ROMANCE: His Reluctant Heart (Historical Western Victorian Romance) (Historical Mail Order Bride Romance Fantasy Short Stories)

by Jane Prescott

  August 20, 1816

  It was in the “Year Without a Summer” when Sarah first set eyes on Commander Harrison William Hargrove, recently returned from his duties in the South Pacific. She had no way of knowing it would be an auspicious occasion, given the exact nature of their meeting. Yet, it was a meeting that profited, at the least, by being memorable.

  After completing her chores on the farm, she began her early afternoon with the necessary weekly journey into the village with Beth, her youngest sister. It was a mandatory ritual, one that she usually enjoyed all the more when Beth accompanied her. Some years later, Sarah would become one of the first ladies of her county to purchase a bicycle, or “running horse”. Her family struggled in the past year to do farm work without the benefit of an actual horse – Augustus had died during the bitter cold of that spring – so in later years she would come to appreciate the convenience. However, on this chill, rainy August day, walking was an unfortunate necessity for her family’s continued sustenance.

  “My feet tire, sister,” Beth complained. She was still quite little for her age and full of energy most days, but on this particular day, the four-mile journey was wearing upon her. Her brown curls, so like Sarah’s own, bounced as she walked and she would have looked the very picture of a sweet young child were she not about to launch into one of her well-practiced long complaints.

  On any other day, she was a delight to be around and Sarah found her to be the sibling she most naturally felt an affinity towards. Today would not be that day, though.

  “You are more hungry than tired, I should expect,” Sarah chided her. She felt her cheeks growing cold as they walked and, to her continued bemusement, observed tendrils of fog from her own warm breath mixing with the wintery currents about them. “And this would account for your ill mood. I trust you will feel much relieved when we reach Aunt Mary’s.”

  Beth stopped and kicked at the dirt with her worn leather shoes. “It’s not fair! I don’t want to visit Aunt Mary, I don’t.”

  “Don’t be silly. She dotes on you.”

  “She will pinch my cheeks and call me baby names,” Beth complained, folding her arms.

  Sarah knelt down beside her, gently pinching her sister’s cheek. “Oh, do you mean like this? ‘There’s my widdle Bethy-Wethy, come to call upon her dear old Auntie!” she said, the words in a high, wheedling voice that was a little too like their real Aunts.

  Beth broke into peels of giggles and pushed her hand away. “If she calls me her darling Sweet Pea once more I shall simply scream.”

  “That would be terribly unwelcome. Your voice is even shriller than ‘dear old Auntie’s’ when you have a mind to make it so heard.”

  Beth sighed and reached over to take Sarah’s hand. “I wish we didn’t have to go to town at all. Why must she see us all the time?”

  Not knowing the specifics of the familial relationship to Aunt Mary, Sarah kept her counsel. “She’s old and loves us very much. It’s not so much to ask to expect a visit. We call upon her as much to see that she is well as she does to see how much you’ve grown. We must go and present ourselves for her benefit as well as ours. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I suppose. Could Louisa go in my stead next time? It’s too far to walk.”

  They continued reluctantly trudging along the dirt road. Until recently, there had been drifting snow and ice to make the usual trek far more uncomfortable and even dangerous on the coldest of days. However, the abnormal winter had slightly lessened by August, and though the ground was hard, the unending winter wasn’t as bad.

  “Father would have us treat her with courtesy and kindness. I can rely upon you, can’t I?”

  The young girl shrugged her shoulders. “You can. It’s not very fun though and I will complain to father about it.”

  Giving the matter further consideration, Sarah decided to hint at the necessity. “Think of how many others are less fortunate than we. The Dawsons, the Havershams, the Roberts family - their crops are all failing. In her way, Aunt Mary is our security against these difficulties.”

  “So- they won’t have as much money?” Beth tugged at her bonnet strap, looking uncomfortable.

  “It is rather more serious than that. But I don’t wish to dampen your spirits. There’s lovely Wyecombe now. Be a good girl and put on your brightest smile.”

  Beth glanced up at her, showing off her estimation of what Sarah had asked for. Her older sister chuckled in response. “Even Aunt Mary with her failing vision will see through that pretense! You must do better.”

  “Oh well. I’ll practice.” Beth suggested. Although to Sarah’s ears, her promise didn’t sound particularly sincere.

  ---

  “Ah, let me look at you, let me look at you,” Aunt Mary demanded, gazing upon the two girls at her doorstep. Nineteen year-old Sarah stood at eye level with her aunt, but her sister, ten years her younger, required Mary to stare down her pince-nez to see her.

  “Not eating well enough. That can be remedied soon enough. Come inside, before you catch your deaths of cold, children.”

  She bustled the pair into the warmth of Summerly Court and led them into the sitting room. The moment that Beth was seated, Aunt Mary reached down taking both her cheeks in her hands, an unprecedented double pinch. “My widdle Bethy is getting so tall! I scarcely recognize you; you have changed so much since our last visit.”

  “It is lovely to see you, Aunt.” Beth beamed a cherubic smile at her relative, much to Sarah’s relief.

  “Goodness, child, such a smile. And here I was thinking that you had grown weary of my company! Louisa, Sarah, and Jane I see often, but you-“

  “It’s been very cold, you know, and I’m not as good of a walker as I should like,” Beth lied. She’d actually begged, bargained, and pleaded with her siblings to avoid the past two visits that should have been part of her rotation. By creating enough of a nuisance, she’d gotten what she wanted.

  “You’re here now, and that’s all that matters” her aunt proclaimed before setting herself down in a tall-backed, overstuffed chair. “Tell me in truth, Sarah, how do the animals on the farm fare?”

  This was Sarah’s cue to fill her in on all that was taking place on their ancestral holdings. The Whitcastles had once been great land barons, rulers of a manor and several holdings across much of East Anglia during the Middle Ages. As the centuries passed them by, the Whitcastles had gradually seen their possessions dwindle through custodial mismanagement or hard times. The last of their lands encompassed a modest acreage and represented a great deal of daily work for Mr. Charles Whitcastle, his wife Frances, and their four daughters.

  However, Charles’ sister Mary, his senior by more than a decade, had been fortunate in her marriage to a wealthy exporter. Their uncle passed on some years earlier, but the estate he’d left in care of Aunt Mary had been impressive in size. Careful investment had left Mary with the ability to sustain her family at the price of a weekly visit from her nieces and the family attending to any particular whim that caught her attention. She was a decent-hearted benefactor, if on occasion a touch tyrannical.

  “The cattle have suffered little, thanks to your payment of the feed bill to Mr. Dunlop, Aunt. The sheep are well. The poultry, I confess, do not lay as they should and have not weathered the cold as we had all hoped. It has become necessary to prepare many more meals from chicken. I should think they will all be spent before long.”

  “Dodger has gone lame!” Beth loudly interrupted.

  This had Aunt Mary’s instant and confused attention. “A lady’s voice should be heard only within the room she speaks, not throughout the entire household, child. Who, pray tell, is this Dodger?”

  “One of the dogs. It is nothing,” Sarah reassured her. They all stopped their conversation to listen as the wind outside howled. The noise apparently reminded Aunt Mary of something unpleasant, and she rolled her eyes theatrically before continuing.

  “Sarah, I know you are unnaturally fond of watching the sh
ips come in to port. If you wish, now would be the ideal time for your walk and for you to spy them. I fear the snows and sleet may be returning, and if that is so, then you must both stay the night here at Summerly Court. Though, I must say, whatever it is that fascinates you with these tall ships I’m sure I don’t know.”

  “It’s the romance of the sea, I suppose.” Sarah tried to explain, but her Aunt raised her hand quickly.

  “I do not care to hear your justifications for these expeditions yet again, thank you. Youthful fancies and flights of the imagination matter not a jot to me, you see. I merely wish for you to be on your way now if you are going to do so, as we shall take tea in one hour. It’s all so frightfully pointless, as I see it, to gaze upon great hulks of wood and nails, managed by so many great, doltish rabble. Be that as it may, one must agree that the exercise is beneficial for a young woman, so make haste if you really must.”

  Grateful for an opportunity for escape, Sarah quickly bundled back up and bid goodbye to the two before stepping back into the biting wind.

  She had walked nearly halfway to the docks when a blast of frigid air rushed up the street and into her face. Briefly, she considered turning back. It wasn’t a far walk, though, and the small town of Wyecombe had a safe reputation, even for unaccompanied ladies. She had merely turned a corner from her Aunt’s home to reach the main, descending main street leading to the port’s modest docks.

  Sarah knew that her family felt her interest in shipping was unhealthy and unladylike. It had never deterred her from these walks during her weekly visits. She lived for the sight and smell of the North Sea, and felt most at home when she spotted tall masts with white, billowing sails on the horizon. Though she’d never set foot off land, it had long been her fantasy that she would get to visit the distant ports of the world, places like Shanghai, Boston, or Bombay. Anywhere but the daily grind of the country would be a welcome change in her dull patterns of life.

  She was lost in thought as she passed beside a tavern when the door opened, nearly knocking her off her feet. Two young men stepped out and ribbed one another as they saw her stumble.

  “Easy there, my fine lass! Find your sea legs.” The tall blonde admonished her. Wearing rough, woolen clothing and a scarlet kerchief around his neck, he grabbed her shoulders to steady her. “You all right, then?”

  “Yes. Yes, thank you.” She tried to step around him, but his grip tightened.

  “Now then, where’s a pretty morsel of a lass like yourself bound for? Come in and share a cup with me and my mate. It’s only sociable.”

  “Sir, kindly allow me to pass. I ask for nothing further from the likes of you.” She had meant to be polite in hopes of shaming him from his aggressive hospitality, but found she couldn’t hide her contempt at the last minute. A flash of anger in his eyes warned Sarah she might have trouble getting out of the situation.

  He scoffed and his partner stepped next to him, helping block her towards a possible avenue of escape. “You’ve a saucy and sharp tongue, my girl. I think I may well teach you manners!” He drew back his hand to slap her and she cringed, covering her face with her hands.

  Instead of feeling the sharp sting of his open palm, she heard the sailor cry out in pain. She peeked between her fingers in time to see a wild-looking white-haired man with a black stick viciously beating the two men about the head.

  “Back to the boat, you vile curs!” he shouted with all his strength, furiously wailing on each of them with his walking stick. A large-built man with a thick, unkempt white beard, he continued yelling and berating them as they ran away from him. “Treating a lady so contemptibly! I’ll see you flogged for it, mark my words Job McCracken!”

  Once they had hustled further out of view, the gentleman with the walking stick turned and bowed to Sarah. “Miss, do accept my humble apologies on behalf of the crew of The Duke of Norcastle. Such knavery will not go unpunished; believe you me. They’ll be given stripes across the back they’ll remember well; you may put your faith in it.”

  Sarah blanched at the prospect of the brutality. “I thank you for your kindness, sir. It would seem to me an un-Christian thing to do, to cause pain upon my behalf. I beg you reconsider this punishment.”

  “Begging your pardon, miss, but order must be kept amongst the crew of such a ship. They’re as likely to tear out their own throats if they think they can get away with it.”

  A fourth man was striding rapidly towards them from the direction of the docks, and as she caught his eye, she realized his intent must be of a serious nature. She quickly took in his demeanor. Young and muscular, the British officer had a deep gash across his closely-shaved, aquiline right cheek. Curls of dark black hair fell from under his hat and he brushed one away from his eyes. Though he wore the clothes of a British officer, there struck her to be Mediterranean features about him as well. A man with an equally young but far paler visage followed closely behind, each of them in blue frock coats and white waistcoats.

  “Simmons!” The older man stood rigidly upright and at attention when the officers arrived on the scene. The man who’d led the pair to the tavern continued. “Report, please.”

  “McCracken and Wolff, sir. They accosted this innocent woman in the street. I informed miss that they shall be flogged.”

  “I see.” The stern officer turned to face her directly. “This is a satisfactory resolution, I trust?”

  “It is not at all satisfactory,” she objected. “As I explained to Mr. Simmons, I would not wish any harm to come to them. Proper punishment, it seems to me, need not be meted out with simple brute force. I would rather they be spoken to about the proper manner of treating a woman. This should be sufficient.”

  “An interesting theory,” the officer mumbled in response.

  “I was explaining the nature of discipline aboard ship, Captain Hargrove, when you should-“

  “Thank you Simmons. That will be all. Good show, intervening in this matter. Report back to the boat.”

  “Sir.” The older man sharply saluted him and rolled down towards the docks.

  The officers looked at one another and, remembering their manners, swept off their hats. “We’ve not been formally introduced. I am Commander Harrison William Hargrove of The Duke of Norcastle. This is Lieutenant Montgomery Woods. Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

  “I am Sarah Whitcastle of Waverly Manor. My father is Sir Charles Whitcastle, a farmer and gentleman of this county.” She curtsied as courtesy demanded and fixed her gaze on him. “Though they were beastly, I must beg of you not to do physical harm to those two men. I ask you upon your honor not to whip them.”

  He nodded gravely. “As you will. In this matter, I have little recourse but to see to a fit punishment. I am not convinced that a simple lesson in etiquette shall suffice for men of his majesty’s navy. But I assure you I will restrain my bosun from use of the whip, if it pleases you.”

  The silent officer cleared his throat and spoke up. “Commander Hargrove,” he said, in a melodic, Irish tenor. “I have a rather unorthodox suggestion, if I may put it to you both.”

  “I’m all ears, Woods. What is it?”

  “If she would be so kind as to grace us with her presence, would Miss Whitcastle consider being present for a discussion on courtesy with McCracken and Wolff? It occurs to me that a public demonstration on etiquette- as much for the men’s shame and for their education- might be a breath of fresh air with the assistance of a refined person such as Miss Whitcastle on hand. You would do very little, Miss Whitcastle, a trifle of an effort. You might merely be there as we demonstrate how to address a lady, how to behave in her company, that sort of thing. It could be done tomorrow, at the lady’s convenience, of course.”

  Hargrove gave a wry smile. “Ever the keen wit, Woods. It would serve to discomfort the men, no doubt. But I also fear it would put Miss Whitcastle in an uncomfortable position to be on display in such a manner.”

  Sarah shook her head. “Thank you for the notion. I would n
ot be as embarrassed as you suggest. However, I am only in Wyecombe for the day.”

  The men looked towards the sky and Hargrove shook his head to the negative. “Unless I am in the wrong, as is always possible, I fear you’ll be in need of shelter today. Please, forget this mad suggestion and once more, I am at your service.” He and Woods bowed to say goodbye and Sarah curtsied.

  As she walked back to her Aunt’s, she found herself gazing up at the sky. She hoped the men were wrong about the weather. If not, she’d be stuck for an entire evening with Aunt Mary’s cool judgements weighing her down on top of Beth’s incessant private whining. She longed to be at home, curled up in a rocking chair beside the fireplace, with a book in one hand and warm milk within easy reach.

  The swirling snow formed new drifts along the road when she reached Summerly Court let her know this was merely a pipedream.

  Chapter 2: The Honourable Edgar Jackson

  Summerly Court, Suffolk

  August 21, 1816

  “It is clearly providence that you should be here on today of all days, sir!” Aunt Mary purred from her commanding view of the sitting room. Beth and Sarah were seated on the couch both doing their best to appear comfortable and at ease, while the curly-haired gentleman caller occupied a chair opposite of them. Sarah noticed that the chair had been slightly repositioned from the day before to afford the man a better view of, specifically, her.

  “It is certainly my good fortune to meet your lovely nieces and to share this day in such lovely company. I had quite resigned myself to another dull day spent in the counting house with no good thing to look forward to in the evening hours. My brother Robert is, I fear, in London with his new bride and this leaves me rather on my own with the exception of the company of Beowulf.”

  “Beowulf, sir?” Aunt Mary asked.

  “My hunting dog, madame.”

  “My,” she replied, slightly gritting her teeth. “I do wish people would say what they mean in relation to dogs. But I quite take your point, of course. More cakes?”