Forever Elle (Regency Romance)

by Heather Chapman

  I grinned and cracked another egg. “Yes, but I felt today called for something different, something more ceremonial. And seeing how my cooking skills are limited, I thought eggs and potatoes were a much better choice than oatmeal.”

  Mama chuckled. “Ceremonial?”

  “We have a guest,” I said, motioning to the additional place setting.

  Mama’s brows rose. “And who might we be entertaining at such an early hour?”

  I clicked my tongue, signaling to Paul.

  He stepped through the back breezeway and into the kitchen.

  Mama’s knees gave out and she fell against the counter. Her eyes widened. “Paul?” she gasped, and her hands flew to her chest.

  Paul, now clean and freshly shaved—and looking much more like the brother I remembered—stepped toward Mama. His voice trembled. “Ma, I’m sorry I didn’t write.” He fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around her waist. His choked sobs were muffled in the folds of her skirt.

  I felt misty-eyed just watching. It took one glance at Mama to transform even a scrappy bounty hunter into an adoring, helpless child again. It took one embrace to shatter years of isolation and resistance.

  Mama’s shock did not seem to wane, but she held him tight and stroked his hair, all the while shushing his sobs and kissing his head. “None of that matters, not when you came back to me. My boy,” she said. Her chest heaved. “You’ve come back, and God Almighty has answered my humble prayer.”

  Paul would not want me watching him sob like that; he had laid himself bare, and the moment felt sacred, like a hymn sung in Sunday service. I flipped over the last egg in the pan and moved the skillet off the burner. Paul and Mama needed their moment, their time to talk—just as I had enjoyed the previous night with Paul.

  I slipped out the back door and headed toward the barn.

  The jagged peaks in the distance caught my gaze. They were so rough, so cracked and imperfect. Yet there was a majestic strength that radiated a call to follow. I wanted to be like those mountains—weaknesses and all. Was it possible for a person to have such power, despite all the imperfections of the flesh? The thought caught in my throat, the answer in the morning sun, shining back at me.

  The answer was everywhere around me—the jagged peaks, the overgrown pasture, the old wooden barn. It was in the buzz of the bees, each mote sparkling across the shadowed barn. The smell of animals and musk, of grass and chicken feed. I took a whiff and smiled. There were so many imperfections, but also incalculable beauty.

  It was home, and that was more beautiful and powerful than any sight, smell, or sound. It was the ground beneath my feet, an anchor for my soul.

  I pulled a stool next to the dairy cow and stroked her back. “Just you and me, old girl,” I said, setting a pail beneath her.

  The milk sprayed against the metal edge, and the cow’s tail whipped at the flies. A question tugged at me, bringing a smile to my lips. Did I add my own sights and sounds to the farm—my own imperfect beauty?

  A shovel scraped against the dirt, slicing into my reverie. How long had George been there, cleaning the stalls? He had not said a word. It was not surprising, considering the way he had left things. Or perhaps more alarming—the way I had left them.

  I had not said a word to him at the festival. Beth Foster had made it a point to stick by his side, and I determined I would watch and wait, like George had done so often in the past. I would wait for my heart to make the leap. I would wait until the moment was right, when George had forgiven me, when he showed the slightest hint that he wished me back. It would only take a look, a single word.

  I cleared my throat. “Morning, George.”

  The shovel hit the dirt once more. “Elizabeth,” he said.

  I grinned. He was stubborn, still set on making me feel his distance. It was a challenge I was willing to accept, one that would be more pleasing than the others. I rose from the stool and hung the pail on the wall.

  “A mighty fine morning,” I said, untying my apron. “Mama is in an especially good mood.”

  George mumbled something under his breath. “I suppose that’s due to all the jams and jellies you sold.”

  I had to hold back my excited laughter. “Perhaps. Breakfast is on the table, George. Mama sent me for the milk, and to fetch you.” It was a lie, but a small white one that was intended for more good than harm.

  George leaned over the stall and rested his hands on the gate. His lips were pressed in a firm line, his eyes fixed in determination. “I’m not hungry.”

  I sighed, exasperation edging my hurried movements. “Of all the times to be stubborn, George Hughes,” I said, hinting at a smile. “It is just breakfast. I will not bite your head off, at least not until we come back to the barn.”

  He stepped back to unlock the gate and gave a huff. “You’ve got real nerve calling me stubborn.”

  I grinned. I finally had the upper hand again, and I reveled in the feeling. He was awfully handsome when he brooded. His jaw was tight, and I ached to shower it with kisses. I restrained myself, only allowing myself to bask in his gaze for a moment. “You ruined my best dress, you know—when you tossed me in the creek. I thought my speaking to you was generous enough.”

  George’s face twisted in concern. “Ruined?” He cleared his throat. His features recovered their forced frown. “I won’t apologize, if that’s what you’re wanting.”

  I shook my head. “You chose to tell me you cared for me after dropping me in an icy creek and demanding an answer of affection,” I huffed in disbelief. “I may have deserved it, and I was willing to admit that much, but I do not need any more of your pouting. It is not becoming, George Hughes.”

  His green eyes met mine with defiance. “Not becoming? Will you be giving me lists on appropriate gentlemanly behavior now?”

  I laughed, reaching his side at the gate. “Perhaps, if it would help.”

  “Not likely.” His voice grew gentle, and a faint smile graced his perfect lips.

  My heart stirred. This was a start at reconciliation—a weak one, but a start all the same. “Paul is home. He is in the house now.”

  George’s eyes widened. “What? Why are we standing around here then?”

  I laughed. “My thoughts exactly. Will you come to breakfast?”

  He hopped the gate and took the pail of milk from the wall. It was answer enough, and my heart swelled.

  Dearest Clara,

  Mama and I have been anxiously awaiting news of the baby. I do hope you are faring well and that Thomas has seen to your comfort. I am sure Nora is at your bedside, begging you to have a girl so she may dote on her like she does for you and me.

  As you have so astutely guessed, Daddy’s condition is much worse than Mama and I originally led on. Though there have been miraculous improvements, he is still unable to leave his chair for extended periods or care for himself. His speech sees slight improvements each day, and he feeds himself.

  George Hughes has been kind enough to stay on, even when Mama could not pay his wages. Things turned bleak about the time of the fall harvest, and I believed Mama would have to sell the farm and move to Virginia with Nora and Uncle Johnny. Fortunately, Paul has returned, and we are finally able to reopen the butcher shop.

  Things are well here, and I hope you will not worry yourself about Mama or Daddy, or me. I send our love, and I pray for you and the baby.

  If you see William, please do not offer any encouragement. Nora is doing more than her fair share for all three of us, and I am determined to stay in the valley. I do not expect I will ever find myself able or willing to court William. I will be forever grateful for his friendship, but I hope to marry for more compelling reasons.

  All my love,

  Elle

  Dear William,

  Thank you for your letter. I am happy to hear that you are so comfortable in your new position at your father’s firm. I wish you all the best in your endeavors.

  As for your wish that I return, I am afraid I cannot
offer any encouragement. I plan to stay in the valley indefinitely. My brother, Paul, has returned, and we expect to open the butcher shop shortly. I also should add how content and happy I am to stay. I am finally where I belong.

  You are a good man, and I wish you well, but it is futile to hope for a future with me. My heart is no longer free, and I hope you will find happiness in someone new. Thank you for your friendship. You have my gratitude and respect forever more.

  Sincerely,

  Elizabeth Pratt

  Dearest Elizabeth,

  Paul’s return must be a great relief to you and Mama! I am so glad he is well. I must write to him too. I have missed him fiercely and wish I were there to welcome him with open arms.

  I am glad to hear you have decided upon the matter of William. As approving as I may be, I was not wholly convinced of your attachment to him. I hope this means that you will write him soon.

  It is of comfort that George was so willing to assist our family at this time. I always thought he was a good boy. I expect he has grown taller and filled in those lanky arms. He always was sweet on you. Has he outgrown that as well?

  Love,

  Clara

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I HAD FORGOTTEN THE SMELL OF THE butcher shop—rustic, metallic, pungent, and meaty, but most pronounced was the bleach. There was so much blood, more than I remembered. I hated the way it lodged itself behind each fingernail, in each gouge of the countertops. It had taken a few days to clean out the shop—it had been six months since Daddy’s stroke.

  Mama insisted I wear one of her dresses and aprons, and already they were covered. Paul said it was because we were both so out of practice. I hoped he was right. I did not have the stomach that I used to, and if I was not talking to Paul or intent on my thoughts, the blood and innards got to me. My stomach bloated, and I had to sit in the cooler until the wave of nausea passed.

  Word spread like wildfire in the valley. Mama told some passersby in town that Paul was home, and a day later, we had cows, pigs, sheep, deer, and elk that needed slaughtering—and that was only the first week’s orders.

  And, I should add, the news brought two groups of lady callers—among them Beth and Mrs. Foster—to bid my brother a welcome home.

  It was hard to disguise my amusement. No one had paid me attention like that, at least not in the way Beth fluttered her eyelashes or the way Mrs. Foster giggled at everything Paul said. It was laughable to me, and yet it also brought a pang of jealousy.

  Beth had no qualms with flirting, no hesitation in smiling at men she was interested in. It was natural for her; it was not forced like it was for me. I wished I could look at George like that—one glance enough to communicate my true feelings. I was not any good at speaking them. The realization elicited the most unladylike response; I growled.

  “Are you feeling well?” Paul asked.

  I cleared my throat, attempting to blink away the thought. But it dug at me, until I asked my brother, “Will you see her again?”

  He washed the cleaver. His hands lowered to the counter when I spoke, the edges of his lips forming a frown. “Beth Foster? I doubt it. I would never court your archnemesis.”

  I smiled, simultaneously exhaling. I was relieved, but equally guilt-ridden. “People change, you know. Beth seems real nice, nothing like the bully I remember,” I said, clenching my jaw.

  “People change, but not that much,” Paul said. “Maybe you just see her differently now. Maybe she isn’t a threat anymore, so you see the good points in her character. Beth was always kind to me.”

  “I bet she was,” I said, my words slathered with suggestion. “Seems everyone is nice to a handsome face—even more so when it belongs to a rugged bounty hunter.”

  I tossed my bleach-soaked rag in the pail and cranked open the front door. I had been aching to do it for hours, but Paul insisted we wait until the meat was placed in the ice boxes. He did not want flies around our first cut.

  Paul hardly spoke about his new profession—except that he had been on hunts for months at a time and that he had not received my letters until the week before last. I did not know whether to ask my questions or wait until he offered an explanation.

  “You have changed,” I said, returning to the bucket of bleach once more. I scrubbed the countertop again, unsatisfied with the deep, red-stained grooves. “And I am not talking about the scrape on your forehead.”

  “Have I?”

  I nodded, nervous to look him in the face.

  “Being home makes me remember how I used to be, how it used to be.” He tugged at a meat hook, testing if his weight held.

  I watched him, remembering the fun we had, sliding on those lines for hours.

  Paul turned to me with a grin simmering on his lips. “What about you? Are you the same girl you used to be?”

  My eyes flickered to the hook. I wanted to be that girl. For so long, I had tried to become a lady—whatever that was—and I wished now to find that piece of myself I had left behind three years before. “Try me,” I said, hopping onto the stool and reaching for the hook.

  With one push, I flew across the room. The hook slid across the line at a jarring speed, and I landed in a heap by the front door. I rolled to my elbows and tried to catch my breath, wiping the sawdust from my clothes. The exhilaration left me light-headed and, surprisingly, light-minded.

  Paul skimmed across the room on another hook, falling down beside me. His rippled laughter spread to me until my sides ached from giggling and my cheeks were streaked with tears.

  I could be whomever I wanted around Paul.

  Daddy clung to the crooked wooden cane, but still he stumbled. He had lost his strength—his seemingly eternal, unmatched strength. His intolerance for rest and idleness had reached a breaking point. His efforts had increased dramatically upon Paul’s return.

  “I’ve got you,” Paul said, pulling Daddy’s arm around his shoulders. “Just another step or two and we’ll reach the sofa.”

  “Daddy, do you need a rest?” I asked.

  His eyes begged relief, but he was too proud to admit it.

  “Take him to his room,” I said.

  Paul lifted Daddy and carried him to his chair. Then he pushed him to the bedroom.

  My eyes misted. I called out to my brother. “How about the walk you promised me?”

  Paul reappeared in the parlor, grinning. “Let’s go.”

  The leaves on our trees had already begun to fall. Along the horizon, brush painted the peaks in oranges and reds, yellows and dark purples. The rustling of my feet against the leaves brought inexplicable satisfaction. I aimed for the driest leaves, crunching them with my boot.

  “Daddy is worse than I imagined,” Paul said.

  I kicked a pile of leaves in the air and watched them float to the ground. “Believe it or not, he has made some improvements.”

  Paul dug his hands into his pockets and sighed. “It’s harder than I imagined.”

  “What is?”

  “Seeing Pops like this. For so many years, I’ve blamed him. I blamed him for sending you away, for his unfeeling discipline, and for his constant disappointment. But seeing him like he is—it feels wrong to blame him. Yet I’m not ready to forgive.”

  I sighed and took Paul’s arm. “I understand. All of a sudden, your pain is without direction. There is no one to aim it at.” The same internal struggle plagued me—feeling sympathy for Daddy yet wishing he knew the agony he’d caused. “Years ago, Mama told me Daddy loved in his own way. I did not want to hear it, let alone believe it.”

  “But you’re telling me to?” Paul asked, nudging his elbow into my side.

  I laughed. “Maybe. The stroke has softened his heart. And as he continues to make the slightest of improvements physically, he improves in other, more important, ways. I am not saying it negates our pain, but we can love him despite it. He needs us.”

  Paul put his arm around me. “I’m afraid you’ve outgrown me, Elle. You’re much too wise for your sev
enteen years.”

  I raised a brow. “Eighteen years.”

  Paul gently tugged on one of my loose strands of hair. “Eighteen? It’s about time you married.”

  I bit back a smile. Perhaps it was.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  A SMILE CREPT ACROSS MY LIPS EACH time I passed my oak. The three trees lining the road reminded me of Paul, Clara, and me—for reasons beyond our childhood fascination. Paul’s had always been the most difficult to climb, the most adventurous. Clara’s tree was the tallest, a symbol of her uprightness and beauty. And mine—it was the last in the line, still trying to reach the height of the others. The rope swing swayed in the wind, calling to mind my inability to remain still and mannerly.

  I threw myself at the bark and hoisted my feet against any footing I could find. My arms shook, but I pulled and pushed until I reached the base of the boughs, where the branches met and the trunk held me like a bird in its nest.

  I sat, catching my breath, and leaned against a branch. I felt the same exhilaration as I had swinging on the meat hooks days before. I stood and pushed upward until I was so high I could not see the tangled roots or the ground below. Instead, I studied the dirt lane and the barn in the distance. I watched Mama hang the laundry on the line.

  The wind blew stronger up that high, and I took a step down to steady myself. I felt a tug, accompanied by the sight of my dark dress snagging. I leaned around a few twigs to free my skirt but froze. A piece of fabric was caught beside it.

  It was a small square of purple-and-white fabric, no larger than my palm. I peeled it from the bark to examine it. It was faded, the pattern of purple flowers almost worn into white. But I knew that pattern, and I felt a lump in my throat. How had it stayed in the bark for four years—unmoved by the snowstorms and wind and rain of the valley? It was like a piece of my country soul had been waiting for me, tucked in the bark’s grip.

  I slid back into the cradle of the boughs, straightening my skirt and fanning my flushed cheeks.