissed her gently on the top of her head and reminded her that she needed to return to the big house to start receiving guests that were expected to arrive any minute.

  “I left the North expecting to be afraid and alone forever,” she admitted as he took her arm and escorted her back to the big plantation house. She looked up at the lanterns being lit as the servants readied the house for the beginning of the festivities and sighed. She felt the warmth of her mother’s hand on her shoulder as she walked, and happiness flooded through her.

  Stephen led her to the library, where her aunt and uncle rested. She looked from the man she desired to the family she had realized were her new home. She was at peace, grateful to her father for sending her away to a place where she could love and be loved. She embraced her family and reintroduced Stephen as her beau, noting wryly the satisfaction on her aunt’s face.

  Her uncle gave him permission to continue courting Emma, and Izzy was commanded to chaperone the young couple as they walked the grounds and attempted to leave the ugliness behind them. They walked in silence for a bit, arm in arm, as Izzy trailed far behind them.

  “There is much I still need to learn, Mister Du Morney,” Emma reminded him coyly as they rounded the lake behind the estate by the light of the moon. “The feast of Thanksgiving is a very good time to adjust one’s view and renew one’s life, don’t you think?” She let her voice trail off as he stopped and turned her to face him.

  “I am grateful for the opportunity to celebrate this American tradition with you, dearest Emmaline,” he replied, leaning in to kiss her softly. “I will endeavor to teach you everything I know, and embrace the culture of the colonies with all my strength.” His hand slid to her waist and she trembled in anticipation.

  “Thanksgiving is all about gratitude for what we have been given, Mister Du Morney. If you are willing to teach me, I will do my best to show that gratitude by learning quickly and being a most enthusiastic student.” Her audacity startled a laugh from the handsome man.

  “Then I must show my gratitude to Mr. Taggert for alerting me to your plight, and young Isabella for keeping you safe for me. I am not a great man, Sweet Emmaline. But, for you, I think I will try to be a good man.” He held her close and kissed her forehead, then her cheek, and her lips. “I will teach you everything a man can give a woman he desires, and if you let me, I will teach you all that a man can do when he is in love.”

  “I do not believe in love at first sight, Mister Du Morney,” she began, turning her back to him. “And because of that, I am so very, very grateful that you came back a second time.” She rested her back against his chest and felt the steady beat of his heart.

  She had arrived a bird fallen from her nest, bruised and unable to fly. The plantation was healing her, pushing air under her wings and lifting her up to fly. That was a thing to be grateful for indeed, and in the once unbroken blackness of mourning, Emmaline found the light of hope as she watched the lights of the plantation spark to life and welcome all travelers to the feast of feasts, on the day of Thanksgiving.
/>   THE END

  Dear Captain Ross

  1. Yorkshire, England

  The wind played along the edge of the Dalby forest, spinning fallen leaves into the paddock where Stella smoothed Pumpernickel’s freshly combed coat with a finishing brush. He flicked his braided tail and watched the ribbon she’d run through it over one shiny, muscled brown shoulder. Stella’s shoulders sagged as she finished smoothing the old quarter horse. She was going to London soon, and didn’t know if or when she would see her best friend again.

  As Stella dropped the brush in the old wooden bucket with the combs and files she had already used on him, Pumpernickel offered her a hoof for examination, just as he had a hundred times before. The horse’s unfailing attention to his beauty regimen coaxed a chuckle from the brooding young woman, and she obediently checked each freshly cleaned and filed hoof one last time for damage or infections. As always, every inch of his trembling cinnamon hide was perfect. She handed the pail to her mother and opened the gate of the paddock to release Pumpernickel into the upper pasture.

  Pumpernickel halted in the middle of the gate and stared at Stella, who feigned confusion for a long moment. He stomped one manicured hoof at her, making her laugh again, before she pulled a small, green and red apple from her pocket and held it in her palm under his muzzle. The gentle old dandy carefully lipped her hand and drew the apple into his mouth, his large front teeth tickling her palm where they grazed her. Stella leaned in for a hug around his broad neck, and the satisfied Pumpernickel cantered into the pasture to pester the mares, sweeping his beribboned tail in long strokes from side to side, showing off for his ladies.

  “That ridiculous old fart.” Stella’s mother laughed as they watched their small herd cavort in the tall, waving grass. “You’d think he had a reason to flirt with the old girls. Seems he never did figure out what made him different from the other boys.” She snorted. Stella chuckled and watched the horses play through tear-blurred eyes. “Don’t think I didn’t notice where all my Yorkshire Greening’s have been going, either” She admonished, swatting her daughter on the rear-end gently. “You’d best go pick a few more, or there will be no pie with dinner tonight.” Stella smiled at her mother and stepped down from her perch on top of the paddock fence.

  “Of course, Mum.” Stella replied as she retook possession of the grooming pail and slipped out of the coverall she was wearing over her dress. “I’ll just put these away and go pick an apron-full.” Mallory Kingsfoot had not stopped worrying about her daughter since she’d first written home from nursing school to inform her parents she’d been accepted into Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Nursing Service.

  Stella banged through the kitchen half-door, holding it open with her hip as she carelessly dumped Yorkshire Greenings into the apple basket just inside the kitchen. She took one look at her mother and shook her head.

  “You’ve that worried look on your face again, Mum.” She observed. Her mother turned away to school her features into something pleasant, and Stella took the opportunity to steal a slice of freshly baked bread. She tore it in half and stuffed it in her mouth, puffing out her cheeks like a squirrel. “Aww, Mum.” She mumbled around the mouthful of bread. “Don’t be sad. I’m stationed in a hospital in London. I’ll be perfectly safe, and I’ll be home in three months.” Her mother turned at the garbled sound of her daughter’s voice, and broke into surprised laughter when Stella grinned, crumbs falling from her lips as she tried to finish chewing and swallowing.

  “Oh, you!” She gasped, fluttering her apron at Stella and chasing her out of the kitchen. “Go finish packing, before there’s no food left for dinner.” She chided. She watched Stella’s honey-blonde ponytail bounce out of sight before she relaxed and let her posture sag. It was small wonder the girl was as wild as she was.

  Charles had never even considered suggesting that he would have preferred a son to his unruly only child. Instead, he had encouraged her passions, however, fleeting they may have been in her childhood. As such, Stella had learned archery, horseback riding, and farm machine maintenance, as well as the dance and sewing her mother forced upon her. Mallory sighed over the steak and kidney pie she was preparing. As if she’d been reading her mother’s thoughts, Stella snuck back into the kitchen and wrapped her thin arms around her mother’s ample waist.

  “Don’t worry, Mum.” She mumbled into the older woman’s back. “I’ll come home and you’ll get to rest while I take care of the kitchen for a while, I promise.” Mallory sniffed and patted her daughter’s hands. “Well, I don’t post for two more days yet.” Stella reminded her mother. So, tomorrow, you and I will do whatever you want, just the two of us.” Mallory smiled through her tears at her daughter.

  “What am I going to do with you?” Mallory admonished her daughter. “How are you going to find a husband if you waste away taking care of invalid soldiers?” She added. Stella laughed. She could hardly bear the thought of leaving her mum and dad again after being home just one short month, let alone fathom sparing a romantic thought toward any man. But, with war creeping ever closer to her beloved England, she knew she had to do her part, especially in a family with no son to send.

  “I cannot adequately express how uninterested I am in finding a husband, Mum.” Stella snorted. “I just want to do my part, and come home to tend the horses and eat your famous apple pie, and go shooting with Dad.” She sighed and Mallory saw her shrink in on herself for a moment before she forced her face into a smile. “Ay-up Da!” Stella called out the tiny kitchen window. She watched the tall lean farmer walk along the garden path, his grey, threadbare flat-cap pulled down over his forehead. His shoulders stooped from years of hard labor and slouching to appear shorter, but at her voice he straightened and gave her a wave.

  Realizing he was nearly done his chores and would be in soon, famished and tired, Stella hurried to help her mother with the last of supper. She scurried to the cold room to retrieve a fresh butter and to pour off a pint of the apple beer her mother brewed regularly for her father, and assisted her mother in setting the table. By the time the patriarch made his way to the head of the table, his wife and daughter had served him a mountain of steak and kidney pie, the savory aroma of meat and gravy tickling his nostrils as he sat down. He grunted in approval at the addition of golden, fatty bacon laid neatly across the plate.

  After a brief thanks over the food, Mallory watched anxiously as her husband deftly tucked the thick bacon between two crusty slices of homemade bread and tore into it with his teeth, whilst simultaneously dividing off a generous mouthful of the flaky meat pie with his fork. The only sounds he made as he tucked in were the grunts and sighs of satisfaction, long-familiar to Stella. Just as familiar was the careful concern with which her mother watched him eat. Once upon a time, Stella had thought it odd that her mother would wait to eat until her father was leaning back in his chair, rubbing a disgorged belly and taking long, happy pulls from his apple beer.

  One day, she’d finally asked her father why he let it go on. He’d explained that no matter how many times he’d tried to make her stop, she refused to eat until she knew he was satiated. Over time, he’d realized that his enjoyment of her cooking brought her happiness, and so, he’d told her, he learned to make sure she knew he loved her cooking, and let her be happy her own way. He’d ruffled Stella’s hair then and laughed, a rare and amazing act that transformed the homely farmer into a vision of the youth and good looks that war and the wear and tear of farming had stolen from him.

  As Stella watched them both now, memories of the lessons, both the pleasant and the painful, that her parents had taught her, ran through mind like the moving pictures she’d seen with friends while away at nursing school. An all-too-familiar pang knifed through her chest wall and pierced her heart. She was so afraid to leave, with the impending danger that rode the tide of war straight towards those she loved most. But, as she watched her parents persist in their lifelong habits of a love that no one could deny, she simply prayed that she would
be home before anything could take them away from her.

  The next day was a blur for Stella. True to her word, she went to town with her mother and they spent the day doing everything they wanted and nothing more. They fed Charles his standard breakfast of coffee and toast, then walked down the hill and into the Dalby market. Mallory bought her daughter a scarf and tied it around her long, mahogany hair, curling one long wavy tendril that had managed to escape around her finger before tucking it away with the rest under the violet silk fabric.

  They took lunch at the Dalby Armes pub, where the proprietor, wiry old Mr. Fitzgibbon, redoubled his usual efforts to wheedle from Mallory her apple beer recipe, with comical failure that had every patron weighing in with tips and suggestions, ranging from the fiscal, to the socially inappropriate, the latter of which had the whole pub in stitches. All their friends and neighbors knew that Stella was soon to be leaving for London, and made every effort to lighten the mood for the two ladies while they ate and visited with whoever stopped by their table to chat.

  Miss Claudette Pemberley was perhaps the most distraught over her departure. Stella had looked past the young woman’s wealth and befriended her when her parents’ deaths had forced her to move to the county to be raised by her aunt. Under the progressively optimistic, but watchful eye of her aunt, Claudette and Stella had sealed their forever friendship in scraped knees, bug hunts, and every imaginable pleasurable activity that girls should never partake in. Somehow, despite the pranks and mud that made up most of her childhood, the esteemed Miss Pemberley had become a graceful and subdued young woman, who gratefully acknowledged that without her outgoing friend, she was most likely to sit in the big house her aunt had willed to her, and mourn the sunshine that was leaving for London on the next train out.