Where The Heart Is (Choices of the Heart, book 1)

When Rochelle McShannon moves with her father from Morgan County, Georgia to the Yorkshire Dales, she thinks she’s leaving behind everything that matters to her. Her mother has passed away, her twin brother is going west to avoid the looming Civil War, and her family’s unpopular views on slavery and secession have destroyed her relationship with the man she hoped to marry. If returning to her father's childhood home eases his grief, Chelle asks for nothing more.

Martin Rainnie understands grief. Since the loss of his wife in childbirth, he’s known little else, except anger. He’s retreated to his farm and turned his back on the world, including his baby daughter, who’s being fostered by Chelle’s relatives. With little Leah drawing them together, Martin begins to wonder if he can love again – and convince Chelle to do the same.

But the war overseas has far-reaching consequences, even in a small English village. Can Martin and Chelle overcome danger, loss, and bitterness to make a home where the heart is?

WHERE THE HEART IS

Choices of the Heart, book 1

Jennie Marsland

Published by Tirgearr Publishing

Author Copyright 2016 Jennie Marsland

Cover Art: EJR Digital Art (http://www.ejrdigitalart.com)

Editor: Lucy Felthouse

Proofreader: Sharon Pickrel

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This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

DEDICATION

To my parents, who gave me roots and wings.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I’m blessed with the best support a writer can have, from my family and from a wonderful local writing community. Ladies and gentlemen of the Hubbards Writers Society and Romance Writers of Atlantic Canada, your encouragement and friendship has kept me going through good times and bad. And to Pat Thomas, my editor and good friend, many thanks for your help as I revised this book.

WHERE THE HEART IS

Choices of the Heart, book 1

Jennie Marsland

Chapter One

The Yorkshire Dales

April 1861

“I never thought I’d see this place again. What do you think of it, lass?”

As the horse paused to breathe at the top of a hill, Rochelle McShannon looked down on the huddle of stone buildings that made up the village of Mallonby, her father’s childhood home. Slate roofs glistened black from the shower that had just passed by. The sun was breaking through the clouds now, checkering the distant dales with patches of light and dark. Out there, a tracery of stone walls patterned the green hills. Grazing sheep showed as moving dots on the landscape. The river Mallon wound through it all, a shimmering ribbon in the fitful sunlight. A pretty view, Chelle had to admit, though she missed the pines of home.

“I don’t know, Dad. Ask me when spring comes.” With a shiver, Chelle shrugged deeper into her cloak. She’d been cold since they’d sailed from New York. Back in Georgia, the days would be bright and warm. Her mother’s azaleas and the white French lilac would be in bloom, perfuming the air around the empty house. Chelle pushed the thought away with another shiver. Could it really be only six weeks since they’d laid Maman to rest? Since the world Chelle knew had turned upside down?

Her father slid closer on the cart’s seat and put his arm around her. “You’re your mother’s daughter, lass. Sidonie thought it was cold back in Morgan County. This
is
spring. When the wind eases up in a few weeks, it’ll be summer. When it turns wet and windy again, that’ll be autumn. And in the winter it snows. You’ve never seen snow like that before.”

They moved on, past Westlake Woolens, the mill that employed most of Mallonby’s people, down the slope to the village. Chelle’s father pointed to the church that came into view as they rounded a bend. “Your grandparents are buried there. I’ll show you on Sunday. And over there, that’s where I went to school when Mam could make me, which wasn’t all that often. By the time I was twelve, I was off to the racetracks.”

Seated on Chelle’s other side, her uncle Jack shook the reins and snorted. “Aye. Too scrawny to be of much use around the forge, and too lazy to go to school.”

The local blacksmith, Jack McShannon was as tall and broad as his younger brother was short and wiry. Chelle had never met her uncle before he’d picked her and her father up in York yesterday. She’d recognized him right away by his blond hair and blue eyes, the same as her father’s and her own. Uncle Jack seemed likeable enough, but Chelle couldn’t think of him as family yet.

Her father laughed at the affectionate contempt in his brother’s voice. For the first time since his wife’s death, he seemed something like his old self. “You’ve got me pegged, Jack. And there’s the store. The Binghams still have it, don’t they?”

“Aye, they do.”

“And there’s the Split Crow. It looks the same.”

Jack looked sideways as they passed the Mallonby pub with its cracked, peeling sign depicting a double-headed crow. “Aye, it hasn’t changed. Harry Tate still runs it. I’m sure he’ll remember you.”

Most of the village’s square stone houses were set in neighborly fashion close to the road. To Chelle, used to wood and whitewashed brick, they looked gloomy and uninviting, but she didn’t care. No house could ever replace home in her heart. If coming back to Mallonby eased her father’s grief, she’d ask nothing more.

Her uncle’s home stood at the far end of the village, at the edge of farm country. The river flowed behind it, shaded by a copse of stunted poplars. The house resembled all the others they’d driven by, squat and solid and to Chelle’s eyes, a little grim. Behind a wooden fence, she caught a glimpse of the stable and a whiff of smoke from the forge fire. Now she’d meet her aunt, her cousin and his wife and baby. More strangers.

If only Trey were here, her twin brother, her childhood playmate and best friend for eighteen years. But he was far away, headed west, out of the path of war, a war neither he nor his family could support. A war that meant they might never be welcome at home again.

Please, God, keep him safe. I can’t lose him, too.
Not after losing her mother and Rory McAfee…

But you didn’t lose Rory. He was never yours to lose. If he had been, it wouldn’t have mattered what his family or yours believed. Not if he loved you the way you loved him.

Uncle Jack pulled the horses to a stop. Chelle put on a smile to cover her sadness. She wouldn’t add to her father’s grief or to the burden they were placing on her uncle’s family.

Aunt Caroline, a high-colored brunette, met them as they stepped into the kitchen, a cozy room if rather dark, with only one small window. Shining copper pots hanging from the ceiling and a braided rug on the earthen floor added brightness.

“Now then, Rochelle, come in and welcome.” Caroline enveloped Chelle in a hug, then turned to her father. “Colin, it’s been a long time. You’ve not changed much.”

He swept off his cap and flashed a rakish grin. “You’re a poor liar, Caroline. We’re all twenty years older.”

Laughing, Caroline hugged him in turn. “It’s good to have you back, even at a time like this.”

Her son, Chelle’s cousin Brian, as dark as his mother but with his father’s hulking build, came forward and extended a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Uncle Colin. And you, Rochelle.” A teasing grin played across his face before he pecked her on the cheek. “The village lads will be pleased to meet you too, I’ll warrant.”

Brian’s wife Jean, a fine-featured young woman of twenty or so with brook-brown eyes and fawn-colored hair, gave Chelle a shy smile. “Don’t mind him, Rochelle.”

“Please call me Chelle. Everyone did at home.” Her mother had given her the nickname, and Chelle hated the thought of giving it up. She never wanted to forget how it had sounded spoken with Maman’s soft Cajun accent.

“Well then, Chelle, come along and bring your things. I’ll show you your room.”

Two carpetbags in hand, Chelle followed Jean through a doorway off the kitchen and up a tightly winding, narrow flight of stairs. The little white-plastered bedroom barely had space for a bed, a square bedside table and a wardrobe in one corner. The yellow cotton warp bedspread added a welcome splash of color, but the most attractive thing was the view of the dales from the window.

Chelle dropped her bags on the bed and sat next to them. Jean opened the wardrobe doors. “There should be enough room for your dresses in here.”

“Yes, plenty.” Chelle fought off a spasm of longing for her room at home, with its ivy-patterned wallpaper and windows looking out on the farm’s small orchard, fragrant with blossom in spring and rich with fruit in the fall. “I didn’t bring a lot with me.”

Jean sat beside her and put a hand on her knee. “I’m sorry about your mother. This must all be very hard for you. So, the war has already started, the papers say.”

“Yes.” Chelle and her father had landed in Liverpool to find that the news had arrived ahead of them. Fort Sumter had been taken. America was at war with itself. Chelle turned away from Jean’s sympathetic gaze, pulled clothes from her bag and laid them on the bed. What would become of home, of the peaceful landscape she loved? Chelle’s father didn’t believe the Confederacy could win the war, and now that she’d seen New York City, the factories, the throngs of people in the streets, she understood why.

“Immigrants by the thousands, willing to fight for a few dollars, or to man the factories and foundries to supply the army… even if right were on her side, the South can’t equal that,” he’d said a couple of days after her mother’s funeral. “And as far as I’m concerned, right isn’t on her side. But you twins were born here, and you’re not children anymore. You have a right to make your own decisions.”

For Chelle, the decision had been made when she and Rory had parted ways, when she’d told him she’d be going to England. Her father knew that. The question was really for his son. And Trey’s decision had cost him the farm he loved and expected to run one day. It had cost him his dream of raising horses, at least for the foreseeable future. It had cost him his friends.

“Colin wrote that your brother had decided to stay out of the fighting,” Jean said. “He did the right thing, Chelle. You all did.”

Chelle bit back a curt reply. What did Jean know? She’d never had to choose between her conscience and her heart.

“We wanted Trey to come with us, but he knew Uncle Jack didn’t need his help at the forge and he didn’t think he’d have much chance for a future here. Trey’s good with horses, like Dad, and he wants to raise them someday. I just hope he’ll be all right. The western territories aren’t much safer than a battlefield when it comes down to it.”

“He’ll be all right. Don’t let yourself think anything else.”
Apparently sensing that she was treading on tricky ground, Jean picked up two of Chelle’s dresses and hung them in the wardrobe. “These are pretty, though they’ll be a little light for a while yet.”

“I know. You might wonder why I’m not wearing mourning, but Maman told me before she died that she wanted me to dress as I always did. She said we’re only young once, and she wanted me to enjoy it. I made those dresses myself.” Stitched them through the winter, sitting in her mother’s room, while they made what they could of their dwindling time together. “Maman enjoyed sewing, and so do I.”

Jean wrinkled her nose. “I’m afraid I don’t, but these really are lovely.”

A baby began crying in the room across the hall. That would be Peter, Jean and Brian’s eight-month-old son. To Chelle’s surprise, another little voice joined in.

“Do you and Brian have another child? Dad only told me about Peter.”

“Not exactly.” Jean left the room and returned with a baby on each hip. “This is Peter, and this is Leah Rainnie. Her mother died, poor mite, so I’m nursing her. Her father has a farm a mile out of the village, toward Carston.”

Peter was a chubby, dark-haired little fellow with his father’s features. Leah, who looked to be about the same age, had a pixie’s face, with big gray eyes and a fine down of red hair that was beginning to curl. Chelle took the little girl while Jean unbuttoned her dress and put her son to her breast. Sitting on Chelle’s lap, Leah looked up at her, eyes wide. Then she reached out to touch Chelle’s cheek.

Her heart squeezed. She drew the baby closer and ran her fingers through the bright silk of her hair. “You’re a darling. It’s a shame about her mother, Jean.”

“Aye, all the more so since she might as well have lost both parents.” Jean shifted Peter in her arms and reached out to touch Leah’s back. “Her father wants nothing to do with her. He pays us to keep her for now, but we don’t know what his plans are for her once she’s weaned. He can’t seem to bear the sight of her.”

The constant ache in Chelle’s chest shifted, changed. Little Leah had lost so much—as much as Chelle, and at such a young age. Sympathy made a lighter burden than grief.

“It’s his loss, then. She’s beautiful.”

“Her mother was pretty. The Rainnies, Martin and Eleanor, had been married for just a year and a half when Leah was born. Martin hasn’t any other family.”

“So Leah has no relatives who might take her?”

Jean’s face set in a frown. “Well, her mother’s parents live in Carston. I suppose they might take Leah when the time comes, though I can’t say I like the idea. They’re getting on in years to be raising a baby and they’re rather set in their ways. Not that her father would be much better as things are. He’s gotten a bit rough since Eleanor passed on. It’s a pity for Leah that she has her mother’s eyes. I think that’s what he can’t stand. Otherwise, the child is Martin’s spit and image. There’s Caroline calling. Lunch must be ready.”

They took the children down to the kitchen. Chelle spent the rest of the day helping around the house, getting acquainted with the family and listening to her father and Uncle Jack rehash stories of their childhood. By evening, she felt a little less like a stranger.

She helped Jean settle Peter and Leah for the night, then retreated to her room. This was the time of day when she missed home the most. She couldn’t help picturing the house abandoned, the windows lightless. They’d sold the farm to one of the neighboring planters, for only a little less than it was worth. Mr. Munroe had said he was happy to buy it to rid Morgan County of the McShannons. The house was of no use to him, so he intended to tear it down. His son Nathan had enjoyed telling Trey that, though he hadn’t enjoyed the fight that followed. Nate and Trey had disliked each other since childhood.

A scalding lump rose in Chelle’s throat, threatening to choke her. She forced it back.
They can’t destroy memories.
Jean had left the window open. Chelle closed it against the cool night air, got into her nightgown and took a shawl from the wardrobe—a favorite of her mother’s, made of soft ivory-colored wool decorated with delicate embroidery. It still smelled faintly of Maman’s jasmine perfume. Chelle wrapped the shawl around her shoulders and lay back on the bed.

Maman, I miss you so much. Please watch over Trey and keep him safe. And watch over Rory, too.

Perhaps—the hope wouldn’t die, no matter how foolish—perhaps someday, when the war was over, she could write to Rory and they could put their differences behind them. Everything would be different then. Even if they had to go west, as Trey had done…

No. Rory’s family owned one of the largest plantations in Morgan County. The McAfees had been slave-owners for generations. Chelle should have known better than to think for even a moment that Rory would marry the daughter of a farmer who worked his land with his own hands, let alone a girl whose family was suspected of abolitionist sympathies.