Time After Time (56 page)
Authors: Elizabeth Boyce
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Romance, #Historical
Love’s Destiny
Elizabeth Meyette
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
Copyright © 2012 by Elizabeth Meyette
ISBN 10: 1-4405-5062-X
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5062-1
eISBN 10: 1-4405-5061-1
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5061-4
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © istockphoto.com/Simon Podgorsek, Heather McGrath
Contents
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
Chapter 1
London, April 1774
Emily Wentworth waged a battle between grief and anger. Today grief was winning.
She sat lost in thought, burrowed deeply into the comfort of the brown leather chair, one of two that sat before the large fireplace in the study. It was a room she visited often, one that usually brought a feeling of warmth and closeness to her father when he was away at sea. Today, however, an aching emptiness filled her as it had for the last two weeks since she had received word of her father’s death. A violent winter storm had surged across the Atlantic ravaging George Wentworth’s ship, the
Spirit
. The few survivors rescued by a passing merchant ship spoke of George’s bravery in his futile attempts to save his men and his ship
.
Emily gazed around the room that reflected her father. Well-loved books lined the shelves on the walls surrounding the enormous mahogany desk where he pored over ledgers and charts when he was home. Emily smiled as she remembered how he would set them aside when she entered the room.
“Am I bothering you, Father?” she would ask, her timid smile revealing a dimple in each cheek.
“Nothing is as important as you, Em,” he would chuckle, falling willingly to her ploy.
They spent hours talking of his voyages, Emily sitting entranced with his tales of the wild animals and exotic people of Africa, of lands scorched under unending heat and sun, of women dressed in beautiful silks in Asia. She imagined she could hear the vendors hawking their wares in crowded markets, the bustle of the people, the lilt and cadence of their languages, the smell of exotic spices and the aromas of mysterious foods. He also told her stories of the colonies in America and the proud spirit that was the cornerstone of that land. Emily tried to picture the vast territory yet to be settled and the rugged Indians who lived there. She knew some were friendly and helped the British, while others were fierce and terrifying. She wondered about the men and women who would travel across the ocean to live in a land so far from their beloved England.
Emily stared at the embers dying in the hearth. The room took on a chill as the sun settled in the west. Her cheeks were wet, and she realized that she had been crying. Rising, she paced the room. She touched the smoke-stained pipes, always stationed on his desk, and ran her fingertips lightly across the books that lined the shelves. She had read many of them herself, unusual for most girls of her day. George Wentworth had insisted that reading and writing be a part of her education.
“No child of mine is going to be a simpering idiot! There is more to life for Em than embroidery and coquetry,” he insisted. “She will receive an education as fine as her brother Andrew’s!”
Emily smiled to herself. Father usually got his way, if not with his charm, then with his temper. But her mother, Jessica, had agreed that Emily should be well educated, as she had been herself. Many evenings at supper her parents had drawn her into conversations and asked her to share her opinions. Consequently, at social affairs when the women gathered together, she was bored with their prattle and gossip, sometimes catching her mother’s amused glance as they smiled in camaraderie.
“You must not think you are better than others just because you have had the benefit of an education,” Jessica would admonish when Emily mocked those “prissy know-nothings.” Jessica was always pleasant to the other ladies even though, as Emily suspected, she was often bored, too.
Emily missed the late evening chats they shared after such events. Jessica had died of consumption two years earlier. The family was just recovering from the shock of her death.
“And now they are both gone,” Emily whispered.
Jessica’s death had brought Emily and her father even closer. Although she was only seventeen, he began to leave much of the running of the house to her, trusting her judgment. Yet, she was still his little girl.
She reached for the open letter on the desk. Her father’s solicitor had given it to her after the reading of the will. She knew the words by heart, but she looked at them again as if willing them to change:
My Dearest Emily,
Your reading this means that I am either dead or lost at sea. This must be a difficult time for you and Andrew. Draw on your faith in God and your love for one another to see you through. You have a quiet strength, Em. You helped me through my grief and sorrow at your mother’s passing. You are so much like her, not only in looks, but also in courage, gentleness and honesty. Now you must help Andrew. You must be strong for him.
Please know how much I love you both. That is why I have taken measures to see that you and Andrew are properly cared for. I have appointed my dear friend, Captain Jonathon Brentwood of Virginia, as your guardian. He is a good man, Em, and a trusted friend. He saved my life once, and that is why I am entrusting him with the dearest treasures in my life. You and Andrew have brought me more joy than you will ever know. I love you both and will be watching you from the caring arms of our God in heaven.
Your loving father
“Come and eat, darlin’.” Etta Mason had come into the room. “You cannot spend all your days hidin’ in here and missin’ your father,” she said gently. The housekeeper put her arm around Emily’s shoulders and led her out of the study.
“Oh, Etta, I miss him so,” Emily whispered through the lump in her throat, fighting back the tears.
“I know, darlin’,” she replied.
Andrew was already at the table. He stood up when Emily entered and held her chair.
“How are you, Em?” he asked. He loved their father very much, but he was aware of the special bond his father and Emily had shared. He wished he could help her.
“Oh, Drew, when is that colonial captain supposed to arrive?” she cried, anger claiming the upper hand now.
“Now, Em, Father would not appoint an ogre to be our guardian. I am sure Captain Brentwood will be a kind man.”
Emily looked at her younger brother. He was probably right. At fifteen, Andrew had more common sense than many of the older suitors who had been calling on her.
“You are right. It is just that everything is so different for us now. With no one left in either Father’s or Mother’s families, we have no choice but to go with this colonial to Virginia. We may have to accept his guardianship, but I do not have to like it!” Her blue-violet eyes sparked with defiance, and her soft full lips set in a firm line.
Andrew smiled to himself. At least thinking about “that colonial captain” had distracted Emily from her somber, brooding mood that had become so common of late. He loved to see her spirit revive. No one liked to tangle with Emily; she had a quick temper and a sharp tongue. Yet she was fair and had a strong sense of justice.
“Well, his letter said he would arrive as soon as his business was settled in France. He thought with fair weather and a good wind he should arrive by the end of this month. I would say another week or two,” Andrew answered, watching her eyes and guessing how quickly her mind was working. “Please, Emily, give him a chance. He was Father’s friend remember.”
“You are right, Drew. I shall try,” she smiled fondly at her brother.
• • •
Emily viewed her reflection in the mirror. Thick dark lashes made a startling contrast to clear, blue-violet eyes. She wrinkled her delicate nose.
“I am too short,” she thought. “And my hair … I must wear it up.”
She pushed her long, thick, tawny-colored hair up from the nape of her neck. Golden highlights danced off it in the evening sun that streamed through the window.
A plan had formed in Emily’s mind as the weeks had passed, bringing the inevitable meeting with Captain Brentwood closer. She needed no guardian — why she was seventeen years old. Andrew and she could continue to live here in London. Surely their inheritance would be an adequate income on which they could live comfortably. It was silly to even appoint a guardian for them.
Her heart lifted as she thought of her foolproof plan. That was why she must appear a mature and self-assured woman. But she wrinkled her nose once again at her reflection.
“Bah! I look like a child, and Captain Brentwood will be here any moment.” She rang for Mary, her maid. She looked at her reflection pleased with the effect of her hair pulled up and back, making her feel more confident.
Mary scuttled into the room wringing her hands. She had already spent hours assisting her mistress with numerous anxious, and often reassessed, preparations for this meeting.
“Quickly, Mary, dress my hair high, and … well, sophisticated. I need to look mature … older. Oh, you know what I mean.”
Mary hesitated. Etta was only the housekeeper, but she clucked over Emily and Andrew like a mother hen. If she did not approve, Mary would really get a dressing down. As gentle as Etta could be with the children, she could be equally stern with the servants.
“Come on, quickly, Mary,” Emily insisted. It was time to start asserting her authority and look the part of woman of the house.
Mary did not want to tangle with Emily’s temper either, so she quickly picked up the brushes and began to dress the girl’s hair.
Emily surveyed the results. Her black, high-necked dress set off her creamy white skin. With her hair piled high on her head, she appeared taller, more dignified. She was sure her plan would work, and in spite of her sadness, her spirits lifted. There was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” she called.
Andrew entered. “He should be here … Oh, Em, you look so different …” Andrew stared at his sister. The transformation was remarkable.
“Do I look older, Drew? Do you think our plan will work?” Her eyes sparkled for the first time in weeks.
“I hope so, Emily. But please do not set your hopes too high. What do you think Captain Brentwood will be like?” Andrew asked.
“Well, he was Father’s friend, so perhaps he will be a bit like Father. Perhaps not as robust, perhaps a bit older … I do not know. I just hope he agrees to our plan. I do not see why he would not. He probably does not want to be burdened with us any more than we want to be uprooted and moved to those savage colonies.” Emily was not to be dissuaded; her plan would work. “We could continue to live here … what does it matter to him where we are? I have to convince him that I am capable of running this household and Father’s estate.”
• • •
Captain Jonathon Brentwood stared out the window of his coach. Lamplighters were making their way along, igniting the lamps that lined the streets of London. The
clop, clop, clop
of the horse’s hooves beat a rhythm against the night as he pondered his new role as guardian of his dear friend’s children. It was not a role he relished. And his dealings in Europe were becoming more tenuous as friction mounted between the colonies and England. Most of his time would be spent in the colonies now as trade and prosperity were growing there. And as the rebellion grew, he had other duties to attend.
The timing of this guardianship could not have been worse. But George Wentworth had been a mentor and had become one of his closest friends. Jonathon would honor the promise he had made to him. His experience with children had been limited, and when he was exposed to them, he was bewildered by their endless energy and their proclivity to mischief. He hoped George’s children were not quite as lively and imaginative as some he had spent time with. George had told him many stories of Little Em and Andrew. From his stories they sounded well-behaved and mannerly. They certainly would tie him down more than he had been used to in his 28 years of bachelorhood. He had written his sister Joanna explaining the situation. Surely she would help him watch over the children so he could continue sailing. She and her husband lived in Brentwood Manor, the family home. David was a good manager, and the plantation was thriving under him. Jonathon would soon have to take over, but he wanted to sail for a few more years. Well, he would get this situation settled soon, and then he could set sail again.
