The Tarnished Necklace

Trish Inc. Duffin

Description

It is 1893 and through grief Peter finds love in his neighbour's daughter Maria. She is drawn by his gentleness, humour and compassion. Their love has barely begun to blossom when he is summoned home by his father, a baron in Leeds, England.

Charles is aghast to hear of his son's plans to marry Maria and plunges this couple into the nightmare of deceit. Maria, living on the dusty plains of Wyoming, is just as much a victim as is Peter.

Told with humour and gentleness this romantic/historical drama will prove hard to put down. The author has received positive feedback after her first printing. The comments ranged from young teenagers up to retired school teachers. The readers have admitted to crying, laughing, gasping and completely falling in love with the book. Filled with characters you will both love and hate, this is a book which you will enjoy no matter your age or possibly even your gender.

Sujets

• Romance historique
• Fiction
• Romance
• Christian

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 21 février 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780473223120
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Tarnished Necklace
by Trish Duffin
Copyright © Trish Duffin, 2012 All rights reserved The moral rights of the author have been asserted
Published by Trish Duffin ISBN 978-0-473-22312-0
Cover design by Tamsyn Standeaven
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission from the publisher.
Chapter 1 Wyoming 7 th June 1893
It was as if all his dreams were dying in front of him. Dreams of a family, pushing a child on a swing, splashing in puddles and growing old with his wife by his side. Instead of these dreams becoming a reality, a nightmare was unfolding. His wife lay in his arms, each contraction pushing her closer to deadly exhaustion as the baby remained firmly wedged in a breech position.
Peter’s neighbour was there and he could tell by the furrows on her brow that she was deeply concerned. Susan had been such a good neighbour. She had come over several times a week to help Chenoa prepare for the birth of their child, as well as teaching her how to run a house, cook meals and tend to the many needs of a home. For two days now Susan had remained firmly by Chenoa’s side as she tried to bring the baby into the world. She had catnapped, as had Peter, and was now exhausted while trying to offer Chenoa strength, but it wasn’t working.
The doctor was unavailable, and there was no midwife in this sleepy little settlement on the edge of the Great Plains. The local women often helped each other bring their babes into the world, but no-one had any experience with a breech birth. Even if they had been able to, few women would have wanted to help Chenoa. She was, after all, a savage, an Indian woman, and most of the women treated her with disdain. Yet here was Susan, one white hand wiping the brow of his dark-skinned wife.
Susan’s daughter, Maria, was in the other room preparing lunch. Chenoa and Maria were of similar age and had become close friends since Peter and Chenoa had bought the neighbouring farm in early spring. She had provided the friendship that Chenoa so desperately needed. They had spent hours together making small sheets and blankets. Now Maria was watching the probable death of her friend and her baby. Despite her fear Maria was still calm, showing her inner strength.
Chenoa moaned as yet another contraction hit her, her wide eyes filled with pain and fear. She looked deep into Peter’s eyes as he leaned forward to gently kiss her forehead.
He accepted the food from Maria, his eyes not moving from Chenoa’s face as the bread and cheese was passed his way. “Susan, how much longer will this go on for?” he whispered.
She simply shook her head, not wanting to recognize the obvious.
Before the sun had dropped below the horizon Chenoa had died. She had finally given birth to the lifeless body of her son and then slipped away a few minutes later. Peter gazed at the still warm face of his wife and cradled the child that never lived to see the light of day. His heart broke.
Chapter 2 A Funeral
Dusk gathered as Peter, Susan and Maria, united in grief, wept over the lifeless bodies of Chenoa and her son, until the tears no longer flowed. The night closed in around the small house. Eventually Susan lit some lanterns and said that they needed to prepare Chenoa and baby Jack. Peter cleaned the baby, cradling him gently as he was washed and then dressed in his layette. For a second he handled a diaper and then realised it would never be needed and fresh tears filled his eyes. He laid the baby in his mother’s arms, the diaper folded to one side. Sleep came fitfully that night and he was aware of Maria quietly crying and Susan comforting her. Peter wished he could have curled up and had someone comfort him, but he was a man of twenty-three with no mother to offer comfort. He had never known such luxury, yet he still yearned for a mother’s touch.
Maria and Susan awoke late in the morning still feeling exhausted and went to find Peter as his bed was empty. He was found grimly digging his wife’s grave, his face streaked with tears and dirt as he laboured. Further banging in the barn found Susan’s husband, Andrew, working on the coffin, his face set like stone. Susan and Andrew’s three younger daughters were collecting the eggs, milking the cow and picking flowers.
The men worked hard throughout the morning constructing the coffin and working on the grave. It was a quiet job, both men immersed in their grief and doing a job that would bring no sense of satisfaction.
Maria and Susan slipped off to tell everyone who would be interested about Chenoa’s death and let them know of tomorrow’s funeral. Few people approved of such a union between an Englishman and a savage. Fortunately there were some within the community who weren’t so bigoted and had come to love Chenoa’s sweet ways and Peter’s quiet, gentle humour. However, it was obviously going to be a small funeral. Susan and her daughter were back in time to prepare a late lunch for the men. The Reverend was away in another town as his parish covered a large area. It fell on Andrew to officiate so he planned the funeral with Peter as they made the coffin.
The next day was warm and sunny, in complete contrast to the mood of everyone as they gathered to the side of the house where the coffin lay. Peter spoke of his love and admiration for his young wife. No-one knew the situation in which they had met and he didn’t want anyone to know. What he wanted them to think was they had met, fallen in love, married and she had died giving birth to his son. Most of that was true as he had indeed fallen in love after they had married. He did consider the baby his son and was truly looking forward to being a father. His words caught in his throat as he spoke of his shattered dreams and the emptiness in his heart.
Andrew stood beside him offering strength with his mind wandering back to the last three months. Peter and Chenoa had bought the neighbouring land from their neighbours, Jason and Samantha White, who were missing their family and had decided to move back closer to them. They had also quietly but firmly established themselves as close friends. Maria, especially, had become close to Chenoa and had been excited over the baby’s arrival. While Peter worked in the fields she was frequently over at their home helping her friend around the house. Andrew and Susan had quickly taken Chenoa and Peter under their wings as both were without parents and very new to the world of farming. Now Andrew was watching this young man’s heart break.
Eventually the eulogy was finished, the last hymn croaked out and silence fell on the small gathering. Even the sky was quiet and there was barely a sound except for the odd cry from a far off bird. The men gathered around the coffin that held both mother and child. Peter had previously laid the baby in Chenoa’s arms and sealed the coffin. It was now slowly lowered into the ground. Andrew glanced over at Peter and saw a man deep in the grip of grief, and that sight hit him hard. Shovelling the dirt in place was the hardest thing the men had ever done. They had travelled great distances on horse-back, built houses, felled trees, worked on railway lines and worked long hours, but the shovelling of the dirt was the hardest as it hit their souls.
Chapter 3 Grief
Grief has a strange way of making the sufferer numb. The sun comes up, the chores are tended to, and the sun goes down. Such was the case for Peter. The cow was always milked, the chickens fed, the land tended to. Yet he couldn’t have told you whether the sun shone or the day was filled with rain. Andrew came over each day with an offer of help on the farm and a batch of fresh baking in his hands. Each day he saw a young man who clearly hadn’t slept and was merely going through the motions demanded of him. Each day Andrew returned, his offer of help politely rejected and the food accepted but probably not touched.
“How was Peter this morning?” enquired Susan as Andrew returned yet again only twenty minutes after departing.
“The same, he is just so numb. Why don’t we get him over for a meal? I doubt he is feeding himself.”
Susan agreed and later that morning she headed over to Peter’s place to invite him to come over. He refused. “No thanks Susan, I don’t want to impose on you. I’m fine, honest I am.”
She opened her mouth to say the offer was open anytime but found different words coming out of her mouth, while her hands perched themselves firmly on her hips. “Peter Matthews, you’re not fine. Anyone with eyes in their head can see that. I insist you come to our place for a meal tonight and I will not take no for an answer.”
The tone in her voice caused Peter to look at her in a different light. Instead of a tone of gentleness, which was her usual tone, this one was of authority, which took him by surprise. “Oh, er, I do apologise ma’am,” he stammered, then paused. “I will come. I will be there at six if that is appropriate?”
Susan smiled and rubbed his shoulder. “Sorry Peter, I look upon you as a son and spoke to you as if I was your mother. I do apologise. We miss you and we are worried about you.”
He nodded, “Thanks Susan, I appreciate it. I will see you later today.”
At that Susan scooped up her basket, gave him a small smile and headed back to her home.
Peter suddenly felt a small flicker of warmth ripple through his body and he walked over to the grave and sat down. “Chenoa, I’ve been invited over to the Scott’s place for dinner. I think they are worried about me.” He sat for a few minutes dwelling on Susan’s words and looking at the gravestone. He realised two weeks had passed and he had only functioned. Two weeks. At that he went into his house, looked into the mirror and realised why Susan had spoken as she had, as his reflection stunned him. He was gaunt, grey and clearly hadn’t looked after him