Stavewood (Stavewood Saga Book 1)

Books by Nanette Kinslow

Stavewood

South of Stavewood

Home to Stavewood

The Secret of Stavewood

Sweet New England

Ill Repute

Pie Crust Promise

The Matter with Margaret

Stavewood

A novel

By

Nanette Kinslow

This book
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

2013 Lighthouse Publishing

Copyright © 2008 by Nanette Kinslow

ISBN-13: 978-0615808147

ISBN-10: 061580814X

[email protected]

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews. For information contact Lighthouse Publishing.

First Lighthouse Group publishing April 2013

Second Lighthouse Group publishing June 2013

Published in the United States by Lighthouse Publishing Group

Cover design by Patrick Warn

To my wonderful husband Patrick who fulfilled all of my fantasies and taught me the meaning of unconditional love, my daughter Jessica for her support and enthusiasm

And

To

Faye

Fairy Tales are born from our need for love and without romance the world is bitter.

With love in your heart the world is always sweet.

~
Nanette

Chapter One

    
 
A
nother
stitch dropped. Rebecca fumbled with her needles trying to get back into her rhythm. She wished she could blame her mistake on the constant jostling of the rattling train car, or the worn and bent condition of her bone needles, but, as usual, her efforts to distract herself failed as miserably as her knitting.

      She deposited her handiwork into the folds of her lap and instead tried to peer out into the mist beyond the window. The rain drove in sheets across the plains, relentless, as it had been for nearly two days. Dampness had overtaken her skirts and her stockings clung in uncomfortable stickiness to her slender ankles.

      Rebecca pulled the watch from her pocket and checked the time. Caught between wishing her trip was finally over and
yet terrified of arriving at her destination, she turned back to the window pane and saw only her own reflection. The blanket of pouring rain ran in steady drivels and left a dreary view, her face gray in dampness and wearily etched with
exhaustion. She
surrendered any attempt to make out the surroundings outside of the train and attempted to return to her knitting.

      Even to the casual onlooker Rebecca was something out of the ordinary. One might notice that her clothing, though finely made, was threadbare, or detect the air of dignity with which she carried herself.  Perhaps they would see her elusive manner of being, which spoke either of great strength or perfect fragility, since in some it is very hard to identify the difference. Noticeable also would be her age. At nearly eighteen Rebecca certainly was a young lady blossoming into womanhood. But, however you perceived her clothing or age or mannerisms, Rebecca undeniably possessed exceptional beauty. Her pale complexion, creamy as porcelain against her dark sable hair, and her delicately arched brows gave her the look of a fine China doll. Rebecca was indeed hardly bigger than a doll, even in the best of health. These days found her thinner than usual and her fair skin showed darkening circles beneath bright emerald eyes. Her unusually long hair was knotted to the nape of her neck and the collar of her worn cape fell open at her pale throat.

      “This is madness,” her cousin Emma had warned her. “You’re a mail order bride? That’s what you’re doing Rebecca. You’re selling yourself out as a mail order bride!”

      Since David’s death Rebecca had tried to hold her head up everywhere in her society. How could he have left her so shamed, penniless and outcast? She blamed herself for her foolishness. She had given up blaming him. He was dead now, and she was certain she had learned from her mistake. This time it would be different. There would be a new life, a new world, and a stranger for whom she cared nothing. This time it was going to be under her control. She steadied herself on the wooden seat and inserted the old bone needle into a dropped stitch with determination.

      Wife wanted. Widower. Large farm owner. 12-year-old son. Marriage within one year. T. Elgerson, Billington City, Minn.

      She thought the ad perfect in its simplicity. No frilly words or even promises, except of course the arrangement of marriage taking place within one year. This wasn’t going to be a man fraught with embellishments and flourishes of promises. No David this man, no indeed. This man would be very different. Other ads were so often filled with fancy pledges and guarantees of prosperity, all of the this-and-that Rebecca was sure were likely lies. Handsome?  Humph! Why, many of the ads had horrendous spelling errors, frightful grammar and some made little sense at all! No elaborate lies indeed from Mr. T. Elgerson.

      Rebecca had studied those ads all so carefully since coming across the publication in the kitchen dustbin. How funny she had thought it, that anyone would choose such a method to find a wife. She often entertained herself for hours over the ads, so many and so many so very funny. She read them often to Emmy at tea and they would laugh naively at the silliness of it all. David regarded it as petty and foolish to find such amusement with something made use of by the help, but he would wave his fine hand and tell her that if it kept her occupied, what did he care? Rebecca thought it silly but harmless as well once. David didn’t really care, she knew, but she never imagined at the time that he was satisfied as long as she was occupied with anything at all and did not suspect or interfere with his gambling and infidelities.

      Rebecca checked the watch again, frustrated that only a few minutes had passed. She put aside her knitting and pulled a carefully folded bundle from her bag, gently untying the satin ribbon and then methodically spreading the tattered contents across her cloaked lap. She carelessly lifted a stray strand of hair from across her slender cheek and tucked it back behind her ear. She set aside the stub to her train ticket assuring her passage from New York to St. Peter with irritation. Rebecca was certain that Mr. T. Elgerson had intended her trip to take place on the first class Pullman car and never planned her to suffer here in third class. Although she had to admit that the ticket spelled this out she couldn’t help feeling that clearly the porter was somehow responsible for the mistake. It never occurred to her that things would be any other way, so Rebecca had never bothered to read the ticket while in England. The telegram, after all, said it all:

May 10, 1895

Passage arranged

Rendezvous Coach in St. Peter

West Hotel

September 1

T. Elgerson

      Rebecca had been so thrilled the day it had arrived. The poor delivery boy surely must have thought she had taken leave of her senses when she hugged him unashamedly in her excitement. Nearly every cent had gone toward paying the photographer who had taken her picture to be sent with her reply to the ad. Rebecca hadn’t realized until the telegram arrived that she had been so tense with anticipation for weeks.

      “It’s here! It’s from him!” she nearly sang while dancing about the foyer and hugging the confused boy. Her flowing skirt swept around the both of them and she spun in her exhilaration. Rebecca shoved a meager coin into the bewildered lad’s palm, and, gathering up her billowing skirts, she dispatched him eagerly. She held the telegram to her bosom in relief and expectancy.

      The bell rang a second time and Rebecca flung open the portal, still swept up in the excitement of the moment.

      “Goodness gracious, Becky!” Emmy exclaimed. “You’re all rosy and flushed… what on earth?”

      Rebecca took Emmy by the hand and excitedly towed her into the parlor. In an animated production Rebecca described her design for her future, reading aloud a copy of the letter she had sent in reply to the ad.

      “Oh Emmy, it was so perfect,” she splashed on excitedly. “I was very careful to not let on anything about David and all that. I wrote back just like he had posted in his advert. You know, that I was a widow and seeking a new life. Not much more than that. Then I enclosed the picture. A very serious picture since I’m sure he’s a sober type of man.” She attempted, suppressing her exuberance, to duplicate the pose, illustrating her portrayed attitude for the picture. “Well, you get the idea,” she declared when her attempt at an unsmiling stance failed her. “And then today, just now,” she rattled on, “I get the telegram! Rendezvous… that’s what it says,” she bubbled. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

      Emma had only stared at her in disbelief.

      “Why did I even tell her?” she asked herself as the train took another unnerving jolt. Emma would never understand. How could she? Spoiled and living without want she would never appreciate any of it, Rebecca thought. Emma knew nothing about debts, about losing her home, her property. Nothing about nothing. Rebecca had just that when David had died, nothing. Emma never knew how an afternoon invitation to tea and cakes would be Rebecca’s only meal that day. She never saw that patched petticoat was done up out of necessity and that Rebecca had no means to replace it. Emma had made it sound so dirty, so humiliating… mail order bride… “Picture bride”, she had said. Rebecca shuddered at the thought.

      It could sound that way, yes, and Rebecca had had those same thoughts once, until the debt collectors had visited so many times. Until the day that shameless piece of trash had appeared at her door without even having the decency to disguise her obvious condition claiming that she was carrying David’s child and expecting to be included in the trust! It didn’t matter that the trust no longer existed. It did, however, matter that this hussy had visited the lawyers and David’s family before approaching Rebecca’s door and that, over the next few weeks, she was merely one of several others in similar situations.

      The day Rebecca saw the tiny ad from Mr. Elgerson she knew it would all change. It
would
change and Rebecca knew that this would be how. She’d answer the ad and it would change everything.

      Emma’s wrong, Rebecca told herself. This was the answer. In a year she would be remarried, far from home, far from prying opinions and debts and those poor illegitimate babies and free to do as she pleased. In a year she would invite Emma to a fine wedding with a rich landowner and Emma would see the light.
That
Emma would understand. After all, every beau her cousin had considered marrying herself had title, and marrying for love was something Emma would never do. This time I won’t either, she reaffirmed. Not this time.

      She shivered in the stuffy train car and tried to shake off the memories, again checking her pocket watch in apprehension and anticipation. The scent of weary travelers spoiled the air and the sounds of snores and whimpering children hung as an intrusive backdrop to her thoughts. Steam clung and dripped along the tiny window and the train pressed on as Rebecca fought with her resolve, pressing her doubts and fears deeper into herself.

      Rebecca leaned her petite head back against the hard  seat and daydreamed of the open acres of land that awaited her, a sweet smile curving on her slender lips. Romping horses dotted the horizon as she imagined herself knitting on the veranda instead of this stifling train car. She would feel the warmth of the sunshine and would plan her wedding in her newly planted rose garden. If only the rain would cease she was sure her dream would spread out before her.

      A hard jolt of the train jerked her back to reality, the piercing whistle signaling yet another in what seemed like endless stops.

      “Ticket please, Miss,” the porter requested once again. Rebecca carefully unfolded her precious bundle and searched for her rite of passage. Sure she had had the ticket moments ago, she fumbled through her few personal belongings, rummaging around while the  porter hung patiently over her. Finding the stub, she pressed it into to his hand impatiently, lifting a fine brow to show her disdain for his chosen profession.

      “Sir,” she said, in her most condescending tone, “after all of the wretched miles I have traveled in this horrid contraption, and the innumerable times you have asked for that ticket has it not occurred to you sir, that I do indeed possess a ticket? Or perhaps it is something you are incapable of recalling?”

      “No, Ma’am.” He turned away from her and began to approach the passenger seated behind her.

      “Sir?”  Rebecca readdressed him, more frustrated than ever and thoroughly dissatisfied with his response. “I have not yet finished speaking to you!”

      The porter turned briefly towards her and then returned to his duties.

      “Humph!” Rebecca sighed. “Heathens!” she thought. How rude these people were, but soon that would all change and they would all recognize her for what she really was.

      Suddenly she hung her head in realization. “Who am I really?” she thought. “I’m seated in this third class seat with my patched petticoat and unwashed hair, wretched to the very core of my being.” She hoped the hotel in town near her new home would afford her the opportunity to freshen up, and a chance to change into the one appropriate piece of clothing she had carefully packed into her trunk. The satin visiting dress, carefully remade from her mourning attire, in the smart black and white that showed off her trim figure  would be perfect, she thought, for her first meeting with Mr. Elgerson.  Of course, a hot bath would renew her spirits, and then everyone, especially her newly intended husband, would see that she was indeed a lady. The watch ticked on, bringing her closer to her destination and her uncertain future.

      The steady click of the train wheels coaxed her back into her daydream, and the wash of the rain continued to splash dully against the car. Rebecca’s past fell further and further behind her as she pressed on towards the realization of her new dreams.

      “Mail order bride,” she thought. “We’ll see who’s ordering whom.” Rebecca drifted off to thoughts of warm sunshine, fine foods, lovely gowns and poor Mr. Elgerson at her beck and call. She could imagine him now, fussing over her. She felt sure the initial T. must stand for something very distinguished. Thurston possibly, or maybe Talbot, or perhaps, since this was America, Thomas. Yes. “Thomas”.

      “Thomas dear, bring me my wrap,” as she lounged around the parlor fire.

      “Of course, darling, straight away!” And off the man would go.

      “Yes,” Rebecca smiled. “That’s exactly how it will be.”