Forever Elle (Regency Romance) Read online

  “I know,” I said, nodding.

  “It’s only worse that your father’s mother died when he was born,” Mama said, brushing her fingers through my hair once more. “Your father wasn’t shown how to love, and we can’t fault him for what he never learned.”

  I bit my lower lip to keep from frowning. “I understand,” I said, crossing my fingers behind my back. Mama loved Daddy too much to ever speak ill of him. But whether he had learned of love or not, it seemed silly to rationalize Daddy’s disappointment in me as Grandfather’s shortcomings.

  Mama exhaled, patting my back.

  I leaned against the kitchen sink and looked out the window until Mama left. It was one of those perfect spring mornings—the type I had longed for all winter. It was mid-May, yet the blossoms had just flowered, the tulips and daffodils in our front yard finally coming to bloom. I could hardly wait to go to church, to skip down the path with Clara at my side.

  “Elle, your hair.”

  I turned at the sound of my sister’s voice. I shook my head, pursing my lips. “You have to help me. Mama was almost at it again.”

  Clara swallowed a giggle, a knowing gleam catching her eyes. She tugged at my arm, pulling me toward our washroom. “Let’s remedy this.”

  Mama’s handiwork, though limited because of my protests, had fashioned my hair into an enormous poof on one side. Her efforts to fan my curls had resulted in a frizzy frenzy. I blinked, staring back at my reflection above the sink. I couldn’t help but compare it to the sheepdog down the lane.

  Clara tugged at the curls, slicking them flat and pulling them down my back. She braided the top section in two, wrapping them around my head like a crown. She left the rest of my curls to fall down my back. I studied each move, determined to learn all I could.

  “There,” Clara said, winking at me. “No one will even suspect you are related to Great-Aunt Edith.”

  I gasped, pushing a finger to my lips. I hoped to silence my own giggles as much as hers. “Thank you.”

  She straightened my lace collar and nodded. “We sisters have to stick together.”

  Her cheeks were rosy, and her pink lips parted in a smile. Daddy’s Swedish blood ran thick in her. Her blond hair was twisted up on the top of her head, an elegant blend of curls and pins.

  I wished more than anything to be like Clara.

  “Girls.” My mother’s voice rang across the house. “Come, we mustn’t be late again.”

  We hurried across the wood-planked floor and out the front porch. Mama had my brother, Paul, by the arm.

  Daddy was bent over, dusting the dirt off his boots. It was his only pair, and they were matted with dirt from the morning milking. Sunday was the only morning he milked. I suppose it was his gift.

  He smiled when he saw Clara, the gleam of a proud papa evident in his gaze. He took her hand in his, shaking it gently.

  I walked behind them, wondering what made Daddy so pleased with Clara and so disappointed in me. In his eyes, Clara never did anything wrong. Me, on the other hand—I could never do anything right.

  Chapter Two

  I POPPED A BERRY IN MY MOUTH and closed my eyes, savoring the sweetness. Strawberries stood as a reminder of summer, that blissful time of year when school was suspended and my time in paradise began. That’s what summers in the Tetons are—paradise.

  There’s a high price to pay for such perfection. Scratchy wool stockings, frozen fingers and toes, sleepless nights near the stove, repeated snowfall—winter in the Tetons brought stifling melancholia, the type that never seemed to end. A winter that lasts half the year shouldn’t be tolerated; at least that’s the conclusion I came to at the end of each April.

  But then the clouds would lift, and the pasture would grow green. The trees turned new leaves, the yellow daffodils sprung from the earth. Chores on the farm no longer seemed burdensome. Amidst rounds of milking, planting, weeding, and working in the meat shop, I lived in paradise.

  The strawberry patch was just past our cow pasture, fenced around the shade of a tree. Ten rows of plants filled the patch, each row so thick I had to tiptoe between them to reach the centers without squashing berries. It was a long process, lifting the leaves and picking the berries beneath.

  I imagined each rustle of leaves from the tree above was something more—the tree talking to me, whispering stories of what once was. The tree had to be at least sixty years old. What had its life entailed? Had it spent its time in seclusion, waiting to be discovered, or had it been climbed by children long before me? Had it shaded picnics and heard confessions of young lovers?

  My childish imaginings flared. Perhaps one day I’d see my own initials carved into that tree by a sweetheart—Toby Lowry, to be exact. He had the dreamiest smile I’d ever seen—his white and straight teeth coupled with his dimpled chin. Sometimes I wished I could swim in his blue eyes, like the hot springs in Green Canyon, just next to Sugar City. Toby had the type of look that deserved sonnets instead of my weak descriptions.

  I sighed, chiding myself. Daddy said daydreaming was reserved for the idle. Yet each time I weeded or picked in that patch, my mind couldn’t help but wander.

  “Elle.”

  I jumped to my feet, wiping at my dirt-encrusted apron. My brother stood on the other side of the fence.

  “Elle,” Paul said once more, waving me over. “Come over here, will you?”

  I pocketed a few berries and skipped down the row to the garden gate. “What is it?” I asked.

  He kicked a dried cow pie across the field and smiled. Mischief played across his eyes. “I tried my hand at inventing, and now I need you to test it.”

  “Me?” I asked, my brows knitting together. I didn’t like the sound of that, seeing how the last time Paul had asked for my help, I had ended up drifting down the canal on a faulty raft.

  My brother crinkled his nose. “You remember the elevators we saw when we traveled to Salt Lake a few years ago?”

  I nodded. Grandfather had taken us there against Daddy’s wishes.

  Daddy didn’t like to accept charity from anyone, and even though it was Mama’s father who was rich and us poor, Daddy hated to accept gifts and the like.

  Paul tugged at my hand, pulling me past the gate. “I found an old crate in the barn, you see, and I started thinking, ‘That’s the perfect size for an elevator.’ It didn’t take me long to figure out a pulley system to lift it up.”

  I exhaled and pressed my lips together. I didn’t like where this was going.

  “Of course, I tried it out already, just not with a real person. That’s where you come in,” Paul said, nudging me with his elbow.

  We stood in front of the house, staring up at his oak by the front drive. “You want me to sit in that box while you experiment hoisting me in the air?” I smiled, but the horror of it struck me. It wasn’t the height I was scared of, or even the fall. It was my right leg, the one I had nearly broken the previous year when I’d fallen from the roof. I was keen on it, along with my other leg and arms, and I didn’t want to end up in a cast or chair the rest of my life.

  Paul shrugged, his eyes squinting to slits. “It won’t be so bad, Elle. Trust me. I tested it plenty. See it up there?” he asked, pointing to a meat-shop pulley he had attached to the branch. “It’s secure. I nailed it myself. It’ll be easy and smooth—just you wait.”

  For some reason, his words easy and smooth did little to calm me. If anything, they only multiplied the anxieties pulsing through my veins. I had learned early to recognize the signs of a rotten apple.

  “Come on, Elle. I could use it for the science fair next year.”

  “The science fair? Now I’m your science assignment? I’m not breaking my back for your amusement.” I pulled my hand from his and turned toward my neglected berries.

  Paul was quick to jump on my trail, and his pleading tones softened my resolve. “Elle, please. I’ll be careful, honest. And tell you what—you do this for me, and I’ll get you a candy stick from the drugstore.”
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  I stopped, annoyed at my own weakness. I hated that I was about to risk my neck for a candy stick. “Root beer?” I asked, biting my bottom lip.

  “I’ll make it two root beer sticks and a licorice,” Paul said, scanning my expression.

  “And you’ll milk the cow tomorrow morning?”

  Paul winced, tilting his head back and forth in deliberation. “Deal.”

  I climbed into the crate, despite my uneasiness. Two candy sticks and a licorice were impossible for me to pass up; I hadn’t had candy since Easter. Besides being poor, I had Daddy for a father, and he was no-nonsense.

  My knees were scrunched to my chest, and the top edge of the crate dug into my back, but to my chagrin, I fit. With a jolt, the crate lifted. I swayed in the air and climbed higher with each of Paul’s tugs and the squeaky turns of the pulley. By the time I reached the upper branch, sweat slipped down my neck. I was ten feet from the ground.

  My brother paused, catching his breath. “Hey, it works,” he said, chuckling. “Who’d have thought?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I thought you said you had tested it?”

  He laughed, and the crate dropped a few inches. “I’m teasing.”

  I tried to push away the grin tugging at my cheeks. “Very funny.”

  “Paul! Paul!” Daddy shouted from the back of the house. It was a tone full of anger and impatience, a tone I had come to recognize. Daddy didn’t tolerate disappointment well.

  Paul wrapped and knotted the rope around the tree trunk. He grunted. “I’m sorry, Elle. I’ll be back.”

  It made no sense to linger, for lingering only brought the belt, so I couldn’t blame Paul. He was gone, and I remained, dangling in the air.

  The shouting from Daddy subsided, and for a moment, it was peaceful. The light trickled in between the leaves, and the breeze whistled. I hummed, matching the rhythm of my sway. Then I closed my eyes and once more found myself succumbing to daydreams. I imagined I lived in the tree like the family in The Swiss Family Robinson, that I’d salvaged a crate from the wreckage of my boat and hoisted it high above the reach of a ferocious tiger. I envisioned the treehouse I’d built. It wrapped around the trunk and reached high past the treetops. The roof opened like a trapdoor so that on an especially clear night I could stare at the stars. I’d even used my brother’s idea of attaching a crate to a pulley to lift my water and food from the jungle floor.

  But an imagination can only last so long. The pain of my position—the top of the crate digging into my back and ribs and my cramped condition—became a constant reminder of my situation. After an hour, I glanced below, debating whether I should jump. The grass grew in patches, a maze of roots stretching between each patch. The roots were as hard as rock, and I knew it. I buried my face in my knees and let out a lone sob.

  “Would you like some help down, Elle?”

  I recognized the voice of George Hughes. I sniffled, wiping my tears with the cuffs of my sleeve. I couldn’t let him see me cry.

  He stood with a hand resting on the rope, his brows marking his amusement. I wanted to reject his offer and wipe away that smug expression he wore so well.

  “Why are you strung up there? Is it punishment for ripping another dress?” George asked, smiling. His shoulders shook as he laughed, and I hated to admit he had the upper hand this time.

  “It was Paul’s idea,” I said, feigning indifference to my cramped condition. “Daddy called him ’round back, and I—”

  “He left you,” George said, finishing my explanation for me. “How long have you been up there?”

  I swallowed. “An hour or so.”

  His eyes widened, and his smile was replaced by a gaping mouth. “I suppose I better help you down then.”

  “Please,” I said, resigned. I longed to stretch my legs and find relief from the confines of the crate.

  George nodded but stood still, a hint of a smile returning.

  “What?” I asked, suspicion coating each word. “Is there something you want in return?”

  He grinned. “Well, since you asked—there is something I’d like.”

  Anger made my cheeks burn. I wanted to scream, to throw myself over the edge of the crate and prove I didn’t need George’s help, or anyone’s help, in getting down. But I knew better.

  “What is it you want?” I asked.

  “A favor for a rainy day.” He paused when he saw my eyes narrow. “Nothing huge, mind you—a slice of your ma’s pie, an answer to a question, something of equal value.”

  I shrugged. “Fine.”

  “Maybe you could get me a date with Clara?”

  For the second time, anger pulsed through me, but this time, I didn’t understand why. Was it jealousy? There was something infuriating about having a boy be so mean to me, all the while adoring my older sister. Why did I have to be the one who was teased?

  “Well?” George asked, spreading out his arms.

  “Don’t count on it,” I said, huffing.

  “I can do this all day—keep you hostage. But are you or aren’t you going to give me something in return?” he asked, locking eyes with me once more.

  My breath caught. I’d have liked to give him a lot of things—but none of them were good. I mustered a smile. “All right, it’s a deal, but I don’t want you telling anybody about this.”

  He nodded and loosed the knot, lowering me halfway. “How about you give me a kiss instead?”

  I nearly choked on my laughter. “Why, so you can imagine kissing Clara? I’d rather be strung here all day.”

  He raised me, shaking his head. “Practice is practice.”

  I grunted, but it came out as more of a growl. Why did he tease me like that?

  “Just a little one,” he said, flicking his chin upward.

  Kissing George was about the last thing I ever wanted to do, but I knew better than to test him. George would have no qualms leaving me in that tree.

  At last, he dropped me to the ground, and I hit the grass with a thud, the crate tipping me to my side. George pulled me up by the elbow.

  “Well?” he said, smiling much too widely at me. “How about that kiss? A deal’s a deal.”

  I pulled from his grasp, retreating. “Not on your life, George Hughes.”

  His head reeled back, his laughter filling the space between us. “If looks could kill.” He swallowed the last of his laughter, but his shoulders still shook. “I’ll have to settle for an IOU.”

  I nodded, finding my balance at last. “Fine.”

  Footsteps pounded across the drive, and I turned, forgetting George beside me.

  Paul stomped to the porch, but Daddy was close on his trail, shouting.

  “That’s not how it is supposed to go, Paul,” Daddy said, his tone as sharp as a knife. “You weren’t there. I could have broken my back with that carcass, all the while you were playing hopscotch with your little sisters.”

  Paul glanced at me, tears gleaming in his eyes. “I got there in time.”

  Another fight. I staggered forward, then stopped ten feet short of the porch. There was nothing I could say to help, nothing I could do to defuse the situation. Daddy and Paul were like two bulls.

  Paul slammed the screen door. Daddy pounded his fist against the siding, knocking his head against the door. “This ain’t finished.”

  George cleared his throat, and I turned, flushing with heat. I hung my head. It wasn’t like George had never seen them fight; it’d happened more than I could count. But I hated it. I hated it when anyone saw them fight—myself included. George was my opponent, and right then, I felt anything but strong.

  He stepped closer. “Elle, I’m sorry—”

  I pushed him away. He was sorry? For what—that I had such a daddy? I wanted to yell at him for trying to comfort me after teasing me in the tree. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t say anything. I swallowed, shaking my head.

  “Don’t worry about them. It’ll blow over,” George said. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “It always does.”
>
  I nodded, wanting to believe him.

  He touched my arm and then disappeared to his side of the fence.

  I walked back to the strawberry patch, wishing for daydreams to distract me from reality and the looming impression that this couldn’t last forever; something was bound to break.

  My reflection stared back at me, and I smiled as prettily as I could, pretending I was a real lady. A string of mock pearls hung around my neck, and I fanned myself, fluttering my lashes.

  Clara opened the bedroom door, and I nearly fell off the stool in surprise.

  She took one look at me and shook her head. “Been going through Grandmother’s chest again, have you?” She tilted her head in mock chastisement.

  I sighed. “What do you suppose it was like—back then in England?” I clutched the silk fan in my hands, watching the tassels sway back and forth. “It must have been ever so romantic.”

  Clara bent down beside my bed, rummaging through the old chest. Filled with dresses and shoes, fans and jewelry, the chest had provided endless hours of entertainment for Clara and me as children. It had belonged to Grandmother and was passed down to Mama when she came to the States. But after marrying Daddy, Mama had no use for such things.

  “Perhaps these will finally fit,” Clara said. She held one of Grandmother’s high-heeled boots, or, as we liked to call them, high-helled boots. They were lovely, torturous-looking things—shoes that made walking, let alone dancing, seem impossible.

  I grinned. “Go on, try them on.”

  Clara’s eyes lit, and she grabbed the other boot and scooted to the edge of my bed in one swift motion. Her feet slid into the boots effortlessly. She laced them and stood, grinning.

  My sister got more beautiful each day, and when she wore those fancy boots, I couldn’t help but imagine her as a heroine of nineteenth-century England.

  “Hold on,” I said, skipping to her side. I pulled out Grandmother’s collection of trinkets, combing through them until I found the gold chain. I wrapped it around Clara’s neck. “That’s better. Now you look like you’re ready for courting.”