The Uncharted Beginnings Series Box Set

by Keely Brooke Keith

  “We saw a jellyfish!” Ida squealed.

  “I hope you didn’t touch it.” She looked through the kitchen at Christopher. “Did you catch anything for dinner?”

  Her father was still on the stoop, shaking the sand out of his cuffs. He held up a line with several fresh fish hanging from it and winked at her.

  Doris pulled more shells out of Minnie’s dress pocket. “You should have come with us, Hannah. It was lovely.”

  “Quite so.” Christopher walked inside, wearing the red wool socks Hannah had knitted for him last Christmas. She’d planned to make everyone in the family a new pair of socks for Christmas again this year. With only a month until the holiday, she needed to start knitting soon.

  Her father squeezed her shoulder with a sandy hand. “Did you enjoy your afternoon alone?”

  “Quite so.” She repeated him then glanced out the window. “Where are David and Wade?”

  “Went to play cards with the Ashton boys. They’ll be back in time for dinner.”

  “Cards? On a Sunday?”

  Christopher turned to the cabinet and took out a boning knife. “What does Sunday have to do with playing cards?”

  “Seems sacrilegious.”

  Christopher flashed her a grin. “You’ve read that book from Olivia with the medieval tales too many times, haven’t you?”

  “I suppose so.” Hannah glanced at the table where her freshly written pages were hiding beneath the towel. “Since the girls are occupied and you are frying fish for dinner, would you mind if I go out for a while?”

  Christopher grinned. “To go to the springs to write?”

  “No, I’m done writing for the day,” she whispered. “I’d like to ride Zelda over to Olivia and Gabe’s house. I wanted to ask Olivia to read my new pages,” she lifted her chin toward the parlor where the girls were arguing over the seashells, “without a crowd.”

  He nodded. “Of course. Biscuits with dinner?”

  “Already made a batch.” With renewed vigor, she gathered her papers from the table and stuffed them in her old school satchel. Slinging the strap over her shoulder, she pulled on her boots then grabbed a rope from a hook by the back door.

  She hurried toward the pasture, hoping to harness her favorite of the family’s two horses and saddled the mare in the barn before any of her siblings saw her preparing to leave. Zelda stood beneath a gray leaf tree, eating grass. The horse’s brown and white mane parted revealing her big black eyes. When the mare spotted Hannah, she trotted toward the fence, flies swarming about her grassy mouth. Though the horse belonged to the family, she thought of Zelda as hers.

  She led Zelda into the hay-scented barn to be brushed and saddled, talking all the while. No one was outside. Still, she kept her voice quiet. “I made all the changes to my story—everything that came to mind after the dance last week. Adeline’s character is much stronger now, as is the plot. Instead of meeting Prince Aric by accident and falling in love, now she is on a mission. After being shipwrecked on a sandbar, our heroine swims to shore, escaping her captors. She finds her way to the palace to tell the king about being taken by force from her homeland and how the slave traders have been terrorizing her country.

  “Adeline intends to ask the king to help her return to her homeland, but as she is telling him about the slave traders and the atrocities she witnessed aboard their vessel, she feels compelled to ask him not only to help her but also to command his navy to patrol the sea to stop the rash of kidnappings.”

  Hannah tightened the leather saddle straps then led Zelda out of the barn and hoisted herself onto the horse. “The intoxicated king refuses Adeline’s request, saying she is a servant girl who has gone mad. He dismisses her from court. While the guards are escorting her to the gates, a prince is riding toward the palace, flanked by soldiers and wearing royal attire. Adeline begs him to hear her. The prince stops the guards and allows Adeline to tell her story. At first, she expects the prince to be just like his father, but he believes her. Prince Aric introduces himself and says he can take her to a safe place. He offers his hand to pull her onto his horse, and they ride off to a monastery.”

  Hannah stopped talking as she rode Zelda past the house. She held both reins loosely in one hand and petted Zelda’s smooth hair with the other. Being on her horse was almost as freeing as writing. Once they were on the road, she gently kicked Zelda, sending her into a trot. “We made it past our own palace guards, Zee.”

  They were alone on the tree-lined road. Afternoon sunrays seeped between the gray leaf trees overhead, highlighting the dust that swam in the air. With no one around, she imagined she was an emissary racing between European villages with a secret delivery. Zelda’s hoofbeats clopped the road with urgency.

  Hannah glanced at the Roberts’ house as she passed and was instantly snapped out of her fantasy. Mrs. Roberts was sitting on the front porch, so Hannah waved and wondered if Henry were home. Surely he wouldn’t be working at the press on a Sunday, though he’d said his current project would take all of his waking hours for months.

  She wanted to see him again. After the dance last week, she’d been filled with inspiration. The creative energy had yet to wane, and she already wanted more. Why had their dance given her a jolt of inspiration?

  At first, she’d thought doing something different somewhere different with someone new had brought it on, but it was more than that. Being alone with Henry outside at night had brought a sense of secrecy, intimacy even, that she’d never experienced before. They had been in the midst of Good Springs, surrounded by their community yet hidden.

  Beyond secrecy, the fire that burned during their quarrel had changed the moment Henry took her hand. The simple, sweet gesture meant nothing and everything all at once. Surely he wasn’t intrigued with her; he acted like he found her impetuous. And she certainly wasn’t intrigued with him. He was proud and harsh and spent way too much time with his precious letterpress.

  Still, she thought about Henry as she rode into the village and turned by the chapel to follow the path to Olivia’s house. She slowed Zelda’s pace so they could enjoy the beauty of the woods that led down toward the big stream. Before they reached the water, the house Gabe had built for Olivia years ago came into view. With its painted door, stately gables, and cutaway shutters, it looked like something out of a story book.

  Gabe was in the yard tossing a baseball with their three-year-old. Little Daniel looked like the perfect blend of his parents. He had Olivia’s straight black hair and Gabe’s dimpled smile.

  “Hello,” she called to them as she pulled on the reins, stopping Zelda.

  Gabe handed the ball to Daniel then smiled at Hannah. “Good afternoon, Miss Vestal.”

  She swung down from the saddle and pointed at Daniel. “He’s good at playing catch.”

  “We’re working on his pitch.” Gabe chuckled and took the reins. “I’ll tie Zelda up by the barn. Olivia is in the house. You can go in.”

  As she opened the door, she could hear the rhythmic thuds of a butter churn. A pot of venison stew sweetened the air. A leaning stack of Daniel’s wooden toy blocks adorned the parlor floor.

  “Shoes off, young man!” Olivia called out before she looked up from the churn. “Oh sorry, Hannah. I thought Daniel was coming inside again.”

  “Is this a bad time?”

  “Not at all.” Olivia released the plunger and wiped her sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. “I was hoping you would come to visit soon.”

  Hannah opened her satchel and drew out the freshly written pages. “I had a burst of creative energy this week and completely rewrote the first half of the story. I’m thrilled with where the plot is going.”

  Olivia drew her head back and smiled. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you say that.”

  “Something has changed. I truly feel like this is the story I was meant to tell.” She fidgeted once her hands were empty. Her fingertips tingled with misplaced excitement. “You don’t have to read it right now. I need to ge
t home before dinner. I was just so happy about the story, I had to share it with you.”

  Olivia pressed the papers to her chest. “Well, I’m looking forward to reading it.” She tilted her head. “Would this new inspiration have anything to do with Henry Roberts?”

  Hannah hadn’t told anyone about the private dance they had shared and was sure they had gone unseen. How could Olivia know? Had Henry been intrigued? Maybe he told Gabe who told Olivia? Did the whole village know about their dance? It was an inspiring moment and maybe romantic, but she wasn’t intrigued with him. She tried to keep her expression neutral but her face warmed. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Having the story printed and bound for your father’s birthday. Did you go to ask Henry about it?”

  “Oh, that.” A nervous chuckled escaped her throat. “Yes, I did.”

  “Well?”

  She shrugged one shoulder. “He said he would have to read it first. If he approves of the story, he will print it in exchange for candles.”

  “If he approves?” Olivia chortled. “That’s our Henry.”

  “I cringe at the thought of him reading it.”

  “Try not to worry about the future. It certainly won’t help today. I’m proud of you for going to him. That had to be difficult for you.” She nestled the papers into a writing box atop her desk then closed the box and patted it. “I’ll keep your pages safe until I can read them.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It will take longer than usual for me; you wrote a great deal in a week.”

  “I’ve never been so inspired in all my life.”

  “Hold onto whatever sparked that inspiration for as long as you can.”

  Hannah’s eyes felt heavy. She yawned and covered her mouth. “I will but I cannot keep writing so late at night—into the morning hours really—not with the children and the house to take care of.”

  “I understand. During the school year, I’m often grading papers from when Daniel goes to bed until midnight.”

  “How do you find time for everything?”

  “It’s a matter of sticking to your priorities and knowing when to ask others for help. Gabe often takes care of Daniel in the evenings so I can get housework done.” Little Daniel smacked the back door, trying to push it open. Olivia flashed Hannah a grin as she went to let her son into the kitchen. “Of course, it doesn’t always work out like I hope. Maybe things will be different for you.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Henry paced to the print shop’s open door for the third time this morning. Mr. Foster had promised that by nine o’clock he would deliver the soot he’d collected. Henry held a clay pint jar full of walnut oil and gave it a stir as he leaned out the doorway to check the road.

  There was plenty of activity in the village for a Friday morning, but no Mr. Foster. Mrs. Colburn was walking to the chapel with her three youngest children in tow. She had a tin lunch pail dangling by the handle from her lace-cuffed wrist. Mr. Owens drove his buckboard past. One squeaky wheel joint begged for grease. Mr. Owens nodded a greeting to Henry as his horse pulled the wagon down the road.

  Henry blew out a frustrated breath as he stepped back to his letterpress. The type was set, but he had no ink. Why had he thought he could complete such a daunting task as printing a copy of the New Testament in a few months? Maybe he could do it if his work weren’t dependent on other people. The men in the village were keeping their promise to supply him with all that he needed—including the ingredients for his ink recipe—but they weren’t in a hurry like he was.

  He picked up one of the two unused candles left from his trade with Hannah. He needed more candles but didn’t want to go to her, not because of the note of warning someone had written him but because of the feelings stirred by the dance they’d shared.

  He’d only seen her on Sundays at church over the two weeks since the dance, and they hadn’t spoken. Both weeks he’d sat with his parents on the third pew and she’d sat on the back row flanked by siblings. Her family had left before he could come up with a reason to approach.

  He stretched the bones in his half-hand to relieve its stiffness. Maybe this Sunday he would muster the courage to speak to Hannah. No, he had to remove all amorous thoughts of her from his mind. She needed a book printed and he needed candles. A simple exchange of goods was all there was between them and all there could ever be.

  Alas, footsteps approached the doorway. He turned, expecting to see Mr. Foster. Instead, he was greeted by the scornful pout of Miss Cecelia Foster. She held up a covered jar and leveled her gaze on him. “Father said you needed soot.”

  Henry took the jar and matched her glower. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. Thank my father. He scraped the chimney this morning.”

  “I will thank him next time I see him.” He set the jar on his worktable, avoiding eye contact with the woman he’d once adored. “Thank you, all the same. Good day, Miss Foster.”

  Cecelia didn’t leave.

  He flicked a glance at her. “Was there something else?”

  She crossed her thin arms tightly over her flower-printed bodice. “I see you haven’t changed.”

  He eyed her from nose to knees and back up. “Nor have you.”

  Cecelia beaded her pretty eyes. “When I heard you’d been given the print shop, I thought maybe it would mature your manners, but I was wrong.”

  “Something you should be used to by now.”

  “What?”

  “Being wrong.”

  “Arrogant fool!” She stomped a step closer. “I was heartbroken when you didn’t ask to court me last year after all that pursuit, but now I’m grateful. You saved me from a lifetime of aggravation and hurt. Not that we ever would have married.”

  “We would if you’d had your way.”

  She shook her head. “No, I wouldn’t have married you. I see that clearly now. And you know why?”

  He didn’t dignify her captious question with an answer. He’d quickly discovered he didn’t want a life with Cecelia Foster and her emotional vicissitudes. He looked away but she continued unabated. “Because you are incapable of loving anyone but yourself, Henry Roberts.”

  At that his fingers curled into his palms, blanching his knuckles. The modicum of truth in her summation carved his heart from his chest. He wasn’t capable of loving a woman enough to make a relationship worthwhile.

  He too was relieved it hadn’t worked out between him and Cecelia. He hadn’t thought it would ever matter, that he’d ever try to love again, but now he found himself longing for Hannah more each day. He shouldn’t. Eventually he would hurt her too. Cecelia was right.

  He busied himself with the utensils on the worktable, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of knowing she was riling him. “I said good day, Miss Foster.”

  She propped her bony wrists on her hips and acerbic words slithered from her tongue. “Fine. You may dismiss me, Henry, but I will not forget what you did.”

  “I’m sorry my existence offends you.”

  “You led me on.”

  “I apologized.”

  “I deserve better.”

  His patience ended. “You will get nothing else from me.”

  She huffed and spun on her heel. He stared down at the utensils on the worktable. When he was sure she had left, he looked up. Though she played the victim, Cecelia Foster had the gumption to recover from their failed relationship. She would love again. Still, he regretted how he’d kept her affections alive even after his had fizzled. He could not do that to Hannah. She was different, vulnerable, already wrapped in grief.

  It was the way she differed from other women that enchanted him. She was as passionate as the dramatic girls, but her passion usually stayed tucked beneath a shroud of loneliness. He wanted to peel it back as he had when they argued, just to see the way the fire lit her eyes. The dance they shared had proven that if he stoked the flame, she would respond.

  If only they could have another quiet moment together, he could f
ind out more about her. Maybe she was the one woman in the Land he could love. Maybe she would see past his scarred hand and find his heart worth loving. But what if, after all that, she annoyed him or found his logic insulting or made demands he couldn’t meet?

  He couldn’t bear the guilt if she fell in love with him and his love ran out. Then again, she might surprise him; she already had many times. She might keep her wits about her. He might be the one to lose himself. She might discover who he really was and reject him. From that he might never recover, but he could no longer deny his need to find out.

  Chapter Twelve

  Mist droplets floated into the air, making the granite slab behind the waterfall appear to move. The rock face was more stalwart than the soldiers who guarded Prince Aric’s palace. Hannah toed off her shoes and lowered her satchel of freshly written pages to the ground. Adeline would love this place.

  Hannah padded through the wet moss until she stood at the edge of a cool stone ledge. She crouched down and dipped one finger into the clear water that ran past her rocky perch. Maybe she should write a scene at a spring like this, just for Adeline. Every woman needed a place of solace in nature where she could be alone now and then.

  The spring water that showered over the waterfall and fed this rippling pool had inspired more than the name of Hannah’s village; it fueled her writing and stilled her soul. It was here by the water’s edge that she’d come after her mother’s burial, and here where—over the years—she’d wiped her tears and stared up at the wide blue sky above, praying for the strength to keep her promise.

  Above the ten-foot drop of the fall, water burbled beneath the surface as it rushed out of the earth. The constant hum and flow of water matched the activity in her imagination. Yet in the midst of all that swirled in her mind, she found peace on these rocks and in her story. The combination of writing while being at the springs was the closest thing to Heaven she could imagine ever finding on Earth.

  Sometimes during the winter months, she found shelter from the wind and mist in the rocks behind the waterfall. She studied the shadow of the shallow cave where she’d spent many chilly afternoons, sitting in its alcove, safely hidden from the elements. That seemed to be the place where she always wrote romantic prose, as if her story flourished most when she was least visible. It was difficult to get to the cave behind the waterfall without getting misted, but it was worth it. Her feet had memorized the path over the years.