by Jane Goodger
“This,” she said, making certain he understood the importance of the moment, “is the key to my heart.” With that, she opened up the desk and pulled out a neat stack of letters. “These are the letters I wrote to you after you left. You don’t have to read them now, but I would like you to read them. Please keep in mind that I was just a girl.”
He reached out for them solemnly, but she pulled back. “I need a promise from you.”
Smiling, he said, “Anything.”
“I want you to play for me.”
“You mean the violin.” She nodded. “I’m not very good anymore. I haven’t played, really, in years.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m sharing all of me with you.”
“And you want me to share all of me?”
“Yes.”
“Fair enough.” He kissed her lightly, then looked down at the stack of letters in his hand, written by the girl he had fallen in love with all those years ago. Opening the first, he looked at Alice, then down to the words she had written just days after Joseph’s death.
“Dear Henny,” he read, then chuckled at the use of his nickname. “Without you here, it seems a part of me is missing. The large and hopeful part, the only part, really, that makes me smile.” Henderson swallowed past a growing lump in his throat, and put the letter aside. “I don’t believe I’ll be able to read these aloud to you. Or read them at all without bursting into unmanly tears.”
Alice let out a small laugh. “I wanted you to know that you’ve always been in my heart. Even when you were gone.”
Henderson looked down, overwhelmed by emotion. To have someone love him so was astounding. “And now we have forever.”
“To live happily.” She beamed him a smile.
“Ever.”
She laughed, she just couldn’t stop herself. “After.”
Read on for an excerpt from the next book in Jane Goodger’s charming Brides of St. Ives series.
The Earl Most Likely
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Preface
Long before Augustus Lawton saw Costille House, his ancestral home, he heard it. Loud strains of music flowed in the breeze, distorted and haunting, along with raucous laughter and the occasional delighted scream.
His wife was having a party, apparently. And to think she’d lamented to him in her last letter about how bored she was. How lonely. Her infrequent letters were no more than long lists of complaints that were entirely justified. Unhappy wife, unhappy life. A truer sentiment had never been uttered.
Lenore was deeply, unfathomably unhappy and had been since the day she’d married him. Their wedding night ended with her shouting, “I hate you. If you ever touch me again, I shall kill you.” He’d obliged.
As he turned the bend in the long, tree-lined road that led to Costille, he pulled up short and had the ridiculous urge to double back to be certain he was on the correct lane. It had been nearly three years since he’d been home, after all. But no, that brilliantly lit Medieval castle was Costille, except the last time he’d been home they’d had no gaslights, nothing to modernize the old place, not even water closets. Augustus’s father, the Earl of Berkley, had generously allowed Lenore to stay at Costille in his absence, mostly because he knew she would hate living there (they disliked one another intensely). Her stay was allowed with one caveat: She was to do nothing to change the house.
Trepidation filled Augustus as he urged his horse to move toward Costille, the sounds of the party getting louder the closer he got. Costille was a sprawling Tudor house, an addition to the original Medieval castle, with a square turret that dominated the back of the structure. When he’d been a boy, it had been a source of pride that the turret could be seen from nearly every place in St. Ives. He could never get lost, never lose his way, as long as he could see his home. His father, as strong and indestructible as this castle, shared only one thing with his son—his love of Costille.
Augustus rode his horse slowly beneath a smaller square tower with an arched entry that led to the courtyard just as a drunken reveler spilled from the home’s main door. He was easy to spot because several large gas lanterns hissed in the courtyard, shedding a light so strong, Augustus was tempted to shield his eyes.
“Hey,” the man called. “The stables are in the back, you dumb sod.” He was wearing formal attire, but his tie was askew and his hair a rumpled mess, as though he’d been recently under the covers servicing a lady friend. Augustus wondered, without a hint of jealousy, if it had been his wife.
“As this is my home, I know very well where the stables are, sir.”
The man squinted at him, swaying on his feet. “Lord Berkley?” he asked, clearly confused to see such a young man before him.
“His son, Augustus Lawton, Lord Greenwich.” It felt strange to say his title when for the past three years he’d only been known as Gus. The American West was not a place where a man styled himself higher than another. His gun, his ability to shoot and ride a horse, those were the marks of a man’s worth. When he’d decided to return home, part of him wanted to keep his beard, his long hair, his fringed, leather jacket and thick canvas trousers, just to see his father’s reaction. But when Augustus made the decision to return, he did so wholeheartedly. It was time to grow up, to take his place in society, to try to be some sort of husband to the bride he’d abandoned. Someday he would be the Earl of Berkley and by God, he wanted heirs. Lenore would be horrified to know what had precipitated his return.
When Augustus told the man his title, he straightened and saluted, and Augustus couldn’t help but smile. He wasn’t one to stand on ceremony so wasn’t at all insulted. His drunk friend wandered to the far side of the courtyard and pissed in some bushes as Augustus dismounted and tied his borrowed steed to a post. The noise of the party suddenly got louder, and the courtyard even brighter, and Augustus realized it was because the drunken fool had gone back into the house and left the doors wide open.
That was when Augustus let out a small sound, the type a man makes when he is stabbed or shot. It was difficult to breathe, to stand, to see.
For through that well-lit door, Augustus saw a nightmare. A modern Victorian floral nightmare.
“I’ll bloody kill her.”
Chapter 1
Harriet Anderson had long ago realized she would never light up a room with her bubbly personality, would never make a man’s head turn with her beauty, would never provoke anyone’s interest. She was a dimmer version of her sister, Clara, a shadow in the moonlight, not quite seen.
What a glorious thing that was.
Harriet knew that her friends felt sorry for her. Poor Harriet, so shy, so reserved. So free.
Just that afternoon, her parents and sister had climbed aboard a carriage for a three-hour drive to Plymouth to visit some distant relative who’d mentioned she was hosting Baron Such-and-Such. Harriet had been excused, much to her delight. They would be staying overnight at least, which meant Harriet had more than twenty-four hours of doing whatever she liked. Clara, ever cheerful, scrambled aboard the carriage and waved good-bye, completely oblivious to the unfairness of leaving Harriet behind. Harriet never complained, for the times her parents were gone were perhaps the most wonderful days of the year. Being dragged around whilst they showed off their elder daughter was something Harriet didn’t miss in the least.
Truth be told, it was embarrassing the way her mother pushed Clara in front of every titled man she came across. Her parents and their ancestors had come from strong Cornish stock, working men and women, the sort who never would dream of putting themselves forward. But her father, through grit and hard work, had managed to accumulate enough money and enough position to buy one of the many tin mines in Cornwall. They were rich now, so rich that an impoverished lord just might be persuaded to marry a woman far below his station. Clara was beautiful and her dowry was impressive, and for those reasons she had garnered quite a bit of attention over the years, though her heart
had never been engaged. At twenty-four years old, Clara was still lovely and youthful and stirred the heart of many a man.
Harriet, on the other hand, counted herself lucky if anyone asked her to dance at the limited balls she attended. On those rare occasions when she was asked, her mother would critique her the way a director critiques an actor’s performance. You laughed too loudly. You smiled too much. Why didn’t you smile? Did he ask about Clara? You really mustn’t dance the reel, you’re much too clumsy. And so, she was rather relieved when no one did ask her, for her mother would always make her feel stupid and silly. It used to hurt far more than it did now, but it did still hurt a bit, to be that unwanted child who never could match her mother’s great expectations. She couldn’t change her sex, she couldn’t become another Clara. And that was enough for her parents to dismiss her as a being who lived in their house but had nothing at all to do with their lives.
Any time that hurt made her stomach clench, Harriet would push it down and remember that she had the afternoon free to do as she pleased. She could walk to the shore, work on her needlepoint, sing badly in her room, read a book. This time, Harriet had enthusiastically arranged a luncheon with her friends, something she was very much looking forward to.
Her closest friend, Alice, was recently married and just beginning to show her pregnancy. Such an odd thing to think about, that a little being was growing inside Alice, the same girl she used to make paper dolls with. Not a day went by that Harriet didn’t thank God that Alice had fallen in love with a man who lived in St. Ives. She would never move away.
Looking in the mirror, Harriet stuck out her tongue at her reflection and laughed. Sometimes she would look at Clara, then into her mirror, and find it startling how much plainer she was than her sister. It was not self-pity, not every time at any rate, but rather a pragmatism that made her realize long ago she would never be a beauty like Clara. Perhaps it would have bothered her if Clara had been mean or vain, but her sister was kind and sweet and Harriet loved her dearly. Two years ago, Harriet stopped trying to be lovely, wearing the latest fashions, asking her mother to buy new gowns each year. Perhaps the worst of it was that no one even noticed.
Harriet smiled at her reflection, then tilted her jaw. She wasn’t ugly. In fact, if she turned her head just so, she was actually pretty. Narrowing her eyes, Harriet studied herself objectively and came away moderately pleased with her appearance. Her dress was a dull brown, a stark contrast to her light blue eyes, and her hair, usually a frizzing mess, held a few soft curls. It was, she realized, the light oil the girls’ maid had given her, and Harriet gave herself a mental reminder to thank Jeanine for her hair tonic. If she were going out, Jeanine would usually iron her hair, then take the stiff, coarse results and curl a few select strands. But with Jeanine completely occupied by Clara, Harriet had simply brushed out her hair, applied the tonic, and pulled it back into a tight knot.
As Harriet went to leave the house, she kept an eye out for their housekeeper, whom she suspected reported to her mother any transgression. It was easy enough to thwart the woman; Harriet had long ago realized no one, including her mother, could fault her for “going for a walk.” And if Harriet happened to walk to St. Ives village and meet her friends, who was to be the wiser? Sometimes she wished she had something more adventurous to do, something slightly dangerous, so she could really feel victorious.
Today, a walk into St. Ives was enough adventure for her. It was a lovely day, with a brisk wind blowing off the Atlantic, making her cheeks pink. She huddled into her old woolen coat and adjusted the soft wool scarf around her neck. It was October, and though it never got too cold in St. Ives even in winter, it was a day that called for a thick coat and a soft scarf.
When she reached the cobbled streets of the village, her boots tapped loudly, a sound that made her smile, for it meant she would soon see her friends. Teague’s Tea House was a favorite of the villagers, and on this day it was fairly crowded with patrons. Harriet liked going there because she always felt so sophisticated, taking tea in a shop rather than at home. The store held a half-dozen small tables with smooth white linen table cloths, and the delicate clink of silverware and china, as well as the soft murmur of voices always made Harriet feel a small rush of warmth.
“Hello, Miss Anderson,” the proprietor, Mrs. Teague, called out. Harriet often wondered if the Teagues truly liked having a tea shop or if they felt it was necessary to take advantage of their last name, but she was too shy to ask.
In the far corner, she saw her friends—Alice, Eliza, and Rebecca. Eliza and Rebecca were staring raptly at Alice’s tummy, slightly rounded, as if it were some sort of oddity. The first of them to marry, the first to have a child, Alice was a bit of a celebrity amongst them. When they spied Harriet coming toward their small group, they stood, smiling widely, happy she was able to come that day. When her mother was home, she was not allowed to go into the village without a chaperone—and one was rarely available, as her mother was always too busy to accompany her.
“I don’t mean to be terrible, but I’m awfully glad your mother is traveling,” Alice said, giving her friend a hug. Her belly got in the way a bit, and Harriet laughed at the feeling.
“You’re so round,” she said. It had been a few weeks since Harriet had seen Alice, who had recently been in London.
“I know. My mother is already admonishing me not to go out. ‘No one wants to see that,’ she says.” Alice laughed. “If Queen Victoria could go out in public en famille, then I can too. That’s what I told her anyway.”
“And how did your mother respond?”
Alice wrinkled her nose, her green eyes bright. “She said Queen Victoria set a bad example for all women.” This she said in a whisper, as if she were committing some sort of treasonous act.
Once they were all seated, they caught up on each other’s news. Alice, of course, had the most to relay, having been recently to London and being newly married. For the first time in her life, Harriet was jealous of a married woman. Perhaps it was because Alice seemed so completely happy, as if a new and brilliant light shined from within her. Or perhaps Harriet was, for the first time, aware that she might never find what Alice had. Any awkwardness she’d felt over Alice marrying Henderson had long since dissipated. When Harriet was a girl, she’d had a terrible crush on Henderson. Though her friends had treated it as a lark, Harriet had truly liked him, had dreamed that perhaps one day he would return to St. Ives and realize he liked her too. Instead, he’d returned and realized he was in love with Alice. Harriet hadn’t been devastated by any means, but it had served as a reminder to her that she might not find love.
When conversation lulled, Rebecca pulled out a silk scarf and said, “Let’s play the game, Harriet, shall we?”
Harriet groaned, even as her friends expressed their support of Rebecca’s suggestion. Despite her groan, Harriet was secretly pleased; her memory was the only singular thing about her. She would never be the most beautiful or talented or lively one in the group, but no one could recall details the way she did. As a girl, she hadn’t realized she held any special talent for memorization. It was little things, like her sister misplacing a book, or a maid unable to find a particular hair piece that gave her the first clue. Harriet always knew where everything was, because the minute someone would mention a missing article, a picture appeared in her head of its exact location. Recognizing her ability, one day Clara blindfolded Harriet and started quizzing her. What color tie does the man in the painting wear? Is the blue vase to the left or the right of the statue on the mantel? It didn’t matter how small the detail, Harriet knew it. And so was born the game.
Rebecca jumped up and placed the scarf across Harriet’s eyes, and the three other women started peppering her with questions. Around them, the other patrons grew quiet as they watched the game unfold.
“What color flowers are in the vase on the counter?” someone called out.
Harriet started, realizing others were listen
ing, but she smiled. “Come, now, that’s hardly a challenge. Yellow.”
More patrons called out their questions, and Harriet laughed. For a girl who did not like to be in crowds, this was somehow wonderful. Perhaps it was because she was blindfolded and could not see them gawking at her. Or perhaps it was because she was among her friends. Normally painfully shy, she felt almost not herself.
“On the shelf, there are three containers, each with a different picture. Tell me, in order from left to right, what picture is on those containers.”
Harriet straightened, and beneath the blindfold, she furrowed her brows. That deep baritone, commanding and somehow tinged with something close to…fear? She knew that voice.
“Lord Berkley,” she said, slightly louder than a whisper. They had met once, at the John Knill ball. Alice’s husband had introduced them, and the earl had muttered a proper greeting, thoroughly distracted by the sight of Clara, who had been especially pretty that night. It had been a small moment, a snippet in time, but Harriet still remembered feeling suddenly more alive than she had in her life because he was just that beautiful. And then he’d walked away, without ever really looking at her.
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Jane Goodger lives in Rhode Island with her husband and three children. Jane, a former journalist, has written and published numerous historical romances. When she isn’t writing, she’s reading, walking, playing with her kids, or anything else completely unrelated to cleaning a house. You can visit her website at www.janegoodger.com.
