Blacksmith Brides

by Amanda Barratt

  FORGING FOREVER

  by Amanda Barratt

  Dedication

  Soli Deo Gloria.

  Chapter 1

  Cornwall, England

  February 1798

  Breath rasped from Charles Bainbridge’s lips, the cadence of each fading tendril indicating his departure from this world would not be long in coming.

  Josiah Hendrick studied the face of the man lying in the middle of the immense bed. Bluish veins stood out against the translucent pallor of his flesh, the creases of his cracked lips lined in blood. One beholding him would think him aged well beyond his three score and ten.

  A testament to death’s power to sap all resemblance of what a man used to be.

  The note delivered to the forge this morning, written in the maidservant’s uneven lettering, bid him hasten to Bainbridge Park, as its master was asking for him. Josiah had washed away the grime of the smithy and ridden as fast as he could, praying he’d not be too late.

  “Charles.” He leaned forward, close to the bed. “It’s Josiah. I’m here, just as you asked.”

  At first, nothing. Then his eyelids flickered. Fluttered. “Josiah.” The word was a gasp. “You came, my boy.”

  “Of course. Of course I did.”

  In the semidarkness of the chamber, a hint of a smile touched Charles’s lips. “I … have something for you.”

  “I need nothing. Your friendship has always been—”

  “A paper. On the table. Bring it to me.” He made a weak motion toward the low table against the wall. Josiah stood and went to it. It held the stub of a candle in a silver holder, an array of bottles containing remedies that had proven powerless to effect a cure, and a folded piece of parchment. Josiah took it up, brought it with him back to his seat. Charles’s gaze fell on it.

  “Open it.”

  Josiah unfolded the paper and smoothed it on his knee. “Shall I read it aloud?”

  “No. Read it yourself … quickly.”

  He scanned the lines. His breath caught. He raised his gaze to Charles. “’Tis a deed for a share in Wheal Prosper. Yours.”

  “No, boy.” Charles swallowed, the sound of it thick. “Yours.”

  “Mine?” Josiah frowned. “I—I don’t understand.”

  “I’m giving it to you. You must … sign the deed.”

  “To me? But why?” He was not this man’s heir. Of no connection save a long and abiding friendship. He’d no right to such a gift, a share in a profitable mine, worth upward of two hundred pounds.

  “Because I’ll not see it fall into the hands of that wastrel, Phineas.” A spark of the man Charles Bainbridge had been before consumption eroded his lungs—a firebrand of energy, good humor, and determination—entered the dying man’s voice. “And because you’ve a right to it. ’Tis your mine, boy.”

  “It was my father’s. Once. Those days are long gone.” Josiah stared at the paper, fine black script against yellowed parchment.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve not often rued the fact. I may be choking on my own blood, but I’ve not forgotten the past.” A hint of color stained Charles’s cheeks, and his voice grew stronger. “’Tis a stake in what should have been rightfully yours. More than that, it transfers the share to someone other than Phineas. My estate is regrettably entailed to him, and I’ll not have him receive a tuppence more than what’s legally his due. That insolent puppy owns too much of Prosper as it is. What’s needed in those shareholder meetings is a strong man with a desire to further the good of more than his own purse.” A cough spasmed his body.

  Alarm escalating, Josiah rang the bell to summon the servant, then poured water from a pitcher into a glass. He raised Charles’s head, trying to help him drink, but the dying man shook his head. Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth, standing stark against the bed linens. “No,” he choked. “Leave it.”

  The maidservant, a woman named Sarah, hastened in and rounded the side of the bed, gaze on Josiah. “Should we send for Dr. Creighton?”

  Charles grimaced. “I’ve had enough of that man and his leeches. Can’t an old man die in peace? Fetch my writing desk, girl. Be quick about it.”

  Sarah scuttled away, closing the door behind her. Charles lay back against the pillows. Silence fell, save for the ticking of the mantel clock, the snap of the fire in the hearth, and Charles’s labored breathing. Hands on his knees, Josiah stared at the clock as the minute hand chipped away. It measured time, but not a life. None but God held power over the number of a mortal’s days. Humans only owned so much control.

  Sitting at three deathbeds in his thirty-one years had taught him those truths well.

  The door opened, and Sarah returned. Charles roused enough to motion for the girl to hand the lap desk to Josiah. Josiah thanked her with a faint smile. “Leave us,” Charles rasped.

  The door shut. Josiah balanced the desk on his lap, the fine sheen of the wood beneath his calloused fingers.

  “Charles, I cannot accept this. ’Tis too much—”

  “Would you deny an old man the privilege of resting peacefully in his final hours, knowing his affairs are set in order?” Charles wore the same look as when he used to splay his cards upon the table knowing he had the winning hand.

  Josiah shook his head. “Nay, but—”

  “Then let me do this thing for you. Goodness knows your friendship has been a gift to me.”

  “As yours has been to me.” The magnitude of both—this friendship and the gift—overwhelmed him. In the eyes of society, he, a mere blacksmith, merited neither.

  He’d been blessed by the former. Did he dare accept the latter? It lured him, tempting, and not only for Charles’s sake.

  “Sign it. I’ve already done so.”

  Josiah opened the hinged lap desk. Loose papers filled its depths, the scent of wood and ink, his senses. He took out a sharpened quill and ink pot. Quill in hand, the deed on the desktop, he regarded his friend, lying prone on the bed, face nearly as pale as the nightshirt swathing his wasted frame. A glimmer of determination shone in his gaze.

  “Sign it,” Charles repeated. “Show Phineas who’s master. Be the man you should have become.”

  Josiah’s hand shook as he dipped the quill in ink. Slowly, he formed a J in the fine hand he’d been tutored in as a boy. The quill scratched as he wrote the rest. He blotted the signature.

  “Done?”

  He nodded. “Aye, sir.”

  “Good.” A ghost of a smile edged Charles’s lips. “You’ll do me proud, boy.”

  And what of Phineas Trevenick? When he discovers his cousin has gifted me a share in the most prosperous of the Trevenick mines? When he is forced to grant me admittance to shareholder meetings? Can I bear sitting at the same table as the man who stole almost everything from me?

  He must bear it. Hadn’t he, in hidden moments he’d never have voiced aloud, imagined such a thing coming to pass? A sort of justice. A restoration of his birthright.

  Though it wasn’t what they’d once had, ’twas a kind of renewal. Wheal Prosper would never again belong to the Hendrick family. His father had forfeited that right in a desperation-fueled decision made on the turn of a card. He’d lost. Phineas’s father won. Now, both men were dead. And their sons’ lives couldn’t be more different.

  Josiah reached across and clasped a hand over his friend’s. This same hand had held his at the age of twelve, guiding him in how to shoot a pistol, been a steadying presence on his shoulder at his father’s funeral, lifted many a glass of canary in salute as they whiled away winter evenings to the tune of backgammon and firelight.

  “To perdition with polite society!” Charles would bellow, downing the glass.

  Now, the fingers were limp, the flesh clammy. Then almost imperceptibly, Charles squeezed back.

  Josiah’s throat tightened. “Thank you.”

  Their gazes held, man to man. Friend to friend. In the bedchamber, as shadows cloaked the room and twilight fell, Charles whispered words so low Josiah had to strai
n to hear them. But their impact settled within him and lingered long after he left Charles slipping in and out of consciousness, Bainbridge Park in the clutches of nightfall.

  “Make it count, boy.”

  Chapter 2

  Cornwall, England

  August 1798

  Elowyn Brody followed her father through Launcegrave’s winding, close-set streets, breathless at the pace he set. Her stays pinched her waist, tendrils of hair falling loose around her face, her cheeks flushed.

  Tradespeople hawked their wares with shrill cries of “Five for sixpence, pilchards!” and “Eggs, fresh eggs!” Women in serviceable grays and browns bore brimming market baskets from stall to shop, stopping now and then to exchange greetings or gossip. Children clung to mothers’ hands round-eyed, or scampered toward the Punch and Judy show set up in front of a brightly decorated wagon. Men ambled from the swinging door of a public house bearing the name the Eagle’s Head.

  Her father strode through the village with a rare purpose, his steps, for once, unimpaired by the stagger of drink. He’d woken her hours before dawn, and they’d hurried through the black, cold night, path lit by the lantern in his hand. Sunlight had replaced the earlier chill, but she still wore her cloak, frayed ribbon knotted at her throat, the brown fabric threadbare and faded. Not that she cared. What use had she for a fine cloak, or a fine anything? All she sought was enough food to keep her stomach from gnawing emptiness and a roof over her head that didn’t leak every time the sky so much as thought of rain.

  Beautiful things were for those with lives to match. And any dreams of a life different than the one she possessed had all but died. Fancies made for miserable bedfellows.

  “Where are we going?” She ventured the question now that they’d reached Launcegrave. She’d naught to fear from him with the crowd all around. Even he would not strike her in public.

  “Ye’ll see soon enough,” was his only reply.

  He’d brought nothing with him, as far as she could see. Perhaps if he’d something of value to sell, ’twas hidden in a pouch in his pocket. Or did he intend to seek out work in the town?

  Nay. That notion seemed too good to be true. Launcegrave appeared a place more prosperous than Fawley, the smaller village an hour’s walk from the cottage she called home. The majority of Fawley’s occupants were no stranger to hunger and privation. Wheal Hervey might pay wages, but the pittance offered scarce deserved the name.

  Sheep milled about in an enclosure in the main square. A throng of men were gathered round, listening to the auctioneer, who stood above the crowd on a raised wooden platform.

  “Do I hear ten guineas? Ten guineas and sixpence?”

  Her father stopped on the outskirts as the bidding went on.

  Did he intend to purchase something? They’d no coin, not even enough for a meal of bread and cheese at a public house. She’d used their last few shillings a fortnight ago, when she’d bought flour in Fawley for bread to supplement the vegetables she grew. She’d earned the coins by taking in washing, and had hidden them in a hole in her straw mattress so her father wouldn’t spend them on gin. Since losing his job at Wheal Hervey six months prior, he seemed more than content to let her earn their crust. He’d oft voiced his wish that she marry, so her husband might support them both, but the only suitor she’d ever had was Jonas Mason, and she refused to wed a man of sixty. What he lacked in teeth he made up in girth. And temper, so gossip said. Better the daughter of a wastrel than the wife of a man of cruel disposition.

  She tugged on her father’s sleeve to ask why he bided here, but he scarce heeded her, gaze on the auctioneer. The sheep were finally sold, followed by a mare and then her foal. Her gaze followed the foal as it was led away by a burly man. Hopefully its owner treated his animals well. The foal’s glossy black coat shone in a shaft of sunlight. She read the skittishness in its eyes. Poor dear. Who could blame its fear at finding itself separated from its mother and sold to a new master?

  “Well, that appears to be all for today, gentl’men,” called the auctioneer.

  Fingers tightened around her arm as her father made his way toward the front, pulling her along with him. She stumbled over the hem of her dress, but his bruising grip gave her no choice but to follow, half dragged through the press of men.

  “Auctioneer.” His booming voice startled her as they stopped before the man in the yellow silk waistcoat and high-crowned hat.

  “Yes?” The auctioneer stepped to the edge of the platform. “Have you something to sell?”

  “That I do, sir.” He gave her a push forward. She stumbled.

  “I beg your pardon?” The auctioneer’s forehead creased.

  “The girl. My daughter.”

  Her breath caught. She blinked, looking from her father to the auctioneer.

  “What do you mean?” He came down the steps, gaze narrowed.

  “I mean I wish to offer my daughter for sale to the highest bidder. She’s a comely girl, a hard worker. Make anyone a suitable servant, even a wife.” Her father’s tone was matter-of-fact, his gaze on the auctioneer.

  “Nay.” The word rasped out. Panic scrambled in her chest. “He does not mean—”

  Finally, he looked at her. Determination glinted sharp in his gaze, his weathered face unyielding.

  Her stomach clenched. He couldn’t be serious. This was a jest. A cruel one, but a joke nonetheless. In a moment, he’d turn to her and laugh that great bellow of his, and they’d continue on their way.

  The ripple of conversation at her back increased.

  “Stop!” She grabbed her father’s coat, making him face her. “You don’t mean this. You know you don’t.”

  “How many times do I have to say it, girl? Yer no good to me. Ye refuse to wed Jonas Mason, and because of yer obstinacy have strapped me with the financial burden of yer bed and board. I’ll stand for it no longer. Wife, maid, or whatever else they like to do with ye, ye’ll not be my concern after today.”

  Her throat tightened like a fist strangled it. She’d never seen such a cold gaze. She turned to the auctioneer, praying, willing him to stop this madness.

  “He can’t do this.” She forced the words past the grip round her throat. She wanted them to come loud, forceful, but they emerged barely above a whisper.

  The auctioneer glanced between the two of them. He looked neither astonished nor horrified, simply perplexed. He rubbed his thumb across the scruff of his chin.

  “This is most irregular.”

  “It’s within my rights.” Her father crossed his arms. “The girl is but eighteen. I’ve heard tell of men ridding themselves of wives in this very way. Why may I not do the same for a daughter? If ye’ll not do it, I’ll hold the auction here and now meself. But if ye do, ye’ll get a share of the profits.”

  Her pulse roared in her ears.

  Dear God, please, this can’t be happening. This is a nightmare. I’ll wake up soon. Dear God, let me wake up. She pressed her nails into the flesh of her palms, as if the pain might jolt her from slumber. But the sensation barely penetrated. And her surroundings remained as vivid as before.

  “Very well then.” The auctioneer took hold of her elbow.

  “A moment, pray.” She lifted her chin and met her father’s gaze square-on. Hoping to find some shred of compassion there, a hint that this was her flesh and blood, the man who’d given her life. “If you do this thing, you’ll not see me again. Ever. I’ll be dead to you. Is that what you want?” Her voice broke a little.

  His eyes, meeting hers—or rather, looking through her—were naught but stone. “Get on with it.”

  “Come along now.” The auctioneer pulled her up with him onto the platform. Her breath shuddered in and out. Shame seared her cheeks as she faced the crowd. Mostly men, a few women. They regarded her with interest, whispering amongst themselves, gesturing. At the front of the crowd, her father folded his arms.

  Would no one save her?

  I’m a person, she wanted to shout. Not an animal. Won�
��t a one of you stop this?

  Still awaiting transport, the sheep bumped into one another in the pen and bleated. She stared at them, their gray bodies a blur. Bits of straw scattered the ground.

  “Hurry along, auctioneer,” a squat-chested man in the front called. “Let’s see what a fine piece of flesh is worth.”

  Ribald laughter followed this remark.

  There was no escape.

  The auctioneer nudged her forward, so she stood in the center of the small platform. Wind blew tendrils of hair into her eyes, carrying with it the scent of offal and straw and sheep. She hugged her arms across her chest, drawing into herself. She would not cry. Not in front of this crowd that grew by the minute, as if news had spread like putrid throat throughout the village.

  “Who will make an offer for this girl?” The auctioneer’s voice echoed through the square.

  Her eyes fell closed as a single tear slid unbidden down her cheek.

  Dear God, deliver me.

  He’d witnessed enough of the baseness to which humanity could stoop to make him oft wish to leave all mortals behind and live at peace in some deserted place.

  But in all his days, Josiah had never thought to behold this.

  He’d come to Launcegrave to deliver a kettle, receive payment, and purchase a few supplies at the market. He’d walked by the auction because Farmer Dudley was to sell his foal today, and Josiah was curious to see what price the fine animal would take.

  Now … this. A girl. Forced onto the block by a man he didn’t recognize and Mr. Fulkerth, the auctioneer, a man who’d sell his own mother if he thought he’d get a goodly commission for the job.

  The girl stood in the center of the platform, arms hugged across her chest. Her height was only scant inches below Fulkerth’s, but the way she drew her body into herself made her seem small. Fragile. Hair the color of honey fell in tangles around her face. Something glistened on her cheek. A tear. Josiah expected her to swipe it away, but she left it there, as if too spent to notice or care.