Back Roads to Bliss

by Ruth Glover

  © 2003 by Ruth Glover

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook edition created 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  eISBN 978-1-4412-3937-2

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

  Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  To Donnybrook School

  and the people who

  fill my dreams and stir my memories

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  About the Author

  Other Books by Author

  Back Ads

  England, 1898

  It wasn’t the usual yap of her dog, Fifi, that wakened her, nor was it the muted sounds of the chambermaid as she went about lighting a fire. Neither was it the cheerful birdsong outside her bedroom window, promising spring in England. She awoke with some distant thought nagging for attention; in her half-asleep state it eluded her. Never mind. As a girl—young woman—in a well-appointed bedroom in a handsome mansion, with breakfast on its way up shortly with no effort or worry on her part, with all of life before her and her body throbbing with health and vigor and her future full of possibilities, Allison Middleton had no appreciable concerns.

  Accustomed to luxury though she was, she couldn’t help but take a moment to admire and appreciate the latest addition to the house as soon as she had made her sleepy way toward it: a room for no other purpose than pampering oneself, an exalted privy—a bathroom.

  Stepping into this marvel of convenience, closing the door behind her and locking it, Allison leaned against it and found her satisfaction with life in general mounting, realizing, without speech, The world is so full of a number of things, I’m sure we should all be as happy as kings.

  Taking her comfort and her luxuries for granted most of the time, occasionally a small sense of gratitude—as in this moment—swelled her heart. And never more so than when, at the close of day, she watched the stream of workers file from the factory, her father’s mill, the income from which made all her blessings possible. Seeing their weariness she was sobered, but only momentarily. For no pity of hers, no sympathy, would change their lot. What might have been done for them had she been a son was null and void because of her gender. The mill and its workers would never be any concern of hers. So she enjoyed the benefits of the woolen mill, with none of the worries.

  Papa might have his faults, but stinginess was not one of them. Moreover, Papa was driven by a burning ambition to climb the social ladder, and if indoor plumbing was the latest thing being installed in the great houses of England, Middleton Grange should have it regardless of the cost.

  Not that cost was any deterrent to Quincy Middleton. If wealth alone could have purchased the standing he wanted, it would have been his in a minute. The Midbury Woolen Mills, while making him excessively wealthy and giving him a certain power and importance, also marked him as a merchant and thus low on the social scale. But there was always the hope that, with care and effort, he might win some honor from the queen or perhaps run for some position in government. As it was, his importance didn’t go much beyond the boundaries of Midbury, the village that had sprung up around the mill that supplied its inhabitants with work and housed them, the rent going into the already bulging coffers of Quincy Middleton.

  Yes, Quincy was careful to observe the amenities, to make the gestures, to sponsor the causes that would establish him as a man of parts, a man of talents, perhaps even as a gentleman. Quincy’s canny choice of a wife had been the first rung on the ladder to success and acceptance; Letitia was born “quality.”

  Success, in a business sense, he had attained, and wealth in abundance, but acceptance from the aristocracy, in spite of his marriage, eluded him. But still he tried.

  The bathroom was part of that effort. London, of course, had developed sewage and water systems long ago, but they were slow in reaching the outlying areas, small villages like Midbury, in particular.

  A spare bedroom had been given over to the project, and Letitia had seen to it that it was lavishly fitted out. Vanity, cupboards, overstuffed chairs—all added to the aesthetics of the room. The ceramic sink was set on graceful pedestals, the cast-iron tub was supplied with a shower ring that could be hung around the neck, sluicing water deliciously over the standing bather. There was no longer any need for water to be carried upstairs from the kitchen, growing cold as it came; a tank in the attic assured an abundant supply, and the new gas line meant hot water at the turn of a tap. Leaning against the door, Allison took a moment to savor the privacy, the cleanliness, the convenience.

  But the privacy was threatened—a rattle of the doorknob at her back woke Allison out of her reverie.

  Taptaptap—by the gentleness of the sound Allison knew it was her sister, Sarah. Allison herself, if denied entrance, would have banged on the door, called impatiently, demanding entry. But Sarah, at fifteen, two years younger than Allison and in all respects different, was self-effacing, unassuming, modest, and—at least to date—meek.

  “Go away,” Allison called, stirring from her daydreaming at last. “I just got in here and I’m not going to hurry.” She could hear the soft sigh of resignation from the other side of the door and felt a small pang of remorse.

  “Give me a few minutes, Sister,” she amended, and immediately the sunshine, which had dimmed for the moment, returned to her day. Sarah was such a mouse, it was difficult not to override her. Allison was a person of decided opinions and quick and thoughtless action; to do her credit, she was working on these aspects of her character. Not very successfully, she often feared, as she leaped into life and—yes—love with abandon.

  Leaning toward her image in the mirror, blinking away the last vestige of sleep that lingered in her eyes, Allison examined her typically British rose-petal complexion for a single flaw and could find none. Sighing with satisfaction, she snatched the frilly cap from her head, impatient with the protocol that demanded it for sleep, and ran her fingers through her dark, springing hair, as resistant to taming as her spirit.

  Suddenly wide awake, the import of the day struck her with full force, and the thing that had been teasing at her mind ever since she wakened: This is my wedding day! Or, on second thought, possibly tomorrow . . . probably the day after.

  Excitement leaped into the vivid face
in the mirror and brightened the eyes until they danced to life, sparkling like sunlight reflected from a gray sea. Allison’s eyes were that way—deceptively calm and quiet one moment, lit and lively the next.

  Across Midbury, in the rooms above his father’s shop, was Stephen waking to the same thrilling realization, and were his thoughts full of cautious, secret schemes as were hers? She was sure of it.

  Her mind given to breathless intrigue, Allison gave no thought to her parents, seated below in the morning room, except to wonder how to get out of the calls her mother had arranged for the afternoon (it was considered very ill bred to call before lunch, and Letitia was rigidly circumspect in all things). Allison knew the new calling cards had arrived, cards that included her name—as was right and proper for a daughter living at home—and Letitia would expect to be accompanied on her rounds today. Allison was sure her mother would include the Flagle house as a subtle means of displaying her available daughter’s charms to Norville’s mother, and she grimaced with distaste, enjoying the effect in the mirror.

  Too bad about the cards; they would go to waste. Glazed, with simple engraving without flourishes or adornment in the best of good taste, they would be carried in a special calling card case emulating the style Queen Victoria had made popular, depicting a castle—Windsor in this instance—and known as a “castle top” case. Allison had been pleased when her mother ordered them, anticipating many sociable hours. Now she dismissed them and their importance impatiently.

  Sarah was considered too young for calling, not yet out of the schoolroom, although the real reason was that she shrank from public exposure and begged her way out of such obligations. But Allison—she of the lively temperament and supreme self-confidence—had no such excuse; and with the new cards in hand, Mama would be counting on her accompanying presence today.

  But in view of the things she had to do, like sorting and packing, an afternoon of calling was out of the question.

  Moreover, her excitement was so extreme she was sure she could never conceal it from her mother. To be ladylike, restrained, polite, chatting inanely with the mother of Norville Flagle, whom she despised, while her heart beat fast and her head whirled, would be an impossibility. Some alternate plan must be put into effect, and quickly.

  Looking at herself in the mirror, Allison noted her high color and bright eyes and decided she would make them work for her: a fever, sick with a raging fever—that would be her excuse. Allison pinched her cheeks, already rosy, and was gratified by the heightened color that could surely, if accompanied by moans and perhaps a few ready tears, indicate an illness that would keep the sufferer to her room for the day. Mama, though disappointed, would sympathize, apply a damp cloth to her daughter’s forehead, send the housekeeper up with some nostrum or other, and carry on with her scheduled calls for the day.

  Below, in the great house called Middleton Grange, Letitia, in perfect morning fashion in her loose robe of fine cashmere (never of silk, which was reserved for gowns), looked uneasily at her husband concealed behind his newspaper and set her teacup aside. Letitia rarely let business interfere with the pleasure of her morning tea. So important was it, and the proper brewing of it, that her household retained the old-fashioned system of blending its own tea, making it to her specifications. After considerable experimentation over the years, it was narrowed to China tea with a precise measure of Hyson and Congo leaves. The resulting blend was stored in a chest under lock and key. The staff—cook, personal maid, chambermaid, kitchenmaid, parlormaid, laundress, needlewoman, butler, valet, coachman, groom, two gardeners—who loved their tea and their teatimes, must settle for a brew made of the cheaper Common Bohea or Common Green leaves. And count themselves lucky to have it.

  Letitia was reluctant to give up her morning tea while there was still some in the pot. But knowing Quincy well, she sensed a storm was brewing.

  “It’s . . . it’s Allison, isn’t it?” she asked falteringly, having sat through her husband’s silence long enough.

  Quincy, after a long moment, a moment designed to punish his wife for not attending to his mood earlier, peered around his newspaper. “You must admit, Tish, she acted most unacceptably last night when the guests were present. Especially toward young Flagle. Dash it all—when will she learn to behave properly, as a young female should!” His jowls quivered, and his mouth, under his mustache, was pinched in a mix of fury and frustration.

  Letitia was reluctant to admit it, but Allison had indeed been too flip, too restless, too casual with the languid young man who might have, if handled properly, had his latent interest fanned to the point of romance. An alliance with the Flagle scion would give Quincy the “in” he coveted. For were not the Flagles third cousins to the Earl of Shrewton? Surely Allison had been unwise last night. But there! The child knew little about and cared less for social standing. Her father’s absorption with it and her mother’s constant attempts on his behalf had made no impact on her.

  “She still retains a little of her childish enthusiasms, I’m afraid, and her girlish fancies.” Letitia offered the only excuse she could come up with, which was no excuse at all and a very poor explanation. “And if they don’t include courtship . . . at the moment—”

  “At seventeen,” Quincy said quenchingly—strong on Scripture, and as usual appropriating it incorrectly—“it’s time to put away childish things.”

  “She is doing better, I think.” Letitia’s assurance wavered under the reproachful look in her husband’s eyes, a look Letitia guiltily identified as accusing her personally. With your background and social standing, it said, you should be doing better.

  Letitia was not deceived concerning herself, and she fully understood why Quincy had been a suitor for her hand in marriage. That he had a chance to win her was due to the inability of one of her eyes to track with the other (commonly and crudely called being “cockeyed”) that had lessened her choices among the wellborn, perhaps finicky, young gentlemen of her acquaintance. It was not she who attracted him; he was drawn like a magnet to the fact that her father was a baronet and her family was of high social standing. Moreover, her dowry was considerable and had, when invested in the mill, assured its success.

  Letitia had married Quincy, the mill owner, with her eyes wide open and had not regretted it. They lived well: Quincy, though careless and thoughtless, had provided generously for her; they were of some importance in the backwater that was Midbury; and she had two lovely daughters who would, one day, make advantageous marriages.

  Quincy couldn’t complain! The marriage had elevated his status considerably. If only—Letitia mourned again silently—there had been a son. Her connections would have meant so much to a son, making it possible, through her relatives, to meet the best people, attend the best schools. But in this—she was reminded occasionally—she had failed miserably; there had been only daughters.

  Quincy considered himself a patient, forgiving man, making the best of a bad situation, such as two daughters who pleased him not all that much. Allison he considered hoydenish, Sarah too timid. Quincy—when he considered them at all—looked at his daughters with jaundiced eyes.

  Allison had expressed interest at times in the mill and had an insight into business that, in a male, would have been gratifying. As it was, because Allison was a female and therefore unfit to participate in the business world, Quincy was frustrated because the child wasn’t a son. It was as if he said, “It’s all wasted—this cleverness, these brains, this ability.”

  Secretly, it was a great comfort to Letitia that this same child showed all the feminine graces and wiles necessary to make a brilliant marriage one day, gaining a place in Midbury society, perhaps London society. Letitia took pride in her child’s beauty, her perfection of face and form. And her eyes were not flawed!

  But, Letitia often sighed, the child was too outspoken, too much of an individualist, too impatient with protocol. She needed to curb her tongue, particularly when faced with standards and etiquette that she thought s
illy and pointless. The queen, for instance, who should be honored and revered, was old-fashioned according to this outspoken daughter. Who but an old person, she asked, would submit to the wearing of the heavy, clumsy Balmoral petticoat—so named for the queen’s favorite residence? Who, with a speck of pride in herself and her appearance, would submit to the Balmoral boot in place of Morocco slippers? Who would pull mohair stockings over slim legs, no matter if the weather were freezing? Allison flouted the tried and true, the wise, the sagacious, the sensible. “It’s time for the Edwardian era,” she declared. “Or for the queen to get herself out of Balmoral.”

  Letitia, shocked and pale of countenance at such audacity, pled for silence on the subject. All in all, Allison’s unpredictability kept her mother uneasy . . . what would she come up with next? It was important to instill adult values and viewpoints in the child as quickly as possible. Letitia was counting on the rigid protocol of afternoon calls to curb Allison’s impetuous nature, to restrain her heedless speech, to shape her into an acceptable Victorian mold, a mold Letitia adhered to and admired above all else.

  While Letitia exhibited patience, Quincy, a man with an overweening desire for advancement, had no patience whatsoever.

  “Norville Flagle,” Letitia said now, “will not be the only opportunity for Allison, by any means. She’s pretty enough, heaven knows—”

  “But does she care a fig for that?” Quincy complained. “Young Norville has been making sheep’s eyes at her for ages, but she ignores him. Ignoring him in spite of the fact he’s from a prestigious family. His uncle’s an earl!”

  “Third cousin,” Letitia added automatically, having worked out the connection, “twice removed.”

  “Once . . . twice . . . three times—no matter, the connection is there! What’s the matter with the girl? Doesn’t she understand anything?”

  Quincy was well familiar with Patrick Colquhoun’s A Treatise on the Wealth, Power, and Resources of the British Empire. Though the book was outdated, things had not changed all that much in British thinking, and rank and prestige still played a powerful part in British society. One legacy of the Victorian era would be the sharp contrast between High Society and what were clearly regarded as Lower Orders. You were one or the other, and you knew where you belonged. If Quincy had any doubt, he painfully located himself in Colquhoun’s Treatise as Third Class.