British Brides Collection

by Hake, Kelly Eileen

  Yet she loved John. How could she tell her mother where her heart lay? “Are you so anxious for me to depart my girlhood home?”

  Her mother wagged her head. “I do not understand you, daughter. Young women await the day they reach adulthood—to be courted and wed. But you … you are impossible. I must consult your father on this matter.” Marching from the bedroom, she closed the door.

  Sarah longed to vanish, to hide, anything to stop her mother’s insistence. Thoughts tumbled in her head as she slid her feet to the floor and sat on the edge of her quilt. She would select one young man and make him so miserable that all the eligible gentleman of the village would withdraw their cards. Shame filled her at the vile thought. What had become of her good sense?

  Why had she given her heart to John? A farmer, yes, but a man of honesty, a man with vision, a man of simple pleasure who loved the earth and laughed at her delight in a butterfly. Sarah recalled the hours she’d wearied with the eligible bachelors she found pretentious and tiresome. Would God have her marry a man she didn’t love because of social breeding?

  Falling to her knees, Sarah pressed her face against the quilt and wept. She had dishonored her parents with her clandestine meetings and endangered John’s character. She regarded him blameless. He had captured her heart, but she had pursued him. Utterly improper for a young woman of her standing. Yet in her heart, she perceived the heavenly Father understood and approved. Could she have misjudged the Lord’s bidding?

  Everything had changed since the picnic weeks earlier. The lovely afternoon lingered in her thoughts—the sky painted with cloud-creatures and her arms weighted with wildflowers. She pictured John’s pensive face, and loneliness blanketed her.

  Since that day, John had kept his word. She had not seen him alone. Sarah dried her tears and bowed her head. If a solution to her problem existed, God would have the answer.

  John strode toward the cyder house. The apples hung ripe on the branches, nearly ready for harvest, and the presses required inspection. Gratitude filled him as he thought of his conversation with Edward Hampton. His employer had ordered a new apple press, and as a gift to John’s family, he had purchased another for the Bannings’ farm. Smaller in size, but a hydraulic apple press just the same. The gift reached beyond John’s expectation and served as his only bright moment since Sarah’s picnic.

  John unlocked the cyder house door and entered. In another week, workers would arrive to harvest the apples, and with Mr. Hampton’s encouragement, John had already selected maiden trees—the new varieties—to be planted in the early spring. One day, Hampton cyder would be proclaimed the best in the country.

  Working in shadows, John unlatched a shutter to chase away the gloom. He inspected the wooden hopper, then examined the bladed cylinder attached to the handle. Before he reached the gears, the room brightened as a gust of wind caught the door and flung it open.

  John hastened to the door and looked outside. A wind tossed the branches, then subsided as quickly as it had appeared. The intoxicating scent of apples drifted on the breeze, and John felt drawn away from the cyder house toward the orchard. What prompted him he didn’t know, but a deep sense of purpose sped his feet along the path.

  The cyder apples hung deep red on the branches awaiting the harvest, and he plucked one from the branch. He breathed in the rich, ripe scent, but the puzzling urge compelled him deeper into the orchard. Reaching the Morris apples, he faltered, his heart thundering.

  “Sarah.”

  She stood beneath the tree, gazing into the branches.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, amazed he’d been drawn here.

  “John.” Her foot moved forward as if to run to him, but she stopped. “Something has … I–I have been longing for an apple.”

  “Here,” he said, handing her the fruit he had picked.

  She eyed it and shook her head. “That one is for cyder. The Morris apples are good for cyder and eating.”

  Surprised at her knowledge, John agreed. “Then I shall pick you one of these.”

  “I desire one in particular, John. Please, lift me so I may reach it.”

  His chest ached against his hammering heart. He gazed at the delicate woman for whom he would give his life. Would he not grant her an apple?

  His caution vanishing on the breeze, he bent down and boosted her to the branches. The rustle of her skirts, her petite frame beneath the layers of cloth, the nearness of her overwhelmed him.

  She plucked the apple, shined it on her bodice, and bit into it. The snap of the pulp sprayed, and the juice rolled down her chin.

  John marveled at the dear woman in his arms and lowered her to the ground. Should he be deemed a coward? Should he march into her father’s study and demand Hampton’s precious daughter? Foolishness.

  With downcast eyes, Sarah fingered the half-eaten apple. “I have missed you, John. But I have prayed.”

  Unable to resist, he caressed her soft hair fragrant with lavender. “We must both be steadfast with our prayers.”

  “You have acted with good judgment, I know. We must await God’s bidding.”

  “Sweet Sarah, you are truly the apple of my eye. We shall continue to pray … and God will provide. The Lord has already answered one prayer.”

  Her sad eyes brightened. “Which prayer, John?”

  “For my family. Your father has requisitioned a cyder press for the Banning cyder mill. His generosity is beyond expectation.”

  With hesitation, she rested her hand on his arm. “My father finds you worthy of good things. He has spoken highly of you … even at our dinner table.”

  “You’re dinner table? In your mother’s presence?” The thought left John unsettled.

  Sarah paused, her eyes flashing. “John, do you think … could it be?” She clutched the neck of her bodice. “No, I cannot believe it, but perhaps …”

  “What, Sarah?” He drew her closer, his eyes basking in the bloom of excitement lighting her face. “You have not spoken a full sentence.”

  “You must wait, John. If I speak it, my dream may be only a dream.”

  Chapter 8

  Sarah stood in her father’s study like a criminal standing in a court dock with her father the judge. Her mother, the prosecuting attorney, paced the carpet in front of the desk, her arms fluttering like a frightened bird.

  “It is mid-November, and she’s refused every suitor.” Mary stopped and sent a disparaging look toward Sarah. “Now the holiday parties begin … and what will she do?”

  Edward hadn’t uttered a sound since the evidence against Sarah had been laid before him.

  “You must speak with her, Edward,” Mary said.

  Edward peered at Sarah over his spectacles.

  The desire to defend herself charged through Sarah, but in her parents’ eyes, she knew she had no defense. She sat like a condemned prisoner, unable to speak.

  Two pairs of eyes condemned her, but her father’s held a look of tenderness.

  “Mary,” Edward said, “would you leave Sarah with me?”

  Her mother’s gaze shifted like a searchlight before she answered. “Whatever you say, Edward. You know what is proper and expected.”

  He only nodded.

  With a last look, Mary headed toward the exit.

  He rose and waited for her mother to close the door before he turned to Sarah. “Come, Sarah,” he said, sinking into an armchair, then gestured to one across from him. “Sit with me. We must talk.”

  Sarah crept to the chair and lowered herself, expelling a deep sigh.

  “Why do you struggle with your social responsibilities, daughter? Your mother does not understand … and, frankly, neither do I.”

  Looking into her father’s sincere eyes, Sarah felt tears pool in hers.

  Her father leaned forward and patted her hand. “Do not weep, child. Tell me why you cry.”

  Searching for the appropriate words, Sarah toiled to form the sentence.

  Her father’s face grew heavy wit
h concern.

  “It is my heart, Papa,” she said finally.

  “Your heart? I don’t understand.” His countenance darkened. “Has someone … wronged you, Sarah?”

  “No, Papa, never.” If she confessed the truth, how would her father respond? His disconcerted tenderness assured her he would listen and understand.

  “I don’t have a heart to give another, Papa. Without my bidding, I love an honorable man.”

  “You what?” He drew back, his face pale and contorted.

  Seeing his despair, Sarah could no longer look into her father’s eyes.

  “Tell me who he is Sarah? Did this man … behave improperly?”

  “Oh no, not he. He has done nothing but endeavored to protect my reputation and to encourage propriety.” Tears spilled from her eyes and dripped to her knotted fingers.

  “This man is concerned with propriety?” Edward asked, his voice calming.

  “Oh yes, Papa.” Sarah rose and dropped at her father’s feet. She prayed, asking God to grant her a solution, and she found it in her father’s eyes.

  “Daughter, don’t cry. Is he a young man of the village? Where did you meet him? At church? Tell me his name.”

  Her mouth opened to answer, but the words stuck in her throat. “You will be angry,” she murmured.

  “Not angry, but startled. Bewildered. It is improper to be alone with a young man before you have a commitment.”

  Sarah brushed at her tears. “He expressed the same, Papa. But God was our chaperone.”

  His face flickered with concern. “Society asks for more, daughter.”

  “More … than God?” she questioned.

  He shook his head. “You amaze me, Sarah.” He rested his hand on her head.

  “Now, tell me the name of the young man who has captured your heart?”

  “I love John, Papa.”

  “John?” His voice softened to a whisper. “I recall no young man named John.”

  She lowered her head. “The orchard keeper. You have spoken highly of him, Father. You have said he is clever, and he will be a success one day.” Slowly, she turned her head, and seeing her father’s expression, her heart ached.

  The room hung with silence until her father spoke. “Yes, I did say that. He is a man of virtue and intelligence. One day he may find success, but …”

  Rising, he took Sarah’s hand and drew her to her feet. “You are my most precious daughter, but … I must contemplate this, Sarah. Your mother will be distressed.” His piercing gaze caught hers. “Are you certain? Have you considered a lifetime with this farmer?”

  “I am sure, Papa.”

  “Then I will do what I can.” His face ashen, he sank into his desk chair and buried his face in this hands. “Leave me, Sarah, and let your papa decide what is best.”

  The choir and clergy filed past the worshipers, and when the pomp ended, Sarah followed others down the aisle and into the brisk autumn air.

  The family carriage waited nearby, but Sarah hesitated. With her father away on business and her mother indisposed with a headache, Sarah had a rare opportunity to be alone in the village. Though the wind nipped beneath her cloak, she asked the driver to wait and hurried away on foot.

  At the far end of the street stood a small country church. Its white clapboard siding and pointed steeple made direct contrast the gray stone of the Anglican church graced by an elegant bell tower. As she neared the smaller church, she prayed John had attended worship that morning. Weeks earlier, she’d learned he’d begun to attend the small church. The conversation with her father necessitated her desire to speak with him. It seemed imperative he be aware of their discourse.

  In the park square across from the clapboard building, Sarah waited. When the doors opened, parishioners exited and made their way on foot toward their homes. Trembling with cold and her purpose, Sarah waited until John stepped into the sunlight. Pulling the cloak’s hood over her head, she followed him along the opposite side of the street. When she felt assured no one would hear, Sarah called his name.

  John’s head swiveled, and he faltered before crossing the street to meet her. “Sarah. Where are your par—”

  “I’m alone. I must speak with you a moment.” The wind sent a shiver through her.

  “It’s cold in the street. Please return to the carriage.”

  Sarah grasped his arm and drew him under the shelter of a large oak, its wide trunk minimal protection from the breeze. “I have spoken with my father … about us.”

  His face paled. “I was wrong to allow our indiscretion to continue so long.”

  “Indiscretion? Please, John—” His words pierced her heart.

  “After I complete the final inventory tomorrow, I will speak with your father. I must leave his employ.”

  Tears welled in Sarah’s eyes before her faith caused them to subside. “Do you not trust God, John?”

  He shifted and tucked his hands deeper in his pockets. “Why do you ask me now?”

  “You told me God’s Word has touched your heart. Yet, you do not have faith in the Lord’s promise.” She clutched the cloak around her, the damp cold shivering through her body.

  “I am trying to rely on God, but I’m not foolish. God provides for our needs … not our fantasies.” He drew her cloak more firmly around her. “You are chilled, Sarah. You must go.”

  “God makes all things possible, John. No matter what you say, the Lord can move mountains. If it is the Lord’s will, we can be together.”

  She stepped back, and he caught her hand and pressed it to his lips. “My dearest, Sarah, I pray you are correct.”

  She backed away. Turning, she hurried toward the carriage, feeling John’s gaze on her back and his love in her heart.

  John strode through the cyder house, checking his figures and taking stock of the barrels. The apple harvest had been outstanding, and Hampton cyder had been carried on large wagons to the markets while John rotated barrels, allowing the new cyder to age or become vinegar.

  His days at Hampton Manor were over. If Sarah had not spoken to her father, John would have returned to the manor on occasion to siphon the cyder into large crockery jugs and clean the kegs. His chest weighted with the memory of the trees he had ordered to be planted in the spring … and the new hydraulic press. But now, he would have to leave forever. The gardener, Charles Benson, had returned to mulch the plants for winter, and the older man would be there to plant and prune in the spring.

  Still, life would go on … at the manor and for John. He knew vanishing from Sarah’s life would be for the best—the only way, but a hole the size of heaven tore through his heart. His life, which had become a joyful adventure, would now return to drab, plodding hours.

  Finishing his inventory, John closed the ledger and turned toward the doorway. When he stepped into the clouded daylight, a house servant hailed him at the threshold.

  “Mr. Hampton requests your presence before you leave today.”

  “Thank you,” John said, turning and locking the door.

  “He is in his study,” the servant added over his shoulder as he strode away.

  John raised the collar of his lamb’s wool coat and mounted his horse, his spirit weighted by the messenger’s words. He would be discharged before he could offer to leave the Hamptons’ employ. The concern affected only his pride, he realized and shook his head at his vanity.

  The horse whinnied and stomped his hoof; John pulled the reins and trotted up the path. He passed the servant and, in a few moments, reached the house. Climbing from the mare, he dismounted and tethered it. Heavy-hearted, he paused before trudging up the steps.

  Inside, he knew Sarah sat somewhere filling her time with womanly tasks, learning to be a good wife and mother for some lucky gentleman. The thought tore at him. Already, he missed Sarah’s smile and determined ways. At twenty-five, John knew he should think of taking a wife, but his mind could not erase Sarah’s glowing countenance.

  He rang the bell and waited. When the se
rvant arrived, he led John to Hampton’s study. He viewed the familiar scene, knowing after his meeting he would walk out the manor door for the last time.

  Standing in the middle of the room, Hampton motioned to a chair. “Sit, John.”

  John sank into the seat and rested a hand on each knee, eyeing his employer’s steady gaze.

  Hampton clamped his hands behind his back and paced. “Have you completed the accounting?”

  “Yes, sir. Here are the figures.” Pulling the ledger from his pocket, he held his notations toward Hampton. “Cyder barrels, vinegar barrels, jugs ready for the market.”

  He grasped the ledger and scanned it. “You’ve done well.”

  John’s head shot upward. Done well? Tension knotted in John’s shoulders. Why did the man not state his purpose and end it? “Thank you,” he mumbled, waiting for the condemning finger to point the way toward the door.

  Placing the book on his desk, Hampton focused on John. “You’ve done well,” he repeated, sinking to his chair. “Months ago, I promised you a reward, John, and—”

  “Please, sir, you have been most generous providing my family with a new cyder press. I expect nothing more.” With downcast eyes, John waited for a response.

  “But you’ve already accepted more, John. You’ve stolen something precious,” Hampton said, his voice rising.

  “Stolen? No sir, I am a poor but honest man.”

  “I know you are honest, John, but no matter, you have stolen my daughter’s heart.” Sadness reverberated in the man’s voice.

  Fear and sorrow seeped through John’s veins like ice water. “I have tried to contain my feelings, sir, but Miss Hampton is … she did not heed my warning … and my own heart would not obey my good counsel.”

  Hampton shook his head and rose. “My daughter is a stubborn young woman, John. When she desires something, she is not easily dissuaded.” He rounded the desk and stood before him. “I am as guilty as any for giving her all for which she longs.”