For the first time he saw himself as he really was.
A line from the conclusion of The Ugly Duckling.
Straightening, Gwen placed a hand over her trembling lips. Had Elliott designed, crafted, and inscribed this swan…for her? No, it could not be. There must be another reason behind its creation. Although, none came to mind. Her lips stilled, but the trembling reemerged in her stomach as an incessant flutter. A swan, bearing a line from her book. Perhaps it had been made for her. Yet, why would Elliott go to such trouble for her, unless…
“This swan has a secret, you know.” Off to her right, Elliott looked at her from the corner of his eye.
Gwen’s heart skipped over a beat. How long had he been standing there?
Without waiting for an inquiry, Elliott leaned forward and turned a small knob on the side of the swan’s wooden base. A faint metallic clicking ignited. Seconds later the swan arched its long, graceful neck back toward its body as its wings unfurled, lifting to the sky. A scene from Duckling’s tale, the very one from which the inscription derived. The moment when Duckling saw himself as he really was, a beautiful swan.
The metallic sounds clinked until the automaton swan returned to its original position, eyes of amber gleaming.
Gwen stood in silence, knowing neither how to react nor what to say. Other than Papa, no one had ever presented her with such a special gift. No one had ever cared.
“What do you think?” Something akin to hope breathed life into Elliott’s usual mechanical tone. “Do you like it?”
She turned to face him. Arms tucked behind his back, he waited with an expression on his face of restrained eagerness. He really did care, didn’t he? “I believe it is the most wonderful thing I have ever seen in my life.”
“Good.” Elliott’s voice thrummed so much feeling into the word one might have thought he had jumped up and cheered. Bringing his arms out of hiding, he produced her old copy of The Ugly Duckling. “I have read this many times over the last few days, but I’d enjoy it very much if you would read it to me. Please?”
As Elliott held the book outstretched, a shadow fell across them both. The sun’s warmth receded from the library. Gwen swathed her chest with both arms and turned her gaze out the window where a cluster of clouds held the sun captive. She sighed. Another debilitating shadow still lingered over Briarcliff and it must be addressed lest it haunt her forever.
Gwen met Elliott’s gaze and then glanced at the offered book. “Wouldn’t you prefer someone else read to you? One of the servants.” Cynthia?
Taking a step forward, Elliott shortened the distance between them. His brown-eyed gaze held on to her own. His words flowed smooth and sure. “No. I would not prefer one of the servants. Nor anyone else you could name here, in London, or beyond.” Once again he held out the book. “Now, will you read to me, dear Lady Carlyle?”
Although the clouds outside did not stir, Gwen no longer felt chilled. Lady Carlyle. She smiled. That honored name was hers now, really and truly. Not because of a scheme, but because Elliott had given it to her, freely and willingly. For the first time in her life, she had been chosen.
For the first time, she felt like a bride.
A tear escaped Gwen’s eye. “It would be my pleasure to read you this tale, Elliott. As many times as you’d like.” She reached to accept the book from him, and their bare fingers touched for the briefest of moments. Heat radiated through her cheeks.
A grin appeared on his face and then ducked behind a creased brow. “I’m sorry it took so long for me to figure things out. Make things right. I should have come to you sooner.” Elliott shook his head, voice and gaze falling. “I’m such a fool.”
“You are no more a fool than I am a duckling.” A statement she could neither have uttered nor believed, before today.
Elliott lifted his head, a new glow illuminating and softening his entire countenance. He indicated the chairs with a sideways glance and extended his hand toward her. “Shall we begin?”
“We shall.” Accepting Elliott’s hand, Gwen followed his escort to the reading nook, where they sat side by side to begin the first chapter of their ever after.
Novelist Angela Bell is a 21st century lady with 19th century sensibilities. Her activities consist of reading voraciously, drinking copious amounts of tea, and writing letters with a fountain pen. She currently resides in the southern most region of Texas with pup Mr. Darcy and kitty Lizzie Bennett. One might describe Angela’s fictional scribblings as Historical Romance or as Victorian History and Steampunk Whimsy in a Romantic Blend. Whenever you need a respite from the 21st century hustle, please visit her cyber-space parlor www.AuthorAngelaBell.com where she can be found waiting with a pot of English tea and some Victorian cordiality.
Bridal Whispers
by Angela Breidenbach
Dedication
In memory of my amazing grandparents, Maybelle and Birchard Nelson.
Your fifty-four years of marriage taught me love can last.
I look forward to seeing you in paradise.
Hope deferred makes the hear sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.
PROVERBS 13:12
Chapter 1
Saint Paul, MN
March 5, 1900
Maila fingered the lavender grape clusters on her necklace. With every bag stuffed and every pocket full of her things, she’d decided to wear her favorite bauble even if she didn’t have the matching earrings anymore. Surely he’d be a gentleman and return them?
The earbobs had grown heavy and pinched on their walk home from the Saint Paul theater last week, and Benjamin offered to hold them. Maila sighed, remembering the romantic moment when he’d pocketed them with a twinkle in his eye and then promised to wrest an important answer from her as payment for returning the earbobs at dinner tonight. But instead of sitting in the soft glow of candlelight with Benjamin, here she sat, alone, on a train, headed home to Fergus Falls. She’d be there in time for a late supper. Would Benjamin think she’d stood him up? Hopefully the message arrived before he left to collect her.
“Miss?”
Maila turned from the window, startled. “Yes?” The early morning hadn’t yet released the sun. But the Pullman lanterns shed plenty of light in the car.
“May I sit with you?” The woman indicated the full car around them. Lost in thought, Maila hadn’t noticed other passengers.
“Oh dear, forgive me.” Standing to make way, Maila asked, “Would you like the window?”
“How kind.” The woman scooted in. “Your necklace, it’s lovely.” She smiled as she dropped a bundle on the bench to offer her hand. “I’m Jenny Ault. Please call me Jenny.”
“Thank you, Jenny.” Maila accepted the greeting and smiled at the friendliness extended to her. “Maila Holmes.”
“Did you get that from your beau?” Jenny pushed and prodded the bulging bags around her feet as she squeezed into the window seat.
Jenny didn’t appear to have any qualms with personal matters. Maila touched the hollow of her throat. “I bought it to celebrate becoming a nurse.”
Jenny’s eyes flickered in surprised glee. “Now, that’s something special.” She plunked down in the seat finally cleared of travel paraphernalia. “Go ahead, sit back down. I won’t be a bother.”
Cautious of flying elbows as the young lady ducked down, prodding the bulging belongings and battling for foot space, Maila took the aisle and offered her arms to hold packages as Jenny rearranged. “You’re no bother. It’s lovely to have someone to share the ride with me.”
“I’m going to Seattle. I’ve a new position as a nanny.” Peering up at Maila, she asked, “Where are you headed?”
Away from the life I had to build when no one wanted me. Away from the man I think I love. “Home.” Maila stared at her folded hands. Hands that held value because they could work—not because she was loved.
“Have you been away long?” Jenny resettled with foot space conquered. She’d turned the bundles into a foot
stool.
Jenny’s gregarious personality would be a welcome addition to a long ride in a day car. How did people find it so easy to talk to strangers? “Nine years, minus an occasional holiday.” In those years she’d earned enough money waitressing to attend school in Saint Paul, found gainful employment nursing, and built a life in a nice apartment. Not the scratching at the ground her family did that made strong boys so valuable and girls—
“You must be so excited to be going home, then.”
The whistle blew their departure, and the train chugged through the breaking dawn ahead of the waking sun.
“We’ve kept up through letters.” Maila pretended to look around the train car. No reason to share such tragedy with this happy girl. Maila kept the loss of her favorite cousin, and the other loved ones the flu epidemic stole, private. It would be a very long train ride if her seatmate felt uncomfortable for the next thirteen hours. “It’ll be goot”—she cleared her throat—“I mean, good to see my family.”
Why did her Swedish accent still show when she was stressed? The tutoring to learn to speak more like an American, with less of an accent, had paid off with better employment. But she missed the musicality and freedom of her native language. She didn’t like talking much in either English or Swedish. Where had it ever gotten her but into trouble? Especially at home. But it was nice to know she said exactly what she meant. One-on-one, like with this girl, a conversation could be fun. But she let Jenny do most of the conversing.
Jenny didn’t seem to notice one whit that her travel partner barely spoke as she prattled away the train stops from Saint Paul, across Minnesota, until finally, she slept.
Maila missed the congeniality the last little bit, unable to sleep away the miles. She pointed Jenny out to the conductor. “Would you keep my friend safe? She’s traveling alone to become a nanny.” He agreed to keep an eye out for the girl, giving Maila a sense of relief. It was one thing to travel for a day. Completely another to go off on a lengthy trip, as a lone woman, with all the train robberies lately. At least one person knew to offer assistance should Jenny need it.
Maila tipped the man and left a courteous good-bye note for Jenny with him for when she woke. She slipped off the train onto the new Fergus Falls platform at Vine and Laurel.
Assured Jenny would get the note, Maila worried whether Benjamin would get the message shed sent from the train depot before their appointed dinner. He’d understand she left in a hurry for her family’s sake, wouldn’t he?
Burton caught sight of a brown figure—all brown, from the plain hat to hair to coat to boots—framed from behind by the cream exterior of the depot like a shadow in the waning sun. An overwhelming sense of unadorned simplicity, like a plain winter thistle. Even her assorted bags poking out around her, hooked on elbows, and held in a hug had to be the least assuming, practical carryall choices possible.
Rose had loved to wear sky blue, yellow, and green. Colors of spring that set off her sparkling blue eyes and silky blond hair. Burton longed to be collecting his pretty Rose instead of her shy, prickly cousin. He remembered a chubby little girl who’d rather sass off than curb her tongue—when she chose to communicate. Perhaps she’d changed in the years she’d been away? Her letters during the last couple of months were short, but comforting, memories of his wife. Perhaps that sweetness came from maturity.
“Maila?” he called over the March gust. “Is that you?”
She turned and flapped an elbow under her load. “Ja, sure it is.”
He swung off the sleigh and looped the reins around the hitching post. “Let me help.” He avoided a direct look at Maila. Cousins tended to have a family resemblance. Could he look on a familial face and not see his dead wife in it? Blue eyes would be his undoing. Ten weeks ago he’d closed Rose’s blue eyes on Christmas Day, but not before the sparkle dulled as she stared over his shoulder at the ceiling corner. The happiness had bled from his being as he held that vigil. And then she was gone. One day fine, the next gone.
Fifteen years. Burton pressed his lips together. Not fifty like she’d promised. Not long enough. Rose couldn’t celebrate the turn of the century. No dance and kiss at midnight. The new blue gown meant for the New Year gala worn for her funeral instead. And no little ones to tell stories about her, since Rose hadn’t been able to bear children. He had nothing but a portrait to remember her beauty and grace.
“It’s good to see you again, Burton. I’m so sad for your loss.”
He couldn’t avoid responding, but he still didn’t have to see her face. The girl had traveled across the state to come back and help him pick up the pieces of their combined family. She’d shared beautiful memories of his precious Rose. Memories he cherished.
Burton cleared his throat. “Thank you—and for the thoughtful letters.” He chanced a glance. Maila’s travel bonnet shadowed her features enough in the growing twilight. He didn’t have to connect with the soft blue eyes all of Rose’s family inherited. He didn’t have to wish Rose’s eyes read the love in his. He didn’t have to feel the lurch stop his heart like an ax splitting wood.
“Thank you for writing back. I wouldn’t have known—” Maila’s throat closed. “I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t helped Mama through it all.”
“Your mama sent some food with me. I’m to get you settled in the rooms above the store, feed you, and let you rest from the trip. It’s too cold tonight with the storm rolling in to go all the way out to the farm.”
Maila regarded the heavy clouds deepening in the dusk, tugged her coat tighter against the colder wind coming off the nearby lake, but said nothing as flakes floated around her and melted on her nose.
Twelve miles on a cold, hard bench would be best done in the daylight, well-traveled road or not. “Then tomorrow we’ll drive the dray out to the farm for a family meeting.”
“Ja, tack så mycket.”
Swedish. Always Swedish with this family. If he never heard that language again it wouldn’t be long enough. Rose died and all they did was chatter. Chatter about this and chatter about that. And not one word intelligible. Burton scowled. “No more Swedish, please. Speak English.”
“I—yes, thank you so much.” Maila translated her words then ducked around him to drop the rest of her belongings in the back of the sled. She yanked her travel skirt up, clambered into the seat, and stared straight ahead, blinking rapidly.
Burton grimaced at his brisk behavior. Maila hadn’t caused the loss of his wife and mother. She had to be reeling from the loss of several of her cousins as well. It wasn’t her fault the influenza epidemic wiped out so many people, including three men needed to help run the homestead, all in the last few months. Death had visited more people in their extended family than any other in the area. Maila’s own sister and two children still needed nursing back to health, as did several people in town. The Swedish people lowered their voices and chattered and chattered and chattered. Did they think he couldn’t tell who’d been the subject when a conversation stopped?
Sixteen years owning the general store. The first year alone was rough before Rose agreed to marry him. Her sweet way with others brought in business. Without Rose, how would he manage with people who refused to speak English? He couldn’t risk losing customers to bigger city shopping or competitors. Maybe selling the store and moving on would be best.
He heaved a sigh. Still not Maila’s fault. “I’m sorry for your loss, too.” Burton settled beside her. “Your sister will be grateful you can look in on her and the children. Her husband is extremely worried.”
She lifted her chin and turned away. “I’m glad I can be of use.”
“Several more folks came down with the flu.” Burton’s words slowed and rang with reverence. “Seth, Johan, and Olaf passed in the last two days.”
Maila swung her head to look at him and choked out one word: “All?”
His affirmation a bare movement of his jaw, Burton couldn’t meet her gaze. Not when he’d leveled her with such loss with
in moments of her arrival. Not when the very people she arrived to help care for had dropped like wheat during the threshing season. Her sister’s family, all that were left of those she’d come to aid.
“Each not far apart.” He reached under the seat and brought out a heavy quilted lap rug. His muscles still ached from shoveling hard, cold ground when the sun warmed the land as a Chinook blew through. Just enough warmth to loosen the soil, with the farm’s ox team and plow first. The rows of fresh graves seared into Burton’s brain.
“How could no one tell me?”
“You were already coming. The family thought it best to allow you a peaceful journey rather than send another wire.” As he covered them the best he could for the short jaunt through the streets from the station to the general store, he added, “There wasn’t anything you could have done from the train.”
Burton flicked the reins, though his forearms screamed at the smallest motion and his shoulders shouted back. Piling snow scattered off the horses’ rumps as they pulled the dray against the strengthening onslaught. A sleigh normally used for hauling dry goods and farm equipment over heavy Minnesota drifts had hauled five coffins in the last weeks, his wife’s the first, at Christmas. “We need some sleep. Tomorrow’s a long day with the ride over to Foxhome.” Would he ever celebrate Christmas with joy again? Probably not. How would he get through Easter? Rose’s favorite holiday would have a new organist pumping the pedals.
Tears dripped sideways off Maila’s chin, salt mingling with sweet-tasting snow that blew in her face. She couldn’t wipe them away fast enough before the next came sliding back toward her ears. Four cousins and Burton’s mother. Compassion clung to each name as he’d said them like fog over the creek, blanketing the ground.
The Lassoed by Marriage Romance Collection Page 6