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

by Jane Prescott

  He’d come to call during tea, just as the sun had come up and the bracing snows of the previous night were melting away. “I couldn’t possibly, thank you. Forgive my not being entirely clear…”

  “It is nothing,” Aunt insisted.

  “But I will confess I have named this new beast after a rather exhilarating Latin translation of the old English saga. Have you heard of it, Miss Whitcastle?”

  Sarah set her tea aside and studied him. Despite a small, roundish bulge at the belly, he appeared to be in robust health and, if a touch short in stature, he had a barrel-chest and broad shoulders that indicated he wasn’t a stranger to hard labor. It seemed that the Honorable Edgar Jackson, youngest son of a northern baron, had spent some time in the service of his country fighting Napoleon prior to a Frenchman’s rifle rendering his left arm useless. Edgar had returned to partner with another lesser brother in founding a mill on the outskirts of Wyecombe.

  Edgar was a little older than she was, possibly in his mid-twenties, and had an eager, boyish attitude as one who was all nerves and divided attentions. His manner was as polite as one would expect in a formal social visit such as this, but he seemed throughout the conversation to have his thoughts on any number of topics at any given time.

  That hadn’t stopped him from stealing glances in her direction. She was still making up her mind about how she felt about those glances.

  “I have indeed heard of this translation. I fear my Latin is not advanced enough to enjoy the translation you mention.”

  He nodded with satisfaction. “I’m pleased you’re familiar with it. On the occasions I’ve done business with your late uncle, God rest his soul, he mentioned to me you were a prolific reader.”

  Sarah considered how to respond. “I suppose I do enjoy a well-woven tale. It is a pleasing way to pass the hours.”

  “For my part, I have found it trying to exchange letters or share one’s company with an unlettered companion, male or female for that matter, Miss Whitcastle. Beth,” he said, suddenly switching gears. “Have you had occasion to learn to spell your name, or are we still working on mastering the alphabet?”

  The girl squirmed and Sarah could see she was straining at the bit to stay polite. “I have long been able to read, Mr. Jackson,” she hissed, speaking each word with a degree of annoyance that was easily conveyed regardless of her efforts.

  “She was ever a precocious child,” Sarah quickly explained. “As the youngest of four, she has benefited from we three elder sisters, and mother and father have insisted upon a fine education for us all. Though I could read at five, I believe Beth was reading at an even younger age.”

  “Four, in fact,” Beth sullenly announced, holding up four fingers to make her point.

  “Four! My word, I do most sincerely apologize,” Edgar exclaimed with wide eyes. “At four years of age, I dare say I couldn’t pronounce let alone spell my last name. The Whitcastles are clearly as gifted in intellect as they are in beauty.”

  Sarah shrugged this compliment off with a nervous laugh. “It’s nothing really. Mother and father deserve all credit. But I would ask you if you are familiar with Byron, Mr. Jackson?”

  “I’m certain Mr. Jackson doesn’t wish to be bored with poetry, Sarah, particularly with the work of such a scandalous and low character. Good riddance to the cad!” Aunt Mary interrupted, but Jackson held up a hand to stay her.

  “Actually, I’m quite enamored with his work. You will pardon me, Madame Barbour,” he said, using Aunt Mary’s married name. “If I say that I am quite willing to separate the, shall we say, devious nature of the poet from the quality of his work. I am of a mind to say that the most creative creatures tend to be those most besieged by troubled minds. A simple merchant such as myself is left to wonder at their output and, praise be to God, give thanks for a more temperate life.”

  A temperate life was the furthest thing from interest to Sarah. Her mind wandered back to the dock. She’d rarely, if ever, gone so far as to step onto the wooden planks of the docks itself, preferring to admire the ships from a safe and reputable distance. Yet today she had an invitation awaiting her to offer correction to two young sailors who, she hoped, might be reformed by instruction rather than pain. Though she knew it would be scandalous if she were caught in the company of sailors, there was a strong temptation to break free from her anticipated routine and seek out a new kind of an adventure.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Aunt Mary announced, though she favored Mr. Jackson with a smile. Usually that combination of words would result in a scowl; but she was on her best behavior. “Still, that is a matter best left to young people I suppose. I have a thought! I spy from my window here that the world has a splendid coat of white, which, though unseasonable, might make for an attractive opportunity for a stroll. My niece is uncommonly interested in seaside walks. Perhaps you’d care to accompany her, Mr. Jackson?”

  “I’d be delighted,” he told them, standing up quickly to take her up on the offer. “If Miss Whitcastle should ascent to your good suggestion, of course.”

  She liked the look of him and he seemed nice enough, but Sarah had hoped to go by herself to the docks. Still, an opportunity to see the ocean was not to be missed. “Certainly.”

  Beth didn’t hide a sigh. She was clearly bored and dreaded being left alone with Aunt Mary. “Beth, would you like to join us?”

  She saw her Aunt frown in disapproval, but Beth was up from her chair in a shot. “Let me put my shoes on and I’ll be ready at once!”

  With that decided, the trio stepped out of the warmth and back onto the sloping street of Wyecombe. They each struggled with their footing on more than one occasion, but Mr. Jackson was for the most part a steady escort, lending an arm to each of the girls as needed.

  “You are a miller, Mr. Jackson?” Beth asked. “What do you mill?”

  He chuckled at the suggestion. “It is a slightly different mill than you are thinking of, young Beth. I own a mill with my brother. In truth, I am a junior partner at that. My brother sees to the production of cloth while my primary responsibilities are fiduciary in nature.”

  “Fiduciary?”

  “I balance the books. That is, I make sure that all of the money is accounted for.”

  “Oh.” This sounded to Beth a very uninspiring line of work and she immediately appeared bored with this line of questioning. For his part, Edgar Jackson seemed to brush off the subtle slight very naturally.

  “It is, as I was saying earlier, not the most exciting of trades. However, it does carry with it certain benefits.” He paused at a store. “Would anyone care for a sweet?”

  This caught Beth’s attention and she hurried before her elders into the store. Sarah smiled at him. “That was well done. I think you’ve regained her affections.”

  “I wasn’t simply offering for Beth, you know. I confess to a sweet tooth myself. Do you?”

  “On occasion,” she agreed.

  “Perfect!” He held the door open for Sarah.

  After they’d made their purchases of licorice and lollies, they continued down towards the docks. Beth kept fair pace ahead as Sarah and Edgar dawdled.

  “I am curious, if you don’t mind my asking,” Mr. Jackson inquired. “Why do you care so much for the sea? I have grown up alongside it all of my life. It’s a source of storm and worry for me, you see.”

  “It’s hard to put into words,” she began, cautiously. “We live on an island, Mr. Jackson. My home is less than five miles from the ocean; on a good day, the smell of the sea finds its way to our farm, freshening the air. When I look out upon the water, I see adventure, exotic, far-away places.”

  “Places far from your family, I’d imagine,” he reminded her.

  “That is so.”

  “You would not mind the distance?”

  She popped a small, black licorice into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully before answering. “I would, of course. But one can write. Returning home would be occasion for another journey
, which I shouldn’t mind so much I would think.”

  He laughed, but it was a mirthless sort of chuckle. “I have seen much of the Spain and Portugal. I’ve been on many ships, more than I care to think of. Adventure, as it is called in publications by authors who have never left their desks, is not as pleasing to the senses as is suggested. Foreign food is often indigestible. Beds are rarely to British standards, should one be so fortunate as to have one.”

  “Now, then, Mr. Jackson, while you may have more experience in these matters, I would remind you that I would not be called upon to serve King and country as you have,” she countered, a touch defensively.

  “True, true! I’ve no doubt that accommodations aren’t universally as unpleasant as my own experiences. However, I am quite content to stay put. It is the most reasonable path, you see.”

  “Indeed.” She wasn’t convinced, but he quickly changed the subject to authors they’d both been reading, and this proved to be a far more interesting conversation.

  She was just discussing the plot to a book she was reading by author Jane Austen, a novel called, Emma, when they found themselves standing before the quiet, mostly deserted docks. There were three ships in port, The Duke of Norcastle being the smallest. Beside her were the merchant ships The Surrey Spirit and The Anne Hastings. Most of the crew were holed up in nearby taverns or were busy below decks.

  However, a small contingency of men had gathered near The Duke and were taking part in something that at once amused Sarah and confused her escort.

  “What in heaven’s name is happening there?” he asked in wonder.

  They spied a small line of men, standing at attention and listening to instruction from a pair of officers and a senior crewmember. The leader was clearly giving the bulk of the instruction; she recognized him as Commander Hargrove. Beside him stood Lieutenant Woods, ready to lay into any crewmember who attempted to laugh at or mock the proceedings. As for McCracken, it seemed he was being tasked with the unenviable task of acting as “the lady” in the officer’s explanation of common courtesy. He was standing before a chair, at the moment.

  “Now then,” Hargrove continued with his breezy explanation. “One pulls out a chair for a lady wishes to sit at a table, and does so thusly. McCracken, sit!” He shouted as the man, his attention fading, made faces for the amusement of his mates.

  “Aye, sir!” The sailor abruptly sat down on the chair, which Hargrove had pulled out just slightly from a crate, which served as a table.

  “It is astonishing to me that none of you have seen this done before,” Hargrove complained. As he complained, he looked up and for a moment, and his gaze caught Sarah’s as she was in the middle of stifling giggles. She immediately regretted her momentary snicker, as he appeared entirely mortified and quickly looked away.

  “Right. Manners. We’ll continue on to doors and the proper way to hold one open for a lady. McCracken, you will continue to serve as our lady fair,” he suggested.

  The men groaned in annoyance, but Sarah saw no more as Mr. Edgar Jackson was determined to see them all safely towards a clothing store where, he informed them, he’d be pleased to buy them “whatever your hearts might desire.”

  “What if what my heart desires is not available for purchase?” Sarah mused.

  Her suitor picked up on the cue and smartly replied, “Then I shall have to make it available to you, whatever may be the cost.”

  Sarah’s eyes followed the men in their practice until the three had left for a shopping spree. As she watched, her eyes glimpsed the proud, strong frame of Commander Hargrove. She felt a twinge of sadness in knowing that soon he’d sail away and she’d never see him again. He seemed a decent man.

  Chapter 3: War Council

  Waverly Manor, Suffolk

  October 12, 1816

  The fear and hunger had begun to set in on Wyecombe. No longer was it customary for a pair of girls to venture forth on their own on a weekly basis. Through letters given by hand between the Whitcastles and their benefactor, it was agreed that a monthly trip would be necessary in view of the worsening safety of the country road. Furthermore, it was agreed that Charles or one of the farm hands would be compelled to travel with the girls, if they were to go at all. There had been too many incidents on the road involving desperate, starving people. Even if they weren’t accosted, the sights of the poor and hungry begging for food in which the Whitcastle girls were unable to give was deemed too harrowing a sight for their eyes.

  This was not to say the folk Waverly Manor was mean-spirited. What they could afford, they shared with travelers. It was little enough, to be certain, but better than most of their neighbors could offer. In fact, some of those who turned up at their doorstep were specifically their previously comfortable farm neighbors. Sarah opened the door one morning and was shocked to see Jonathan Dawson standing there, his eyes fixed upon the ground and his hat in hand.

  “Please, Miss Sarah,” he mumbled, refusing to look up. The boy couldn’t have been much older than 14-year old Jane, but had wasted away to a size more properly associated with a child of Beth’s age. “If you’ve any work at all, I’ve a mind to do it.”

  “Come in, Jon Dawson. Be quick,” she urged him, glancing around. “I wouldn’t want others to see, or they may have the wrong idea.”

  She pointed to a large black pot hanging over the fireplace. “There’s porridge there. It’s not much to taste, but it’s certainly filling.” In truth, it was more of a glue paste in flavor to her palette, but she expected he might be grateful for it all the same.

  Sarah wasn’t surprised to see him gulping it down. The speed with which he was eating alarmed her so she gently placed a hand on the bowl he held close to his face, almost as though in fear it would be taken from him. “There’s no hurry, Jon. Please slow your bites, lest you choke.”

  “Sorry.” He looked embarrassed again, so she gave a light laugh.

  “It’s just the appetite of a hard-working farm boy, I should expect! When I was your age, slender girl that I am, I certainly worked up a great willingness to eat all I could as well.”

  “Oh, yes, that’s it,” he agreed. But with a sigh, he added between proper spoonful’s of food, “I wish there were more work to do. We’ve grown hardly an oat or grain. Father is most upset these days. He says we’re ruined.” The last words tapered off with some embarrassment, though he was quick to add, “I should imagine that’s not so, though. There are hard years and good years. He’s worried for us, I’m sure.”

  “Certainly,” Sarah agreed. As she swept the floor, Jane and Louisa came in from the yard where they’d been doing outside chores. Jane placed a basket hard upon a counter, and in response, Sarah gave a sharp cry.

  “Jane, have a care! One would think there were an endless supply of eggs. If you’ve cracked one, I shall be very cross with you.”

  Her blonde-haired sister rolled her eyes and brushed away the comment. “You only think you’re mother, you know. Oh, now who is this? Aren’t you to introduce us to…” When she took a much closer look at the gaunt, pale features of the farm boy, she drew back with surprise and alarm. “Oh! Jon! I didn’t know it was you.”

  “Good day, Miss Louisa. Miss Jane.” The boy, recalling his manners, stood and bowed to each of the girls, who in turn curtsied.

  “It’s a pleasure to see you again.” Mild-mannered, bespectacled Louisa replied in her usual whispery voice, the first of the two to break an uncomfortable silence between the young people. Jane was in too great a shock at the sight of the once strong young lad she’d confessed to having a crush on. He wasn’t skeletal, but he was in danger of reaching that stage.

  “And I’m pleased to see you as well. Pray, how are your parents?” He asked before sitting down and slowly returning to his meal. “I would like to thank them for this kindness. I’ve not had a proper meal in, well, I shouldn’t like to say.”

  Jane cleared her throat, her voice wavering slightly with nerves as she answered. “Oh, we saw them off
at the gate this morning. They had to go to market, you see, for feed. Mother also needed to buy cloth. Sister Beth is at play in the yard, having finished her chores. We shan’t see her again until well after midday.”

  As the girls began putting the milk and eggs away that were gathered from their animals, there was a sharp rap at the front door. They froze, looking at one another with curiosity.

  “I wonder who that could be.” Louisa mused. However, Sarah was less sanguine about the matter.

  “Jon, please don’t be greatly offended, but may I ask that you remain in the kitchen while I answer the door?” Sarah suggested. “I fear we can’t offer more food to every person who comes to call, or we won’t have any left for ourselves.”

  He nodded without glancing up from his meal, seemingly grateful for a full meal and disinterested in further conversation.

  Sarah let them and cautiously opened the door. She was mightily relieved to see Edgar Jackson had come to call.

  “Edgar! Dear Edgar,” she said breezily. “Louisa, Jane, come quickly. Mr. Edgar Jackson is here.” She caught herself sounding a little excited without meaning to, and tried to draw back from it.

  The truth was that the two had begun to see a good deal of one another in recent work. The matching was a comfortable one; if not usually one with the sort of excitement that she had momentarily given into. They spoke for long hours about society, literature, and the future world that may present itself to them as they grew older. Each confessed to energy and spirit on the subject of an education, and Mr. Jackson was refreshingly modern in his belief that a woman’s education should in no way be circumscribed to a lesser degree than her male counterparts should.

  Yet on the few times they’d discussed travel he’d grown increasingly silent on the subject until she’d recognized it wasn’t a place for common ground. Perhaps if they decided to take things into a more serious direction she would simply have to send for one of her sisters and make arrangements for a civilized journey on their own. Whitcastles had friends and relatives in Stockholm, Hamburg, and even far away America. An excuse for travel could be made, while Edgar was left to his work.