Traveled Hearts (First In Series Book 1)

by Veronica Mahara

  He looked down at his notes. “I’m sorry, Miss Messes, but I don’t see that here. Please sit down and refrain from further interruptions. Thank you. Now, as I was about to say—”

  “It’s Messing, Mr. Layfette.” Jessica was compelled to continue. “I think this lesson has been taught already.”

  “I beg your pardon?” His voice raised in pitch and volume. “What makes you think you can disrupt my class like this, young lady?”

  An older woman stood, her attire and demeanor noticeably wealthy. “With all due respect, Mr. Layfette, this young woman has a point. We are here taking time out of our busy days to learn about techniques and acquire, as you say, ‘inspiration for our artistry,’ and we have had this lesson in the class prior to this one.”

  Mr. Layfette inspected the woman. “Very well. You may pick your subjects.” He pointed to the table at the front of the room covered with artificial flowers and fruit, scarves and vases.

  As Jessica prepared to sketch the rose outside the window, Mr. Layfette added, “When you are done constructing your still life portraits, I will come by to approve or make improvements, whichever the case may be.”

  The five other women in the class hurried to the table, their bustled skirts competing with each other as they grabbed for the pieces they fancied. Jessica ignored the scene, searching for the right color for her rose. She worked for several minutes until it was time to apply a light wash. Having cleaned this room many times as one of her duties at the gallery, she knew she would find a small glass by the sink at the back. When she returned with the glass of water Mr. Layfette was standing by her desk, his arms folded in front of him, drumming his fingers on his upper arm.

  “And where is your composition, Miss Messing?”

  “Oh, it’s right here.” Gesturing to the rosebush, she took her seat and placed the filled glass next to her brushes.

  In a voice loud enough for all to hear, and with considerable condescension, he announced, ‘“Still life’ is just that. Not moving. Maybe a few more technical lessons might do you well, miss, even if you seem not to think so.”

  With a quick glance at each desk, she could see what the other women had chosen. A variety of fake flowers and fruit and gaudy-colored scarves arranged in artistic fashion cluttered each one. It was one of her least favorite ways to express her art, but she was willing to compromise. “May I snip a rose from this bush and arrange it with a vase?”

  “You’ve been provided the necessary material on the table at the front of the class. I suggest you make the most of that. A true artist is able to create from what is given to him.” He walked away from her as he spoke.

  The heat rose from within her blouse. This was not the lesson she had expected. This was for wealthy, idle women to while away a summer afternoon. “Mr. Layfette, please may I paint this lovely flower?” She waited.

  He turned to her and huffed, “As you wish, but I will inform Mr. Cromwell of your disrespectful behavior. He may want to bar you from further lessons.” She lowered her head and curled her lip. The paper waited for the first wash, her favorite moment, when the pencil drawing came to life. This portrait of a rose, she would give to her mother.

  During the lesson Mr. Layfette walked about the room considering each student’s work. When he came to her desk she raised her head from her painting. His brow was arched and his mouth held a smirk. “I see you have some talent, yet you lack discipline. You’ll never amount to anything in the field of art. I suggest you stick to what most young women aspire to. I’ll wager your needlework stitches lack the same discipline.”

  The comment stabbed her gut. Without a thought, she neatly tucked her supplies back into their places in the wooden art box and took up her damp paper. She stood from her seat and cleared her throat. Her face flushed. She was committed now.

  “I’ve decided to look elsewhere for my inspiration.” It was an announcement. “If you’ll excuse me, I will spend my day exercising my artistic abilities alone.” She couldn’t help herself. Walking to the back of the room, her art case under her arm, her head held high, she made her exit.

  Chapter Seven

  When she stepped outside, the heavy heat and burning sun accosted her. The sharp light made her wince, and she kicked up the dust on the sidewalk. Angry at herself and shaken by her actions, she began to walk home. Mr. Cromwell would surely give her a reprimand, and she didn’t want to think what her father would say if this got back to him. What consequences would she pay for her vanity? Her mother always preached patience and humility. She didn’t want to lose her job, yet her anger dominated her reasoning. Clutching her art supplies, she took a deep breath. The sweat trickled down her back and into her pantaloons, the discomfort almost unbearable. Now she wished to escape the confinement of her clothes as much as she wished to escape the confinements of life. Settling her nerves, she declared, “The devil with it!” As she stormed off, a bone from her corset poked into her ribs. Was it the finger of God reminding her to behave?

  What excuse would she give her mother for coming home early? She could meander down the side roads leading back to Main Street. However, the heat would not allow such luxury and she began to compose her alibi. Mr. Cromwell became ill and was forced to cut the class short. Yes, that would do. It was clever and not overdone. As she walked on, she began to contemplate her life and future. “Why should I have to comply with so many rules?” she lamented aloud. “It’s bad enough my college lessons have to be so restrictive. Now this.” She lowered her head and looked from side to side. No one had heard her. A rider and his horse trotted by, and she coughed from the dust left in their wake.

  “Oh!” she barked at the man holding the reins. Stamping her foot led to her box falling out of her hands and the latch opening, and spilling its contents. “Darn!” A woman passing by gave her a disapproving look. She wiped the dust from her damp face, and quick as she could, collected the now soiled supplies. “Darn!”

  Soon she could hear the clip clop of another horse with a buggy. Preparing to give this driver a disapproving look, she was surprised to see who it was. Jacob smiled down from the top of his runabout. “Why hello, Jess. Were you painting today?”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “Jacob! What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at work?”

  “Too hot. Hank let us off early. I’m going for a swim. Would you like to come along?”

  She hesitated and looked at her disarrayed art box. Struggling to keep the composure she was sure to lose at any minute, she looked up at his handsome face and smiling, dark eyes. “Why not.”

  Handing him her art supplies, she grabbed her skirt and hoisted herself up to sit beside him. It was a much nicer place to be than that dark, old classroom.

  He gave her a wink and commanded the horses to trot on. As they made their way down the street, she caught him looking at her art box now resting near her feet.

  “I was supposed to be in a lesson at the gallery, but it went quite awry.”

  With a chuckle, he said, “You can tell me all about it after we’ve cooled off.”

  She smiled and settled into her seat.

  ~

  The glistening water moved slowly from the pond down the stream, eventually finding its way to the Connecticut River. Jessica closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. The grasses and wildflowers mixed with the thick aroma of maple and oak and the clean scent of the pond. It filled her head with pleasure.

  She opened her eyes and caught a glimpse of Jacob’s naked chest as he stripped down to his long johns. Turning her back to him she began to undress. No one came to this end of the pond, and it was hidden among the trees. She slowly removed her dress and hung it on a branch. Then untying the side laces of her corset, she was released from its confining stays making her feel as if she would float into the sky. Rolling down her stockings, she freed each one from her legs and felt a soft breeze waft over her exposed limbs. Finally, she inched her way into the refreshing water, and a sharp chill ran through her. Self-consciou
s in her undergarments, she bit her bottom lip and refused to let her timidity ruin this luscious moment. Her rebellion in the classroom had momentarily awakened a spirit that took her from her restrictive shell. The water embraced her and she relented.

  “Jess, let’s swim out to the middle.”

  “Come and get me!” They played like young children. She tried to swim away from him, but he grabbed her by the waist. Breaking free, she barely escaped with her fit of laughter. “Twirl me around!”

  Taking her hands, he stood up and dragged her in a circle. She threw back her head as her body swirled through the water, her loosened hair trailing behind. Jacob pulled her up and gave her a quick wet kiss on the cheek and she splashed him for it. Slowly he fell back into the water as if he had been shot. After some time of playful seduction, they lifted themselves out of the blue-green water and into the heat of the sun, its warmth embracing their bodies.

  Jessica’s makeshift swimsuit clung to her. It was no use pulling the material away. It only sucked back against her skin. Jacob laughed and took her hand, drawing her down to the soft grass under the oak tree. Placing his arm around her shoulder, he closed the gap between them, and she nestled her head in the crook of his neck. When her flesh met his, she became light-headed with the pleasure of his scent. It felt natural to be like this with him—dangerous and forbidden–but she no longer cared. His hand slipped over hers and their fingers curled together. Without looking up at him she snuggled in. Her chest contracted as her heart expanded. Is this really happening? Then his lips were on her mouth, his full and tender lips, and they felt warm and soft. The touch of his clean-shaven face felt as magnificent as he looked. His fingers left hers, and his hand was on her waist, then her bodice. Her breasts tingled as he cupped one and gently squeezed it. Had she fallen off the edge of the world? His lips parted from hers with a slight suck. Still close he touched her cheek and she wanted to swoon. She had the love of her life. She certainly had no use for any other. Then Jacob sat back with an anguished expression. “I shouldn’t have done that, Jess. I’m sorry. I … I just couldn’t help it.”

  Whether he was right or not, all she could say was, “Kiss me again.” Immediately, his mouth devoured her mouth, his tongue swirling about hers, and she sucked it greedily. Time stood still. Her body lit with the electricity of his touch. Then he pulled away and was on his elbow, peering out at the water, his breathing audible. “We should get dressed and go.” His words cut through the cloud of romance and lust. He stood up and extended his hand. She took it and was up in a short leap.

  Looking into her eyes, he said, “We need to be careful, that’s all.”

  Her heart rested in her chest. “Thank you, Jacob. But … this feels like a beginning. Is it?” All she received in reply was a tender kiss.

  Chapter Eight

  Without alerting anyone, Jessica quietly moved past the parlor. She wanted to go to her room and sleep for a week. Making her way upstairs, she was stopped by her mother. “What happened? Are you not well?” Her mother took a step to inspect her closer.

  Jessica leaned back. “Yes. I’m … I’m just tired.”

  “Have you been swimming, instead of your lesson? Was that Jacob in that old rig? And since when does your cousin kiss the back of your hand? What game is this?”

  “Mr. Cromwell wasn’t there.” Making her way up each step, she continued her alibi. “He … he was ill and the lesson was cut short. Then Jacob got off work early, so we went over to the pond–I mean the canal, for a quick swim.” She could feel her eyes crinkle as they did whenever she lied.

  “And do tell, what did you swim in?” Her mother folded her arms over her ample bosom.

  Jessica looked down at her dry dress patched with dampness from her wet underclothes. “I didn’t want to get my dress wet or wrinkled.”

  “And your corset?” Her mother’s hands were now on her hips. “Oh, never mind. You are too old to be swimming in your undergarments around your cousin. My goodness, why you insist on doing such activities is beyond me. What if someone had seen you? Have you no shame? Next time, ask Sarah or one of the other girls to go swimming with you and wear the proper bathing dress.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Slowly, she took two more steps up the staircase.

  “As a young lady, you should know that your actions were inappropriate. These types of things have consequences.”

  “Consequences?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Yes, Mother, I’m sorry. I think I’ll just go up to bed now. Would you save me some supper, please?”

  “Oh, I should say not! Take a short rest, my dear, then fix yourself up fine. Mr. Moore is coming to dine with us.”

  Oh no. She had forgotten about tonight. “Can you please say I’m not well?” She stood at the landing a safe distance from further appraisal. “I do feel as if I’m catching a cold.” The look on her mother’s face told her everything. “Yes, Mother.”

  After changing into dry clothes, Jessica fell on her bed where sleep took her. A knock on the bedroom door brought her back to the world. With a yawn, she stretched her arms. The light had changed in the room, and the breeze from the open window felt fresh on her face. The heady smell of lilies and dried hay wafted in. The nap had refreshed her, and she was ravenously hungry and thirsty.

  Her mother peeked around the door. “Jessica, are you awake? I brought you some iced tea.” A tall, cold glass of the liquid was just what she craved.

  “Thank you.” She gulped it down. After coming up for air she asked, “Do I really have to meet Mr. Moore tonight?”

  Without hesitation, the answer was a firm, “Yes.”

  Jessica fell back onto her bed, holding the glass straight up so as to not spill the tea.

  “Get up now, that’s enough. Mr. Moore will be here by seven. Be ready and downstairs by quarter of.” Bethany rushed from the room. “Oh my, did Winnie remember the rosemary?” Her words trailed behind her.

  Draining the glass of tea, she sat on the soft cushion in her bay window where the early evening air brought the sweetness of her afternoon. She raised her knees up to her chest, closed her eyes and relived the moments with Jacob. Soon her lovely remembrance was replaced by her fear. What if we were found out? The scandal this would cause made her stomach turn into a knot, almost bringing up the tea. Perhaps meeting Mr. Moore might be a good distraction.

  Like a thud, it came to her that her father suggested him as her suitor. She straightened her legs and swept them over the side. With a great sigh, she decided she would make a minimal effort to look appealing tonight. She was curious why Mr. Moore would come all this way to Hartford when there were so many fascinating cities to be explored. It couldn’t possibly be to find a wife.

  She entered the bathing room attached to her bedroom. A white tub with brass feet sat on a white, tile floor. Ornately framed portraits of dogs and landscapes hung on every wall. The water closet was separate, and a small sink sat on a pedestal near the tub. The high window let in the right amount of light without exposing the room. In the winter an embroidered rug gave warmth to the cold tile, but today, Jessica let the coolness of the floor relieve the heat Jacob had ignited. Filling the bathtub the five inches her mother allowed with tepid water, she washed away the sweat. After bathing, she put on a light evening frock. The pale-yellow silk with gold satin vertical panels tied with a matching sash fit snuggly to her corseted undergarments while the high-neck lace bodice modestly covered her chest. She brushed her hair and waited for Winnie to come up to style it. Jessica’s mother popped in to remind her Winnie had too much to do and Miss Hargrove, the hairdresser, would be around shortly.

  After Miss Hargrove had arranged every curl with precision, leaving some to fall over the shoulder, Jessica inserted a pin to the side of her head. The bright-yellow, butterfly hairpin was one of the gifts her father had brought back for her from his trip.

  “Thank you, Miss Hargrove, I can manage it from here.” When Miss Hargrove was completely out of sig
ht, she leaned in close to the decorative, brass-rimmed mirror over her dressing table and tugged on the curls around her face. Miss Hargrove always twisted them too tight. She smoothed out any remaining wisps of hair with a dot of scented pomade. The smell of the lavender calmed her. Then, finding the little pot of lip stain she had received from Sarah, she dabbed it on as they had practiced several times, judging each other’s lips. “It can’t look too obvious,” Jessica heard Sarah saying. She gave herself a once-over and proclaimed, “Done.”

  Chapter Nine

  Frederick’s voyage from Liverpool, first by ship to New York, then by train to Hartford, was uneventful. Except for the occasional dinner with Thomas, he kept to himself. He and his father had one thing in common—they both hated taking the steamship to the States. Frederick had been to New York City with his father twice before. He was twelve the first time and had become wretchedly seasick, confined to his cabin for the entire journey. The second time he was twenty-one and the seasickness wasn’t nearly as bad, but he still felt unwell. This time he felt no nausea, yet his head ached dully. He vowed to never take this voyage again. If his plans went as he hoped, he would be able to keep his vow. This first step had to be handled with care—a marriage to an American girl. Then the move to San Francisco. He believed he would be successful in convincing the wealthy to invest through him.

  Frederick reveled in the idea of leaving his parents and his onerous life in Liverpool. Although the bustling city offered more than enough to entertain him and his father had provided great opportunities as Charles’s own father had done for him, it wasn’t enough. His father also kept a close eye on his every move, which Frederick had come to resent. When he had grown bored with being a solicitor for the shipping companies, he became interested in the financial part of the business. Frederick soon learned how to manipulate the books to allow a cash flow to him without anyone’s knowledge. It calmed his wanderlust for a time until that too became routine. Even his longtime romantic interest, Molly Ambers, no longer satisfied him. America had always called to his sense of adventure, and he was eager to be free to exercise his own will.