ROSEANNA M. WHITE
Summerside Press™
Minneapolis 55438
www.summersidepress.com
Love Finds You in Annapolis, Maryland
© 2011 by Roseanna M. White
ISBN 978-1-60936-313-0
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
Scripture from the Holy Bible, King James Version (KJV).
The town depicted in this book is a real place, but all main characters are fictional. Though the major historical events described in the book did occur, this is a work of fiction.
Cover Design by Garborg Design Works | www.garborgdesign.com
Interior design by Müllerhaus Publishing Group | www.mullerhaus.net
Back cover and interior photos of Annapolis, Maryland, provided by Roseanna M. White.
Summerside Press™ is an inspirational publisher offering fresh, irresistible books to uplift the heart and engage the mind.
Dedication
To my mom and my mom-in-law. I can’t thank you two enough for always believing, always cheering me on, and always helping out with the kiddos when I need you. I don’t think this book could have happened without you!
And in memory of my friend and critique partner, Mary Proctor, whose encouragement and endless faith will always be a beacon in my life.
Acknowledgments
It’s so hard to know where to begin with thanks for a book, when so many wonderful people contributed to its creation! So I’m going to start at home—it seems like a safe place.
First and foremost, I have to give huge amounts of credit to my fantabulous husband, David. This guy not only believes in my call to write, he reads my chapters as I write them, offers endless encouragement and advice, and grants me the quiet I need to work whenever I’m on the brink of insanity. You’re my hero, honey, and these last ten years as your wife have been amazing, through good times and bad.
I also need to thank the wee ones in our family, Xoë and Rowyn. Though there are probably moments they wish their mama would throw her laptop away, in general they’re always willing to bounce up and down with me through the joys of writing and cuddle in when I need a hug. And nothing can beat their pride in me for being a “book writer.”
I think I may just have one of the most supportive families in the universe. So Dad, Mom, Jen, Brian, collection of nieces, Nanny, Grandma Tina and Pap, Grandma Helen, assorted aunts and uncles, and wonderful cousins—you all rock, and I love you. Thank you so much for always cheering me on.
Special thanks to Kimberly Gaudinski, with whom I had a blast playing tourist in Annapolis, where we had both lived long enough to have growled at anyone else who dared to stop in the middle of the street to take a picture. And to Karlene Hibbard, who couldn’t join us that cold December day, but who laughed with us later while graciously opening her home to us all.
I can’t possibly forget my amazing critters. First, Mary—a woman whose love and faith buoyed me up through the last four years and who lost the battle to cancer mere months before this book came out. She will live in my memory as the blessing she always was to me. Carole, you catch things the rest of us miss and make me smile with your notes. Dina, your offhanded comments often provide the inspiration I need to go somewhere new with a story, so I’m thrilled that you’ve been reading my stuff.
And of course Stephanie Morrill, who isn’t just a critique partner but is also a best friend. I had no idea when I picked out that red bag that it was a God thing, but was it ever! Thanks so much for patiently reading my long e-mails, for laughing at our silly jokes, and for never doubting that the day would come when I’d get to thank you from within the pages of a book. I don’t know what I’d do without you there to listen to my every random thought.
The ladies (and gent) of HisWriters are always invaluable, full of information, and most of all full of faith and prayer. I’m so proud to be a member of this group! I’m also honored to be a member of Colonial Christian Fiction Writers, whose dedication to stories set in this era is surpassed only by their passion for it.
And finally, to the team at Summerside, and especially Rachel Meisel, editor extraordinaire. Thanks for asking me for a historical after that contemporary idea didn’t pan out, for responding with such enthusiasm to a pitch I thought a long shot, and for the wonderful suggestions that helped turn this into a book I’m proud to put my name to. I’m still awed and amazed at being a member of the Summerside family.
I also have to thank Janet Benrey, who saw something in me years ago and stuck with me until it finally got us somewhere.
TUCKED INTO THE CHESAPEAKE IS A MARITIME TOWN CHARACTERIZED by its acres of red bricks and colonial buildings, its sparkling blue bay waters dotted with sails and yachts, and its graceful white State House dome reaching for the heavens. Annapolis has been the capital of Maryland for over three hundred years, and during its golden era in the decades prior to the Revolution, it was renowned as the “Athens of America.” Here all the culture of the Colonies could be found, from its unsurpassed fashion to its intellectuals and wits to its infamous races (where George Washington bemoaned the loss of quite a bit of coin). After the Revolution, Annapolis’s star dimmed as Baltimore’s rose, but it witnessed several historic events during its six-month tenure as capital of the nation, and it fought for new fame with the addition of Maryland’s first college, St. John’s, in 1784 and the Naval Academy in 1845. Today Annapolis still enjoys a reputation for its charm and picturesque beauty, and tourists receive a taste of the past by merely walking down its brick streets. In Annapolis, history still speaks. And it says, “Welcome.”
Chapter One
Endover Plantation, outside Williamsburg,
Virginia 25 November 1783
Perhaps if Lark recited the pirate’s code it would steal his attention. She could try standing on her head. Or if those options failed—as surely they would—she could throw herself to the floor before him.
Except Emerson Fielding was as likely to mistake her for a rug as to realize he ought to help her up. Lark indulged in a long sigh and cast her gaze out the window. The plantation lay dormant and brown. Most days saw Papa and Wiley in Williamsburg, swapping stories at R. Charlton’s Coffeehouse. Emerson usually met them there, which was why this was the first she’d seen him in a month. Heaven knew he wanted only to see them, never her.
She wished her heart hadn’t fluttered when he entered the room. Wished the disappointment hadn’t followed so quickly when he barely glanced her way. Wished she had the courage to command his attention…and he the sense to give it without her command.
Life would be so much easier if she weren’t in love with Emerson Fielding. But what young lady wouldn’t be captivated by those dark eyes, the strong features, the height that left him towering above other men?
Today his hair was unpowdered and gleamed sable. He was in undress, his coat the common one he wore every day, unlike what he was sure to don for her birthday dinner that evening. His smile lit up his eyes, his laugh lit up the room.
Neither one did he direct toward her.
Lark’s gaze flicked down to the emerald on her finger. Two years. Twenty-four months. Seven hundred thirty interminable days. Not that she was keeping account.
“Hendricks ought to be at the coffeehouse about now,” her brother said, standing. He tugged his waistcoat into place and tightened the band around his hair. “We have just enough time for a cup of chocolate with him.”
She would not sigh again, it would be redundant. Why protest the usual, even if today was supposed to be distin
ctive?
As if reading her mind, Wiley flashed a twinkling gaze her way and grinned. “Of course, you will want to wish my dear sister happy returns before we head out, Emerson. I shall go fetch my overcoat and hat while you do so.”
For the first time in the two hours he had been there, Emerson looked her way. And like every time he looked her way, she wished she had more to offer his gaze. Perhaps if she shared the golden-haired beauty of her mother and sister, his eyes mightn’t go empty upon spotting her.
He smiled the practiced smile gentlemen were taught to wear in company, not the earnest one he shared with her brother. “Are you having a pleasant birthday, darling?”
An unexpected wave of anger crashed over her. “Do you never tire of using endearments you don’t mean?”
Well, that earned a spark in his eyes. Not exactly one of delight or affection, though. “I take it you are not having a pleasant day. Well, perhaps I can brighten it.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a box covered in a scrap of printed calico.
She could manage no enthusiasm for what was sure to be another gift of jewels. He never seemed to grasp that she wanted no more things. She wanted his love—something he was either unwilling or incapable of giving. “What is it?”
His smile was right, teasing. But no secret knowledge nested in his expression. “Open it and see.”
“You haven’t any idea, have you?” She shook her head and looked out the window again as he strode toward her chair. His mother had undoubtedly foisted it upon him as he left, otherwise he wouldn’t have remembered what the date signified.
She often wondered if his mother had also foisted that first gift of jewels upon him two years before.
His breath hissed out. “Of course I know what it is, but you shan’t cajole it out of me. You will have to open it yourself to see.”
The wrapped box appeared under her nose. She took it, careful to avoid brushing his outstretched palm with her fingers. It would only make awareness shiver up her arm, an unnecessary reminder of her unrequited attachment. Once she held it, though, she made no move to untie the ribbon.
Emerson shifted, impatience coming off him in waves. “Open it, Lark.”
She shook herself. “But of course. I am certain you wish to hasten to your coffee and conversation. What will the topic be today? Congresses, constitutions, or crop rotations?”
Wiley would have appreciated the alliteration. Emerson greeted it with a rudely arched brow. Tempted to return the insult and roll her eyes, she tugged at the bow. Unfolded the cloth. Lifted the lid of the small wooden box.
Lessons in propriety had never covered how to handle a surprise like this. Lark gasped.
Emerson muttered a curse that proved he not only knew not what present lay inside, he disapproved of his mother’s selection.
She leapt to her feet and shoved the glittering diamond necklace into his stomach. “Absolutely not. I cannot accept that.”
His hand caught the box, but a war to rival the Revolution charged across his face. He wanted to take the jewels back, without question. But pride would not allow him. He held out the box. “Don’t be ridiculous. I want you to have it.”
An unladylike snort nearly slipped out. “Yes, that was apparent from your reaction. I will not, Emerson. Your sisters have told me of this necklace, and I shan’t accept the most valuable possession in the Fielding family—especially when it becomes increasingly clear I will never be a member of said family.”
Thunder darkened his complexion. “What madness is this? You are my betrothed, and you will accept the gifts I give you.”
The emerald on her left hand felt heavy. “Perhaps what I ought to do is return the ones you have already given. They are naught but mockery.”
She reached for the clasp of the bracelet that matched the ring. Her breath caught when his fingers closed around her wrist. He all but growled. “You will do no such thing.”
“Prithee, why not?” Though she struggled to pull free, he held tight to her arm. “’Tis obvious you’ve no desire to make me your wife. For two years you have dodged every mention of nuptials, making a fool of me in front of our families and friends. For the life of me, I know not why you ever proposed. Release me.”
He shook his head. “Calm yourself, Lark. Is that what this is about? The blasted wedding date? Deuces, I would agree to any date you want, if you would just be reasonable!”
“I have had my fill of reason. I want a morsel of your regard, and I will not marry you without it.” She gave one more vain tug against his fingers. “I tire of being alone at your side, Emerson. I cannot subject myself to a lifetime of it.”
Through the tears burning her eyes, she saw his face harden, then relax. His grip eased, but he did not release her wrist. Simply pulled it down and then held her hand. The warmth that seeped into her palm belied the cool words she had spoken.
Yet his smile was no more than it had ever been. “I have been remiss, darling, and I apologize. I assure you, you are my chosen bride. It has simply been a struggle to readjust to social life. After Yorktown…”
Anger snapped at her heels again, largely because of the compassion he called up with the mere mention of Yorktown. How could anyone—man, woman, or child—argue with one who had been at the dreadful battle? The moment a soldier uttered that word, all arguments necessarily ceased.
In this particular case she could not help but think he used it for that very purpose. “Emerson—”
“I shall make it up to you. Let us set a date this moment, and I will be the figure of devotion.” The idea seemed to pain him—his smile turned to a grimace. For a man with a reputation as a charmer, he did a remarkable job of dashing her heart to pieces.
She sucked in a long breath. “I shan’t hold you to the engagement. If you—”
“Not another word of such nonsense. Let us say the first Sunday in March, shall we? The worst of the winter weather ought to be over by then. We can announce it to our parents this evening.”
It should have brought joy instead of defeat. It should have lit hope instead of despair.
He pressed the necklace back into her hands. “Take it, my darling. Wear it on our wedding day.”
Before she could decide whether to relent or argue, he pressed a kiss to her fingers and fled the room as if the hounds of Hades nipped at his heels. Lark sank back into her chair and flipped open the box so she could stare at the large, perfect gems resting within.
Why did the thought of marrying her light such fires of panic under him? Lark rested her cheek against her palm and let her tears come.
She should have tried the pirate’s code.
* * * * *
Emerson scraped the tavern chair across the wooden floor, fell onto its hard seat, and, for the first time in his memory, wished Wiley Benton would hold his tongue for five blasted minutes. He barely saw the familiar whitewashed walls, the wainscoting, the multitude of friendly faces. His mind still reeled, wrestling with images of those blinding diamonds—and the equally blinding tears in Lark’s eyes.
What had Mother been thinking, blithely handing off the most valuable Fielding possessions? The diamonds—to Lark. It was beyond fathoming. They would overwhelm her. Eclipse rather than complement. And to have them abiding outside Fielding Hall for the next several months…
Still, he should not have lost his head. Then she wouldn’t have lost hers, and he wouldn’t have talked himself straight into a trap.
“What can I bring you gentlemen today?”
He looked up at the tavern’s owner but couldn’t dredge up a smile. No matter—Wiley would smile enough for the both of them. “Chocolate,” his friend said.
“Make mine coffee, if you please, sir.”
“That I will. And I shall direct Hendricks your way. He and the governor are chatting in the back corner.”
“In a few moments,” Emerson answered before Wiley could supply what was sure to be thankful acceptance.
As the proprietor stalked off, Wiley
lifted his brows in that particular way that bespoke both humor and confusion. “What plagues you, man? You have been playing the dunderhead ever since we left Endover.”
“I played it while there too.” Indulging in a mild oath, he swept his tricorn off his head and plopped it onto the table between them. “I upset your sister.”
“Lark?”
“Well, your other sister was hardly there to be upset.”
Wiley took his hat off as well, his confusion plain on his face. “But Lark is so rarely in an ill temper. She especially shouldn’t have been, given the good news of our cousin’s delayed arrival.”
Under normal circumstances, Emerson would have been amused at his friend’s perpetual dislike of the family soon arriving from Philadelphia. At this moment he gave not a fig who was coming or when. “Apparently all it takes is overreacting when one sees one’s mother wrapped up the family diamonds for her.”
Wiley looked near to choking. “The ones your father goes ever on about? That had belonged to the countess?”
“The very ones.”
Wiley let out a muted whistle. “I cannot conceive she accepted them. Especially if you seemed opposed.”
“I had already insisted I knew what the gift was, though I did not. Then rather than returning just the diamonds, she grew angry and made to return all the Fielding jewels.”
Wiley’s eyes widened, and he leaned over the table. “What did you say to her?”
Emerson waved him off. “It hardly matters. I smoothed matters over, and we decided on a wedding date. The first Sunday of March.”
Instead of seeming satisfied, Wiley’s gaze went probing, and then accusing. “So simply? After shifting the topic away from the wedding each time my parents mentioned it the past two years? Frankly, Emerson, we have all doubted your intentions of making good on your promise.”
“Of course I intend to make good on it.” It was an advantageous match all round. The Bentons were a wealthy, respected family, perfectly equal to the Fieldings. Lark herself would make an excellent wife. She was well bred, well taught, not homely—if not as lovely as her sister, who was now Mrs. Hendricks. Sweet of temperament—today aside. He liked her well enough and expected he would come to love her in a decade or so, once they had a brood of children between them.
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