Reluctant Bride (The Bride Ships Book #1) , livre ebook

Baker Publishing Group - Jody Hedlund

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153 pages

English

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Living in London's poorest slum, Mercy Wilkins has little hope of a better life. When she's offered an opportunity to join a bride ship sailing to British Columbia, she agrees. After witnessing so much painful heartache and loss in the slums, the bride ship is her only prospect to escape a bleak future, not only for herself but, she hopes, someday for her sister.Wealthy and titled Joseph Colville leaves home and takes to the sea in order to escape the pain of losing his family. As ship's surgeon, he's in charge of the passengers' welfare aboard the Tynemouth, including sixty brides-to-be. He has no immediate intention of settling down, but when Mercy becomes his assistant, the two must fight against a forbidden love. With hundreds of single men congregating on the shore eager to claim a bride from the Tynemouth, will Mercy and Joseph lose their chance at true love, or will they be able to overcome the obstacles that threaten to keep them apart?

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Historical romance

Informations

Publié par	Baker Publishing Group
Date de parution	04 juin 2019
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781493418688
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	2 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0461€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Cover
Books by Jody Hedlund
The Preacher’s Bride
The Doctor’s Lady
Unending Devotion
A Noble Groom
Rebellious Heart
Captured by Love
B EACONS OF H OPE
Out of the Storm: A B EACONS OF H OPE Novella
Love Unexpected
Hearts Made Whole
Undaunted Hope
O RPHAN T RAIN
An Awakened Heart: An O RPHAN T RAIN Novella
With You Always
Together Forever
Searching for You
T HE B RIDE S HIPS
A Reluctant Bride
Title Page
Copyright Page
© 2019 by Jody Hedlund
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2019
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4934-1868-8
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Jennifer Parker
Cover photography by Mike Habermann Photography, LLC
Author is represented by Natasha Kern Literary Agency, Inc.
Contents
Cover
Books by Jody Hedlund
Title Page
Copyright Page
Epigraph
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
Author’s Note
About the Author
Back Ad
Back Cover
Epigraph
one

L ONDON , E NGLAND M AY 1862
H ang on a little longer, my lamb.” Mercy Wilkins shifted the listless infant in her arms without slowing her pace.
Clara had stopped responding on Chilton Street, but the slightly warm breath coming from between the little girl’s colorless lips told Mercy she wasn’t too late . . . so long as the Shoreditch Dispensary wasn’t crowded and so long as Dr. Bates was available. He’d treat the infant even though Mercy had no way to pay for his services.
“Don’t you fret,” she murmured. “If Dr. Bates isn’t there, I’ll sell my shoes to pay the fee.”
Mercy ignored the cold dampness between her toes, the puckered skin on feet that hadn’t been dry since spring had chased away the chill of winter and invited a familiar tormentor in its place—rain.
The frequent showers not only soaked her half boots but also turned the streets into swamps of mud and horse manure. The mixture oozed through the holes where her toes had worn through the leather and threatened to suck the shoes off her feet.
She’d tied the frayed laces tight, causing them to break and forcing her to knot them yet again. Though the strings didn’t reach the tops of her boots anymore, she was lucky to have them, lucky to have boots at all when so many wore nothing on their feet but rags.
“I’ll gladly trade my boots for you to be seen to by a doctor, my sweet one.” She brushed a kiss against Clara’s cheek. The infant’s face was as pale as the fog that hung over the rooftops, and as thin and hollow as the terraced houses that lined either side of the street.
Several boys bumped against Mercy, jostling her. Fingers darted in and out of her skirt pocket with the nimbleness of an expert thief. She had nothing for the boys to steal. The looks of her should have told them that. Except that with the sick infant, maybe they supposed she had a halfpenny tucked away to pay the doctor.
She caught sight of the face of one of the boys, recognizing him in spite of the layer of soot and filth. “Mr. Martins is looking for another boy to clean the streets. Go talk to him and earn your bread the honest way. D’ye hear me?”
The boy didn’t acknowledge her comment except to hunch further into his man-sized greatcoat and tip his round cap down to shield his face.
Mercy shook her head but plodded forward. If Mr. Martins would only offer her the street-cleaner job, she’d take it in a snap. But no amount of her pleading had changed his mind about giving the work to a young woman.
“Heaven save us all,” he’d exclaimed. “What’s the world coming to with women thinking they can do a fellow’s job?”
Mercy had wanted to retort that dodging betwixt horses and carriages to shovel up steaming piles of dung didn’t take any special talent. Surely a woman could do the job just as well as a man. But Mr. Martins made it clear enough he wouldn’t hire her, just like the dozen other people she’d approached that day.
“No matter,” she whispered. “I’ll find something. Just you wait and see.”
Clara’s head lolled, and Mercy shifted the infant again. Not quite two years old, the child didn’t weigh much more than Twiggy’s newborn babe. Even so, after carrying the girl for blocks, Mercy’s arms burned from the burden.
Through the foggy mist hovering in the narrow street, she glimpsed the Shoreditch Dispensary. Like the surrounding businesses, it leaned outward and was propped up by beams to the building across the street. The beams were almost like canes, meant to keep the aged, tottering structures from collapsing into the filth below.
Between high windows hung strings of soggy garments, so threadbare and gray they resembled the rags Twiggy sorted at the factory. Their soaking from the recent rain would wash away the grime for a moment, but never for long. In this part of London, the filth was as constant a companion as the rats.
“Almost there, dear heart.” If only she’d known how sick the girl was, she would have brought her earlier. At least in the late afternoon, the streets weren’t as crowded. And at least the rain had decided to show some compassion.
Upon reaching the dispensary door, Mercy fumbled at the handle, kicking her boots against the brick step, attempting to dislodge the muck. As she entered, the dark gloom of the hallway greeted her.
An old man crouched in the corridor cradling his arm. A mother sat opposite him, holding a bundle of blankets with a tiny bare foot poking through the fabric. The babe’s stillness, as well as the mother’s vacant gaze, told a story Mercy had heard too many times.
“Doctor!” Mercy strode down the hallway, her footsteps squeaking and squishing with each step. “I’m in desperate need of help.”
“Wait your turn, you young cur,” growled the old man. “There be others needing the doctor first.” He nodded to the mother and babe. The woman stared at the faded green wallpaper, the remnants of a time when the home had been fancy and belonged to a family of means. Such families had long since moved away and built larger homes in parts of London Mercy had only heard about but never seen.
Mercy regarded the babe’s unmoving outline, then faced the older man. “The doctor may be able to save a life. Do you want two children dead instead of one?”
She held his angry gaze until finally he dropped his sights to the muddy footprints that caked the wood floor.
“Doctor,” Mercy called again as she made her way to the room Dr. Bates used as his office. “Please, I need your help. Straightaway.”
Seeing the door was ajar, she bumped it open with her hip. The massive desk positioned near a boarded window was cluttered with books and papers and inkpots. A lantern was lit and illuminated its dusty globe painted with delicate flowers. But Dr. Bates wasn’t there.
The door of the adjacent room swung open, and a young man exited, his hand swathed in bandages. He didn’t spare her or the others a glance, as if they didn’t exist.
Mercy supposed it was easier for some people to pretend the problems weren’t there. The heartache, the burdens, the needs . . . it was all so overwhelming at times.
Clara’s weight dragged at Mercy. For an instant, she was tempted to slide down next to the mother with the dead babe and stare at the wallpaper too. But at a clank from the open doorway, Mercy forced herself to move, gathering the strength to fight for one more life.
“Doctor?” She entered the room unbidden. “Can you give a look at my little lamb?”
At the room’s lone table, a young man stood in front of a basin of water where he was washing his hands. Beside the basin lay a scattering of instruments and supplies—a scalpel, small scissors, ligature thread, and needles. He’d discarded his coat over the back of a nearby chair to reveal a striped waistcoat and a finely tailored shirt, its sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His dark brown hair was tousled, likely the result of a long day of rushing from one urgent need to the next.
His face was unfamiliar, not one of the usual doctors who gave of their time at the dispensary. Since Clara needed immediate attention, this man would have to do.
He glanced up and paused in his scrubbing. Exhaustion crinkled the corners of his eyes and forehead. “I shall be with you in a moment.” He didn’t speak unkindly, just wearily.
“I don’t have a moment, sir.” Mercy crossed the room toward the cot. “This sweet child is failing fast, that she is.”
Gently Mercy lowered the girl, whose limbs flopped about, her strength and life all but gone. Mercy dropped to her knees beside the cot and caressed Clara’s cheek and forehead, brushing back strands of matted hair. The girl’s dirty face was shriveled, her eyes shrunken, her lips cracked.
“Don’t you leave me, dear heart. The kind doctor will fix you up. I promise.”
Thankfully, the doctor didn’t delay and instead crossed to them quickly. He knelt on the opposite side of the cot and checked the infant’s pulse, an air of urgency emanating from every brisk movement he made. “What are your daughter’s symptoms?” he asked as he lifted first one eyelid and then the other.
“She’s not . . .” Clara wasn’t Me