Geneva: Garden of Joy (Brides of Grace Hill Book 1)

by Lisa Prysock

  “Forget about Bryn! He’s not right for me, Mama! Besides, ‘tis who Elizabeth has her heart set upon,” Geneva had insisted, successfully ending the subject of marriage until Mama would initiate a repetition of the same conversation the next time she encountered Bryn or another marriageable fellow about Cardiff.

  As Jen turned right on Working Street at the intersection where Castle Street turned into Queen Street, she began to sing an old Welsh hymn, Marchog, Jesu, yn llwyddiannus[1]. She had a habit of singing the last line three times to put a flourish of her own on the hymn. Navigating around more piles of snow lingering on street corners hiding spring and the green grass from view, she turned right onto Church Street and then left onto St. John Street. This route took her past Papa’s church on her left and Central Market[2] on her right. A little further down St. John’s Street, Cardiff’s library appeared. She ducked inside and returned three books. Half an hour later, she had browsed the shelves and checked out three more, nodding a good-day in the direction of Mrs. Goffin, a devoted parish family friend with whom she had nearly collided in one of the aisles between bookshelves.

  “How is your mother, Miss Rosemont?” Mrs. Goffin asked in a quiet voice so as not to attract a reprimand from the librarian. She peered over her spectacles at Geneva affectionately. “I would inquire about yer father, but I just came from St. John’s where I ‘ad a nice visit with Vicar Rosemont. I saw he is in good health an’ cheerful, as usual. I ‘ad to return a few books he lent me from his personal library… an’ oh how they ‘ave helped me carry on through this long, dreadful winter.”

  “Indeed, it has been a long winter. Mama is very well, thank ye,” she responded. Mrs. Goffin, highly respected in Cardiff, was one of the kindest, most loyal, elder patronesses among the parish. “She is baking an apple pie and a stew for our supper meal today. ‘Tis Polly’s day off…”

  “Rachel is one of the finest cooks in all of Wales. I don’t think anyone can make an apple pie as well as she can, exceptin’ mayhap Polly, o’ course.”

  “We would readily agree with ye, Mrs. Goffin!”

  “Where are ye off to in such a hurry? Ye aren’t going to the dangerous work house again, are ye?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, it so happens I am.” Geneva tilted her chin, ready to defend her mission, if necessary.

  “I admire your notions, Miss Rosemont, but do be careful.” Mrs. Goffin leaned closer, her spectacles sliding another inch down her nose as she lowered her voice and added, “That end of town is no place for a lady among the foul mouths of sailors and miners, as ye well know. Do be careful! Keep yer eyes averted and speak to no strangers, dearie. Hurry along now, so ye may return home afore dark! Yer mother will be beside herself with worry if ye arrive home past the setting of the sun.”

  “Aye, ma’am, I will be careful. God doesn’t always send us where we can be comfortable when we do His work, but He is faithful to watch over me,” she replied with a bob and a half curtsy.

  “Ye are so like your father, Miss Rosemont. He must be proud of ye,” Mrs. Goffin peered at her as she pushed her spectacles back with an approving smile.

  She clutched Geneva’s arm before she could escape to the librarian’s counter to check out her selection of books. “Do ye have a plan if someone approaches to fend them off? T’were me, I would carry a heavy weapon. I keep one o’ these in my market bag…” She opened her market bag. Geneva forced herself to look inside so as not to be rude. She was afraid to look down to see what on earth the elderly parishioner might reveal. Inside the market bag, a large, leather-bound Bible lay beneath a jar of cherry preserves. Leaning in closer, she lowered her voice and said, “So as I can clobber any unwanted varmints o’er the head…”

  Geneva attempted to stifle a laugh but could not. The revelation of what lay in the bag was humorously prophetic. She had to cover her mouth to smother her chuckles. If the Bible didn’t knock out an unwanted varmint, surely the jar of preserves would accomplish the deed.

  Mrs. Goffin grinned. “It really works, dearie. I’ve had to try it a time or two in my day; not that the angels of God Almighty aren’t always there to add to the impact! ‘Tis best to be prepared!”

  Geneva nodded and could barely stop laughing as she made her way to the library desk to check out her selections, the loyal parishioner following close behind. Each time she looked at the heavy market bag with the Bible in it, she would start giggling all over again. No wonder the dear lady usually struggled to carry her purchases home. Lugging a large book around had to be enormously taxing.

  Geneva collected herself as she continued on her way. She was anxious to finish her errands and arrive at the mission to teach a sewing class and an English class to the beloved group of orphan children. She could see the appreciation in their faces by the way their eyes lit up when she did things for them; the way they embraced her; the way they asked questions. She held a passionate conviction they deserved an excellent education as well as any other children.

  Few were the recipients of as excellent a private and public education as she and Lillian had enjoyed. They had attended a few years of public school as young children; a number of years with a private tutor at home; and finally, three years with Miss Meadow’s Finishing School in London. There, she had learned to temper and refine her Gaelic tongue for “a more beautiful command of the English language,” according to Miss Meadow. Welsh phrases still rolled off her tongue, especially when she found herself in relaxed situations at home with family. When she focused, her command of the English language had become nearly impeccable. Passing this along to her young students had become a passion.

  Stepping carefully around an icy patch along the walkways, she took Working Street all the way back toward Cardiff Castle and turned right on Queen Street, entering Queen’s Arcade Shopping Centre[3] a little way up the street along the right. It took up nearly half the block. The arcade helped her to grow warm again after the chill of being in the wind. Cardiff winter winds sometimes whipped about without warning in the winter, chilling one to the bone. ‘Twas the grant of a pardon from tempestuous weather to step inside the arcade.

  She perused the shops, stopping to look at the fashionable hats, leather gloves, molded soaps, and appealing perfumes. Ultimately, she found her way to the stationery shop; the main reason for her visit besides warming up from the cold, Welsh winds. She paused briefly to admire the pens on display. The clerk accepted her shopping list and filled her order at once. She purchased a bottle of ink, blotting paper, a notebook of blank writing paper, and a new pen… all for a shilling and three pence. After paying for her selections, she placed the items inside her own market bag along with the library books and exited the busy arcade singing lines from Yn Eden cofiaf hyny byth![4]—:

  In Eden -- O the memory!

  What countless gifts were lost to me!

  My crown, my glory fell;

  But Calvary's great victory

  Restored that vanished crown to me;

  On this my songs shall dwell…

  Geneva shivered out in the wind again and pulled her cloak closer as she progressed to North Road and turned right on Boulevard de Nantes. After traversing a number of streets, she finally made her way further into the industrial heart of the city, growing closer with each step to the port along the Channel. It was noisier than the pretty square with the markets, elaborate shops, and the church. Even the blustery wind didn’t stop the sturdy Welshmen from going about their business. She could hear the sound of a sledgehammer somewhere in the distance. The sound of a few market carts, wagon wheels, and several clopping teams of horses passing by rose up in the air as inhabitants drove through Cardiff, their heads often down to avoid the sting of the wind in their eyes.

  She lifted her skirts to step around a murky puddle in the street as she carefully made her way through the section of Cardiff where Mama, Lillian, and Mrs. Goffin said young ladies had no business traversing. In this part of town, many of the streets were still dirt roads, thoug
h much of Cardiff enjoyed brick and paved roads. She passed a few fruit and vegetable stands appearing sparse in winter, two fish carts, and a small stream of mine workers looking for a place to sit down to a hot meal out of the rain and chilled winds; their faces grimy and smudged. Not even the miserable weather or questionable surroundings could stop Geneva from her mission at the work house on Fenway Street. A sharp gust of wind made the flaps of her cape fly up. She burrowed her face further into the scarf wrapped about her neck. A sea gull silently soared above, comforting her. The sight of it captured her imagination with both intensity and wonder about what God had planned for her next. A few snowflakes began to fall as she continued onward.

  Jen passed another of the neat rows of miner’s cottages along the way to the work house as more signs of the industrial town cropped up around her. Papa said Cardiff was what they call a boom town and God Almighty Himself had blessed the area. As she passed the new rows of miners’ cottages, she could see for herself how the discovery of steam coal in the region, the industry of copper smelting, and the expansion of several new iron foundries had grown Cardiff’s populace and economy. The new shipyard dock had transformed Cardiff into a valuable port for trading. In the distance, she could see the ever expanding rows of more cottage dwellings for seafaring families, built up along the cliffs above the beaches overlooking the English Channel. The shrill train whistle carrying heavy loads of coal as far as London startled her as she continued on, but nothing surprised her as much as the scene unfolding before her. When she arrived on the corner where the three-story work house looked down on the two-story buildings presiding along the boardwalk, she stopped at the gate to catch her breath. What caught her eye halted even her breathing.

  Geneva was barely able to recover though she had witnessed a number of incidents of this nature. None included anyone she personally knew, but there across the street stood Bryn Palmer! She gulped in a breath of air and looked again to be certain. It was entirely out of character for him to be there in … in that way… with such a woman! Was she dreaming? No, there Bryn lingered in the adjacent alley with a woman of ill repute! Worse yet, he looked to be enjoying every moment of his decline over the woman who had been deceived into a state of inappropriate dress, shamelessly luring Bryn away from her dearest friend, Elizabeth Berkley.

  Geneva’s cheeks turned three shades of crimson as she sank against the gate to the work house. Though she turned away to avoid further observation of the temptation, a final glance revealed the woman drawing him inside the brothel. Jen’s gloved hand flew to cover her mouth and the cold wind blew her cape flaps about, stinging eyes brimming with tears she blinked back. A horse and buggy sped by, splashing muddy water onto the boardwalk. Not in a lifetime had it occurred to her Bryn might enter a bordello, but then he had been abroad for two years. Perhaps he was running an errand for his father’s shipping business and had become entangled. His father, Edward Palmer, a respectable business man, could be counted the wealthiest of their parish. Hadn’t Elizabeth mentioned Bryn’s father had opened an office near the new shipyard dock? Perhaps some of the Palmer ships were presently docked in the new Cardiff port not far from where she now stood. A number of ship masts swayed in the distance, visible from Fenway Street. When the fog was heavy they weren’t always visible, but today more things than necessary had become clear in her vision.

  Bryn had returned from his grand tour weeks before Christmas, but now lingered where he should not be. It stabbed at her heart for a flickering moment on a number of levels. There had been a time when she had harbored attraction for him, but Providence had steered her with wisdom. Bryn Palmer was not the man for her.

  At seventeen, she might have married him… until the still, small voice halted her from accepting his proposal. Lean not to your own understanding… the voice had whispered. Intrepidly, Geneva had rejected a stream of chocolates, carriage rides, and flower bouquets. When Bryn left for his grand tour of Europe, she had known his parents sent him abroad in part to aid in recovery from a severe melancholy over her refusal.

  Bryn eventually engaged in a regular, lengthy correspondence with her friend Elizabeth while he traveled the Arno River in Florence by gondola; viewed the museums and cathedrals of Venice and Rome; enjoyed scenic ports in Portugal; and frequented quaint cafés and pâtisseries near his garret apartment in Montmartre, the heart of Paris. Where hadn’t his father’s vessels and fortune been able to take him?

  It hadn’t been easy, and she didn’t understand completely why the Lord had stopped her from marrying Bryn. They certainly had their differences; but she had been able to find happiness for Elizabeth and Bryn as the Lord had given flight to her own dream of teaching. When he returned from abroad they had enjoyed Christmas parties, country dances, and sleigh rides with their usual set. He regaled them with stories of Europe and they welcomed him again in their midst. The set included Sarah Rudding, Lydia Kranwell, Anne Carmen, Oliver Boggs, Charles Simpson, Ned Taylor, Bryn Palmer, and Elizabeth Berkley. Bryn and Elizabeth increasingly became a pair, and Elizabeth had hinted at a forthcoming engagement only a fortnight ago.

  She was truly happy for them, but how could she live with the knowledge of Bryn’s indiscretion if she didn’t tell Elizabeth? If she did, she risked losing her closest friend.

  She pulled the hood of her cloak over her bonnet to bury herself from the world of Cardiff and collect her thoughts. How was she going to teach the children reading and writing today, let alone endure nearly an hour of instructing a sewing class for the little orphan girls? These were miner’s sons and daughters, sailor’s children… those who had lost both parents in untimely deaths. These children had few or no known relations; no way forward in life without shelter, love, and help from the community. She clung to the iron gate of the Fenway Street Mission with one of her gloved hands, praying for strength. They deserved her very best focus upon teaching.

  Hot tears streamed down her face, stinging her cold, rosy cheeks. Life had suddenly become more complicated than ever before. For a long while, she clung to the gate, wishing her family still lived in the peaceful, country meadows of northern Glamorganshire as they had when she was a little girl. Her heart was breaking and she couldn’t find a way to hold it together.

  She looked up to the windows of the orphan mission and thanked the Lord the school room windows didn’t face the brothel across the street. Nonetheless, it stabbed at her heart knowing the mission was in such close proximity to a business of ill repute. Brothels shouldn’t be where children were located, but she supposed it was a fact of life for any number of towns and cities across England.

  Couldn’t something be done about moving the mission elsewhere? Why had Bryn fallen into this trap? What about Elizabeth’s heart? Didn’t Bryn care? Was there some way to show these women their worth and rescue them from selling themselves? Could she trust a man with her own heart? For these reasons and more, the disparaging moment shook her to the core.

  Dear Lord, protect these innocent children from these things… and please rescue Bryn from the grip of this woman! This is all too heavy for me to carry. Banish these thoughts and memories from my mind Lord…

  Chapter 2.

  Give Me a Kiss

  I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. Philippians 4:13, NKJV

  "Aye, I'd like tuh pop 'im cockney, t'would I!" Polly announced sympathetically after listening to Geneva’s dilemma as she slid a chicken pie into the oven. The pie was filled with chicken, vegetables, and gravy. It was another favorite meal for the entire family. She used a towel to open the other side door and expertly slid several split logs inside to maintain the heat at the right amount.

  Geneva intently observed everything Polly did from a seat at the kitchen table. Polly Caruthers attended the household four days a week in light housekeeping and cooking. On one of the days she swept and scrub floors. On another, she changed the bed linens. Another, she tended to the laundry. On the fourth day, she did the ironing and baking. On any
of the days, she might be found doing extra cooking. It was evident Polly enjoyed cooking and baking the most. She was in her element in the Rosemont kitchen though it was sometimes too warm, crowded with Mama’s favorite dishes, and small. Geneva appreciated the two-story cottage during Welsh winters because it became a haven of warmth.

  “I don’t know what to do, Polly,” Geneva replied, resting her chin in the palms of her hands, her elbows on the table covered in a blue and white checked tablecloth. The kitchen was the warmest room in the house. On the worst winter days she liked nothing better than to sit at the table near the window with her crochet or a book where the heat from the cook stove kept the whole room toasty. Today, Peaches curled up in her lap purring softly as she sat up to the table, the edges of the table cloth hiding the kitten from view. “If I don’t tell Elizabeth, I won’t be able to live with myself. If I tell her, I don’t think Elizabeth will remain my friend.”

  Polly poured her a cup of hot tea, placed it in a china saucer, and slid it towards her. “Te-amser[5].”

  Time for tea. The phrase warmed Geneva’s heart. “Diolch![6]” Geneva slid the steaming cup closer and moved the book she had barely glanced at aside. She added a spoonful of honey and stirred the cup slowly, letting the flavor permeate the contents.