Barkerville Beginnings Read online

  Barkerville Beginnings

  Canadian Historical Brides ~ Book 4

  British Columbia

  By A.M. Westerling

  Digital ISBNs

  EPUB 978-1-77299-761-3

  Kindle 978-1-77299-762-0

  WEB 978-1-77299-763-7

  Print ISBNs

  Print 978-1-77299-764-4

  Copyright 2017 by A.M. Westerling

  Series Copyright 2017 by Books We Love Ltd.

  Cover art by Michelle Lee

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this

  publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in

  any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise)

  without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book

  Dedication

  Books We Love Ltd. dedicates the Canadian Historical Brides series to the immigrants, male

  and female, who left their homes and families, crossed oceans and endured unimaginable

  hardships in order to settle the Canadian wilderness and build new lives in a rough and untamed

  country.

  Acknowledgement

  A hearty thank you to Caroline Zinz, Librarian and Archivist, Barkerville Historic Town. I

  really enjoyed working with you! And thanks to my very dear critique buddies, Vicki, Moira and

  Toni. I couldn’t do it without you.

  Books We Love acknowledges the Government of Canada and the Canada Book Fund for

  its financial support in creating the Canadian Historical Brides series.

  Chapter One

  May 1867

  The Cariboo gold rush may have brought sudden prosperity to Victoria, thought Rose

  Chadwick as she elbowed her way through the crowded streets, but it didn’t beat the treasure she

  had waiting for her at home. Clutching the shawl wrapped around her shoulders in one hand, and

  her skirts in the other, she bounced up the stairs leading to Mrs. Beadle’s Rooming House, the

  finest one on Vancouver Island. Her high-top buttoned boots clicked on the wooden porch, the

  door hinges squealed as she swung it open, and the fragrance of stewing beef enveloped her as

  she stepped inside. Her stomach growled, reminding her breakfast had been long ago.

  Mrs. Beadle popped out from the kitchen at the end of the hall and waved at her. She

  waddled her considerable bulk down the hallway, floorboards groaning in protest. “I thought I

  heard you come in.” She pointed to the front drawing room. “There’s a gentleman here to see

  you.”

  “For me?” Puzzled, Rose stepped down the hallway until she could see into the room. Her

  heart sank as soon as she saw the tall man gazing out the window at the bustling street beyond.

  She’d recognize him anywhere: slicked back blonde hair, neatly trimmed mutton chop whiskers,

  and twirling his signature beaver top hat in his hand.

  “He’s no gentleman,” she muttered to the other woman, who inspected Rose with an

  inquisitive gleam in her eye, although the corners of her generous mouth curled up in an affable

  grin.

  “He says he knows you.”

  Rose shrugged. “A long time ago.”

  “He says he has an offer for you.”

  “An offer?” I bet he does, Rose thought grimly.

  The man turned as she walked into the drawing room. “What do you want,” she blurted

  before he had a chance to say anything.

  “What, no hello, no how nice to see you?”

  He chuckled, a harsh sound that grated on her ears. Strange to think that once she thought

  that the most melodic sound in the world.

  She snorted. “Because you’re the last person I want to see.”

  “We’ll have it your way then and forego the niceties.” He smoothed his whiskers with one

  well manicured hand, swiping first one side of his face then the other. “I have a proposal for

  you.” His black eyes gleamed as he swept his gaze over her, setting her cheeks to burning.

  She laughed, a grim little bark that startled the fat orange tabby cat drowsing in the puddle

  of sun on the top of the settee. Although the floral pattern was faded, the wood arms and legs

  gleamed with polish. Despite her vast girth, Mrs. Beadle was a fine housekeeper. Rose had

  considered herself lucky to find a room here.

  Until now. Until Mr. Edmund Hewett had found her.

  “I’m not interested,” she said curtly.

  “You haven’t heard me out.”

  “Because anything you have to say is of no interest to me.”

  “I want what’s mine.”

  Fear chilled her but she pulled her shoulders back and stood up as tall as her five feet, one

  inch—in her heels—would let her. “I have no idea as to what you’re referring to.”

  “Ah, but you do. I want what’s mine and I’m prepared to pay you for it.”

  She pointed to the door. “Please go.”

  “I’ll pay you but if not—” His eyes narrowed and his mouth compressed. Any pleasantness

  he may have feigned disappeared. He pulled out a lock of hair, a single golden curl tied with a

  dirty piece of string. “—if not, I’ll simply take what I want. And I’ll see to it that not only will

  you face financial ruin, I’ll let slip about your questionable morals.”

  Her heart plummeted. A wave of nausea rendered her speechless; her mouth worked but no

  sound came out.

  He chuckled again. “I see you understand me.”

  A bluff was her best chance. She couldn’t let him see how he’d rocked her very world to its

  foundations. “So it’s a lock of hair. That’s nothing. Again, please leave. I’m not interested in

  your proposition. Or your money.”

  “Not just any lock of hair.” He held it out and shook it so the little curl bounced. “But I

  understand you’ve suffered a shock with my unannounced visit. I’ll leave now, but I’ll be back

  tomorrow afternoon for your answer.” He tossed the lock of hair on the ground at her feet. “I

  won’t be needing this anymore.”

  “Don’t bother coming back. I’ll not change my mind.”

  He bowed, more out of mockery than respect, and sauntered out of the room. She clutched

  the back of the nearest chair for support, knees shaking so badly she thought she would collapse.

  It wasn’t until the door slapped shut behind him that she let go and sank to her knees.

  How had he found her? She’d been so careful, had changed her surname, had disappeared

  one night without telling anyone where she was going. How? Because he’s a wealthy, wealthy

  man, that’s how. He could afford to pay anyone to find her. Pinkerton’s, presumably.

  A clattering of feet sounded from the hallway and a small, blonde haired girl with startling

  blue eyes burst into the room. “Mama, Mama, Mrs. B. told me you were home.”

  “Here I am, poppet, did you miss me?” Rose straightened the eyelet apron on her four year

  old daughter and tugged on her petticoat so that its white lace edge peeped out properly beneath

  her pink cotton skirt.

  Her daughter nodded.

  “Were you a good girl?”

  “I’m always a good girl!”

  Rose pulled h
er close for a moment and shut her eyes to inhale the little girl scent. Sweet

  and innocent. Unaware of the Mr. Hewetts in the world.

  She rocked back on her heels and twirled the braided gold band on her left hand then with

  shaking fingers reached for the lock of hair on the floor. Perhaps it wasn’t…. She held it against

  Hannah’s head. Of course it was.

  Edmund had made clear his intent to claim Hannah. The daughter he had never

  acknowledged as his.

  Rose would not, could not let that happen. Hannah was the most precious thing in the world

  to her. She would not lose her. He said he was coming back tomorrow for her answer.

  That gave her less than twenty four hours for her and Hannah to make good their escape.

  * * *

  Five months earlier

  Viscount Harrison St. John ran his finger beneath the collar of his freshly laundered shirt.

  The maid who had washed it had used too much starch and it rubbed against his neck, making

  him even more uncomfortable on what already promised to be an uncomfortable day. His

  wedding day. A day that should be the most joyous of his twenty six years. So why did he feel as

  if he faced the gallows? Because, he reminded himself gloomily, this ceremony was no more

  than a business transaction.

  The snick of a latch interrupted his morose thoughts. He turned to look as a door swung

  open, revealing a glimpse of the winter-cloaked English countryside before Lord Frederick

  Worthington stepped through, pulling it shut behind him. “She’s running a bit late,” he said.

  Harrison inspected his best man, attired much like himself in a black wool double breasted

  suit, crisp white shirt and wine red silk tie. His trousers tapered fashionably at his calves and his

  black boots shone with all the spit and polish his valet could muster. Unlike Harrison, Frederick

  always looked as if he could step into Almack’s or London’s Royal Opera House at a moment’s

  notice. Mind you, the fact he possessed a dashing air might also have something to do with it.

  An air Harrison knew he could never match. He’d spent a small fortune on his suit, all in the

  name of “keeping up appearances” but knew his shoulders did not fill out the jacket quite as

  nicely as did Frederick’s, knew the fresh polish he’d applied this morning couldn’t really hide

  the scuff marks and worn down heels of his own boots.

  “What?” Harrison pulled out the pocket watch from his vest. “A minute or two. You know

  how Miss Nancy likes to make an appearance.”

  Frederick cocked an eye brow; his blue eyes twinkled. “I suppose you’re right. Especially on

  her wedding day when she knows all eyes are on her. Just as she likes.” He winked.

  “She’ll be here.” Apprehensive about the upcoming ceremony, Harrison swung his pocket

  watch. The chain glittered as it arced back and forth in the weak sunlight streaming through the

  stained glass windows of St. Barrnabas’ Anglican Church, the ancestral church of his family and

  the scene of countless weddings, funerals and christenings.

  Frederick peered around the edge of the transept. “The pews are full. This is quite an event

  for the locals.”

  “Ah, yes, the old and venerable St. John family has finally found a solution to its troubles.”

  Harrison didn’t bother to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

  “Cheer up. You’ll scare her if she sees the look on your face.” His friend clapped him on the

  back.

  Minutes ticked by. The church began to buzz with conversation. Harrison again pulled out

  his watch. Fifteen minutes late. Surely Nancy would sweep through the door any second now.

  Then they could get on with the service and, by the end of the day, he would have a wife and the

  sizeable dowry she brought. The dowry which would save the St. John estate. In the bargain, her

  industrialist family, in textiles as were most wealthy merchants in Manchester, would acquire the

  social status they so desperately craved. Simply put, an arrangement suiting all parties involved.

  He glanced over at Frederick. His best man frowned and shrugged. Now what? he mouthed.

  Harrison shook his head. Foreboding tickled his insides. The interior of the church darkened

  suddenly as clouds covered the sun.

  The notes of the organ swelled to drown out the sound of voices. However, it couldn’t

  drown out the titters. Or the guffaws. The organist played on, several hymns followed with a

  fugue by Bach. He gritted his teeth. He hated Bach, found the melodies much too dour. It didn’t

  seem right, to be listening to music he didn’t even like on his wedding day.

  Where in blazes was Nancy?

  Yet again, Harrison pulled out his watch. Forty five minutes late. He jammed it back into its

  niche in his vest, not even caring that the chain had gotten tangled up and didn’t hang properly

  across his chest. Where was she? Then the awful truth hit him like a runaway carriage.

  She’d jilted him. Left him literally standing at the altar with half of Lancashire as witness.

  A door opened behind him and the vicar emerged from the vestry. He plodded towards

  them, cassock flapping at his feet, sympathy shining from his rheumy blue eyes. He shook his

  head sadly. “I’m most terribly sorry. I’ve just received word she’s not coming.” He held out a

  thick cream coloured envelope. “For you.”

  “I see.” Harrison grabbed the envelope, his name scrawled across it in Nancy’s handwriting.

  He didn’t have to read it to know what it said—her absence said it all. He folded the envelope in

  half and jammed it into his jacket pocket then rubbed his hands over his face. A great weight

  pressed down on his chest, making it difficult for him to breathe.

  “Deuced uncomfortable situation.” Frederick’s concerned voice penetrated the roaring in his

  ears.

  Harrison looked up. “How could she?” he whispered.

  His friend shook his head and lifted his shoulders. “Women. Who can understand them?”

  The quip fell flat, but Harrison appreciated it nonetheless—it injected a hint of normality

  into this hideous moment. “Yes. Who can understand them,” he echoed. His lips twisted in what

  was meant to be a grin but most certainly came out a grimace.

  “You gentlemen are welcome to stay as long as you wish.” The vicar patted Harrison’s

  shoulder. “In time this will be forgotten.” He shuffled off.

  Forgotten? Seriously? Harrison watched the vestry door close behind the vicar.

  “A stiff drink is what you need,” said Frederick.

  Harrison shook his head. He doubted he could force anything past the knot in his throat.

  “What I need is to get out of here.”

  Frederick nodded. “Of course. I’ll finish up here.”

  “No. This is my tangle.” Harrison turned and stepped out of the transept, moving to face the

  nave. “I must apologize. There will be no wedding.”

  His gaze skimmed the front pew, over the horrified faces of his parents, the shocked visage

  of his sister Laura, the dismay on the faces of his intended’s parents. Even they, apparently, had

  not been privy to Nancy’s betrayal. He shrugged then walked down the aisle, past the knowing

  smiles of the few people still remaining in the pews until he stepped out of the church into the

  drizzling winter day. He noticed nothing, merely moved out from the shelter of the doorway and

  thumped down the stairs.
br />   He strode down the stone path, scowling at the clipped boxwood hedge that lined it and

  turned into the road. Now a few flakes of snow mingled with the rain and it dampened his coat

  until moisture seeped through his shoulders. It should have been uncomfortable but he didn’t feel

  the wet, didn’t feel the chill because a slow burning anger gnawed at him.

  Jilted. Rejected. Made a laughingstock. All in the name of “saving the St. John legacy.” He

  ground his teeth yet couldn’t deny the relief sweeping through his torso, accompanied by a

  grudging appreciation for Nancy. He’d been prepared to go through with the charade but at least

  she had the wherewithal to end it.

  He blinked away the snowflakes that had landed on his eye lashes, straightened his

  shoulders and marched on down the road. He would find another way to revitalize the family

  fortunes.

  The headlines in the English newspapers shouted of the riches of the Cariboo Gold Rush.

  Perhaps that’s where he would go.

  To Barkerville.

  Chapter Two

  Rose stood across the street from the bustling steam ship office. “British Columbia and

  Victoria Steam Navigation Company,” proclaimed the weathered sign tacked above the entrance.

  Covered wagons lined up beside the building, some with horses already in harness, others being

  loaded with boxes and barrels. Sucking in her breath and with Hannah firmly in one hand and her

  carpet bag in the other, she stepped forward. With every step across the muddy, rutted street, the

  carpet bag bumped against her legs as if propelling her into a new life.

  She entered the clapboard building and pulled up. Even at this early hour, the ticket office

  teemed with humanity. Men, for the most part miners by the look of them, clad in rugged

  trousers, grubby shirts, and heavy jackets. Nearly all sported thick beards and most, she knew,

  were miners soured on the California gold rush and now moving their way north to search for the

  “golden gravel” of the Cariboo. A few miners must have brought their wives, for several women

  stood amongst them, faces weary and eyes bleak as if they already knew the promised riches

  would not be theirs to find. Her heart squeezed at their blatant dejection, yet Rose felt the