Ruby: A Western Historical Romance (Old Western Mail Order Bride Series Book 2)

by Amy Field

  “Children?” Henry asked, his eyes wide. He chose his words carefully. “You must be mistaken, Mother.”

  “The servants talk, dear. You have been taken with a Mrs. Parker, I believe? And she is with child.”

  “I will not believe such a thing of Jane. Our relationship is chaste, I swear it!” Still in shock, Henry sank into a leather chair. He could not comprehend what he had just been told.

  “I believe you, son, and I am very sorry that you are hurt, Henry, but she wasn’t an appropriate match for you anyway. She’s been married before! However, my correspondence with the lovely Isabel Amejo has been going along quite splendidly, and I do believe she shall be coming for a visit soon,” his mother rattled on, but he didn’t hear her.

  “Excuse me, Mother. I have matters to attend,” he said abruptly, shooting up from his seat and leaving the room without another glance at his mother. His feet carried him to the stables, where he mounted his horse and a driving force led him to the cottage of a particular widow.

  Only two miles away, the ride took no time at all. Spying the cheerful cottage, the gardens neatly tended, the rose bushes flowering dreamily in the afternoon sun, he rode up to the fence, dismounted and tied his horse to the post, even as his mind could not settle upon a single thought.

  Upon arriving, he wasn’t even sure what he would say, only that he had to know what was truth and what was not. How could such rumors have found any ground on which to stand? He knew his Jane—she felt such guilt about their innocent meetings—there was no way she could be . . .

  Henry walked purposefully through the small front gate and up the cobblestoned walk. He wrapped the front door knocker twice in rapid succession, and almost immediately, the young maid, Clara, appeared. She curtseyed briefly.

  “Is Mrs. Parker at home?” He inquired, knowing full well that she was.

  “Yes, milord, but she is not to be called upon in her state,” Clara advised politely.

  “Please, let her know that Mr. Pendleton would like to speak with her upon a matter that is of utmost importance. I will wait here while you do so,” he replied stiff, but firm. He wasn’t leaving her cottage without answers.

  The maid looked doubtful, but turned about and did as she was told. A few minutes later, she returned, a sour expression on her face. “Mrs. Parker will see you in the parlor,” she said formally before allowing him passage through the doorway.

  Henry strode down the short hall and into the parlor, where Jane stood waiting, a worry line marring her soft face. “Jane?” He questioned when he stepped inside the room.

  “Oh, Henry!” She cried tearfully, running to him and throwing herself into his arms. As she sobbed, he moved to put his arms around her, only wanting to provide her the much needed comfort she needed in that moment. But as he pulled her close, the fullness of her waist met him before the rest of her did.

  Aghast, he froze. “It is true then? You are with child!” He exclaimed before moving away from her. He could not believe what he had just discovered for himself. Nothing made sense. Without a second thought, he stormed out of the house, mounted his horse and took off at lightning speed. Where he was going, he did not know, only that it would be far away from the pain he had just seen in her eyes.

  Chapter Seven

  Jane crumpled to the parlor floor, defeated. She’d known this day would come. Her secret was a secret that could not be kept forever. What she had not been prepared for was the look of disgust in her beloved’s eyes when he realized the truth. What could have possibly made him look that way?

  She had been married, though it was but for a short time, so the chance of becoming a mother was slim but not impossible. Tears welled in her eyes. Why had she even allowed a sliver of hope that he would be okay marrying a woman carrying another man’s child? She’d believed him good and wonderful—that was why.

  “Serves you right.”

  Jane’s head shot up from where she lay in a crumpled heap. She turned to stare quizzically at Clara, who stood smugly in the doorway. “Whatever do you mean, Clara?”

  “’Tis a befitting ending for a harlot such as yourself, not even waiting the proper amount of time before wheedling into a Pendleton’s bed. And now the good lord and master doesn’t want a pregnant mistress. Serves you right, besmirching your husband’s name, who died a right and honorable death for his country.” Her words were bitter and ice cold.

  Jane rose to her feet. “Clara, I am not sure what right you believe yourself to have to speak to your employer in such a way, but just so you know, I would never dishonor my husband. Though it is none of your business, my relationship with Lord Pendleton was in no way such as you described.” Her hands shook as righteous indignation coursed through her veins.

  Clara laughed mockingly. “The entire village can talk of nothing but Henry Pendleton being the father of the baby the young widowed Mrs. Parker is carrying beneath her widow’s garb. Did you think yourself to be so clever that no one would ever see you two meeting in the woods?”

  Jane was speechless. “The baby I carry was conceived in wedlock. The father is dead, God rest his soul!” She finally cried, storming from the parlor. She pushed past Clara. “You, young lady, are dismissed. I am no longer in need of your services,” she seethed.

  Running to her bedroom, she shut and locked the door before throwing herself onto the bed. What was she to do? This was worse than she ever imagined in her wildest dreams to be possible. Not only was her secret out, but the baby was believed to be conceived while she played mistress to Henry! Nothing could be further from the truth.

  But now, Henry’s shock, his expression, made a little more sense. He had caught wind of the rumors. How could he think her capable of such indecency? She needed him to know the truth, but figuring out a way to explain her situation would not be easy. She had no one, and seemingly all eyes in the village were upon her.

  Several hours later, Jane awoke in her pitch black bedroom, still dressed and atop the bedlinens. Her eyes stung from crying herself to sleep and her head pounded. She drug herself off of the bed and stumbled through the house to light a taper from the coals simmering in the kitchen’s hearth.

  Once she had a wee bit of light, she set about pouring herself a cup of water to ease her parched throat. Though she’d only had a single servant, she now felt how very alone she was in the still, darkened cottage, and she did not like it whatsoever. As soon as the sun rose, she would certainly see about hiring a new maid. Hopefully, some poor soul would be desperate enough for work that they would not turn down a position because of her sullied reputation.

  Fumbling about in the kitchen, she found a bit of cheese and a hard roll to sate her hunger. Even in the throes of sorrow, her stomach had still rumbled. Perhaps, it was the baby within her that made her famished despite her circumstances. As she stood in the shadows of the kitchen eating her late supper, her heart sank. How had she gotten to such a dark place?

  First, the death of her husband of mere months, the stifling months of widowhood, the impending birth of her child and subsequent certainty of raising a child all alone, falling in love with Henry only to have her heart broken—pain had decided to become her constant companion as of late, and the end appeared to be nowhere in sight.

  Wiping her mouth with a linen napkin, she begrudgingly trudged back to her bedchamber, taper in hand. Shrugging out of her gown, which was no easy feat to manage on her own, she slipped on a nightgown and sat the candle on her bedside table before sliding between the sheets. Sleep did not come easy to her that night. Instead, she spent most of the night tossing and turning, until restlessly rising just before dawn.

  Henry couldn’t sleep. Throughout the long night, his mind was flooded with thoughts of Jane. How could she have played him for a fool? He felt so betrayed—he’d never once doubted Jane’s true feelings for him. Until now. How could she have done this to him? Who was her secret lover?

  His mother had been waiting to speak to him when he had returned late yest
erday afternoon, but he had went straight to his bedchamber, refusing her admittance. His father, away with Uncle Wes in London on family business, would have barged right in, intent on determining the heart of the matter, but his mother somewhat respected his privacy regarding personal affairs.

  As the sun rose, he shrugged into his dressing gown. He couldn’t avoid his mother forever. His eyes widened and he rushed to his wardrobe, hurrying to change in a shirt and buckskin breeches. Melanie Pendleton wasn’t known to rise early. He could sneak from the mains and be on his horse and in the far pastures before she stirred from her bed.

  Henry loved his mother. Very much. But when it came to matters of his heart and future marriage, the normally sweet-tempered, graceful woman was awfully opinionated. Though her concerns for matters regarding Jane came from a truly genuine place that only wanted to protect him, Henry knew that she would not be pleased with his choice of future bride, impending birth of a child or not.

  Once he was dressed and had seen to his ablutions, Henry tiptoed down the grand staircase, slipped through the back of the house nearest to the kitchen, but not before grabbing an apple and one of Cook’s scones fresh from the oven, and headed for the stables.

  He wasn’t sure where he would go or how he would spend his day—his only requirement being that it not be at Heatherly, nor in the village. Too much gossip about he and Jane was being spread, and he had no desire to hear more of it, nor would he welcome curious stares. Never before had he been in the middle of such a muck.

  As he rode into the forest, he considered spending the day fishing in a lake he’d discovered on one of his rides, or perhaps he could ride east through the Hampshire countryside until he reached his Uncle Wes’ grand estate, Pelham House. Though his uncle, the earl of Winchester, was away in London with his own father for the next fortnight, perhaps his cousins would be there to entertain him. They were all of a good sort.

  However, he promptly decided against a visit to see his relatives. His female cousins would know something was wrong and spend far too much time and energy trying to wheedle his concerns out of him. He had enough of that at home, truly he did.

  After weighing his options, Henry spent most of the morning wandering about the wooded forests near his home, his thoughts his only companion. With much on his mind, he welcomed the quiet woodlands, only an occasional bird’s song to break the silence. By noon, he had subconsciously meandered to a very familiar country lane. A particular stretch that he had once looked forward to visiting nearly every day. He sighed sadly, knowing those days were over.

  Needing to rest his horse anyway, he dismounted and tied the beast to a tree where he could easily reach and graze among the sweet grasses growing in abundance along the fence. Resting his arms on the whitewashed posts closing in Heatherly’s land, he gazed absentmindedly into the fields full of lavender flowers. A memory of picking a bouquet of those very flowers just three days ago with Jane popped unbidden into his mind.

  Pushing away from the fence in anger, he started to turn, but that’s when a flash of blue caught his eye. A folded paper with his name in delicate scrawl written across the front, was tied to the fence post with a bright blue satin ribbon, near to where he and Jane met for their daily walks. He took two steps and retrieved the missive, intrigued. Quickly breaking the seal, he unfolded the letter and began to read.

  My Dearest Henry,

  I beg you—please read this letter in its entirety so that you may know the events surrounding my unfortunate circumstance. First and foremost, I am so very sorry for keeping my delicate condition a secret, but I did not know how to break the news to you. I love you so very much, and I knew you would leave me, just as you did, once you knew.

  I am sorry for not being honest, but I was at an utmost loss as to what I should do. As a widow, my child shall have no father, and as I alone am all the baby shall have in the world, the severity of the situation I find myself is rather overwhelming.

  But you, my sweet Henry, you were my escape from the drudgeries of widowhood and the fright of becoming a mother. In your eyes, I saw love and happiness, and I foolishly believed that I could share that with you, but I know now how wrong I was in thinking such a thing.

  I do apologize for any scandal the knowledge of my condition may have caused you or your family. I have yet to understand why common, good people would assume my child’s father to be you, when I was married but only a few months ago. I do not enjoy even writing such scandalous words, but it is, for some reason, our town’s opinion on the matter, and that is what hurts me the most—that they would think such a thing of you!

  I hope you get this letter so that you know how sorry I am for any trouble I may have caused you. I will not bother you again.

  With all my love now and forever,

  Jane

  Henry stared at the hastily scrawled words on the parchment. He read them over and over, until the words started to run together. Guilt seeped into his veins and overtook his heart. He hung his head in defeat.

  He had been guilty of the same traitorous act as that of the village. Though he knew the child was not his, he had believed Jane to have found a lover. Not once, much to his dismay, did he believe the child to be her late husband’s. How could he have been so blind?

  Poor Jane, she had truly suffered. Life had dealt her a particularly rough hand, and he, who had professed his undying love for her, sealed with the promise to take her as his wife, had turned and fled at the first sightings of trouble. He was ashamed.

  The summer breeze ruffled the single page still clutched in his hands. One thing was clear. He had to see Jane and explain to her how foolish he had been, and apologize for hurting her posthaste.

  Chapter Eight

  The morning had proved a waste of effort for Jane. After she’d returned from her early morning task of delivering her letter to Henry at their meeting place, she’d ventured into town with the hopes of securing help once again. However, all and sundry promptly turned up their noses to her. She was shunned, considered a fallen woman.

  Tearfully, she returned back to her cottage where the grates were cold and not a scrap of food had been prepared. Having no other choice, she changed into her oldest gown, tied the large apron Clara had always worn about her waist, grabbed a basket and headed for the neatly tended vegetable garden.

  Jane took her time, never truly spending all that much time in the garden before, pulling weeds, picking ripe tomatoes from the vine, and digging up a few potatoes and radishes ready for harvest. Once she had done all she knew to do in the garden, she picked blueberries from the bushes and a few peaches and plums from the trees that lined the back of her yard.

  Taking her bounty inside, she wasn’t at all sure what to do with them. She ate a handful of blueberries and a plum to stave off her rumbling stomach before setting about to get a fire going in the kitchen’s hearth.

  Just as the fire roared to life, she heard a knock at the door. Hopping up from where she crouched by the hearth, she hurried to see who was calling at her door. Perhaps, some blessed soul needed work bad enough that they cared not for her reputation after all.

  She froze when she opened the door and saw who stood pensively, a bouquet of her favorite lavender wildflowers in his hands, at her threshold. “H-Henry?” She questioned, her hands subconsciously smoothing her braided hair and old, rumpled gown.

  “Jane, might I speak with you?” He offered her the flowers.

  “Of course, come in. Though I must warn you, I have nothing much to offer. I suppose I could make us a spot of tea.” She took the flowers from him and stepped out of his path, allowing him entrance into her home.

  “No, please do not worry yourself with offering me refreshments,” he said, shaking his head as he stepped into the parlor and she placed the flowers on a small table. She’d find a vase for them later.

  “Very well,” she replied, standing tall. Though he had brought her low, she was determined not to play the desperate victim—with him or anyo
ne else.

  “Jane, I read the letter you left me, and I came straight here to apologize to you. I am ashamed of my reaction to your news. It was so easy for me to forget that you were once married, and not all that long ago. I assumed you had affection for another man—even saying it aloud, I am most embarrassed.” He hung his head, shamefully.

  “Henry, my heart is yours and no one else’s. I would never do such a thing, and it hurts me to believe you would think of me so lowly.”

  “And for that, I cannot beg enough for your forgiveness. I am so very sorry, Jane. I cannot say it enough.”

  “I forgive you, Henry. I will not hold your slip in judgment against you, and I understand why you would not want to marry me now. I am sorry for allowing our tryst to continue as I did, once I was aware of my circumstance.”

  Henry took several steps and closed the distance between them, taking her hands in his. “No, Jane, believe me when I say that I love you. I want you as my wife. No one else could ever do. I shall gladly adopt this baby as my own, and we shall raise it together in love.”

  “You cannot be serious,” she stammered, searching his face for some cruel twist that he was jesting. “What will people say? What will your mother say?”

  “Like I once told you, I care little for what people say.” His mind ventured to thoughts of avoiding the village. Maybe he did care, but he cared for Jane much more.

  “People will say much. Mostly terrible things, I am sure,” she warned. Henry shrugged as realization dawned on him.

  “But then, we shall be married and happy and no longer of any interest to them. Trust me, dear Jane, the Pendleton name carries much clout. Once you are my wife, many will think twice before besmirching your name, or mine anymore for that matter. All will be right and good.”

  “But what about your mother?”

  “My mother is truly a good woman. Her own marriage came about in an unusual circumstance. Once she knows you, and sees how lovely you are in countenance and character, she will love you just as I do. She is only a bit scary at first.”