Forever Elle (Regency Romance) Read online

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  © 2018 Heather Chapman

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, whether by graphic, visual, electronic, film, microfilm, tape recording, or any other means, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. The opinions and views expressed herein belong solely to the author and do not necessarily represent the opinions or views of Cedar Fort, Inc. Permission for the use of sources, graphics, and photos is also solely the responsibility of the author.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4621-2885-3

  Published by Sweetwater Books, an imprint of Cedar Fort, Inc.

  2373 W. 700 S., Springville, UT 84663

  Distributed by Cedar Fort, Inc., www.cedarfort.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Chapman, Heather, 1986- author.

  Title: Forever Elle / Heather Chapman.

  Description: Springville, Utah : Sweetwater Books, An imprint of Cedar Fort, Inc., [2018]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018028874 (print) | LCCN 2018034768 (ebook) | ISBN 9781462128853 (epub, pdf, mobi) | ISBN 9781462121908 | ISBN 9781462121908 (perfect bound : alk. paper)

  Subjects: LCSH: Nineteen hundreds (Decade), setting. | Teton River Valley (Idaho), setting. | LCGFT: Historical fiction. | Romance fiction. | Bildungsromans. | Novels.

  Classification: LCC PS3603.H369 (ebook) | LCC PS3603.H369 F65 2018 (print) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018028874

  Cover design by Markie Riley

  Back cover design by Jeff Harvey

  Cover design © 2018 Cedar Fort, Inc.

  Edited and typeset by James Gallagher (Castle Walls Editing LLC) and Nicole Terry

  TO DAD,

  for taking me to the farm.

  ALSO BY HEATHER CHAPMAN

  The Second Season

  Unexpected Love

  The Forgotten Girl

  q PART 1 r

  Chapter One

  TETON VALLEY, 1901

  IT WAS A RELIEF I WASN’T scared of heights. But then again, if I had been, I’d never have climbed that oak in the first place. My dress snagged on an upper branch, the threads winding around the jagged bark. I clung tighter to the trunk and glanced below.

  Daddy was right. Sitting up in that oak tree was no place for a lady. I didn’t always heed his warnings, but it wasn’t from lack of trying. It’s just that I forgot. I got distracted by my own wants, and—truth be told—I saw the world differently than he did.

  I reached toward the branch above and tugged at my dress. The familiar rip of fraying fabric and snapping branches sounded, and debris fell to my face. I blinked the sting away, rubbing a finger across my lashes. By the sounds of ripping and snapping alone, the tear was worse than usual.

  “Elle, come down before anyone sees you,” called my sister, Clara.

  Startled, I attempted to maintain my balance. I hardly worried about being seen. We rarely had visitors traveling our dirt road. “What do you mean?”

  Clara pressed against the trunk below to meet my gaze, and her light brows crinkled together. “Mrs. Foster.”

  My heart sunk. “Mrs. Foster? Why is she here?”

  Clara shrugged, her eyes darting toward the house. “I suppose it’s about piano lessons for Beth again.”

  My heart quickened; my stomach churned. Why did Mrs. Foster always have to see me at my worst? The thought of her seeing me clinging to the trunk with my tangled and torn dress was unbearable. The town gossip and the mama of my rival, Mrs. Foster was sure to spread word of my tattered garment.

  Daddy said I was already getting a reputation for doing things a lady shouldn’t do. I reckon it had to do with my fistfight with Mrs. Foster’s daughter in the schoolyard two years before. But Beth had it coming; she teased me without ceasing. Math scores, handwriting, my height, Daddy’s work as a butcher—nothing was off-limits to Beth.

  Mrs. Foster’s pointed features came to mind, and I loosened my hold of the tree. Jumping down a couple of branches resulted in another sharp tug of my skirts, this time accompanied by an even more disastrous sound.

  “What was that?” my sister asked. Her head bobbed around in an effort to catch a glimpse of my face through the branches.

  My eyes darted to the branch five feet above, where a good portion of my skirt now resided, blowing in the breeze. I looked down at my undergarments. It was no use trying to retrieve the fabric now, not when Mrs. Foster could come out of the house at any moment.

  I swallowed, continuing my descent. “Almost there. Watch the house for me.”

  Clara nodded, disappearing from my view.

  The three oaks along our dirt road were older and taller than any I’d seen, and ever since I could recall, the tree closest to the house had been mine. Clara and my brother, Paul, each claimed the others long before I could climb. I used to be envious of their trees—Paul’s especially. His tree was the most challenging to climb, and therefore the most satisfying. But looking down at the designs on my chicken-feed underslip, I was grateful my tree wasn’t any more difficult to navigate.

  I hit the ground with a thud. Before I could gather myself, Clara tugged at my elbow, pulling me to my feet. “If we go in the back, we might avoid her completely—” Her voice broke off as her gaze fell to my dress, or rather—to my underslip. Her almond eyes widened at the sight, subsequently darting toward the tree canopy, where the rest of my skirt still fluttered in the wind. She pursed her lips, but laughter slipped out.

  Her infectious tone crumpled the little composure I had left, and I gave her a slight nudge. “You can’t start that now,” I said, shaking my head. Already, I could feel the laughter bubbling up my throat. I instinctively crossed my arms in front of me, hoping to salvage a little of my beaten-down pride.

  Clara’s blue eyes were glistening, her laughter only growing in richness and depth with each step she took.

  “I had thought you were helping me make my escape, but I can see you’d rather call the whole house’s attention to my mishap,” I said, smiling.

  Clara swallowed, the dimples on her cheeks still manifest. “Oh, Elle,” she said, squeezing my hand. “I’m sorry. It’s just your dress. How on earth did you damage it so severely?”

  I cast her my sharpest look and, unbeknownst to her, endeavored with all my might to maintain my composure. The thought of my father’s reaction was solemn enough to stay my laughter. He would not be happy, especially once, or if, he saw the bottom of my skirt in the tree. I reminded myself to retrieve it once that spiteful woman was gone.

  Clara pulled the gate open, resting her hand on the flip latch. She surveyed me once more and shook her head, her lips smacking together. “We can’t leave your skirt up in that tree. It’s just blowing there. Mrs. Foster will be sure to see it.”

  “What would you suggest? If I fetch it, she’s sure to see me up in that tree,” I said, lifting my arms in the air.

  “I think I hear Mrs. Foster,” Clara said, glancing behind. She fluttered her hands at me, ushering me behind the yard gate. “I’ll check. Stay here.�
��

  Why couldn’t I be more like Clara? She never seemed to rip the skirts of her dresses, yet she climbed trees just as much as I did. My sister had the good fortune of inheriting my father’s blond hair and blue eyes, along with all the jovial tendencies of my mama. My dark hair and eyes stood in stark contrast to her brighter ones, my determined and deliberate tendencies so different from her lightheartedness.

  I rested my elbows on the fence, anxious to see if my skirt in the tree would remain unnoticed by Mrs. Foster. The late afternoon sun was bright, and I squinted to make out anything past the sun’s rays.

  I gasped. Impossible. My ripped skirt was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps my heart’s prayer had been answered.

  There was a tug at my sleeve, and I jumped in surprise.

  “Look what I found blowing in your tree like the sail of a ship,” a teasing voice said.

  I cringed. Not George. Please, I pleaded in a silent prayer, not George.

  But alas, there stood my neighbor, the insufferable best friend of my brother. George flicked the fabric in front of me, the purple flower pattern brushing against my cheek. He leaned over the fence, dangling my ripped skirt a few inches above me, daring me to snatch it from his fingers. He stood a full foot taller than me, and his green eyes danced in amusement.

  I clenched my teeth and darted forward, but I missed the fabric and instead brushed my hands against his dirty collar. “Give it back, George, please,” I said, recognizing the desperation in my voice. “Give it here.”

  “Oh, Elle, what’s wrong? Can’t you take it from me?” he asked, lifting a brow.

  I crossed my arms over my chest and shook my head. There was no use trying to get it from him with physical force. He was older, taller, and stronger than me. “You know I can’t.”

  “Giving up so easily?” he asked, smiling broadly.

  I turned away. How could he tease me when I stood before him in a chicken-feed underslip? My brother’s best friend was anything but genteel, and he had a knack for getting under my skin.

  “Oh, George, you saved us,” Clara said, catching her breath.

  I glanced over my shoulder.

  My sister clung to the fence, her face red from running. She held her hands out to George, awaiting the fabric. “And just in time. Mrs. Foster just left. You’re safe, Elle,” she said.

  George was pink in the face. His smile wavered. “Clara” was all he said, placing the skirt in her hands. He nodded at her and his hands trembled.

  I frowned. His tone had grown gentle, his lips seeming to cradle the word Clara.

  Clara folded the wad of fabric and tucked it into her apron. “I can’t thank you enough. Why, Elle and I were just wondering how to retrieve it before Mrs. Foster saw it blowing up in the tree. You know how her tongue wags. You were kind to fetch it for us.” She crossed over to my side of the fence, giggling when she saw George wobble after her to close the gate. “Come, Elle. You must thank George.”

  George glanced down at me, and a hint of a smirk returned to his lips.

  He stood, awaiting my response. I eyed his boot beneath the bottom rung of the fence. George Hughes was infuriating, no matter how grateful I was to evade Mrs. Foster’s notice. “Yes, thank you, George,” I said, mimicking Clara’s tone.

  He grinned, nodding down at me.

  His satisfaction was unbearable. There was nothing more I wanted than to wipe that smug smile from his face, but I waited until Clara turned the corner of the house. Then I stomped the heel of my boot into the top of George’s foot and kicked his shin.

  George winced, doubling over and then lunging forward, as if to retaliate. The fence shook but kept him at bay until I was out of reach. “Elizabeth Pratt, you just wait.” His voice was shaky, but he forced a smile.

  I returned the smile, surprised at my strength. He was three years older than me, and he always seemed to have the last laugh. It was satisfying to give him a taste of his own medicine.

  I left him standing there—or rather, doubled over—and joined Clara in the breezeway. She had straightened out my ripped skirt, assessing the damage.

  “There’s no use trying to hide it, Clara. Mama will see it either way, and it’s only a matter of time before Daddy knows. And when he does, it’ll be the belt.” My sister exhaled, kneeling in front of me. She pinched the skirt together in one place after another, but eventually she gave up and let the fabric fall to the floor. “Oh, Elle, I’m so sorry. We might have done something to fix it, but this is beyond my stitching skills.”

  I shrugged, trying my best to appear unfazed. I was younger than Clara and Paul, and I didn’t want my sister and brother to know how frightened I was of Daddy’s belt, especially at thirteen years old.

  “No matter,” I said, trying to smile, but only one side of my lips rose. It was the best I could muster, considering my impending licking.

  Daddy was a butcher. And, strangely enough, the animals seemed to know when they were being sent to the slaughterhouse. I’d seen more than a few goats and cows with their heads hung low, just waiting; they knew what was coming. Daddy took the animals to a back field, shot them between the eyes, and loaded them up to be skinned.

  I covered my ears, closed my eyes, and tried to keep the tears at bay each time he took an animal out back. I had no qualms with eating meat; it sustained me. It was part of life on the farm. But seeing the loss of life each time an animal went to the field—it was a dagger to my heart.

  Walking into the house with my ripped skirt felt similar. I knew what would follow—a lecture and the belt. And no matter how hard I tried to tell myself it was a normal part of life, I feared a bit of me would die like the animals before me.

  Sure enough, Daddy took me out back by the clotheslines and gave me a whipping. I gritted my teeth, closed my eyes real tight, and counted the tears that fell to my feet.

  Daddy acted like I’d made him do it, like he was forced into pulling off his belt and pelting me. Maybe it was easier for him to blame me, or maybe he truly hated it as much as I hated it. I didn’t know which hurt worse—him telling me it was my fault, the snap of the belt against my rear, or the distance between Daddy and me that seemed to grow with each blow.

  Mama licked her thumb and rubbed it against my chin. Her saliva was warm and wet, and I shuddered. I pulled away, swatting her hand. My face twisted in disgust; I hated when she tried to clean my face with her spit.

  “Why you always got to do that, Ma? I’m not a baby anymore,” I said, leaning over the kitchen sink.

  A light flickered across her dark eyes, and I could see the edge of her lips quiver. “Elle, you’ll always be my baby.” She puckered her red lips and gave me a sloppy kiss on the forehead.

  “Mama,” I said, wiping at the moisture on my forehead. I bit back a smile. It’d only encourage her.

  Mama laughed, grasping at her side. “It’s a mama’s right.”

  I huffed and ran my fingers through my hair.

  “Let me help you with that,” Mama said, fanning my rag curls.

  I pulled away. Not this time. Mama always tried her hand at fixing my hair on Sundays, right before we left for morning service. If I didn’t end up looking like a pampered poodle, then she was sure to make me look like something much worse—Great-Aunt Edith.

  “Mama, it’s all right,” I said, smiling, but protest poured into each word, like the morning light through the kitchen window. “Really, I’ll have Clara help me.”

  Her hands flew to her hips and her brows furrowed like the treacherous mountain peak in the distance. She bent her neck to the side, waiting for an explanation. Mama knew I didn’t like being fussed over like a doll, and I was sure she had a hunch it had more to do with her faulty hair-doing ability.

  “What?” I asked, straightening my dress. Acting innocent was my only tactic. It was easier than telling her the truth—explaining how much I detested the way she fashioned my hair.

  Sunday was important. Not only was it the Lord’s day, but it was also the
day of morning service—the one time I could count on seeing the back of Toby Lowry’s head for a whole hour. And if he ever took a moment to glance back at our pew, which he happened to do at least twice each Sunday, I didn’t want to look like Great-Aunt Edith.

  Great-Aunt Edith took care in styling her pompadour, though her efforts fell flat. Her ratted hair stood much too high off her head, and the frizzed curls escaped all attempts at taming. It was impossible not to compare Great-Aunt Edith’s hair to the nests in my oak—improvised, tangled, and unmistakably wild.

  Mama huffed, dropping her hands in defeat. “I suppose you’ve always been more of a tomboy than Clara. It doesn’t bother me if you run around climbing trees, but mind you don’t rip any more of your dresses. Your father dislikes to see you carry on like that.”

  Her words stung, like lemon to an open wound. I hated the word tomboy. It felt like another way of saying “not pretty” or “bad mannered.” At the very least, I knew it meant my mama still thought I was a child. At thirteen, I was a young lady. Even if I ran around and climbed trees.

  “Mama, why doesn’t Daddy like me?” I asked, trying to calm my shaky breaths.

  Mama’s shoulders curled over her chest. “Elle, don’t say such things. Of course your father likes you—why, he loves you. It’s just not his way of showing affection. You could say he’d rather build you up to be better instead of filling your mind with frilly compliments or indulging such notions.”

  I cringed. It seemed each time I made a mistake, Daddy attributed it to my puffed-up vision of self-importance. But it wasn’t so; I was just trying to figure life out, figure out where I stood and what I was. I bit the inside of my cheek, chewing on it softly. “Building me up to be better? Mama, it feels like just the opposite. When he talks and looks at me like he does, it feels like he is ripping me down, like that old brown house out back.”

  Mama’s face fell, and her lips curved into a sad smile. She licked her thumb, once more rubbing it against my chin. “Elle, I am sorry. You just have to learn that everybody has their own way of loving. Maybe it isn’t your way, but it is a way. You know all about his father, Grandpa Pratt. He wasn’t one to show affection.”