Undaunted Love (PART ONE): Banished Saga, Book 3 Read online

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  UNDAUNTED

  LOVE

  Part One

  RAMONA FLIGHTNER

  Sheila,

  When I was four, you fed my imagination with Charlotte,

  Wilbur, Templeton, and the promise of one new chapter a day,

  helping foster a lifelong love of reading and creating stories.

  Bantiox.

  CHAPTER 1

  Boston, May 1902

  SAVANNAH MONTGOMERY SAT ROCKING to and fro on the ornate rococo camelback settee with faded gold fabric. Eyes vacant and expressionless, as though turned inward, she failed to notice the other women in the room. Her hair, fashioned in a stylish manner when she left her house a few hours earlier, had begun to slip out of the confining pins so that wisps fell along her cheeks and down her back. The fashionable silk dress—in cornflower blue to match her eyes—hung on her frame, highlighting her recent weight loss.

  “Don’t you worry about Savannah, Mattie?” Betsy asked as she watched her niece sitting across from her in a near stupor. She spoke in a low voice, barely heard by her sister, Matilda, seated next to her in the parlor. Although, as she gazed at Savannah, Betsy doubted Savannah would understand any of their discussion.

  Even though only midafternoon, lamps were lit, as much of the former light from the windows was now blocked by the recently constructed elevated train tracks. Savannah sat alone on the settee, picking at the lace at her wrists, rocking in place, as conversation flowed around her. A low table in front of her held the detritus of afternoon tea, one of the doilies stained after Savannah had spilled her cup. The wallpaper appeared almost purple in the dull light, rather than its former light pink.

  “It takes time to recover from these experiences,” Matilda whispered to her sister with a pointed stare. Her eyes flashed as she continued to work on her needlepoint, a lamp lit to aid her.

  “It’s been six months, and she has yet to improve,” Betsy argued. She gripped the handle of her cane in momentary agitation, grimacing with the action as her fingers, gnarled from rheumatism, protested the movement. She relaxed her hands, rubbing them down the front of her sea-blue brocade skirt.

  “I find it hard to believe my own daughter carries on so at the loss of her child,” Matilda said. “I would think she’d have the strength of character to mourn in private, not persist in showing the world her sorrow.”

  Betsy raised an eyebrow at her sister’s comments. “And thus speaks the concerned mother.”

  At Betsy’s words, Matilda sat even straighter, and her body vibrated with self-righteous indignation. She stabbed the needlework with such force she rent a large hole in the middle of her pattern.

  “Do you even listen to yourself and the harmful words you speak?” Betsy asked. “Where is the sister I knew? The sister who flouted all conventions in an attempt to live the life she wanted? How can you desire for your daughter to suffer as she is?”

  “You swore you would never speak of my past,” Matilda hissed.

  “I’m beginning to regret taking such an oath after seeing Savannah pay so dearly for your desire to return to our parents’ good graces. You must have realized by now, no matter what you do or don’t do, that you will never be forgiven.”

  “Seeing as I have never forgiven myself, I see no reason for them to have extended such a courtesy.” She glared at Betsy. “Every time you are here, you stir up trouble. First before Savannah’s wedding, then with Clarissa. When will you learn that we are fine as we are?”

  “When I can look at my niece and see the vibrant girl I knew, not a woman in some sort of a stupor.”

  “If you must know, Jonas informed me that he and his doctors decided it best they give her a tonic to prevent episodes of hysteria.”

  “You mean to prevent her from actually grieving and recovering from the loss of her daughter? Yes, how shocking it must be for a man of Jonas’s refinement to be faced with a normal reaction from a woman. How understandable that the best recourse would be to dull all her emotions and faculties with some horrid concoction.”

  “Betsy,” Matilda said with a warning note in her voice.

  “Savannah? Savannah, dearest?” Betsy groaned as she heaved herself to her feet, grimacing with each step as she shuffled the few feet to settle herself next to Savannah on the settee. She clasped her niece’s hand, ignoring her sister.

  Savannah lifted her head as though it were weighted down and looked toward Betsy with a glazed stare. “Betsy,” she whispered. She licked her dry chapped lips, her head bobbing as her unfocused eyes attempted to see her aunt clearly.

  Betsy squinted as she studied Savannah for a few moments. She squared her shoulders and firmed her mouth in determination. “That’s it, Mattie. I’m taking her with me for a sojourn to Quincy. Jonas can have no complaints as he has shown little interest in her for months. Thankfully his absence is timely, and he cannot object.”

  “I’d hardly call the death of his mother a timely event,” Matilda snapped. “You can’t blame the man for traveling to New York City for the services.”

  “Be that as it may, let us go to Savannah’s, pack her trunk and depart,” Betsy ordered. “While I’m away, my maid can pack my trunks here and meet us at the station.”

  “I think we should discuss this with Martin. Her father will surely show more sense than you, Betsy.”

  “You can discuss all you want. I’m done dithering,” Betsy said. She pushed herself up with the aid of her cane and held out her hand toward Savannah sitting next to her. “Come dear, let us prepare for our trip.” She took Savannah’s hand and led her from the sitting room.

  “Not home,” Savannah pleaded in a weak voice. She flinched at her mother’s grunt of disapproval.

  “Only for a few moments and then we shall journey by train to Quincy. Wouldn’t you enjoy a nice holiday with Uncle Tobias and me?” Betsy asked in a reassuring tone, as she glared at her sister to forestall any further attempt at preventing Savannah from traveling with her.

  “I can’t leave my baby,” Savannah whimpered.

  “We’ll visit her at the cemetery, leave her some lovely flowers before we depart,” Aunt Betsy soothed, easing Savannah into motion beside her.

  Savannah and Betsy made an incongruous pair as they descended the stairs. Savannah leaned heavily on the oak railing, taking each step with two feet, as a child would, before attempting the next one. Betsy leaned onto her cane with her right hand and, with her left hand, held onto Savannah’s right arm, causing Savannah to list toward her with each of her unsteady steps. Savannah’s father, Martin, emerged from the store at the commotion they made on the stairs, blanching at their chaotic yet harmonious movements as they approached him.

  Martin glared momentarily at his wife, who watched her sister and daughter with disdain, before focusing on his daughter as she stood in front of him. His chocolate-brown eyes tracked his daughter’s every movement, agony and regret reflected in their depths as she failed to focus on him.

  Betsy met Martin’s concerned gaze. “I have had enough, Martin. I am taking her home with me.”

  Martin’s broad shoulders drooped, and he sighed heavily. “Good. It’s time one of us showed some sense.” He approached Savannah, placing his hands on her shoulders and kissing her forehead softly. “I shall miss you, my Savannah. Come back to us, from wherever you are,” he murmured in a tortured voice.

  He turned away and met his son, Lucas’s, fierce frown. “Lucas, help your aunt and sister.” At Lucas’s nod of
acquiescence, Martin moved toward his sister-in-law. “Take care of my girl, Betsy. Bring her back to us.”

  ***

  SAVANNAH WOKE WITH A START, stifling her scream. Open pale-green curtains allowed faint moonlight entrance, limning the area near the window and Savannah’s bed. Shadows formed by a nearby tree branch created a fluctuating pattern on the gold rug. She rolled over, searching for the sleeping tonic Jonas had purchased and had kept her well stocked with for the past months. Her hands grasped a glass of water, but nothing else lay on the nightstand. She rose to search for the cinnamon water that aided in banishing her nightmares.

  As she walked toward the washstand, she stumbled and fell, knocking over the porcelain bowl which shattered. Savannah lay on the floor, too weak to rise. She curled into herself, weeping, while impressions from her delivery flickered through her mind. The never-ending pain. The pleas from the doctor to push. The fear she would die. The …

  “Savannah!” Betsy cried as she hobbled into the room. She sat in a chair next to Savannah, stroking her forehead and wiping away her tears.

  “No!” Savannah gasped, as the final fleeting memory from the delivery flitted away. The memory she was desperate to remember. “No.” Tears leaked from her eyes as she shivered on the floor.

  “Tobias!” Betsy yelled. “Don’t worry, dear. Soon your uncle will be here to help you to bed. If you were looking for that horrid sleeping tonic, I’ve thrown it away.”

  “I need it,” Savannah mumbled, raising up to lean against her aunt’s chair.

  “No, you do not,” Betsy said sternly. “I refuse to see my precious niece become a slave to a sleeping drug.”

  “It’s just cinnamon water. That’s what Jonas told me.”

  “Well, he was misinformed,” Betsy said as she rubbed Savannah’s back gently and stroked her hair.

  Savannah nestled into her aunt’s embrace as she awaited her uncle. “Thank you, Aunt Betsy. Thank you for helping me.”

  ***

  WHEN SAVANNAH WOKE to bright sunlight a few days later, she felt as though she were emerging from a long, dark tunnel. She squinted at the light, her head throbbing. A mild nausea and lassitude prevailed, and she wanted to remain in bed all day. However, for the first time in months, she felt the stirrings of hunger, despite the nausea.

  After slowly rising from bed and donning her robe, she tiptoed downstairs to the peaceful glass-enclosed conservatory that her aunt Betsy used as the breakfast room and private retreat in late spring and summer. Savannah paused at the door, momentarily soothed by the calm interior adorned with white wicker furniture, lace curtains and potted ferns. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, and Savannah had the impression she was to enter a haven. She froze as she overheard a conversation.

  “Mary, you are certain of this?” Betsy asked Savannah’s maid.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mary replied in a wavering voice.

  “You are in no trouble here,” Betsy said. “If you are dismissed by Mr. Montgomery, I’ll hire you. Do not fear for your post.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “You are certain the child lived?”

  Savannah leaned forward, holding her breath.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mary said in a firmer tone.

  Savannah’s anguished cry rent the air as she collapsed to the floor. She heard Aunt Betsy exclaim in concern, but Savannah was suddenly thrust back into the memories of the birthing room.

  “Doctor, you know what you are to do to help her with her pain,” Jonas intoned as he left the room. He spared not even a glance for the sweating, groaning Savannah.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Jonas, Jonas!” Savannah cried out, a hand flailing toward his retreating back. “Don’t leave me with a doctor I don’t know!” she screamed as the pain became excruciating. He brushed by her without acknowledging her words or her outstretched hand.

  Soon Savannah did not care who was attending her birth; she simply wished it to end. Her loyal maid, Mary, remained by her side as the ordeal continued for hours. Just as she thought she wouldn’t be able to continue further, the doctor ordered her to push. The pain became nearly unbearable as she pushed and screamed in agony.

  “Put this over her mouth,” the doctor instructed Mary. “When she is relaxed, you should lift it away.”

  “But, Doctor …”

  “Do it,” he barked, as Savannah screamed once more, and a faint wail was heard. Mary placed the cloth over Savannah’s mouth, and she was insensate to pain in a matter of moments.

  “Savannah. Savannah, dearest,” Betsy murmured as she bent over next to Savannah on the floor, stroking her back.

  “That is the memory I couldn’t remember. That I wouldn’t remember. The baby’s cry.”

  “Shh, dearest, don’t weep so,” Betsy said as she stayed close.

  “They told me that she was stillborn when I woke. How did my baby die?” Savannah demanded as she looked toward Mary. “Tell me, how did she die?”

  Mary paled as she watched Savannah. She shared a glance with Betsy, uncertain what to say. At Betsy’s subtle nod, Mary squared her shoulders. “She didn’t.”

  CHAPTER 2

  MATILDA AND SAVANNAH sat on lady’s chairs in the Sullivan family parlor to call on Mrs. Sullivan for tea. Sunlight streamed in the front window, highlighting alterations to the room. Reupholstered settees and chairs in rich gold and ruby formed new seating patterns in the room. A love seat—with two chairs on either side—was placed where the piano had formerly stood near the front window. The fireplace had been refitted with imported Italian marble. The wallpaper, sparkling with its gold highlights, shimmered in the sunlight.

  “It is so gracious of you to call. I am delighted to welcome you to see the completed refurbishments of the parlor.” Rebecca Sullivan waved around the room. “Now if I can only convince Sean to loosen the purse strings for the rest of the house.

  “I’m sure neither of you contend with such an obstinate husband when it comes to financial matters. Sean believes in economy and moderation above all things. He believes I should act as his first wife, Agnes, did and be satisfied with her furbishment of the house. Can you imagine? When this house remains firmly rooted in the nineteenth century? It must be modernized!” Rebecca Sullivan spoke in a sweet alto voice, leaning forward as though imparting great secrets. She wore a teal dress, cut to highlight her voluptuous figure. Her light-blond hair was pulled back into a stylish chignon, enhancing her long, thin face.

  “I know how you suffer, Rebecca,” Savannah’s mother, Matilda, said. “My sister Agnes was a wonderful woman but believed in thrift and economy as the ruling principles behind her decoration. For my part, Martin is much the same. Never understands why the drapery needs to be changed or why new furniture is a necessity. He seems to enjoy living in the past.”

  “Of course, Savannah must have no such difficulties with a generous husband such as Mr. Montgomery.”

  “Yes, Jonas is generous in all regards,” Savannah said.

  “Such a genteel man. One can only imagine how he must be to live with,” Rebecca said with an envious smile to Matilda.

  “You can only imagine,” Savannah murmured.

  “You are looking much recovered, Savannah,” Rebecca said with a nod of agreement from Matilda. “Your extended mourning was not at all becoming.”

  “I have felt more like my old self these past few days,” Savannah said. “I recovered well during my visit to Aunt Betsy’s. I no longer need the tisane recommended by Jonas’s physician.” She picked up her teacup with her right hand but dropped the cup with a gasp. The cup fell to the table, cracking its delicate china base.

  “Savannah,” her mother hissed. Matilda stilled her movement to wipe the spilled tea with her white linen napkin when she heard Mrs. Sullivan gasp.

  “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Sullivan. I fell and hurt my wrist, and forgot I shouldn’t use my right hand,” Savannah said. She massaged her wrist as she held it against her lower abdomen. “I wil
l speak with Jonas about a replacement teacup.”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Sullivan said as she edged her new china teapot and plates away from Savannah. She cleaned the spilled tea with her handkerchief. “You are fortunate indeed to have such a man’s interest that he would concern himself with something so minor as a teacup.”

  Savannah forced a smile as Mrs. Sullivan continued to speak. “We have very little word from Clarissa. Do you hear from her? I had thought that ungrateful young woman would write us more, as is our due, as we are her stepmother and father, and yet she seems intent to break her father’s heart with her silence.”

  “She writes us once a week. Their one year anniversary approaches, and I believe she is disappointed she is not yet expecting a blessed event.” Matilda took a sip of tea.

  “Oh, if she only knew what a bother it is to have a child, she’d rejoice at her childless state. Just last week I was awakened by Melinda, not once, but twice. It seems she is teething again. Why she can’t soothe herself is beyond me.” Mrs. Sullivan pursed her lips in disgust.

  “Did you go to her? Comfort her?” Savannah asked.

  “Of course not. She needs to learn to calm herself.”

  “She’s eighteen months old,” Savannah said with a hint of steel in her voice. “I’m uncertain how you expect such a young child to know such things.”

  “If I don’t instill such attributes as self-reliance in her now, she’ll never learn them.” Mrs. Sullivan watched Savannah with a censorious look. “What parenting advice can a childless woman give me, Savannah? I’d count myself fortunate your daughter died rather than have to listen to her mewling cries and constant interruptions in your life.”

  Savannah paled and wrapped her arms around her middle. “I will never give thanks that my daughter was taken from me. Unlike you, I would have rejoiced at her presence in my life.” She rose and nodded to her mother and Mrs. Sullivan. “If you will excuse me, I have other calls to make.” She strode from the room, and, after a moment, the table shook from the force of the front door slamming shut.