December Heart
Merry Farmer
DECEMBER HEART
Copyright ©2018 by Merry Farmer
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill (the miracle-worker)
ASIN: B077K26MSD
Paperback:
ISBN-13: 9781983476716
ISBN-10: 1983476714
Click here for a complete list of other works by Merry Farmer.
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Created with Vellum
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Aylesbury, Buckinghamshire – May, 1879
May was the most beautiful month in the English countryside. Everyone said so. Meticulously tended gardens and sprawling, wildflower meadows alike glowed with fresh, colorful blooms. Trees stood tall, at their peak of green. Fragrant breezes blew from the budding fields into quaint and cozy villages. Neighbors seemed to be at their cheeriest, greeting each other with smiles and jovial conversation in the lanes between tiled cottages and thriving businesses.
But while everyone else was brimming with summery satisfaction, Mariah Travers bristled with unease. Every new spring ticked by as if scolding her. Each change of season and turning of the year pushed her further and further away from any hope of being her own woman, and deeper and deeper into spinsterhood. That fate wouldn’t have been so terrible on its own, but being an unmarried woman past a certain age carried frustrating consequences with it.
“Ooh, Mariah! Look over there.” Mariah’s younger sister, Victoria, squealed and grasped Mariah’s arm as the two of them passed through the center of Aylesbury on errands.
“What am I looking at?” Mariah asked. All she saw was the usual row of shops with goods displayed in the window, old Mrs. Murphy rushing the passel of farm children she taught for pennies down the street, and a trio of young men in red army uniforms chatting on the corner outside the pub.
“No, don’t look,” Victoria giggled, tugging on Mariah’s arm as one of the officers glanced up and smiled.
Mariah was tempted to roll her eyes, but Victoria was only nineteen and had recently discovered that gentlemen’s heads were easily turned by a fetching smile and a shapely figure. Mariah remembered all too well the sense of power that awakening had sparked in her, and felt far too keenly that her own power had died. Died along with Robert, God rest his soul.
“Quick.” Victoria shifted from clutching Mariah’s arm to holding her hand. “We should cross to the other side of the street so that we walk past them.”
“But MacTavish’s Books is on this side of the street,” Mariah argued.
“It doesn’t matter. We should talk to them. They’re ever so handsome.”
Victoria was already doing more than talking. Her smile grew wider by the moment as the three officers studied her, whispering amongst themselves. Mariah was quick to note that all three of them had their sights set on her sister. After the initial look, not one of them spared a glance for her.
“Victoria,” she said, a wry note to her voice, “show some propriety. Even attractive officers prefer that young ladies not display themselves as if—”
“They’re coming this way,” Victoria gasped, ignoring everything Mariah said. “Oh. Oh my.”
Victoria dropped Mariah’s hand so that she could pinch her cheeks and smooth her skirt where it hugged the curve of her hips before flaring at her knees. Mariah had her doubts about the current fashion of tight-fitting skirts—mostly because it made walking with a long, purposeful stride impossible—but seeing the way her sister used the style to show off what she shouldn’t to a group of strange men made her cheeks burn hot.
“Ladies.”
They crossed paths with the officers at the intersection, across from the pub. All three of the young men seemed eager to make Victoria’s acquaintance, grinning and bowing.
“Good afternoon,” Victoria greeted them, batting her eyelashes.
With an inward sigh, Mariah shot a look of longing past the officers to the bookstore. “Gentlemen.” She acknowledged the men with a polite nod.
“We were just speculating,” one of the officers with blond hair and a thick moustache began, “what sort of errand two such lovely young women would be on this fine afternoon.”
Victoria giggled, blushing prettily. But then, everything Victoria did was pretty. “My sister and I were on our way to the bookstore.”
“Sister?” Another of the officers with dark hair and eyes peeked at Mariah.
She knew in an instant what the man must be thinking. Victoria was youthful and fair and dressed in pink, while Mariah was gathering dust at the age of twenty-seven, brunette, and wearing purple to represent the end of a long period of mourning.
Victoria failed to see the subtle inquiry in the man’s eyes. “Yes,” she said. “This is my sister, Mariah, and I am Miss Victoria Travers.” Bold as brass, she held out her hand for the three men.
Mariah ached with embarrassment at her sister’s forwardness. They hadn’t been formally introduced to the men, and although they were on the verge of the modern eighties and not the fussy twenties, Victoria’s move was beyond the pale.
“It is a delight to meet you, Miss Victoria.” The blond officer took her hand and kissed it. “I am Col. Nigel Scott.”
“And I’m Lt. Gordon Banfield,” the dark-haired man said, taking her hand from Col. Scott.
“I’m Lt. Walter King,” the third man, smaller than the others, but stockier, took her hand last.
Col. Scott blinked and turned to Mariah. “Miss Travers.” He nodded.
Mariah fought to keep her smile in place. It shouldn’t have hurt to be placed as second-best to Victoria, but there was a time when impetuous young men like these officers had rushed to make her acquaintance as well. Robert certainly had. But Robert was gone now, and with it the bloom off her rose.
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, gentlemen,” Mariah said, taking Victoria’s hand when Lt. King let it go. “But if you will excuse us, my sister and I have quite a lot to accomplish today.”
“Mariah.” Victoria laughed, scolding in her eyes. “We couldn’t possibly be so rude as to leave these kind men mere moments after making their acquaintance.”
“Of course not,” Lt. Banfield said with a wink.
Mariah arched a brow, instantly distrusting the gentlemen’s motives. Particularly as two out of the three of the
m seemed more interested in Victoria’s breasts than the conversation. Papa would beat all three of them within an inch of their lives, in spite of his age, if he saw the way they were behaving.
“That may be the case,” Mariah went on. “But it is inadvisable to strike up a conversation with men to whom we have not been introduced by a trusted friend.”
“Mariah,” Victoria hissed, no longer trying to pretend she wasn’t irritated.
“Tell us who your friends are and we’ll get them to do all the formal stuff,” Lt. King said.
“Well,” Victoria began. “We’re friends with—ouch!”
Mariah tugged her sister away from the officers, more certain than ever that they were up to no good, and that Victoria didn’t have the slightest sense of danger.
“That was unspeakably rude,” Victoria hissed as Mariah rushed them along the street and into MacTavish’s Bookshop. “They were only trying to talk to us.”
Mariah sighed, glancing out the window to make sure the men hadn’t followed them. Sure enough, they crossed the street and entered the pub. She turned to Victoria. “My dear, a handsome face does not make for a handsome character.”
“Maybe not,” Victoria said, crossing her arms, “but you haven’t smiled at a single man since Robert died.” Her expression softened to concern beyond her years. “It’s not good for you.”
Guilt clenched Mariah’s gut, but she couldn’t let affection for her sister cloud the fact that Victoria was a poor judge of character. “Papa and Mama would be beside themselves if they saw you flirting with strange men in the street.”
“I wasn’t flirting,” Victoria insisted. Her face instantly pinched in guilt. “Much. You hardly gave me a chance.” Mariah fixed her with a hard stare. “And besides,” Victoria went on, brimming with restless energy. “How am I supposed to meet any eligible men if you keep yanking me away from every prospect that comes through town.”
“You don’t know if they were eligible,” Mariah told her. “And you’ll have plenty of opportunities to meet suitable men through the appropriate means. You’re only nineteen.”
“You were only twenty when you got engaged to Robert,” Victoria snapped. “Oh.” She clapped a hand to her mouth, cheeks going pink with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Mariah. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s all right,” Mariah sighed, moving away from the window. “I wish you all wouldn’t be so anxious about mentioning Robert around me.” She headed toward the counter near the back of the shop’s front room.
“Yes, well, it’s been five years since Robert died, but you’re still….” She gestured to Mariah’s dress.
“Purple suits me.” Mariah said with a shrug. It did, but that wasn’t the reason she continued to wear mourning for a fiancé who had died a fortnight before their wedding. It was easier for everyone in Aylesbury to see her as the grieving sweetheart beset by tragedy than to know that she was a slighted spinster whose fiancé had run off with a milkmaid, only to be struck by a speeding carriage in the middle of his flight. And for the sake of her own pride, it was less humiliating to think that every man from Aylesbury to London stayed away from her out of respect for a beloved, fallen friend than because she’d been stuck with a reputation for being frigid.
“Ah, Miss Travers, Miss Victoria.” Mr. MacTavish greeted them as they approached the counter. “What can I do for you today? I have some lovely books of devotional stories you might be interested in.”
Victoria turned up her nose and made a sound of disgust before being distracted by a stack of new, French fashion periodicals.
“I’ve been told that you have the new book of poems by the American, Walt Whitman, in stock,” Mariah said, resting her hands on the counter and smiling.
Mr. MacTavish’s smile turned from welcoming to condescending. “Now, Miss Travers. You know I can’t sell you that book.”
“What?” Mariah blinked. “Why ever not?”
He chuckled lightly, as he would to a child. “I think you know why.”
“No,” she insisted. “I do not.”
Mr. MacTavish sighed. “The poetry of Mr. Whitman isn’t appropriate for ladies such as yourself.”
“I’m sorry?” Mariah blinked rapidly, shaking her head. “You’ve never had any trouble selling me books of poems before.”
“Well, yes. There’s nothing untoward in the poetry of Matthew Arnold or Tennyson,” Mr. MacTavish explained.
“And there’s nothing untoward about Whitman either,” Mariah insisted.
Again, Mr. MacTavish chuckled as though she were an ignorant and foolish child. “I’m afraid you’ll find that you’re wrong about that assumption, Miss Travers.”
Irate prickles raced down Mariah’s back. “I’m wrong?” she asked, teeth clenched.
“You know full well that I cannot sell inappropriate reading material to unmarried women,” Mr. MacTavish said.
“My marital state has nothing to do with my ability to read and appreciate poetry, Mr. MacTavish.”
“But I would not be a responsible bookseller if I allowed such incendiary material into your hands, my dear.”
Frustration boiled through Mariah. “It’s a book, Mr. MacTavish. A single, solitary book. Surely the world will not fall apart if I read one book of poetry.”
“I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night knowing that I put reading material of that nature into the hands of an unwed woman.”
The worst part was, he was sincere in his beliefs about what Mariah should or shouldn’t be exposed to. As much as it made her want to stomp and shout, and as much as it twisted her stomach, Mr. MacTavish honestly believed he was doing the right thing.
“Perhaps you could have your father come in and purchase the book for you,” Mr. MacTavish suggested. “I would feel right selling it to him, and if he deems it suitable to pass the book along to you, then so be it.”
“No, thank you, Mr. MacTavish,” Mariah said, amazed that steam wasn’t pouring out of her ears. “Come along, Victoria.”
“Oh, but I’d like to buy this magazine,” Victoria said, placing the periodical on the table.
“Yes, indeed, Miss Victoria.” Mr. MacTavish smiled at Victoria with an indulgent happiness that brought Mariah to the edge of tears.
It was like looking through a glass and seeing the woman she had once been. The world was wide open to the young and pretty who didn’t have a single ambition in their head beyond attracting a handsome mate. Mariah wished with all her heart that Victoria would find and secure that mate as soon as possible. Nothing was worse than the perpetual adolescence of a single woman left on the shelf. It wasn’t just books of poetry. She could hardly go anywhere without her father’s approval and a chaperone. At balls and parties, she was expected to stay seated at the edges of the room with the widows so that the younger ladies had a chance. And all because of the curse of having been born a female and having once failed at marriage.
“Come along,” she said, holding the shop’s door open for Victoria to walk through while leafing through her purchase. “If we hurry, we can still make it home while Mrs. Wentworth’s tea cakes are warm.”
“Mmm. I love it when the tea cakes are fresh from the oven,” Victoria said with a grin and a lift of her shoulders. “The butter melts divinely.”
Mariah tried to share her sister’s smile, but her heart wasn’t in it. It was a glorious thing to have no other cares than whether the butter melted at tea or not.
“It’s a shame that Mr. MacTavish wouldn’t sell you a silly book,” Victoria said when they were halfway home, walking amongst the larger houses inhabited by the more prosperous inhabitants of Aylesbury. Mariah was surprised that she’d been paying attention at the shop.
“It’s nothing,” she sighed, feeling as though, in fact, it were a very large something indeed.
“I don’t know why you care so much about books anyhow.” Victoria shrugged. “Not when there are handsome officers in town. I bet someone will throw a ball soon and t
hey’ll be invited. Ooh! A party would be just the thing right now. Ever since seeing this illustration here, I’ve wanted to remake my green dress in this style.” She held open the page for Mariah to see.
“Ever since?” Mariah arched a weary eyebrow. “That long, eh?”
Victoria completely missed her sarcasm. She continued to chatter away about frills and flounces, skirts and bodices, and all of the things Mariah had once cared about but left by the wayside.
Her spirits were as flat as a platter by the time they reached home, which was why it came as such a surprise when her mother greeted them in the hallway with, “Mariah, your father and I would like to speak to you right away in the office.”
“Papa’s up?” Victoria asked, bursting into a smile.
Their father, Sir Edmund Travers, had been away in London, attending Parliament, and had only just returned home late the night before. As a respected member of the House of Commons, his duties to country usually came before his duties to family, so it was an unexpected treat when he was there to lavish much-craved affection on his wife and daughters.
“Yes,” their mother answered. “And we have something most exciting to talk to you about.”
“Me?” Mariah exchanged a look with Victoria.
“Yes, you, dear. Now come along.” Their mother hooked her arm through Mariah’s and tugged her away, down the hall to her father’s office.
“Tell me everything when you’re done,” Victoria whispered after them.
Mariah was too startled to reply, and before she knew it, she was standing in front of her father’s desk as her mother shut the office door.
“Mariah, my dear heart,” her father said, getting up as though he sat on a spring and coming around the desk to hug her. “My dear, sweet girl.”
December Heart Page 1
