Faith: A Historical Western Romance (A Merry Mail Order Bride Romance Series Book 2)

by Amy Field

  Gazing up at his determined face, she sighed. “Very well, I know I cannot persuade you otherwise.”

  “That you cannot.”

  She laughed softly, in spite of herself and her circumstances. A wonderful man loved her, and that was reason enough to make her heart sing, even if the song would certainly be short.

  Chapter Four

  “Henry, dear! I did not expect to see you home before dinner,” his mother exclaimed when she saw him standing in the doorway of Heatherly’s grand drawing room, windblown, dashing and full of vigour, as always.

  “My afternoon ride was cut short,” he explained absently, crossing the room to survey the vast Heatherly lands from the large windows flanking the south wall.

  “Oh?” His mother prompted with interest, looking up from her sewing.

  “Nothing is the matter, Mother.”

  “I was just wondering if you’d thought more about what we discussed with your father the other evening at dinner.”

  “I have, and I still do not wish to marry Vizconde Amejo’s daughter. I have never even met her, nor do I care to do so.”

  “Very well, Henry, she may be a stranger to you, but Isabel Amejo is widely known for her beauty and lively spirit. I believe she would be a good match for you, and aligning yourself with the Spanish dignitary’s daughter would only prove to be beneficial.”

  “Mother, I wish not to marry to improve trade.”

  “That would only be one benefit. Having a companionable wife and children being other more important benefits. You seem so very against the idea for reasons you’ve yet to express. Have you perhaps selected a potential bride whom I do not know?”

  Henry paused. “No, Mother, I have not,” he lied. “I am in no hurry to wed.” He had, however, decided who he would marry, and he had a feeling his sweet, though traditional, mother certainly may very well not approve. He was not yet prepared to have this discussion with her. He hoped to delay any such conversations until Jane was out of deep mourning . . . which was several months away.

  “I know that we’ve no true need to hurry, but I would still like to see you settled down and happy, Henry. Very much.”

  “I am quite content and happy, Mother. Now, if you will please excuse me, I believe I shall retire to the library to read quietly until the dinner hour.”

  “Of course, dear. Exercising the mind is just as important as exercising the body,” she encouraged, taking up her sewing once more. “I shall see you at dinner then. Cook is making her specialty—roasted lamb, which I know is your favorite.”

  That very evening, Jane sat alone at her supper table, absentmindedly stirring a bowl of chicken stew. Far too much was on her mind. She sighed heavily. Never had she ever imagined finding love at this stage in her life and the predicaments such a wonderful thing could produce. As a new widow, an affair of the heart was not something for which she had been seeking—especially since she now found herself so very much in love. She’d cared deeply, of course, for her husband, Charles, but he’d never evoked the feelings that Henry created within her. Henry made her laugh and smile, but also sigh and gaze at him with a longing she’d never experienced before.

  But the life growing inside of her was most unexpected, and she could not begin to fathom how Henry would feel about it. Upon discovering her secret, he would most likely end their clandestine courtship. What man would consider marrying a woman carrying another man’s baby inside of her? She would not be able to blame him if he no longer wanted to see her.

  A tear escaped her eye, plopping onto her hand, frozen in place as her fingers still tightly clenched the silver spoon. She had yet to fully fathom that she faced the greatest challenge of her life while experiencing the most beautiful love she could have ever hoped to have. How could life be so blissfully wonderful and cruelly unfair at the same time?

  Her hand drifted to her waist. The baby growing inside of her wasn’t to blame for her predicament. It was an innocent little one that she would love whole-heartedly, no matter what life threw their way. She would learn to be content in this little cottage, her newborn and Clara the only companions she would probably ever entertain.

  Henry. Dashing Henry. She sighed. The life they could have shared would’ve been glorious if all could have unfolded properly. She’d met her perfect match in him, but so it went that it simply wasn’t going to be, and there was nothing she could do to change her path. She hung her head. A path that wouldn’t include her newfound love, most unfortunately.

  Chapter Five

  “Madam, a gentleman is here to see you,” Clara, a strange look on her face, announced when she found Jane reading quietly in her room. Jane’s eyes grew wide.

  “Who is it, Clara?” Jane asked, though she knew quite well who it was.

  “Lord Henry Pendleton, of Heatherly, and though I told him you were not accepting callers, he was quite insistent that he must see you.”

  “Tell him I will be along in just a moment. I must see to my toilette,” Jane said, rising and smoothing the wrinkles from her gown. Clara turned and left the room, though she appeared quite flustered at the events taking place. Jane pinched her cheek, dabbed a bit of rose water on her neck and wrists and made sure no pins in her hair had gone too far astray before making her way to the small front parlor.

  A pensive Henry sat on a settee, his eyes lighting up when he first saw her.

  “Lord Pendleton, what is the nature of this visit?” She asked formally for Clara’s benefit. Henry glanced at Clara, situated by the wall as a chaperone of sorts.

  “Might we have a bit of tea?” He asked her warmly.

  “Of course, sir. Clara?” She gestured for the younger girl to fetch them afternoon tea.

  “You did not appear for our walk this afternoon and I grew rather worried,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper.

  “I-I could not get away,” she lied.

  “Is something the matter?” He asked.

  “No, nothing is wrong. I just worry of how people will talk were they to stumble upon us.”

  “You said before that you did not care all that much for people’s opinions.”

  “Yes, but I do care of their opinion of you. I should think it would go bad for you to be seen consorting with a lonely, young widow in the woods.”

  “No one shall see us. That particular stretch is too far out of the way for anyone to pay mind or for them to happen upon us.”

  “You happened upon me in that very place, Henry.”

  “Yes, but I am the only one at Heatherly that rides out that far to the east. Mother and Father stick to the west side of the estate with its meadows and picturesque lake.”

  Clara returned then with the tea tray, complete with almond biscuits. She served tea and retreated stealthily from the parlor.

  “I am so glad I still was able to see your lovely face today, Jane. All day yesterday at church and meals, I could think of nothing but you.”

  “And I, you,” she admitted softly, taking a sip of the hot tea, “but you cannot visit me here. Clara is a wonderful girl, but she might possibly say something to her family in the village, or other servants at the market—I do not wish to be in the midst of scandal, and I would guess you would not want that either—for your family’s sake.”

  “I care not for others’ idle talk.”

  Jane placed her tea on the table, and her hands dropped into her lap, subconsciously covering the one thing sure to destroy their delicate arrangement. “Perhaps, we should take a bit of care, dear Henry,” she said softly, her eyes falling to the floor.

  “What is the matter, Jane? You seem a bit peckish.”

  “I am quite well, I assure you, and if the weather is fine, I will meet you tomorrow in the same place as always,” she told him.

  “Good,” he said smiling. “I want to hold your hand, perhaps sneak a kiss. I cannot do such things here.”

  Her cheeks flamed red. “Henry!” She admonished, though her voice was hardly audible.

  H
e rose, as did she. Taking her hand in his, he placed a kiss on her open palm, lingering longer than propriety allowed.

  “Until tomorrow, then,” he murmured, yet to let go of her hand.

  She nodded. “Yes, until tomorrow,” she breathed, the words catching in her throat. He was too near to her for her own comfort.

  The next morning, as Clara helped her dress for the day, the servant girl remarked, “Madam, your dresses have grown a bit snug. Would you like me to let them out a little?”

  Jane bit her lip, but nodded. “Yes, Clara. Please do so.”

  Clara said nothing else as she took a few measurements, but Jane suspected that the girl had an idea of her condition. In their close quarters, it would have been impossible not to suspect something was amiss. She only hoped at Clara’s young age that the girl would execute discretion.

  When it was time for her afternoon walk, she did not slip from the bedroom window as she usually did. She had to take a care for herself and her unborn child after all. She walked through the house, stopping to speak briefly with her maid before leaving.

  “I have been in this house, closed in for months. The weather is so fine—I am going for a bit of an afternoon stroll. I shall be back directly,” Jane said before ducking out the door. She didn’t want to give Clara a chance to protest.

  As always, when Henry saw her approaching, his eyes lit up with enthusiasm and he hurried to close the distance between them. He took her hands in his.

  “How I’ve missed you!” He exclaimed.

  “And I, you, though it has been but a day,” she said, her face breaking out into a grin. He hooked her arm through his and began to walk down their usual path.

  “Henry, I must ask you, are we to meet every day like this until my mourning period is over?”

  He appeared thoughtful and did not answer for a moment. “I should like to start calling on you properly before that time. Maybe even write you letters? I know nothing can be done for a while longer, but must it truly be an entire year? I care not that you are a widow, or of your station.”

  “I fear that your family will care.”

  “Though they can be somewhat traditional, my parents understand love, unlike many of their peers. They met and fell in love rather quickly—it was not an arranged match. Actually, my mother had been betrothed to my uncle, the Earl of Winchester.”

  Jane’s mouth widened in surprise. “Oh my, that is rather scandalous,” she admitted.

  “You see? I believe they will be quite understanding when the matter of our intent to marry comes to light.”

  Jane froze. “Our intent to marry?”

  “You do know that I plan to marry you, Jane, do you not?”

  “We’ve never spoken of such things before.”

  Henry turned to face her, holding her petite hands in his large, masculine ones.

  “Jane, I love you so very much. How could you not know that I wish for you to be my wife? Will you please marry me?” His eyes bore into her own, shining with a hopeful adoration that tore her apart. Tears welled, threatening to fall, but she couldn’t bear telling him no other answer than the one her heart screamed.

  “I would love to marry you, Henry,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

  He scooped her into his arms and kissed her soundly as he whirled her about, the scent of summer blossoms blowing in the breeze. The sun warmed her skin, but not nearly as much as her beloved warmed her, heart and soul.

  Chapter Six

  “Mother, you wanted to see me?” Henry asked, entering his mother’s personal sitting room the next day. She rose from her seat, wringing her hands, the wrinkle on her forehead prominent thanks to the pinched expression she wore.

  “Yes, Henry, Please, sit down,” she gestured to the seat across from her before ringing the bell for tea.

  “What is the matter? You seem most vexed,” he observed as they sat facing one another, his mother still wearing a worrisome look.

  “Henry, there has been talk among the servants, which means there will be talk among the townspeople.”

  “I cannot seem to follow you.”

  “Mrs. Bailey, with much concern, voiced the latest gossip she overheard the scullery maids sharing, which came from the village. It seems you have been seen with a certain lovely widow?”

  The color drained from Henry’s face, but he remained silent.

  “Your silence is the only answer I need, son. How could you do such a thing? Children before wedlock is not right in my eyes nor the eyes of God.”

  “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 belov
ed’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.