Meet the Thompsons of Locust Street, an unconventional family taking Philadelphia high society by storm…
1870 ~ Muireall Thompson has taken her duties seriously since her parents died on the family’s crossing from Scotland to America in 1854. As the eldest sibling, their death made her responsible for her family and left little time for a life of her own. But now her brothers and sisters are adults; even the youngest is nearly ready to face the world on his own. What will she do when she is alone, other than care for an elderly aunt and volunteer at the Sisters of Charity orphanage? Has the chance for a husband and children of her own passed her by?
Widower Anthony Marcus, formerly a captain in the Union Army, is a man scraping the bottom of his dignity and hanging on to his honor by the barest thread. Reduced to doing odd jobs to keep a roof over his dear daughter Ann’s head, he often leaves her with the Sisters of Charity while he is out seeking steady work with a decent salary that will allow him to move from their single-room living quarters.
After an initial meeting that finds Muireall and Anthony at odds, a tentative friendship forms as they bond over their mutual affection for Ann. As friendship leads to passion, can a wealthy spinster and a poor soldier overcome their differences in station to forge a future together? Just as Muireall finds the courage to reach for her own happiness, Anthony’s past rises up between them and an old enemy reemerges to bring the Thompson family down once and for all. Will the divide between them be insurmountable, or can they put aside pride and doubt for a love worth fighting for?
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EXCERPT
Payden carried Ann upstairs after playing several games of checkers with her, the two of them stretched out on the floor in front of the fireplace. Muireall had read aloud to her from a book of fairy tales earlier in the evening and was impressed with her ability as she read along, though the child claimed she was not enrolled at a school, even the small one associated with St. Vincent’s church, the orphanage’s sponsor.
Muireall followed behind them up the steps, thinking about the cold Mr. Marcus must have faced on his walk home. It was surely not good for his injury or whatever caused him to use a cane.
“Put her in Elspeth’s old room,” she said as her youngest brother glanced at her. She’d already come up to the room, checked the fire, and run the bedwarmer between the sheets. She’d even found a small flannel nightgown at the bottom of one of the dresser drawers. Muireall had held it up, thinking she could cut off much of the bottom and re-hem the ruffled edge to fit the child but had dropped her hands instead. Ann Marcus would not be staying over again. The thought made her inexorably sad. She would have liked to have children, but it was far too late now.
She looked at the nightgown in her hand again. But perhaps a heavy chemise or petticoat could be made of it to guard against the winter winds. It could be stitched in the morning in little time.
The child’s eyes fluttered open, and she kissed Payden’s cheek. “Thank you for carrying me up, Mr. Thompson. I am so awfully tired.”
Payden sat her on the edge of the bed. “Just Payden,” he said.
Muireall knelt down and unhooked the long row of buttons on the girl’s shoes. She began to pull her dress and petticoat over her head, but the child resisted.
“I sleep in my dress, Miss Thompson. It is warmer that way.”
Muireall smiled. “Well, for tonight I have a nice, warm nightgown for you to wear.”
“Oh,” the child said, looking at the gown Muireall held. “It is very pretty.”
Muireall helped her change clothes, wiped her face with a warm towel, and brushed her long, thick hair. Ann could barely hold her head up as Muireall braided it. She tucked her into the bed, sat down beside her and laid her palm on the child’s cheek.
“It is so lovely and warm in this bed,” Ann said, gazing up at her. “Will you sit here until I fall asleep?”
“Of course I will.” Muireall bent down and kissed her forehead, closing her eyes to the sudden lurch in her heart.
Ann was asleep in moments, but Muireall stayed for ten minutes or more, making sure she slept soundly. She finally stood, picking up the discarded dress, petticoat, stockings, and shoes and quietly closing the door.
Muireall sat beside Ann while she ate her bowl of oatmeal and several slices of thick bacon the next morning.
“Thank you very much, Mrs. McClintok. This was delicious, especially with sugar and cinnamon on top!” She giggled and turned to Muireall. “May I take this last slice of bacon with me for later?”
“I’ve got a bag packed for you and your father’s luncheon,” Mrs. McClintok said.
“Oh,” she said and blushed. “Papa may not eat any of it, but I thank you anyway.”
“A stubborn one is your Papa?” the housekeeper said with a smile.
Ann frowned. “Not stubborn, but . . . well, maybe a bit stubborn. But still the best Papa in the world!”
“I’m sure he is, little one,” Mrs. McClintok said.
“Come along now, Ann,” Muireall said as she stood. “I hear my brother’s carriage out front.”
Muireall helped her with her coat, which Mrs. McClintok had brushed the night before, and wrapped a scarf around her neck.
“This matches my coat!” She smiled. But the smile soon faded. “Papa says we should not accept charity of things that some poorer soul could use more than us.”
“I make five of those a month in the winter for the sisters to hand out. They can do with four this month. Wrap it around your neck, child,” Aunt Murdoch said from the door of the sitting room.
“It is so soft!”
“Of course it is. Miss Thompson’s sister owns a store that sells Scottish yarn and fabric. The best wools you’ll ever find. She gives me as much yarn as I can knit, so don’t let your Papa make a fuss. Tell him Aunt Murdoch insists. And anyway, I’m making you matching mittens, so you must keep the scarf.”
“Oh! That would be so nice!”
Mrs. McClintok hurried down the hall carrying a large canvas bag. “Here is something for your noon meal. It is heavy. Let Miss Thompson carry it for you.”
Ann and Muireall hurried to the waiting carriage, where James’s gruff coachman, Bauer, held open the door. He was an ex-boxer, too old to fight and down on his luck with an ailing son to care for, who’d taken to standing outside the Thompson Gymnasium and Athletic Studio. It had been built with Elspeth’s husband’s Pendergast money and was very successful because of James’s management and the Thompson name, synonymous with his championship boxing.
James had put the out-of-work boxer to work as his coachman, and he’d proven to be fiercely loyal, willing to battle anyone who threatened James, but more importantly anyone who threatened James’s wife or sisters. Muireall thought he looked wildly out of place in his expensive dark gray uniform and cape, as his nose laid nearly flat against his face, a patch covered his missing left eye, and his face showed his typical gruff countenance.
“How is your son, Mr. Bauer?” she asked as he held the door of the carriage and took the canvas bag from her hands.
“Doing a mite better since Dr. Watson come to see him, ma’am.”
“That’s very good, Mr. Bauer. I am so very glad to hear it. I’ve got several pairs of pants and a few shirts that no longer fit my youngest brother that I think may suit your son. I’ll make sure they are sent to you.”
“That’s right kind of you, ma’am. Let me help this little child,” he said and lifted Ann off her feet and into the carriage. “You’re light as a feather, miss.”
Ann smiled up at the man. “Oh no. My Papa said I weigh seven stone, but I don’t believe him.”
Bauer huffed a laugh. “Did he now? You tell him that Mr. Bauer, James Thompson’s coachman, begs to differ.”
Ann giggled. “I’ll be sure to tell him.”
Muireall realized this child had a real gift for bringing joy to her fellow man. She was guileless and seemingly unafraid even of a man such as Mr. Bauer, who did look intimidating and rough. But there he was smiling at her as he turned his hat in his hand. Muireall put her own foot on the carriage step, and he turned quickly to help her inside. She saw him check the door latch and walk around the back of the carriage, hollering up at the young man riding there to keep his eyes looking about for any trouble. He walked around to the other side, checked that door, and then she felt the carriage dip as he climbed up.
Holly Bush writes historical romance set in the U.S.in the late 1800’s, in Victorian England, and an occasional Women’s Fiction title. Her books are described as emotional, with heartfelt, sexy romance. She makes her home with her husband in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. Connect with Holly at www.hollybushbooks.com and on Twitter @hollybushbooks and on Facebook at Holly Bush.
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