No Other Love

N
O
O
THER
L
OVE

I
SABEL
M
ORIN

Copyright 2012 by Isabel Morin

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

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

My never-ending thanks to Abby Strom, whose support, advice and willingness to read draft after draft of this manuscript were never-ending. My thanks to Caroline Tolley, Katy Wight and Alexandra Mandzak for their crucial editorial help.

To my husband Michael, for coming along and inspiring me to finish this story.

Chapter One

May 28,
1841

The white three-story house sat gracefully atop a gentle rise, looking every bit the country seat of a wealthy Bostonian with its stable and carriage house, its pond and scattered trees. It was exactly what Rose had expected, yet dread filled her as she stood at the end of the long drive, facing Cider Hill for the first time.

For several long minutes she couldn’t move. Her heart raced with nerves and she would have given anything to turn around and leave without looking back. But failing her father wasn’t an option, nor could she stand there forever. The only thing to do was go forward.

She smoothed down her skirts and brushed the dust off her shoes. It wouldn’t do to arrive dirty and disheveled from the long walk.

So focused was she on the house before her, she didn’t hear the horse and rider approaching from behind until the thunder of hooves was nearly upon her. She turned around just in time to see a horse rearing above her, its legs flailing only inches from her head. She heard the rider trying to soothe his mount just before he was thrown backwards, landing with a thud on the packed dirt of the drive.

Instantly the horse calmed and returned to all fours, nosing the man as if in apology before wandering over to graze along the edge of the drive.

Horrified, Rose ran to the fallen man, dropping to her knees by his side as he struggled to a sitting position.

“I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t hear…”

The glare leveled at her stopped her cold. Under normal circumstances she would have thought the man quite handsome, but today his curling dark hair, strong cheekbones and firm jaw were no match for her distress.

“What were you doing there?” he asked, grimacing as he tried to stand. “Trying to kill someone?”

This was an ironic accusation given the reason she’d come to Cider Hill, but Rose ignored it. The man had regained his footing and now towered over her, but it was clear from the way he favored his left leg that it was injured.

“Please, let me help you,” she said, moving toward him instinctively, but he shrugged her off, his expression thunderous. Even in his weakened state he exuded power, his broad shoulders and muscled body evidence of his physical vitality.

“I’m perfectly able to walk on my own,” he ground out, taking a step.

Immediately his leg gave out beneath him, sending him down on one knee. His eyes closed, his face tightening with pain.

Rose knelt beside him.

“At least let me help you to the door,” she said, hoping to appeal to his common sense.

He said nothing for a time, and then a curt nod conveyed his acquiescence. Rose grasped his arm and helped him to his feet. When he was upright he draped an arm across her shoulders, the contact shockingly familiar as their bodies pressed together.

Without a word they began their labored way up the many steps leading to the door, Rose nearly staggering under the man’s weight. Why had she not offered to fetch someone – a groom perhaps – to help?

The whole morning was a disaster. Not only had she hurt someone, but her entire plan was in ruins. Had he not arrived, she would have gone to the servants’ entrance without notice from anyone in the family and been promptly assigned her new position. There was no chance now of a quiet entrance. Whether he was family or a guest, there was sure to be a great deal of fuss over him.

At last they struggled up the last step and reached the doorway. The man took his arm from her shoulders and leaned against the doorframe, relieving her of his weight. Rose stood beside him, grateful that her bonnet protected her from any sidelong glares. Without another word to her he reached for the doorknob.

Rose’s knees went weak and her vision dimmed as she tried to catch her breath. The door would open momentarily, and then the plan she had set in motion weeks before would be real. There was no turning back now.

“De fumo in flammam.
”

It wasn’t until the man looked at her sharply that she realized she’d spoken the words aloud.

“Out of the smoke and into the flame? Why do you say such a thing?” he asked, his dark eyes intent as he frowned at her.

Fortunately she did not have to answer, for the door was flung open by an older woman in a crisp gray dress and lace cap. Perhaps this was Mrs. Craig, the housekeeper with whom she’d corresponded.

“Good heavens, Master Luke! What’s happened?” the woman asked, rushing to the man’s side. Together she and Rose helped him into a room a few steps down the hall. With a groan of relief he collapsed onto the sofa where he sat, obviously exhausted, while the older woman settled him more comfortably.

“Thank you, Mrs. Craig. That will do.”

“Shall I call Dr. Rhodes?”

Before he could answer, a distinguished-looking man and woman hurried into the room. Though older and stouter, the man was clearly the father of the injured man who now sat on the sofa, his leg propped up on pillows. Rose steeled herself at the realization that she was standing face to face with Jonas Fletcher, President of the Western Railroad Company.

Until that moment she’d been so wrapped up in thoughts of what Jonas Fletcher had done, she hadn’t even considered that there might be others responsible. Now she looked at his son. Could it have been him? Was he capable of murder?

“Are you hurt? What’s happened?” Mr. Fletcher asked, hurrying to his son’s side.

Rose’s chest tightened. As soon as Mr. Fletcher heard what had happened, he would blame her for the accident and she’d be turned away, her one chance over before it had begun.

Luke Fletcher frowned darkly.

“Neither my horse nor I were expecting to find someone standing dead in the middle of the drive. But there she was as we came around the trees. Arturo spooked and, much to my chagrin, I landed in the dirt. I seem to have twisted my ankle.”

“I see,” said Mrs. Fletcher. She wore an elegant, expensive dress and gleaming jewels. An elaborate costume given the country setting. Her gaze dropped deliberately to Rose’s faded blue dress and scuffed boots, her expression full of disdain. She pinned Rose with a cold stare.

“Perhaps you could explain who you are and why you acted so foolishly.”

The young Mr. Fletcher’s mouth tightened and his shoulders tensed at this. Rose was about to reply, but before she could form an answer he spoke again.

“It wasn’t entirely her fault, Charlotte. I was going far too fast as I came into the drive. It was careless of me,” he said, much to Rose’s amazement. “I’m only glad I didn’t hurt Miss…” He turned to look at her, his brow furrowing as if only now realizing he didn’t know her name. “She was kind enough to help me inside.”

Just then a young maid appeared, holding the worn brocade satchel Rose had dropped outside and completely forgotten.

“Charlie’s taken care of Mr. Fletcher’s horse, but he found this,” the maid said, placing it on the table before them for all to see.

“Thank you, Lydia,” Jonas Fletcher said. He turned to address Rose. “I take it this is yours?”

Rose forced herself to look at Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher as a servant would – demurely, subserviently – even as the urge to accuse them all filled her. Behind that was the desperate urge to flee the house, so terrified was she of the plan she’d put in motion. A plan she had concocted with a beginning and possible end but very little notion of what would happen in the middle.

But it would have to be enough. Until the Fletchers paid for what they’d done, her own comfort was of little consequence.

Realizing she still wore the straw bonnet that hid her face from view, she untied the bow under her chin and lifted it off. Her hair was a damp mess after the long, hot walk from her friend’s house in Boston, but she was not out to impress anyone with her looks.

“My name is Rose, Rose Stratton,” she said. “I’m here because Mrs. Craig has promised me a position in your household.”

“I see,” said Mrs. Fletcher. “Well, that explains it. I wondered why a girl so poorly turned out would be here.”

Rose bristled at being spoken to so rudely but managed to hold her tongue. Luke Fletcher shot the woman a piercing look, as if taking offense on Rose’s behalf. Perhaps he felt that only he should be able to insult her, or perhaps he was regretting his earlier behavior.

“I didn’t realize you were coming today,” the housekeeper put in.

“I did write,” Rose said. “My letter must have gone astray. I didn’t mean to arrive unannounced.”

Mrs. Craig shook her head. “That’s of no consequence. We can certainly use you, if that’s acceptable to Mrs. Fletcher,” she said.

“Very well. I’ll leave her in your hands, Mrs. Craig,” the mistress replied, already losing interest. “Now if you’ll all excuse me, I have other, more pressing matters to attend to,” she said, exiting with a sweep of her skirts.

How odd that Mrs. Fletcher appeared so little concerned for her son. But then, he had called her by her first name, so they must be some other relation.

Jonas Fletcher turned to Rose.

“My thanks for helping my son,” he said, his smile sincere. “I’m only glad you’re unharmed. Hopefully the rest of your time here will be less eventful. In any case, we’re pleased to have you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Rose replied, surprised that such a powerful man was taking the time to address her. He wasn’t at all the imperious railroad czar she’d expected.

Picking up her bag, she glanced once more at the man sprawled on the sofa, his concerned father standing beside him. He looked back at her with something like curiosity or puzzlement, though why that should be she couldn’t guess. Nor did it matter.

Only her father mattered.

“I’m afraid the only place I have for you is as scullery maid,” Mrs. Craig began. “Normally I would give it to one of the less well-spoken girls and use you for serving and such. However, it was only fair that I let Dottie take the better position, as she’s been with us for over a year now and has earned an advancement.”

“I understand. I’m grateful for whatever you can give me.”

They were sitting at the table in the servants’ hall, a large room situated between the kitchen and laundry room. Mrs. Craig had commandeered a corner of it for use as an office. In front of her were lists and menus and an accounting of household expenses. She wore spectacles as she scanned her notes, but now she took these off and looked directly at Rose.

“Yes, well, Sally is a good judge of character,” she said, referring to the housekeeper who’d referred Rose. “She tells me I won’t be sorry.” Here she paused for a moment, as if choosing her words carefully. “I am curious why a girl of your obvious education needs to work here.”

“My schooling won’t affect my duties, nor make me think myself above them,” Rose replied. “I’ve been living on a farm for the past six years. I’m no stranger to hard work.”

“Very well then. You’ll room with Lydia. Through that door and up the stairs are the maids’ quarters. Your room is the second door on the right. Put your things away but come right back down. There’s plenty to be done in the kitchen.”

Rose was so tired she could hardly think straight, but she followed Mrs. Craig’s directions, ascending a narrow set of stairs to the silent, stifling hallway that ran above the servants’ hall and kitchen.

There were six rooms in all, three on each side. Either the male servants resided in another part of the house, or they had rooms in another building. Not being familiar with how wealthy families lived, Rose could only guess at how many servants a house like Cider Hill required. The question was, how many Fletchers lived here? Was it only Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher, or did Luke Fletcher and perhaps others members of the family reside here as well?

She hesitated at the appointed door, irrationally fearing what lay on the other side. It would not be her bedroom on the farm with its familiar view of their fields, the cheerful yellow curtains her aunt had sewn, the quilt from her childhood bed.

Taking a deep breath she opened the door. Inside were two narrow cots with a rickety table between them. A half-burnt candle sat atop it, looking as lonely and dejected as she felt. A bonnet, dress and apron hung from pegs set into the wall. Beside the door stood a scarred chest of drawers, on its top a tangle of hairpins and ribbon and a tiny painting of a woman, her cheeks tinted a pretty, flushed pink.