by Linda Ford
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Sneak peek of Irene
Also by Linda Ford
Maryelle
War Brides
Linda Ford
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Sneak peek of Irene
Also by Linda Ford
1
March 1919
Alberta, Canada
“Next stop, Flat Rock,” the conductor announced, pausing at Maryelle’s side. “Your journey is almost over, Ma’am. I wish you all the best.”
Maryelle sat up straighter, her chest impossibly tight as the train slowed and puffed to a halt. She leaned toward the window for a closer look.
“It’s nothing much to look at, I’ll grant you,” offered the woman across the aisle. “But you’ll find it a pleasant enough spot.”
Maryelle peered through the soot-covered glass, hoping for some sign she would like this place. Apart from a huddle of trees to the right, it was the same as the last dozen stops. But it wasn’t buildings or scenery that brought her here; it was Kingston Brown, her husband. Her heart picked up its pace, and she smiled. She would have gone to the heart of darkest Africa if it meant she could be with Kingston. Would the war have changed him? Would he find her unsuitable now that they were in Canada, not London? Would their love be as strong and sure as she remembered it?
Suddenly, as she made her way to the door, she couldn’t breathe. What if Kingston hadn’t come? What if he’d changed his mind about her? About their love?
She’d heard of other Canadian soldiers who had found solace in the arms of English girls during the war, even married them, only to abandon them when they returned to home soil. She and Lizzie, her traveling companion, had been inundated with stories from both sides of the coin. Their trip had seemed interminably long, but Maryelle wished now she’d had more time to prepare herself for this reunion.
“Ma’am?” The conductor reminded her he was still waiting for her to step down.
“Yes, of course,” she murmured.
She glanced up and down the platform and saw Kingston immediately. She would have recognized him anywhere. Tall and slender, straight as a rod, exactly as she remembered him. He hadn’t seen her as he hurried along the platform checking in the car windows. And then his gaze slid to her. Their eyes met. The air sucked from her lungs.
His blue-green eyes were exactly as she remembered. As mercurial as the Mediterranean Sea.
He took three quick steps. “Maryelle.”
At the sound of his voice, rough with emotion, she dropped her bag and flung herself into his arms. The two-year separation was over. She had come home.
He swept her off her feet.
They clung together in an embrace that threatened to crush her ribs, but she welcomed the assurance he was here and still wanted her. She tipped back her head to drink in the sight of him.
“My brown-eyed English miss. I thought you’d never get here.” She knew he didn’t mean the late arrival of the train; he referred to the endless separation of the past two years since he’d been shipped to France and then home.
“Let me look at you.” His eyes flashed so green she smiled.
“Mr. Canada, your eyes are turning green.”
“It must be the trees.”
She gave a joyful little laugh. It was a little game they’d played. She said she could always tell his mood by the color of his eyes. And he insisted they only reflected his surroundings, not his feelings. “There are no leaves on the trees yet.”
“Then it’s the grass.”
There was no grass within a hundred feet. Her laugh was smothered by his kisses. She clung to him, letting his firm mouth cleanse her of the pain and fear of the last two years.
“Your bags, Ma’am.”
She jerked back, her cheeks burning as she remembered how public their reunion was.
The man chuckled. “Don’t let me interrupt. You go right ahead and let this young man know how much you missed him.”
To her utter surprise and amazement, a sob shuddered through her, and tears gushed from her eyes.
“Oh, sweet Maryelle, don’t cry,” Kingston crooned, pressing her face into his coat front.
She wrapped her arms around him and hung on like a drowning person to a life preserver. Kingston stroked her hair and cradled her close. She tried to stop the flow, but her worry and loneliness had been bottled up too long and would not be controlled.
“Let’s get out of here.” Kingston edged her to a wooden wagon bench and climbed up beside her.
With one last shuddering sigh against his chest, Maryelle stopped crying. “I want to see what Flat Rock looks like.” She hiccoughed.
Kingston laughed. “Then best you sit up and take notice real quick. No wait—I have a better idea. I’ll turn around, and we’ll take the grand tour.”
Pressed to his side, she dashed away her tears.
A long row of small frame buildings lined either side of a wide dusty street. Rough wooden signs with the name of the business swung gently. A collection of wooden houses surrounded the shops until the open land absorbed the town.
“It’s not London,” Kingston said.
She thought of the stately brick buildings, the lovely old cathedrals, the never-ending city, and the crowds of people. “I’d say it’s not, but I like the open spaces. Reminds me of the trips Dad and I would take into the country. I always loved those trips.”
At the mention of her father, Kingston’s arm tightened around her.
She gave a shaky sigh, but now was not the time for sadness. She was home at last, and she immediately loved Kingston’s country.
They took a side street out of town.
“My sweet Maryelle,” Kingston whispered. “You’re even prettier than I remember you.”
“And I’m thinking the war must have damaged your eyesight.”
He laughed. “Still the saucy miss too.”
“I’ve never been saucy,” she protested. “I can’t help it if I happen to know my own mind.”
“I’m glad you do.” He grew still. She tipped her head to study him. Worry, like pinpricks, trickled up her spine at the serious look in his dark green eyes. Finally he said, “And I’m hoping you’re as sure about how you feel about me as you were in London.”
She choked back a sob; she would not cry again, but she hadn’t imagined Kingston being as fearful as she about whether or not their love had survived the war. It gave her a sense of sureness. Grinning so wide her eyes stung, she hugged him. “Kingston Brown, I love you as much now as I did when we married—no, a thousand times more.”
“Ah, my sweet Maryelle. How glad I am to hear that.” He smiled at her in a way that made her insides tingle. “Now tell me everything.”
During her two months of travel, they’d been unable to communicate. “You and this other war bride were able to travel together?” At her nod, he sighed. “I was so relieved to know you wouldn’t be alone. What was she like?”
“Lizzie? A sweet, gentle young woman from a close family. I think she’s going to miss them very much. I wanted to see her husband; but with all the delays, we got there in the middle of the night. I’ll have to wait for her letter to hear how things went.”
“M
aryelle, my lovely, I know you’ve left behind everything dear and familiar to you, but I promise I’ll do my best to make up for it.” He pulled her back to his chest. “I hope it will be enough.”
His eyes flashed the color of sun-kissed water, making her forget everything but her love for him. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. “It’s been so long. There were times I wondered if I’d ever see you again. It’s a miracle you survived the war—that I survived.” Before he had been shipped to France, they’d had four days of honeymoon bliss and, before that, weeks of companionable courting, and now she had him to hold again.
“Praise God we did. And now it’s over, and we can build our lives together. You and I are part of the new future. But first things first.” He pulled the wagon under the shelter of some barely budded trees and tied the reins. “I have missed you every minute of every day.” He buried his fingers in her hair. “My Maryelle, sweetest rose that ever bloomed.”
Kingston, with his sweet talk, had always filled her heart with gladness. She didn’t realize how much she’d missed it, having locked it away to keep from drowning in her loneliness; but, suddenly released, her need for it leapt into a yawning abyss that almost frightened her. She wasn’t sure she could control the love flooding her heart. “I have missed you beyond reason,” she said before he finally kissed her. She wanted to hold him forever.
Kingston cupped her face in his hands. “Let’s walk for a bit. I’m determined to hear what’s happened since I last heard from you.” He jumped from the wagon and lifted her to the ground. His gaze went up and down her length, finally resting on her face.
Maryelle saw his eyes had grown as dark as pine needles.
“You’re all in one piece, I see.”
“You expected me to arrive in bits and pieces?”
“No, miss smarty pants.” He sobered. “But a lot of people have changed drastically. I know things got tough in Britain. I guess I was afraid you’d suffer. You probably did, but it doesn’t show. On the outside at least.”
She laughed. “I will take that as a compliment.” Perhaps they’d talk about the past later or perhaps not.
“It’s a mighty poor compliment for someone as fine looking as yourself, but it is a compliment nevertheless.” He grabbed her hand and led her along a grassy path. “I assure you there will be more and better compliments to follow.”
“Kingston, how has it been since you came home?” She’d only had one letter since he returned to Canada, six weeks before she began her journey to join him. “Is everything as you expected? Are you happy? Why didn’t you write more often? I could get your letters right up until I left. I worried things had changed. Between us.” She gulped back the fears that wouldn’t be quieted even by having his arm around her shoulders.
He paused beneath a lone sprawling tree with feathery seed clusters hanging like fine old lace and pulled her under the dangling branches, leaning against the trunk, his booted leg tipped against the bark.
Maryelle’s chest tightened with loving him. He was so handsome with his reddish brown hair—the color of old brick, she’d once told him—and his unusual eyes—Canada green, she’d dubbed them.
He looked so relaxed. There had always been something about him—the way he moved and the way he spoke—that said he was comfortable in his life.
“I’m extremely happy to be home. I’ll admit it’s hard to settle back into civilian life after being in the trenches in France.” He shrugged. “Sometimes it’s hard to decide which is reality—the war or now.”
“The war is something that will always have had a hand in the shape of our lives. I’m thankful it is finally over. I hope I never hear another siren as long as I live.” A shudder snaked across her shoulders. “And those horrible silver cigars.” She used the name many used to describe the German zeppelins that had threatened London.
“The war to end all wars.” He took her hands. “Thank the Lord both of us survived that and the flu epidemic.”
“And the farm?” It had been his goal post while he fought in the mud and disease of the trenches.
“The farm is still here.”
“You expected it to move?”
He tweaked her nose. “I suppose I wondered if there would be a place for me when I got back. After all, Dad managed without me for three years.”
“So, in your wonderfully illuminating way, you’re telling me you’ve found you’re still needed on the farm?”
“You’ve guessed it right. How keen of you.”
She laughed. “Have I told you how much I missed you?”
“I don’t believe you have.” He caught her chin and tipped her head back. “But me first. Let me show you how much I’ve missed you.” He bent and captured her lips again with gentleness. When he would pull away, she wound her hands around his neck and would not let him go.
Laughing, he said, “Isn’t this a lot better than a bunch of sweet words?”
“I’ll take both.”
He sank to the ground, his back against the tree, and pulled Maryelle to his lap. He kissed her nose. “You are my sweet English rose, fairest bloom that ever grew.” He kissed her eyelids. “You are my sunshine and my sky.” He pressed ten kisses to her temple, then trailed more down her cheeks, and buried several under her chin. “Light of my life, joy of my heart, sweetness of my soul.” He lifted his head, cradling her face in his palms. “Maryelle Brown, my wife and my joy, I love you.”
Her throat tightened. How she loved this man who seemed to have no limit to the number of ways he found to express his love. She wished she could be so articulate with her own feelings, but her emotions swelled inside her rather than flood out as did his. She pressed her open palms to his shoulders as if the action would somehow let her emotions flow from her heart to his. “Kingston Brown, my dear and lovely husband, I love you more than anything, including life. I will do my very best to make you happy.”
“I can’t imagine being any happier than I am right now. It’s like getting married all over.” His kiss was sweet and gentle.
She would have stayed pressed to his chest all day, but Kingston shifted. “I suppose we should go home. My family is eager to meet you, and there’s always work to be done. I sometimes think Dad saved it for me the whole time I was gone.”
At the mention of his family, she jerked upright. “Ah, into the lions’ den. Best get it over with.” She laughed in an attempt to remove the sting from her words, but inwardly she wondered how his family would take to her. Would they resent her as an outsider? Or welcome her with open arms? “How much farther?”
He scrambled to his feet, pulling her up. “It’s not far.”
“Seems ‘not far’ is a favorite expression of you Canadians, and it can mean anything from a five-minute walk to a four-day ride on a fast horse. Why didn’t you tell me Canada was so big?”
“I tried, but it’s hard for anyone to understand. It’s another five miles or so.”
“I guess I’ll get used to the distances.”
“No doubt you’ll find lots of things you’ll have to get used to.”
She tugged his hand, forcing him to stop and look at her. “That sounds dreadfully ominous. Are you trying to warn me of something?”
“Of course not.” He laughed and stroked his finger down her nose. “I only mean everything will seem different to you. You’ve always lived in a big city. Now you’ll be living on a farm. Your country is old with tons of history. Canada is new and fresh. We’re still writing our history.” He shrugged. “It’s a lot different.”
“I like that, ‘writing our history.’ ”
He lifted her arm and twirled her around. “That’s you and me, Mrs. Brown. We’ve just begun to write our history together. We’ve a whole lifetime of discovery ahead of us.” He draped an arm across her shoulders. “Together forever, you and me.”
“Have I told you how much I missed you, Mr. Brown?”
He tightened his arm around her. “Not in almost five minutes.”
Kingston pulled the wagon to a halt on a small hill. “There it is, dead ahead. Your new home.”
Maryelle clutched his arm and studied the buildings several hundred yards away—a two-story rambling house surrounded by trees, a hip-roofed red barn, several smaller buildings scattered around the yard. Through the distance she heard a childish voice calling.
“My new home.” Suddenly the enormity of the step she was about to take shook her. She faced Kingston. “My hair. It must be all tossed up.” She dug a brush from her bag and struggled to pin the loose strands back into place. “How does it look?”
He grinned. “You look delightful, delicious, and totally desirable.”
“Exactly how I want to look meeting your family for the first time.”
He grabbed her in a crushing hug. “Exactly how I want you to look for me every day.”
“Be serious.” She pushed him away. “I don’t want your parents to think I’m some English tart. Is my hair tidy?”
“I suppose you’re right. Here.” He took the brush from her hand. “Let me fix it.”
She turned on the seat so he could brush the strands into place and pin them. This side of Kingston had surprised her at first, his casualness at doing things she would have considered privately female, but how she’d missed it.
“I’d forgotten how good you are at this.” Her voice quivered as his touch turned her bones to warm wax.
He dropped the brush in her lap and kissed her neck. She leaned into his chest, enjoying the way his breath tickled the curve of her neck. “It has been too long.”
He turned her so he could look into her face. “My beautiful brown-eyed love. I’d like to take you away and have you all to myself for the rest of our lives.” He sighed. “But as that isn’t possible, what do you say about us getting ourselves home?”
“I’d like to say I’ve changed my mind. I prefer your idea. Let’s run away to the mountains or the beach or wherever you Canadians run away to. But, as you say, that’s not about to happen so”—she turned to face forward—“lead on. To whatever lies ahead.”
