The Uncharted Series Omnibus

by Keely Brooke Keith

  “Nearly six foot? You’d better not grow any more!” Isabella’s lips moved between sentences. “What man will marry you if he cannot reach your lips to kiss you?”

  Bethany groaned. She hated when people commented on her height as if she could control her own growth—and as if true love could be deterred by such a trivial factor. She gave a sideways glance to Isabella and grinned. “Actually, I have decided not to marry at all.”

  Isabella snickered. “No, dear, at best you have decided to put off marriage. I decided not to marry at all. You aren’t restricted by any impairment other than your disdain for domestic responsibility. Oh, you will marry—just like your sisters and your brother did before you. Mark my words: you will marry too. And soon, I imagine, now that you are eighteen. I was surprised there were no men on the doorstep at sunrise this morning with flowers in hand.”

  Bethany leaned her hip against the countertop. “And if there were, I would have refused to answer the door.”

  “I have prayed for years that the good Lord would let me live long enough to see all five of you children find love,” Isabella said. “You are the last one and I’m not getting any younger, so you had better get on with it, dear. You are grown now; it’s time you were married to a good man—and apparently you will need a tall one. You might be the baby of the family, but you’re not a child any longer.”

  Bethany looked at her father, hoping he would save her from Isabella’s commentary. The dishes clanked as John stacked them into the cupboard. He glanced at Bethany and shrugged. “She is right, you are not a child any more.”

  Hearing her father pronounce her adult status gave Bethany an uneasy feeling. She crossed her long arms over her body. “I’m not going to marry simply because my sisters did. Besides, I know all the boys in Good Springs, and there isn’t one I would consider a good man.”

  Isabella stood and moved away from the table. “You probably won’t find a man who compares to the example your father has set for you. A man had to drop out of the sky for Lydia to consider marriage.” She chuckled as she tapped her cane in front of her and inched toward the parlor. “Maybe the Foster boy will take a romantic interest in you someday; he has the same spirit as your father, and I hear he has grown tall too.”

  Bethany turned to John and silently pretended to writhe in pain and scream. He beamed at her dramatic display then straightened his face. “Thank you, Aunt Isabella.”

  “Happy birthday, dear,” Isabella murmured as she left the room.

  Bethany wiped both hands over her face and heaved a sigh. Boys wanted to ask her to court, the village had certain expectations of her, and her great aunt was waiting for her to marry so she could die happy. Bethany leaned against the counter and looked at her father. “Do you think I need to marry? I don’t—at least not anytime soon. I’m too young.”

  John shook his head. “You are not too young. You are not ready, but not too young. You have been well protected in this family, and that helps preserve your virtue in many ways. But your life is ahead of you, along with the experiences that will help you mature.”

  “So I’m not too young, but I’m too immature to marry?”

  John closed the cupboard doors and draped the damp muslin towel over the empty dish rack. He let out a breath then leaned a palm on the countertop and looked at her. “Maturity—in the sense of complete emotional development—is not required for marriage. In fact, that kind of maturity takes years of adult life to develop. However, a person does need to be mature in that she has realistic expectations of life and responsibility and love.” He held up a finger to emphasize a point. “What your friends call intrigue is not true love. The love that is needed for marriage is not simply good feelings, it is submitting to the needs of someone else. Real love requires sacrifice. Sacrifice requires self-denial, and that takes maturity. You are the youngest in the house and you have never had to take care of much around here, so I understand if the responsibility of managing a household frightens you. But it is not a matter of age—it is a matter of having realistic expectations.”

  Bethany studied her cuticles as her father spoke. When he gave advice, his tone of voice was similar to the tone he used every Sunday in the pulpit. Having been raised under the capable leadership of the village overseer, she was habituated to his wisdom. When he spoke at length, her thoughts immediately drifted. She thought of the airplane buried below the bluffs, her upcoming party, her work at the pottery yard, Everett, and then she thought of Everett’s father, Samuel Foster, ill and soon to pass away. She wanted to see him one last time.

  “Bethany?” John inclined his head, regaining her attention.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you understand then?”

  “Yes, Father. Realistic expectations.” She lifted her hands in resignation and stepped to the back door. “There’s something I need to do.”

  “I thought Mrs. Vestal gave you the day off.”

  “She did.”

  “Bethany,” John’s parental tone stopped her as she walked to the door. “Do not go near that old airplane.”

  “You know about it?” She whirled around to face him.

  “Of course. Connor told me. He and Levi are going down at low tide tomorrow to bury the pilot’s remains and see what they can salvage from the plane, but no one else knows and that is how we want to keep it. Understand?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “So where are you going then?”

  Bethany glanced back at her father before walking out the door. “I’m going to visit Mr. Foster.”

  * * *

  Dried summer grass crunched beneath Everett’s boots as he walked away from the lambing pens toward the barn. Though the pens would not be used again until lambing began in the early spring, Everett had taken the time to fix a gate, knowing the importance of keeping up with repairs around the sheep farm.

  As he approached the barn, the wind shifted directions, delivering the scent of the winter grass that was already sprouting in the pastures. He considered the sweet aroma proof that the flock would be sustained by nature over the coming months. Two of his four herding dogs were pacing behind the barn; the other two were with the new shepherd, James, and the flock. The dogs were as anxious as Everett to move the sheep back from the western pastures. That was James’ job now, but still Everett wanted to ride out and accompany him, since it would be his first time to drive the flock home. He planned to begin the two-day chore after Bethany’s birthday party, which meant the drive would have to wait one more day.

  Everett tossed open the side door of the expansive barn. He glanced back at the afternoon sun, gauging the hour before he stepped inside. When he shut the door, his vision blackened for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the dim light inside the barn. Nicholas Vestal, the newly hired farmhand, was in a stall doctoring a wounded calf. Everett leaned against the stall gate. “Is she all right?”

  Nicholas rubbed gray leaf salve into the calf’s hind leg. “I think so. This will remove the infection.”

  “She couldn’t be in better hands.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Nicholas stuffed a piece of cloth into the top of the salve bottle. “I never thanked you properly for giving me work here. I want you to know I’m grateful for the chance to earn my own flock.”

  “You’re welcome. You came highly recommended by your aunt and we’re glad to have you. Is the shepherd’s cabin adequate accommodation for you and James both?”

  Nicholas nodded. “More than I could ask for.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  The calf leaned into Nicholas’ leg. He ran a hand across its back. “Any change in Mr. Foster’s condition?”

  “No.” Everett removed his hat and stared at it while he mindlessly rubbed the brim between his fingers. “I’m going to the house now to get cleaned up. I’ll let you know if anything changes before I leave.”

  “Oh, yes, the Colburn girl’s birthday party is tonight.” Nicholas grinned, swelling his wooly sideburns. “So
me of the fellows mentioned it at the market Saturday.”

  “It’s a private party.”

  “Right, well, they spoke fondly of Bethany.”

  Though Everett’s aggression was not directed at Nicholas, the thought of men talking about Bethany rankled. He considered it a personal affront when any man expressed desire for her, no matter how subtle. “What fellows?”

  Nicholas frowned. “A couple of boys who said they knew her from school, that’s all.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Something about courting her after her eighteenth birthday. It sounded like she has a lot of admirers.”

  “Admirers?” Everett knew every young man in Good Springs. He immediately began a mental list of his possible competition for Bethany’s affection and his pulse quickened. “Who?”

  Nicholas wiped his hands on his pants. “I’m not one of them, of course. She’s a great girl, I’m sure. My Aunt Vestal speaks well of her, but she’s not for me.”

  “No, she’s not.” Everett turned to leave but stopped when he noticed the calf licking the salve from its wounded leg. He pointed at the calf. “You’ll need to wrap that leg.” When Nicholas nodded and reached for bandaging material, Everett tapped his fist on the stall gate and walked away.

  * * *

  Bethany waited on the cushioned seat in front of her dressing table while Mandy and Lydia rifled through her wardrobe. She crossed her long legs under her body and traced her finger along the silver links of her favorite bracelet as she watched the women in the dressing table’s mirror. They were scrutinizing every sartorial item she owned. She lifted a hand. “Why shouldn’t I wear the black dress?”

  “Because you are not in mourning,” Lydia replied as she pulled a sky blue dress from the wardrobe and inspected its seams.

  Mandy tossed an auburn curl over her shoulder and glanced at Lydia. “She likes the black dress because it makes her look older.”

  Bethany sighed, her patience waning. “No, I like the red dress because it makes me look older. I like the black dress because it was Mother’s.”

  Mandy and Lydia exchanged a look and continued selecting an outfit for her party. She would have enjoyed being primped by either her sister or sister-in-law, but the two of them together were able to override Bethany’s every opinion effortlessly.

  Mandy picked up another dress, raised it high while she examined it, and then put it back. “The overseer’s daughters never lack dresses, do they?”

  “This from the woman whose husband just built her a second wardrobe.” Lydia continued to finger the sky blue dress.

  “The seamstress needed a nursery added to the Ashton house, so Levi bartered for a few dresses.” Mandy winked at Bethany. “I can’t help it if he dotes on me.”

  Lydia lifted the dress and its hem glided across the floor. “See if she has any gloves to go with this.”

  Mandy reached to Bethany’s dresser, selected a pair of beige gloves, then held them close to the dress in Lydia’s arms. Mandy tilted her head. “I guess these will do.”

  Lydia poked the gloves. “That one is stained.”

  “Do I have to wear gloves? They make my hands feel trapped.” Bethany returned her eyes to the silver bracelet that was lying open on her dressing table. The delicate links clinked as she made them spiral around and around across the wooden tabletop. She touched the tiny charm that dangled from one link and thought back to when Levi gave her the bracelet. Her brother doted on her too, though somewhat less now that he had a wife.

  Mandy returned to the dresser drawer and sifted through its contents. “All of your gloves have stains. Your days of playing in the dirt must end, or you will never have a decent wardrobe.”

  “I’m a potter.” Bethany rolled her eyes. “I’m not afraid of dirt.”

  Lydia stepped around the bed and unbuttoned the dress, removing it from its padded hanger. “Well tonight your entry to adulthood will be celebrated, and a woman should know how to behave in her best clothes and keep them clean.” She smiled at Bethany. “You may borrow my dress gloves. Try to stay out of the dirt.”

  Mandy sauntered to the dressing table. “I remember being eighteen—the dreaming, the innocence—”

  “Innocence? Ha!” Lydia snorted. “Ignorance is more like it. Just because we didn’t know what we were doing does not mean we were innocent.”

  “The intrigue, the flirting.” Mandy grinned in the mirror then lifted a comb to Bethany’s wavy, brown hair. “And the freedom to make your own choices. I remember walking to the beach every day simply because I didn’t have to go to school any more. I could work when I wanted, for as long as I wanted, and then walk to the village on a whim. Of course, most of my friends were married within a year after leaving school and soon had babies. Enjoy the freedom while you have it, Bethany.”

  Lydia shook the dress open and fluffed the skirt. “I was halfway through my medical training at eighteen. In fact, I helped deliver a baby on my eighteenth birthday. Freedom indeed—for my patient anyway.”

  Bethany listened to Lydia and Mandy reminisce. Though they spoke wistfully of their new adult years, she thought it must feel better to be their age—secure in their skin, able to make their homes, and confident in their love for devoted husbands. She imagined herself, twenty-five and confident, fussing over a younger woman and speaking of life from experience.

  “Bethany.” Lydia motioned for her to stand.

  Bethany unfurled her legs from the cushioned seat and stood. She felt like a doll as they dressed her. Lydia situated the soft fabric at the front of the dress while Mandy fastened the score of tiny pearl buttons up her spine. She looked down at her pigment-stained cuticles then hid her fingertips in her fists, hoping Lydia would not notice. The women tightened the dress around her boyish waist while commenting on her height. The year-old dress had been made to skim the floor, but now it hovered well above her ankles. She glanced down at her boney shins. “It’s just as well since the party is outdoors. Maybe I won’t stain the hem.”

  “That’s the spirit!” Mandy beamed. “And I’ll give your hair such pretty ringlets no one will look at your ankles. Now sit back down so I can reach your head.”

  “Very funny,” Bethany said, sarcastically.

  Mandy began pinning Bethany’s hair into sections while Lydia busied herself with the discarded clothing, smoothing each garment as she put it away. Bethany did not have to look to know that her sister was also arranging the contents of her wardrobe in some logical order. Lydia stopped organizing when the sounds of Andrew waking from his nap drifted down the hallway. Bethany glanced at Lydia in the mirror as she disappeared toward the nursery.

  Mandy drew a section of Bethany’s hair through her thin fingers then spun it and pinned it close to her scalp. Bethany watched Mandy in the mirror and studied her perfect features, wishing they were her own. Mandy’s face was lean, her nose sloped up at the end, and her chin came to a proud point. Bethany looked at her own reflection in the mirror and decided her dimples looked childish, her cheeks were too pink, and her puffy lips seemed fixed in a sulky pout even when she was not sulking. Though she disparaged most of her features comparatively, she appreciated the blue of her eyes because everyone said they were exactly like her father’s. She glanced at Mandy’s green eyes and wondered if Mandy and Levi’s children would have Mandy’s green eyes or Levi’s golden brown. Baby Andrew resembled Connor; maybe all boy babies resembled their fathers. As Bethany gazed at Mandy in the mirror, she wondered what it felt like to be the beauty of the village, captivating men instead of intriguing boys.

  Mandy began to unpin and arrange the loose curls she had formed in Bethany’s hair, the length of which now barely skimmed her collarbones. She lifted the hair on one side and clipped it high with an embellished silver hairpin, exposing Bethany’s ear.

  Mandy leaned down and looked at her in the mirror. “What do you think of that?”

  Bethany lifted her chin admiring Mandy’s work. She looked less childish than
she had mere moments before. In her estimation, Mandy improved everything she touched. “Beautiful.”

  Mandy gave Bethany’s shoulders a squeeze. “You certainly are.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Wait until the boys see you.”

  “As long as I make it through the evening without any boys proposing, I will be pleased.” She made a face at the thought of courting the former classmates who were rumored to be planning to ask her father’s permission.

  “Perhaps not boys then.” Mandy inclined her head. “Are there any men who have a chance at your heart?”

  Bethany shook her head. “The only men I know are either married or are my relatives.”

  “What about Everett?”

  “Everett is my friend—my best friend.”

  “What about Nicholas, the new farmhand?

  “Mrs. Vestal’s nephew?”

  “Yes. He’s handsome enough, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t want to think about courting.” She lowered her voice as the bedroom door opened. Dismissing Mandy’s question, Bethany reached for the bracelet on the dressing table. She laid her wrist across it and clasped its ends together.

  Lydia walked into the room holding her baby. She smiled at Bethany. “Oh, little sister, you look beautiful!”

  There was something about the way Lydia looked when she said it that reminded Bethany of her mother. Though Bethany did not trust her memories of her mother’s face, she studied Lydia’s eyes for a moment, but then felt an abysmal ache and had to look away.

  * * *

  Everett passed a comb through his clean wet hair before he buttoned the cuffs at his wrists and left his bedroom. As he walked through the hallway, he glanced into his parents’ room. His father was awake; his mother was sitting in a chair beside the bed. Everett stopped and tapped a knuckle against the doorframe.

  Samuel lifted his head from the pillow. “Come in, son.” The room had an acerbic scent that intensified each day as his father drew closer to death.