Sneak Peek at The Captive Heart
Though it's still the day before the book comes out, here's a little treat . . . the first chapter, just for y'all.
Chapter One
London, England,
February 1770
My precious Lord;
My only hope;
My Saviour, how I need You now.
Eleanor Morgan repeated the words, over
and over, scrubbing her fingernails more vigorously with each repetition. Prayer
was always better than blood. Perhaps if she focused on the simple child’s verse
she taught her charges, she wouldn’t feel like heaving. She bit her lip,
trapping a scream behind her teeth. A merciless idea. Better had she cried out
at the unfairness of it all, for now blood wasn’t merely under her nails.
Saltiness warmed the tip of her tongue.
A rap on her chamber door stopped her
scrubbing. The nailbrush clattered into the basin, her heart into her stomach. Before
she could think, she turned and snatched one of the brass candlesticks off the
bureau. Hot wax spilled onto her skin, the pain barely registering. Duke or
not, this time she’d do more than scratch the man’s face. Lecher. Beast. She
raised the makeshift weapon, the flame extinguishing as the door swung open.
A tiny woman in a lace wrap entered. Eleanor
choked. The candlestick slipped from her hand and crashed to the floor.
My
precious Lord;
My
only hope;
Duchess Brougham’s gaze darted to the
rolling candlestick, then back to Eleanor’s face. One of her brows lifted.
Eleanor rushed forward and sank to her
knees in front of the woman, not caring to grab a dressing gown to cover her shift.
Why bother? Humiliation was cloak enough. “Your Grace, I swear I did not
encourage your husband’s advances. Please, you must believe me. I would never—”
“Rise, Miss
Morgan.” The lady waited until Eleanor stood on shaky legs, a single furrow
marring her forehead. Was that compassion on her face. . .or resentment?
Duchess Brougham
sighed, long and loud, as if she might expel whatever demon anguished her soul.
Eleanor knew she
ought say something, but all her words dried up and blew away like the last leaf
of autumn.
Slowly, the
lady’s mouth curved into a fragile smile. “Did you not wonder, Miss Morgan, why
we have had four governesses in the space of a year?”
Eleanor grimaced. She would have inquired had
not pride muddled her thinking. The position of governess in a duke’s household
didn’t seem nearly as prestigious anymore. La, what a foolish dolt she’d
become.
You’ll never aspire to anything higher
than a trollop, girl.
The sting of her
father’s prophecy slapped her with more brutal force than she’d dealt her
employer. She lifted fingertips to her own cheek, coaxing out a whispered
confession. “I assumed lack on the part of the other women, Your Grace, and for
that I am woefully repentant.”
Duchess
Brougham’s eyes glinted with an odd intensity. “The lack is in my husband. I had hoped that this time. . .for you see, the
children dearly love you—” Her voice cracked, and she shook her head. “It is a
sorry business, but there is nothing to be done for it. For your sake, Miss Morgan,
you should leave. Now. Walk out the door and do not come back.”
Leave? The word
made as little sense as finding the undressed duke in her bedchamber earlier.
Eleanor wrapped her arms around herself, gaining what comfort might be found in
the action. If nothing else, perhaps it might hold together her grip on
reality. “But it is the middle of the night, Your Grace. Where am I to go? I
have no relations, no one to—”
“You do not understand
the severity of the duke’s anger.” Though a head shorter than Eleanor, the lady
grew in stature as she lifted her chin. “You have done more than rebuke him. He
shall have to account for the scratches on his face at the club tomorrow. The
passions grafted onto wounded pride are the most inveterate, and my husband’s
appearance is his pride. At best, the
duke will see you never again work in England. At worst . . .”
She didn’t
finish the sentence. She didn’t need to. Just last week, Eleanor had heard the
downstairs help gossiping about the fate of young Joe. For naught but a cross
look at the duke, the lad now resided in a holding cell at Newgate on a trumped-up
charge of thievery.
Eleanor
retreated to the side of her bed and sank onto the counterpane, grateful to the
mattress for holding her up. All her dreams of becoming London’s finest
governess had just been yanked from beneath her, the unfairness of it
staggering. Fresh tears burned tracks down her cheeks.
“There, there,
Miss Morgan.” The duchess took a step toward her, then stopped and clasped her
hands. Though Eleanor longed for a comforting touch, the woman would approach
no closer. She had already breached propriety by coming to Eleanor’s chamber.
Drawing in a
ragged breath, Eleanor gave in to a moment of self-pity, hating how weak she
was in light of the lady’s strength and dignity.
“Do not despair
so.” The duchess’s words were quiet. Intimate. As if she were speaking as much to
herself as to her governess.
Eleanor looked
up, surprised to see the lady’s eyes glistening with unshed tears. Indeed, the
woman’s face was a portrait of misery, and why not? How awful must it be to live
with an unfaithful husband?
“Now then.” The
duchess sniffed, her shoulders straightening with the movement. “I have a
cousin in Charles Towne, Mr. William Taggerton. I shall send him a missive,
posthaste, recommending you. Lord knows his children could use a proper
education in that uncivilized land. Book yourself passage, and I shall have him
meet you with the fare once you land. The Colonies are the best I can manage on
such short notice.”
The Colonies? Eleanor
swallowed back a sour taste. The tales she’d heard! The sideshows she’d
glimpsed of savages and ruffians and wild animals. This was where she would spend
the rest of her days? A shiver charged across her shoulders, leaving
uncertainty in its wake. But besides a beggar’s cup—or debtor’s prison—what choice
did she have?
None. For a
moment she nearly gave in to opening the cage door to a wild hysteria. But
truly, what would that accomplish other than possibly attracting the duke back
to this chamber?
Sucking in a
breath, she stood. So be it, then. If that were her fate, she’d do her best to not
only embrace it but to conquer it. Mayhap across a sea, in a land of foreigners
and anonymity, she’d finally be successful at blotting out her father’s words.
Indeed. She would be a success or die in the trying.
“I thank you for
your kindness, but,” she paused and angled her head for a clear view of the
lady’s face. “Why? Why do this for me?”
The duchess
smiled. “You are a rare one, Miss Morgan. I have appreciated your candor,
spoken with such grace and humility. An exceptional trait in a servant. You, I
shall remember.”
Blinking,
Eleanor fought another round of tears. Had anyone ever been so kind? “Thank
you, Your Grace. Neither shall I forget you.”
“Pack up your
things and ready yourself to leave. I will return shortly with a note of
reference.”
The duchess
departed before Eleanor could think how to reply. In truth, though, what more
was there to say? She relit the candle and tucked her two spare dresses into
her traveling bag. By the time the lady returned, Eleanor had dressed
haphazardly, slipped into her mantle, and tied her hat ribbon tightly beneath
her chin.
“Here is the
note, and also some money.” The duchess stood in the doorway, holding out her
hand. Creased and folded, a single banknote rested atop her palm along with a
small parchment. “I grant ’tis not a large amount, but it should at least keep
you fed on your journey.”
Eleanor
hesitated. She wasn’t owed any wages for several more months. It didn’t seem
right, taking money from this lady. Still, her own paltry coins would get her
nowhere.
Duchess Brougham
stepped into the room only so far as to set her offering down upon the bureau.
Before she turned to leave, she reached toward Eleanor, then slowly let her
hand drop. “Godspeed, my dear.”
With the closing
of the door, the candle sputtered, fighting for life in the shadows left by the
lady’s departure. Eleanor stood, dazed, knowing she should move, should
breathe, should. . .something. How had her life come to this? And worse, what
did the future hold? Gooseflesh rose on her forearms, and she fought the urge
to whirl about and dive beneath the bedstead. She hadn’t realized that allowing
self-pity to enter her thoughts also invited fear to tag along, hand-in-hand.
Bear up. Bear up!
Despite her
inner rallying cry, her heart skipped a beat. Too bad the silly thing didn’t
quit altogether, sparing her the horrors of traveling alone, unprotected.
Bowing her head, she closed her eyes.
My
precious Lord;
My
only hope;
My
Saviour, how I need You now.