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  A BRIDE FOR STERLING

  The Proxy Brides

  By: Parker J. Cole

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 2018 Parker J. Cole

  Cover Art by Black Widow Books

  All rights reserved.

  First Edition: December 2018

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the authors.

  Scriptures quoted from the King James Holy Bible.

  CONTENTS

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION2

  DEDICATION4

  CHAPTER ONE5

  CHAPTER TWO15

  CHAPTER THREE25

  CHAPTER FOUR34

  CHAPTER FIVE43

  CHAPTER SIX52

  CHAPTER SEVEN60

  DUTCH GLOSSARY69

  AUTHOR’S NOTE71

  Upcoming Proxy Bride Books (2018 Series)73

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR74

  JOIN PARKER’S BODACIOUS READERS75

  WORKS BY PARKER J COLE76

  DEDICATION

  For Carolyn – who knew an unexpected friendship and regard would happen in the most unlikely place?

  CHAPTER ONE

  September 1870

  Holland, Michigan

  “Jasper, can a man still love a woman whose face begins to recede from his mind?” Sterling Montgomery asked. He and his best friend, Jasper Fox, ambled down Eighth Street of the business district in the predominantly Dutch community of Holland.

  “What sort of poppycock are you referring to, old chap?” Jasper gobbled up the last bit of apple pie he’d managed to coax from Sterling and his father’s housekeeper, Mevrouw Van Dijk.

  Sterling drew the chilly winds into his lungs. “My angel of music.”

  “What about her?” Jasper reached into his vest pocket to retrieve his pipe. “For a decade, you’ve gone on about your angel of music. I would have thought her image had been pounded into your brain by Cupid’s hammer.”

  “Cupid doesn’t carry a hammer; he carries a bow and arrow.”

  “He should, you know,” Jasper replied airily, filling his pipe with tobacco.

  “Should what?” Sterling listened with half an ear as weightier problems languished in his mind.

  “Carry a hammer.” Jasper struck a match and lit the contents of his pipe. He puffed for a few seconds, and then shook out the match. “Bows and arrows have a sporadic propensity to miss their mark though that depends on the archer’s aim. When the arrow misses its target, then Cupid should take his hammer and batter his spike of love into his target.”

  “That would certainly cause many a headache,” Sterling responded absently. “Answer me true: Can a man still love a woman whose face he can’t remember?”

  Smoke floated around Jasper’s black curly hair. “My good fellow, absence certainly makes the heart grow fonder. Complete desertion makes one wonder why bother?”

  “I haven’t deserted her!” Sterling halted in front of the post office.

  “Why are you trying to convince me?” His friend peered through the veil of smoke. “Or rather, what are you trying to convince yourself of?”

  “That,” Sterling replied slowly, “my love for her is real.”

  “Is it?” Jasper lifted a brow. “Neither of you have exchanged notes, proclaiming eternal passion and devotion. You’ve never gone back to New York to see her. So how can you keep a flame of love alive when you’ve done nothing to kindle it?”

  Sterling averted his gaze. “Father forbade me to see her that last day when he discovered our assignations.”

  “Assignations?” Jasper’s mouth fell open, his pipe forgotten. “You never said anything about an illicit rendezvous!”

  “Of course not! We never behaved in some torrid fashion.” Sterling scowled. “Nor would I ever do something as dastardly as that.”

  “I should think not.” Jasper bit down on his pipe. “You are your father’s son.”

  Sterling hoped the falling dusk hid the telltale flush of his cheeks. No, his meetings with his angel of music were not harried trysts of lovers. The son of Clyford Montgomery, minister of the gospel, would never compromise a lady’s virtue.

  Yet, the last time he saw her, he’d come very close to stealing a kiss, minister’s son notwithstanding.

  “I never knew her name, you know.” Sterling clasped his hands behind him as they continued their evening walk. “I’d always referred to her as ‘Angel’. When I heard her singing in the woods that first day, I could barely believe anyone born of man could sing so beautifully.”

  “You haven’t forgotten the sound of her voice. That is something.”

  No, he’d never forget his angel of music’s exquisite bell-like voice. Her sweet melody haunted his dreams.

  Two nights ago, he dreamt he was in the woods where they had first met. Sunlight had filtered through the lush green canopy overhead. Birds rested on the branches above. Woodland creatures scurried about. The hum of insects had filled the forest air.

  Then, all of Nature paused with bated breath. Then an angel began to sing.

  His heart had stopped, both in memory and in his dream. Such music could only come from above. Sterling crashed through the woods.

  He must know the origin of such glorious sound!

  Like a fairytale unfolding before his eyes, he happened upon a clearing. Rays of light kissed a red-caped figure sitting on a downed log. Butterflies fluttered around the angel.

  She turned but the brilliance of the sun hindered a full view of her face.

  Wait! Was it just his memory or a memory from his dream? Sterling couldn’t be sure where his mind was. But…he peered through a break in the light, whether of body or of mind, it was inconsequential. There! Her hair! He could see her hair.

  He stepped closer. He could almost see—

  “Sterling, you’re about to get run over by a horse!”

  With a painful withdrawal, he blinked and came back to the present. A rider and a horse stood before him. So close was the massive steed, it nuzzled his chest with its velvet nose.

  “Do get out of the way, Montgomery,” a strong accented voice said in a bored tone.

  Sterling shook his head to rid himself of the cobwebs. “Mijnheer Van Vonderen.” He stepped around the horse and rider. “My apologies.”

  “Really? I thought that perhaps, in your great affection for the mutual woman of our hearts, you would make the sacrifice of allowing my horse to run you down.” Bernard Van Vonderen’s eyes glittered down in the dusk. “No such thing, eh?”

  “Don’t let us keep you from the company of the lovely Miss Collingsworth, Van Vonderen,” Jasper interjected before Sterling could open his mouth. “I must say you have lasted longer than all the other interested parties before you.”

  “Natuurlijk! We Dutch are known for our tenacity.” Bernard tipped his hat. “Goedenacht.”

  Jasper came to stand by his side as they watched the young minister-in-training continue on his way. “Blast, Sterling! You and your infernal forays into your fantasy worlds.”

  “I saw her hair, Jasper.” He ignored his friend’s grumbling as wonder softened the edge of his anguish. “Golden ringlet curls burnished by flame.” Sterling closed his eyes in thankfulness that he remembered such a small part of his angel of music.

  Jasper groaned. “You would have seen the hooves of that stallion if Van Vonderen hadn’t controlled his mount. I called your name several ti
mes. You were deaf to me.”

  Sterling gave him a sidelong look. “You could have pulled me out of the way.”

  “One of us getting run over was enough.” Jasper emptied his pipe onto the ground, and stamped out the glowing embers of ash. “You become introspective and fanciful whenever you’ve had a talk with The Revered One. Your father is forcing you to pursue Lavinia, isn’t he?”

  Sterling’s mouth tightened. “Yes. Father wishes to be named successor now that Elder Collingsworth’s health is beginning to fail.”

  “What better way than through that institution which holds up society by its very foundation.”

  Sterling dragged his fingers through his hair. “What will I do? Father has become more insistent of late.”

  Whenever Clyford wished to ‘encourage’ Sterling’s acquiescence to his demands, he’d pull out the gold filigree bible and quote from it. Not a half hour past, his father had thumped on the golden book as he went on about that bit of ‘honoring thy father’.

  “He’s threatened by Van Vonderen,” Jasper stated. “It’s a well-known secret Van Vonderen wants the pastoralship.”

  “Marrying Lavinia would be a surefire way that Elder Collingsworth will name Father as successor.”

  Sterling shuddered. The only woman he’d ever dreamed of marrying was his angel of music. For ten years, he’d held onto the bond of love which had formed that summer in New York. Whenever his father’s demands became burdensome, he’d take the memory of his angel and stroke it with mental fingers of yearning. Now, her face had disappeared from his mind. Gone like a light of a will-o-wisp.

  If he hadn’t remembered her voice, then he would have doubted he’d ever seen her.

  Had she forgotten about him, perhaps? Did she not recall his visage in the same way as he? Maybe love hadn’t bloomed for her that summer. Perhaps he’d been nothing more than a dalliance, a brief whimsy of an episode to pass away the time until she returned to…whatever her life was.

  Sterling inhaled a deep breath. How horrible, how extraordinary to think she’d only seen his presence in such a light! It would be a desecration to true love!

  “You can’t keep living in your memories, Sterling.”

  Jasper’s resigned voice broke through his contemplation. With his friend’s sobering words, he sighed. “I know. But, my angel of music was everything to me. My Helen of Troy. My Aphrodite. My Sarai.” A thickness formed in his throat. “There must be something I can do, Jasper. How can I escape from this?”

  “‘This’ being the Revered One’s relentless demand that you pursue the elder’s daughter so he can climb the rungs of church hierarchy on your marriage bed?”

  Sterling choked at Jasper’s crassness but couldn’t admonish him when he said, “The answer is to marry another woman.”

  “Another woman?” Sterling tasted the words. The flavor repulsed him. “I shall not. It is my angel of music or—”

  “Lavinia,” Jasper finished in a blunt fashion. “Sterling, we know the Revered One will not let up until you have married her. You have to take control of your life, old boy.”

  “Take control of my life?” A sad, pathetic excuse of a laugh escaped Sterling’s mouth. “When have I ever been able to lead my own life, Jasper? You, my best friend, are my only defiance. Father decrees and I must obey. It is what the Book of Life says.”

  “The Book of Life also states, ‘Fathers, provoke not your children to anger’,” Jasper quoted. “If the Revered One forces you to court Lavinia, if he demands you to follow in his footsteps when you have no wish to, is that not provocation?”

  “I—,”

  “Sterling, old chap, for far too long, you have allowed your father to dictate your life.” Jasper paused, his dark eyes intent, devoid of their usual light-hearted cynicism. “Are you an obedient son? Or, are you your own man?”

  Sterling stood on a mental precipice. Behind him, the memory of his angel of music faded into the distance, lost in the fog of yesteryear. Beside him stood the vibrant, dominant figure of Clyford Montgomery, his demands stinging like drops of icy rain onto his life. Before him lay a black abyss of uncertainty, a future thundering with unseen danger.

  Yet, it was better to face that unseen danger as a man than remain in complacency by his father’s side.

  Sterling raised his chin. “I am my own person.”

  “Good.” Jasper pulled out his pocket watch. “We’ll go see Nethanja. We still have time.”

  “Nethanja!” Sterling scowled. “Are you mad?”

  “No more than you are,” Jasper dismissed with a wave of his hand. “She’s the only one we can trust to be discreet. Further, she is well connected with many people because of her affiliations with the railways. If an eligible woman is to be found outside of our fair state, she will be the one to find her. Now, come along, old chap. Let’s go see her.”

  “I can’t!” Despite his resolve, sudden panic seized every muscle in his body. “If Father discovers—”

  “When he discovers, the deed would have already been done.”

  Sterling rubbed the back of his neck. “Jasper, you make it sound so simple.”

  “That’s because it is simple. Would you rather face your father’s wrath because you chose your own wife, even if she isn’t your angel of music? Or, would you rather feel the burden of his pride because he chose your wife for you?”

  Put in that light, there was only one choice. “All right, let’s visit the matchmaker.”

  Albany, New York

  “Remember Moira, let me do all the talking,” Lotte Wellington wrung the silk handkerchief in her hands nervously. “If I explain the situation, she’ll be amendable to allow me a forbearance.” A brittle smile lifted the corners of her mother’s drawn face. “I’m sure of it.”

  Moira crossed the drawing room from her position at the doorway. The dark hollows under her mother’s eyes showed her strain. “Moeder, I cannot allow you to delude yourself. Mevrouw Ter Bane has never given any of her ‘milliners’,” Moira drew the word out sarcastically, “a forbearance. If you do not have the funds, she will—,”

  “I know what she’ll do, Moira,” Lotte turned away in a whirl of finely pressed dark-blue material, the flounce of her gown making an arc around her feet. “I will not let your father be disgraced. He has recovered from the sickness, God be praised. The election is in a few months. We cannot permit the barest breath of scandal to touch him.”

  Lotte faced her again. “Soon, my debt to her will be paid in full.”

  Moira sat down on the floral-patterned settee. “Mevrouw Ter Bane will never consent to such freedom.”

  Lotte’s eyes filled with tears and Moira leapt up from the couch to hug her mother as she cried. “Oh, why did I ever agree to this madness?” She moaned into Moira’s shoulder. “I should have known it would be this way.”

  “You must take heart,” Moira squeezed her mother tightly. Taking the silk handkerchief from her mother’s cold fingers, she used it to mop the tears away. “She’ll be here any minute. No matter what demands she makes, we must not allow her to see our weakness.”

  “Oh, lieveling,” Lotte cooed in her native Dutch, reaching out to pat Moira’s cheeks, “what a terrible burden I have been to you. I shouldn’t hate the woman who gave me a wonderful husband.”

  Moira knew her mother’s predicament. Mevrouw Ter Bane was a matchmaker with an unparalleled record of success. All of the men and women who had married via her connections had been happy ones. Of course, they may have come together for different reasons, but the unions were successful not only because of social compatibility.

  They all turned into love matches.

  Yet, a dark side existed to Mevrouw Ter Bane’s matchmaking. Something every bride discovered to her detriment.

  The sound of the doorbell ringing echoed. Smoothing her dress down, Lotte wiped the tell-tale traces of tears from her cheeks and drew in a noisy breath. “Remember, I’ll do all the talking.”

  Moira swallowed a h
ard lump in her throat and wandered over to the window to await their unwanted guest. Gazing out at the nearly bare trees lining the sidewalk, she once again thought of that long-ago day, ten years ago, when she met her silver prince for the last time.

  “My angel of music,” he’d whispered. The brilliant blue of his eyes had pierced down into her own. “When I come to you tomorrow, sing for me.”

  “Are you demanding me, my prince?” She hadn’t been able to keep the humor out of her voice.

  Instead of returning her mirth, he took a step forward and touched his finger to her chin. “Can’t a husband demand from his wife?”

  It was the first time he had touched her that entire summer. His calloused finger abraded her skin in a pleasant way. “Of course not. Particularly if the woman who stands before him is not his wife.”

  “But what if she were…intended to be his wife?” Though little space kept them apart, her silver prince closed it. “Would he have the right to demand?”

  “Of course not! No husband should demand. He should beg profusely, on his knees.”

  Before she knew it, he fell to his knee. “My angel, if I were your husband, the only demand I would make is that you sing to me every day. I would beg you to give me the honor of your voice to bless my home.”

  “Goedenmiddag, Mevrouw Wellington.”

  The voice of Mevrouw Ter Bane shattered the memory. Moira supposed she should be thankful for the interruption. It was no good living in the past. Useless to pine for a man who had never sought her again. Whose name she never knew because he failed to return that final day when they promised to reveal themselves to each other.

  “Goedenmiddag, Mevrouw,” Lotte answered back.

  Mevrouw Ter Bane’s gray eyes landed on Moira. “Juffrouw Wellington, I’m glad to see you’re here as well.”

  “Mevrouw,” she greeted with a thin veneer of politeness and a flippant curtsy. She couldn’t keep up the pretense of social niceties when this woman held her mother for ransom. The slight narrowing of the woman’s eyes showed she understood the slight for what it was.