British Brides Collection

by Hake, Kelly Eileen

  With no need to respond, John held his breath and waited, confused as to where the discourse might be headed.

  “My daughter told me of your concern for social proprieties, and I thank you.”

  John rose and stepped toward Hampton. “I would do nothing to harm your daughter or her reputation, sir. I have her best interest at heart.”

  “I have no doubt … but my daughter says she loves you.” Hampton’s gaze riveted to John’s.

  As if shrinking, John’s large body seemed no bigger or worthy than a pesky mouse as he spoke from his heart. “I love her … with all my being.” His words sounded frail and meaningless. “Yet I know it is impossible except if God wills it.”

  “You are a Christian man?” Hampton asked, his eyes narrowing.

  “A new one, sir, but Sarah has helped me to know God in a more personal way. I believe in God’s sovereignty and in Christ’s saving grace.”

  “That is a blessed understanding, John. Do you know how difficult earthly life would be if I grant you my daughter’s hand?”

  “I do.” His stomach churned as he saw the pain in Hampton’s eyes.

  “I cannot make things right, John, but I can give my daughter a secure life if nothing else.”

  John’s heart stopped, then lurched while he waited for his dismissal papers.

  Hampton walked behind his desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a document. “I will give you this.” He extended it to him.

  John grasped the paper, his pulse coursing through him as he eyed the certificate. Confusion spiraled in his mind. “What is this, sir?”

  “It is a deed to the apple orchard, John. It is yours. I have made a public notice to appear on the Barnham and Norwich Post. You may read it here.” He slipped another paper into John’s hands and tapped his finger on the spot.

  John scanned the text.

  Whereas an advertisement appeared in this paper informing the public that the Hampton apple orchards have been granted to Edward Hampton’s future son-in-law, John Banning of Barnham, Norfolk, declaring that following the wedding of Sarah Hampton and John Banning, the Cydermaking Business will be carried on by John Banning aforesaid by whom all orders will be thankfully received and readily executed.

  The words ran together in tears of gratitude and disbelief. John opened his mouth to express his thanks, but Hampton detained him with his hand.

  “No need to say a word, John. I have witnessed your labor. I have admired your creativity and fortitude. I proclaimed one day you would be a successful businessman. If my daughter loves you and you cherish her, I will not let society stand in your way. But you must be a good husband to my daughter.”

  John’s hand trembled as he clutched the deed. “I could be nothing less if she will have me.”

  Chapter 9

  Sarah looked across the table during the Christmas Day meal, unable to believe John sat across from her. Once her mother had accepted the inevitable, she had been quiet but cooperative.

  Sarah loathed hurting her parents, but she had put her life in God’s hands and God had led her to John—a farmer, a man of lower station. Though she did not consider herself an intellect, Sarah could not but wonder if God were proclaiming a statement to the world about inequities. John Banning had been born as worthy as any man … and far more worthy of Sarah’s love than any other.

  “We must plan the guest list,” her mother said, eyeing Sarah as if waiting for her to reject the idea.

  “Yes, as soon as possible,” Sarah agreed. “But the list will be smaller than my coming out, don’t you think?”

  Her mother nodded, a look of distant sadness in her eyes. “But it will be as lovely.”

  Sarah yearned to rise and kiss her mother for her rallied thought. Though Sarah’s marriage would not be without obstacles, with God it would be possible and blessed.

  John listened to the discourse of his future mother-in-law and his betrothed. He’d been astounded when Sarah revealed her dowry would be a small house at the edge of the orchard. Small now, but one day, with the Lord’s continued blessing, he would acquire a larger home for his wife and children. An abundance of children, he prayed … if it were God’s will.

  His own family had been startled by his announcement, but being kind and honest people, they were delighted for John and prayed only the best for each family member.

  John rejoiced in the blessings God had sent him—intelligence, ingenuity, and a good business sense. But the greatest gift was Sarah’s unquestioning love and her parents’ acceptance. His life had been filled with the unexpected. Having eaten the holiday meal of goose and a joint of roast beef, John moved aside his plate and enjoyed a dish of delicious Christmas pudding.

  Hampton smiled and drained the last of his cyder. “I shall offer a toast to my daughter, to John, and to their happiness.” He tilted the decanter and poured a splash of cyder into each glass.

  “Before our toast,” he said to John, “share what further wish would bring you joy.”

  “I have dreamed, sir, that Hampton … Banning cyder would receive a Royal

  Warrant one day. That would honor you, sir, as well as your daughter.”

  “To happiness and a Royal Warrant,” Hampton said.

  They lifted their glasses and sipped the sweet cyder.

  “And now,” Hampton said, “I’m certain you young people would enjoy time alone.”

  While Sarah sent her father a grateful smile, John’s spirit lifted with his offer.

  “Thank you, Father,” she said. “May we be excused? We will join you later in the parlor.”

  With Sarah’s parents’ blessing. John rose, clasped Sarah’s hand, and escorted her from the table. Sarah urged him forward until they wended their way into the conservatory where ribbons and ivy adorned the circumference of the glass room. Looking into the moonlit garden, John’s thoughts flew back to the August evening Sarah danced with him in the moonlight.

  He drew Sarah into his arms, engulfed in new emotion. “Sarah, I love you more than life itself. You are my sun and moon. Stars glow in your eyes.” He cherished every look and touch of the angel who would soon be his wife. “Tell me the day you’ll be mine.”

  “Do you agree April is a good month for our wedding, John?”

  “Tomorrow would not be too soon, dearest Sarah.”

  She laughed. “But we must appease my mother. The wedding will be small … not the social event she envisioned, but I will be happier and more content.”

  Happier and more content. Those words filled his heart. Gazing at his future wife, John surged with joy. Looking toward the entrance, he spied the green sprig pinned above the door.

  “Come with me,” he said, guiding her to the greenery.

  “Are we joining my parents already?” Sarah asked beneath the doorway.

  He smiled and pointed upward. “No, sweet Sarah, I am only claiming the last berry on this sprig of mistletoe. One kiss is left.”

  “Only one?”

  Plucking the white berry from the leaves, John looked down at the demure woman at his side, her chin tilted upward, her lips soft and waiting. Cautiously, he lowered his mouth and brushed his lips against hers, feeling his heart melt and his knees grow weak.

  “I love you, my dearest,” she said, placing her fingertip against her lips as if holding on to his kiss.

  “I’ll love you forever, Sarah.”

  Though he had spoken, no words could truly express John’s devotion and deep adoration for the woman who would soon be his wife. He had once said Sarah was the apple of his eye, but today he remembered the same phrase in God’s Word. “Keep my commandments, and live; and my law as the apple of thine eye. Bind them upon thy fingers, write them upon the tablet of thine heart.”

  Sarah had not only brought contentment and happiness to his uneventful earthly life, but through her example and love, she had led him to realize that in Jesus, he had life eternal. No one could have given him more peace and joy than the unlikely woman God had chosen to be h
is.

  John drew Sarah against his chest, feeling her heart beat in rhythm to his own. God willing, he would hold her in his arms forever.

  Epilogue

  England, 1988

  William Banning stood in his office at Attleborough Station, staring at the document clutched in his hand. He’d been the managing director of the Banning Cyder Company since his father’s passing in 1952. The business had been in his family since the middle of the nineteenth century when his great-great-grandfather John Banning married Sarah Hampton and received the apple orchard and cyder business as a wedding gift.

  After John and Sarah married, they continued to make their home in Banham, perfecting the cyder and raising seven children—six sons and one daughter. The hydraulic cyder press had made all the difference. The business grew and prospered, and when John died, the business was handed down from father to son. The pattern of ownership—from father to son—continued for four generations.

  As the business grew and transporting the cyder became expensive, William’s grandfather Richard Banning moved the cyder business in 1906 from Barnham to its present location nearer London.

  William had heard the story many times from his grandfather and his father how Big John Banning had made a daring proclamation—an admission of his bold dream—on Christmas Day 1851, the day John, a farmer, and Sarah, a woman of position, were officially engaged.

  Adjusting his spectacles, William studied the document again, both amazed and satisfied. If only his great-great-grandfather were here, he thought as he gazed at the official document bestowed by Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II.

  Banning Cyder had been granted a Royal Warrant.

  MOONLIGHT MASQUERADE

  by Pamela Griffin

  Dedication

  With deep gratitude to all my critique partners, and especially to Professor Buddy Strittmatter and Ginny Aiken for your help with Spanish phrases.

  Muchas gracias!

  To my compassionate Lord, who helped me to step out from hiding behind a mask that concealed self-doubt and insecurity while showing me that I was precious in His sight.

  Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me.

  REVELATION 3:20

  Chapter 1

  London, England—1865

  Dense, yellow fog shrouded the empty streets, causing Letitia to feel as lost as a soul in the tower’s darkest dungeon. The night was wretched, unfit for man or beast. Yet for Letitia, her cousin’s word was law.

  Cautiously, she walked over the slick cobblestones, feeling as if she were nothing more than a fetching hound to a cruel mistress. A thankless slave. An unappreciated servant. It was a shame she didn’t possess more than two feet on which to travel—like the cat that suddenly appeared out of nowhere with a screech that stopped her heart cold. It raced across her path toward the River Thames, which she assumed to still be on her left from the trickling of water she heard.

  Shaking off the fright, Letitia drew the sack of pastries deeper within her cloak. She yearned to be soaking up the comfort of a warm coal fire. An uncomfortable tapping had begun just behind her left eye. Not quite an ache, as her hip was now aching, but a discomfort most certainly.

  Through the fog, halos of light shone from the lamps along the streets, but not until she came upon them did their tall iron posts become apparent. Now and then, black hansom cabs rattled past, the creaks of their wheels and clacking of horses’ hooves sounding far off. Head downward, Letitia pressed on, silently bemoaning her quandary.

  A frantic whinny shrieked to her right followed by the jangling of harness. Hand flying up, as if to ward off an attacker, she twisted around. Her leg crumpled beneath her, and she fell. Heart frozen in terror, she watched a horse emerge from the fog like a phantom, rearing upward. Its lethal hooves crashed down within inches of her cowering form.

  The driver cursed at Letitia, ordering her out of the street as he fought to regain control. The beast’s hoof had landed on the edge of her cloak, trapping her.

  Unexpectedly, someone stooped beside her. Large, warm hands covered her shoulders. “Are you hurt?” a masculine voice asked near her ear. The man looked down where the horse trapped her, and with slow grace, he stood. Speaking quietly to the horse, he took hold of its bridle. The beast calmed and eased backward off her cloak.

  “You there!” the driver yelled. “Away from my horse. The fool wench has made me late as it is.”

  The man said nothing, only dropped his hands away and looked at the driver, whose heavy-jowled face could be discerned in the wagon’s torchlight. Letitia wished she could see her rescuer’s expression, also, for certainly it must be fierce. The driver averted his gaze as though cowed and drove away through the narrow margin of space that remained, with the great iron wheels rolling dangerously close to her head.

  Letitia began to push herself off the cobblestones. Her rescuer was again beside her, assisting her to stand.

  “I was unaware that I’d wandered into the middle of the street.” She felt the utmost fool. The fog had captured sound and tricked her into believing the wagon was farther away, but had she not been engaging in self-pity, she might have been more attentive.

  His hands were gentle; she wondered why he wore no gloves. Surely this must be a man of distinction, as noble as his character appeared.

  “This isn’t fit weather for you to be out walking. Come. My driver will take you home.”

  Hesitant, Letitia looked up. She could see little of his face, since his hat was angled low over his forehead. “No, truly.” She took a few steps backward. “I can manage.”

  He frowned. “You’re hurt! See there—you’re limping. I insist you allow my driver to take you home.” He took firm hold of her elbow and began leading her to the other side of the street where a torchlight’s glow pierced through the curtain of fog. A coach emerged. “I’ll hear no more on the matter.”

  “Really, I—I shouldn’t.” Letitia stopped. “The pastries!”

  He left her and returned with the parcel, smashed from where she’d fallen atop it. “I’m sorry. Your pastries appear to be ruined.”

  Letitia refused to think of her cousin Lady Marian’s reaction when she discovered there would be no sweet cakes for her late night tea. The merchant had surely left with his cart once the fingers of fog thickened while the lamplighters had climbed their ladders and lit the streetlamps.

  “Come, let us remove ourselves from this place,” the stranger said, again steering her toward the coach.

  In a daze, Letitia took scant note of her movements yet managed the awkward step up into his coach. He released her elbow, and she sank to the bench seat. “I’m grateful for your kindness, sir, but I’ve no wish to trouble you.”

  With stealthy grace, he moved to the opposite seat. “Nonsense. No trouble at all.”

  Letitia gazed fully at the countenance of her benefactor. In the flickering light of the globed torch near the window, his eyes appeared a soft bluish gray, the color of a storm-washed sky on a gentle dawning, when the earth stood quiet as it struggled to breathe again. If peace had a color, his eyes would be the bearer of it. She noted the coarse weave of his drab clothing and assumed him to be a servant such as she. Perhaps he was some fine lord’s gentleman and a man of great worth. A servant whose master deigned important enough to send out into the night with proper transport. Indeed, the coach in which she sat with its crimson leather seats, gold fittings, and the intricate brocade lining its inside walls appeared that of a nobleman’s.

  His finely chiseled lips curled into a smile revealing even teeth. “One problem remains. For my driver to take you to your place of residence, you must tell me where you live.”

  “Sí—yes, of course.” Letitia felt flustered that she should be caught so boldly staring. “I reside on the other side of Covent Garden, in Belgrave Square, at Lord Ackers’s manor.”

  “A fair piece for you to be walk
ing,” he said in some surprise. “This district isn’t safe.”

  “I was on an errand for my mistress while it was still daylight. The fog thickened upon me unawares and evening came.”

  He alerted the driver of their destination, and then before she was aware of his intent, he shrugged out of his woolen cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders. “This may help to take the chill off. You’re trembling, poor child.”

  The garment felt pleasantly warm from the heat of his body, and Letitia’s cheeks blazed at the intimate gesture. She darted a glance his way, noting his fine breadth of shoulder and trim build in the simple clothes. Aware of her own unsightly appearance, with her fog-dampened hair plastered in clumps against her face and her skirt filthy with mud, she lowered her gaze.

  “You’re very kind, sir,” she said as the coach jounced along the cobbled street. “I pray my fall won’t be the cause of your finding trouble with your master. Will he mind your tardy return?”

  A look of incomprehension crossed his features before a glimmer of realization entered his eyes. “Don’t be concerned for my welfare. I shan’t suffer at the hand of Lord Dalworth.” He glanced toward the window, putting an end to their conversation.

  Soon the carriage rolled to a stop. The driver opened the door to the familiar sight of the Ackers’s four-story manor apparent through the veil of fog. Letitia shrugged out of his cloak to return it, but his hand on her arm stopped her. “Keep it. I’ll send a messenger for it in the morning.”

  “Oh, but—”

  “I insist. You’re still shivering.”

  Not knowing the proper way to respond to such benevolence, she nodded. “Vaya con Diós—God go with you.”

  Drawing the man’s cloak about her, Letitia hurried to the side of the house. The lonely, hollow sound of hoofbeats trailed away on the cobblestones. Before taking the stairs down to the servants’ entrance, she turned to watch what little she could see of the coach’s slow retreat.