Stitched in Love: The Nettlefold Chronicles

by Thorne, Isabella

  Phoebe knew by the short pause that Lady Charity would not go as far as to declare such a thing. After all, their modest village of Upper Nettlefold lacked all the glittering glamour of Bath and its Rooms, which catered to the Ton and all of their fanciful whims.

  “Indeed, mama told me that were it not for the helpful blacksmith who came early in the morning to inspect our horses, we would not have even reached Bath! He offered to help us immediately, just so we could be on our way. What a truly kind gesture!”

  “Indeed!” Mary replied, and Phoebe immediately knew by her sister’s tone that Mary had put two and two together and had solved the mystery of Phoebe’s sudden disappearance in the morning. It was, after all, only natural that she might find out eventually.

  With repeated thanks and praises, the two ladies left the shop, proudly carrying the newly altered Parisian dress in its box. They paid generously and promised to recommend the shop to others passing by on their way to Bath; a promise that soothed Mary’s heart more than anything. After they were gone, she sat on her chair and uttered a big sigh of relief, turning to her younger sister with a tired but satisfied smile.

  “All could have ended in utter catastrophe.” Mary whispered. “With us in debt and destitute, and all for a poorly cut piece of expensive cloth.”

  “At least I knew how to mend the situation, if not the dress itself.” Phoebe grinned. “What a relief that I am better with my words than I am with my stitching!”

  “Your words? It was not mere words that got us the time to get out of this hot pot. It was the poor blacksmith’s hard work to replace so many horseshoes. I dare posit that they needed no real attention, and it was just your ruse to delay Lady Charity’s departure. Am I correct in my assumption?”

  “Yes.” Phoebe muttered, gazing down to the wooden floor. “It was my idea, but it was James who toiled for it. I suppose I should not take all the credit for the whole enterprise.”

  “The least you could do would be to thank the man for all he’s done.” Mary said, barely holding out from a mischievous smile.

  “What do you find so amusing?” Phoebe demanded, standing up in a gesture of indignation.

  “Nothing.” Mary replied, now smiling even harder. “It’s just rather odd that he would agree to do such a thing for you, is it not?”

  “He’s a good man.” Phoebe said with conviction, stressing on every word. “He did it from the kindness of his heart, and I shall find offence in your implying that he had any other motive.”

  “Would you really, sister?” Mary said, chuckling. “Or would you find it rather flattering?”

  Phoebe felt a blush climb rapidly into her cheeks. “I have no time for such a frivolous conversation. I have the pot on and I am making a fine stew for supper. We’ve had nothing decent to eat but cheese and bread for two days now.”

  Mary nodded with theatrical emphasis, before both girls burst into laughter and Phoebe returned to the small kitchen. As Phoebe prepared their meal, Mary returned to her other work, stitching and sewing with a steady hand, no longer pressured by time and the anxiety of failure.

  ~.~

  12

  In the mild light of an early sunset, Phoebe found James resting in front of his forge. Though the work was done and the fires within had been quenched, she could still feel the warmth wafting off from inside on the faint breeze. James had had the time to change from his working clothes and brush the dark soot from his skin and was now slowly rubbing salve into a few fine burns on his left arm. Phoebe felt the familiar scent as she approached him; it seemed to her that it was as sweet as his warm and soothing voice. When she got closer to him, he raised his blue eyes to meet hers, and a sincere smile lit up his tired face.

  “Did we win your sister the time she needed?” he asked, wrapping up his arm with a fresh white linen cloth and standing up to greet her. “Did she finish the dress?”

  “Oh, yes, she had time to make it the prettiest she has ever stitched.” Phoebe replied, feeling her heart soar for no particular reason. “Lady Charity was impressed with the quality and promised us she will be back to order more from us. My sister was beside herself with joy!”

  “And yourself?” James asked.

  Phoebe was rather taken aback by his question. “I am… I am also very grateful, I … without your help we would have been lost.” Phoebe stuttered, looking away from him in order to calm her nerves. “I have brought you some supper,” she blurted.

  “Supper?”

  “I thought it was the least I could do,” she said, putting the small pail of stew and the pie wrapped in a cloth on the board.

  “Will you share it with me?” he asked.

  “I suppose,” she answered flopping down in the nearest chair. “I am all tuckered out with worry. Thank you for helping us.”

  “I am sure you would have come up with something else if I had not. You are quite clever and brave.” James muttered. “Though you might think you’re the cause of your sister’s woes most of the time, more often than not I see you are also the solution. Only you do mend things in your own way.” He sniffed the stew. “This smells wonderful!” he said.

  Phoebe blushed, and looked at him, unsure of what she might say in reply. “Thank you. I can cook. It is one of my only talents.”

  “I doubt that,” he said.

  I don’t see how you would know what my talents are, Mister Brassy” She replied. Her voice seemed not to go over a whisper. “Up until the other day, I don’t think you ever saw me.”

  James laughed. “Didn’t see you? Why you live a stone’s throw away! I’ve seen you pass by dozens of times! And I’ve even overheard how outspoken you are to are when folks step out of the line, but I’d never thought you’d chastise me like that until I let the horse fly from my leads.”

  Phoebe blushed embarrassed for insulting him. “I didn’t mean to be so harsh.”

  “Oh yes, you did. And you were every bit right about it.” James replied.

  They finished eating and James pumped water for the dishes. Then he stood holding out his hand for her. He furrowed his brow as if there was something more he wanted to say to her. “Would you care to… I mean if you would be so kind as to accompany me for a stroll…” he began.

  “I would like it very much.” Phoebe was quick to reply, though she could feel the anxiety mounting up with such a bold decision. “Mary has been keeping me cooped up in the shop for so long stitching and sewing, I think a breath of fresh air would do me good.”

  James face broke into an expression of relief at her acceptance and led Phoebe down a path behind the smithy. They were silent at first, listening in on the first cricket chirps sprouting around them from the tall, unkempt grass and feeling the cool breeze brush through their hair, fragrant and smelling of pine from the forest nearby.

  In the distance, Phoebe could see the deep red and violet clouds strewn over the sunset. It was so serene and beautiful and when she turned back to James to praise the scenery unfolding before them, she saw that he had only been looking at her.

  “Miss Merton…Phoebe.” He said, and she felt her heart swell. She could guess what he was about to say and curled her fingers into fists to keep herself from trembling. “There is something I meant to ask you.” He paused, taking a deep breath.

  “Yes?” her voice came out trembling and she hid her awkwardness with a smile.

  “We’ve known each other from childhood. And I’ve always considered you to be very special. You’re fearless and fierce, and you always seem to tell everyone exactly what is on your mind, even men. Perhaps you do not want a fool of a man…”

  “James?” Phoebe interrupted him.

  “Yes?”

  “Ask me.” She said, smiling devilishly.

  “Will you marry me?” James lowered his eyes, idly fiddling with the hem of his coat.

  Phoebe jumped in his arms with a shriek of excitement and they stood there in a tight embrace as the sun trailed their shadows into the tall grass field. Amid
st the crickets and the warm night, he kissed her, softly at first and then deeply and sweetly with a promise for tomorrow igniting a fire within her that rivaled the fires of his own forge.

  ~.~

  13

  When Phoebe entered returned to the shop, she was beaming with joy to tell her sister the news. She found Mary by the counter, neatly folding the dresses she had finished.

  “I’ve reached the bottom of the mending pile.” She said without raising her eyes to see Phoebe’s beaming smile. “Some of them need airing out, and tomorrow morning, you can deliver them.”

  “Have you finished them all?” Phoebe inquired, barely containing herself. She bounced on the balls of her feet.

  “Couldn’t believe it myself, but yes. Our success with the Abernathy dress gave me quite the vigor to finish the lot.”

  “I do not think you are quite finished,” Phoebe said.

  “Yes. I am. I shall speak with Mister Cutter tomorrow…”

  “No,” Phoebe interrupted. “I think you have one more dress to make.”

  “What do you mean?” Mary asked. She turned, hands on her hips, looked up with a worried look on her face.

  Phoebe knew Mary thought that perhaps she had forgotten something. Phoebe danced on the tips of her toes in excitement as she teased her sister. “Why my wedding dress, of course.” Phoebe revealed, and watched as her sister’s shocked expression of incredulity slowly turned into joy.

  Mary hugged her younger sister tightly. “Oh, Phoebe, it’s a miracle!” Mary cried jokingly, but Phoebe could see the tears of happiness brimming in her eyes.

  “Well, hardly a miracle. Still, I suppose someone needs to catch his runaway horses and keep the fool man in check.” She replied.

  Mary held her sister at arm’s length. “Do you love him?” Mary asked. “Mister Brassy?”

  Phoebe thought of his big hands and his gentle nature. She thought of spending her life with him, and the thought brought joy to her heart. “Yes,” she said. “I do.”

  Mary picked up mother’s dress from the folded pile. “Well then,” she said. “Try this on. I think with the flounce removed, it should be just the right length for you. I will only need to find a bit of lace to bind the bottom.”

  “But mother’s dress was supposed to go to you,” Phoebe protested.

  “It will fit you, now.” Mary said catching her sister’s hands. “And you will be a most beautiful bride.”

  ~.~

  Continue reading for a sneak seek of…

  Almost Promised ~ Temperance

  by Isabella Thorne

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  1

  Miss Temperance Baggington stared up at the sign as it threatened to free itself from its brackets and fly away upon the windstorm that was whipping its way through the streets of Upper Nettlefold.

  “You have brought the devil of a storm with you?” a feminine laugh came from the street behind her and startled Temperance from her pondering.

  She turned to look upon the woman whose namesake the sign declared. Mrs. Cordelia Hardcastle, owner and proprietor of Hardcastle House. She stepped through the gate and beckoned that Temperance follow. The woman was used to strange ladies landing upon her doorstep. Temperance recalled that, Mrs. Hardcastle often took on waifs and gave aid and employment to those in need. Mrs. Hardcastle’s prickly demeanor, hid a soft heart and kind spirit.

  “Come, come,” Mrs. Hardcastle called as she hastened her unidentified arrival up the step and through the door. “The entire town has hunkered down for the storm. We’ve no reason to linger before it releases its fury upon us.”

  Temperance offered a thankful nod from beneath her hood and did as she was bid. It had been years since she had last set foot upon the streets of Upper Nettlefold. Five long years, to be exact. The foyer looked just as she recalled when she had raced to Mrs. Hardcastle on that last and final day, seeking salvation.

  The woman had helped her then. Temperance was certain that she could count on a warm cup of tea and a room for the night; at least until she worked up the courage to do what she must. Even now, she was not certain that she should have come. The prospect of returning to her family home, after all of these years, was daunting.

  Of course, the object of her trepidation was no longer in residence. Her father was gone from the earth. She cautioned herself to not speak ill of the dead, but she could not quell ill thoughts. She whispered a prayer of penitence. Five years spent with the good sisters of the Halthurst Abbey had taught her patience, but they could not quite instill humility. Nor could they take away the stain her father’s brutality had left in her.

  Mrs. Hardcastle called for the cook, who relieved the proprietor of the overflowing basket of goods that carried she upon her arm. Mrs. Hardcastle waved Temperance into the sitting room and requested the aforementioned tray of tea and biscuits to be brought. Sensing her companion was not yet prepared to reveal her identity Mrs. Hardcastle waited until they were alone before she shed her cloak and held out her hand to accept Temperance’s to hang.

  Temperance took a deep breath before easing the fabric of the hood away from her face. The resounding gasp was not unexpected, though it did little to settle her nerves.

  “Good Lord, Miss Baggington,” Mrs. Hardcastle crossed herself and asked forgiveness, “Oh, I beg your pardon Sister Temperance, you would be now, or did you take a saint’s name for your own, Sister?”

  “Not at all, Mrs. Hardcastle.” Temperance muttered. “I am no nun. I found I could not complete the vows, though I will ever be thankful for your facilitation of my acceptance into Halthurst Abbey.”

  Mrs. Hardcastle clucked at Temperance to hand over her cloak so that it might be hung to dry. “Not another word until we’ve sat proper,” she instructed. “I should say we’d best start at the beginning.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Temperance obliged. She had no belongings save the thick woolen sheath dress that covered her thin frame and a paper-wrapped bundle that she settled beneath a nearby bench. The Abbey kept its own flock from which to make the woolen cloth. Temperance had grown used to the coarse fabric after all these years. She had nearly forgotten what a muslin gown might feel like against her skin.

  She recalled a fine silk and velvet blend that her mother had commissioned from London before she had made her escape. Temperance had worn it once, on the evening she had been made to meet the gentleman that she had been promised to marry. The gown had been a dream; the gentleman, a nightmare. Temperance shuddered with the thought.

  “Oh my dear, you are chilled,” Mrs. Hardcastle said misjudging the reason for her tremors.

  Just as the tray was delivered, the storm let loose with a vengeance. Mrs. Hardcastle moved to the window to pull the curtains shut against the draft.

  “There now,” she clapped her hands. “No need to let the dreary outside spoil the inside. I must admit that you were the last person I expected to see upon my doorstep.”

  “Yes, well, in the light of… recent events…” Temperance trailed off. She did not know how to say the words over the lump that had just appeared in her throat. She felt as if she might choke on it. Mrs. Hardcastle took note of her guest’s discomfort and moved to pour the tea so that Temperance might recover. Temperance took a long draught on the scalding liquid and found that the warmth that trailed down her throat and through the center of her body did give her strength.

  “With recent events being as they are,” she continued, “I thought I might attempt a visit.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Hardcastle nodded. “I assume you are referring to the death of your father, the Viscount Mortel . Strange thing, that,” she said with a vague nod into her own cup. “It all came on so sudden. Had I known you hadn’t taken your vows I would have written straight away.”

  “I tried,” Temperance explained. “Again and again, I tried. It never did seem right.
I could not do it.”

  Mrs. Hardcastle pierced Temperance with a reprimanding look. “What didn’t seem right? Taking the vows or writing to your family?”

  Temperance lowered her head and whispered. “I couldn’t. What if he…”

  Mrs. Hardcastle interrupted. “Your family seems to think it done, and you made a proper member of the Abbey,” she scolded. “Have you not written to them in all these years? Not even your sisters?”

  Temperance shook her head. “I asked the Mother Abbess to burn their letters. She didn’t, of course. She kept them with the hope that I might ask for them one day, but I couldn’t bear it. It was better to have a clean cut else I might have been tempted to return for my sisters’ sakes.”

  “Do not go feeling badly about that,” Mrs. Hardcastle instructed. “I can see that you do. You have no reason for such self-infliction. You were right to think of yourself for once. Those years of trying to shelter your siblings only made it worse for you. You could have never kept him from the others once they came of age, especially not once you had been married off to that brainless oaf.”

  “I thought it best that everyone think I only wished to avoid the marriage,” Temperance hung her head as she recalled the frightened child she had once been. She was still frightened, only less of a child.

  “It was long ago,” Mrs. Hardcastle soothed.

  “But I remember like it was yesterday,” she whispered. “I preferred to keep the rumors to my own name, rather than burden the family. Still,” she shuddered, “I knew when Father said I was to marry his old friend that I would never be free of him…of either of them. They had some sort of… arrangement, I suspect, to… to… because Father did not want to lose...”

  Mrs. Hardcastle swore under her breath. She was not one prone to profanity and so the effect was all the more significant to express her disgust.