Bogus Bride. Emily French

       Prologue

       Cornwall, England, Spring 1842

      “A letter, Caitlin. Papa has a letter from America. From Samuel!”

      With a passionate rustling of silken petticoats, Caitlin was on her feet. “Give it to me,” she commanded, her cheeks on fire.

      “I may not see so well these days, but it is addressed to me,” her father said bitingly, “and your sister shall read it.”

      Caitlin swallowed hard. There had been times when she thought that Samuel had forsaken her, that she would be a spinster for the rest of her life. But now the longed-for letter had come. She could wait.

      The flimsy envelope held a much-crumpled letter, as if the writer had altered it many times before daring to send it. Caitryn gave her sister a small apologetic glance and sat on the settee beneath the tall silver candlesticks. It was a long letter, crossed and recrossed, and she spread out the sheets where the light would fall upon them. Her sweet face shone with anticipation and joy as she began to read the letter aloud.

      Caitlin stood at the window, spine stiff, fingers interlaced too tightly, and watched the expression on her younger sister’s face. It was as if Caitryn believed that Samuel had penned the pages with a heart full of love for her and that what he had to say was for her eyes alone.

      Samuel wrote of all that had happened to him since he had left Cornwall, ten years before. Then he went on to say that he had entered the lumber trade and had prospered mightily. He was now a man of means, with everything a man could wish for, except a wife.

      Sir Richard grunted. Samuel was the only son of the local doctor, and it had been decided that Samuel should also become a doctor. But Samuel, though possessed of all those attributes desirable in a doctor—a warm heart, strong nerves, charming manners and an unshakable faith in his own judgment—had been a reluctant recruit. Samuel had preferred examining the earth and the trees that grew upon it, and the changing seasons that died and renewed themselves.

      Dr. Jardine had cursed and sworn until Samuel gave in and began his medical studies. Then, somehow, he had bungled a simple prescription. The patient had almost died, and the good doctor had ranted and stormed. Rightly so, thought Sir Richard. But Samuel had flung his stethoscope in his father’s face and decamped to America, where he had completely disappeared.

      Now here was a letter from this prodigal son!

      “‘And so, sir, I come to the purpose of this letter,’” Caitryn continued reading aloud. “‘I have often thought of your beautiful daughter, Caitlin. No other woman has ever taken her place in my heart. If she is not wed, and is willing, would you permit her to travel to Maine and be my wife? I enclose a short note to her regarding arrangements for the marriage, and send my kindest regards to yourself and Mrs. Parr. Signed this Third day of May, 1842. Samuel Jardine. P.S. A bank draft for passage is enclosed.’”

      There was a moment’s silence. Caitlin hurried forward. “The note!” There was a loud rushing in her ears that made her own voice sound faint. “The note Samuel wrote for me myself. Where is it?”

      Caitryn blinked at her. She looked…different, somehow. A slight trembling shook her body, and her fingers groped upon the table as though her eyesight, as well as that of Sir Richard, was failing. Her face the color of ashes, she silently handed a small sealed note to her older sister. It was addressed to Miss C. Parr.

      “The damned cheek of it! Thinking to wed one of my daughters, after dead silence for ten years! Arrogant young pup.”

      With shaking fingers, Caitlin opened the personal note Samuel had written especially to her. Her heart slammed to a stop, and she felt the air leave her chest in a rush.

      My dearest Caitryn…

      Caitlin saw the words with eyes that burned, blurrily, as if from a great distance. In her mind, she tried to flee, but her legs would not move. It was like being stuck in quicksand. She was in a waking nightmare. For one instant, she thought her entire world had disintegrated. It seemed that even her heart had ceased to beat.

      Then the fingers of one hand closed convulsively over Samuel’s letter, and she thrust it into the bodice of her dress, safe from prying eyes. The crackle of the paper set her mind leaping fiercely upon another track.

      Each night, for ten long years, before she retired to bed, she had knelt in the window seat and found the North Star. The sight would bring a smile to her lips, while the memory of Samuel, fluttering through her mind, would lift up her heart like a flight of butterflies…. Now, standing by this window in the year of 1842, Caitlin felt out of patience with Samuel for his absurd confusion over the similarity of names between her and her sister.

      “What an absurd to-do about nothing, Papa,” she said, managing to laugh lightly. A pox on doubts. Samuel loved her. Confidence flared up, welcome, fortifying, reassuring. “It was courteous of Samuel to write to you, but, as I am of age, there was really no necessity.”

      Sir Richard’s jaw flexed. “No, by God. No daughter of mine will marry a man who deserted his father, a common lumberman, a fellow no better than a lackey.”

      To stand before the altar with Samuel—that had been the goal of the whole of her life. Well, most of it, at least since she had been sixteen. Caitlin’s chin rose a notch.

      She would go to America. She would marry Samuel.

      “I am sorry, Papa, but that is exactly what your daughter intends to do.”