Millicent, Southern Hearts Series, Book One Read online

  Millicent

  Southern Hearts Series

  Book One

  Copyright 2013 by Felicia Rogers

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Contact Information:

  Website: http://feliciarogersauthor.weebly.com

  Email: [email protected]

  Published by:

  M.O.I. Publishing

  "Mirrors of Imagination"

  Smashwords Edition

  Cover Design: Dingbat Publishing

  http://dingbatpublishing.weebly.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Excerpt: Amelia

  Excerpt: The Ruse

  Other Books by Felicia Rogers

  Dedication

  First of all, this story is dedicated to my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, for without Him, I would be like a ship without a destination and without a sail.

  Secondly, this story is dedicated to five important women who shared in my adventure of bringing this story to life.

  The first woman is my pen pal, my confidant, and my Aunt Yvonne, better known as Aunt Bonnie, who welcomed me into her home, allowed me to visit and sleep on her new fold-out sofa, and encouraged me to continue my every endeavor.

  The second woman is “one of my best” cousins, Ericka, who ferried me to the plantation houses and took a thousand pictures.

  Ladies three and four, come as a pair. They are my twin cousins, Jeannine and Carmen, that I finally grew taller than, and who made this research project infinitely more entertaining.

  And lastly, Verna Clay, who has tireless edited this project, encouraged me to continue writing, and become one of my dear friends.

  Chapter One

  July 19, 1830

  Dearest Stephenie,

  I'm so excited! Today is my eighteenth birthday. Do forgive me for jumping right into the news, but I fear I cannot contain my excitement. Father has promised me a party of magnificent proportions. Although there are conditions, this is to be expected with parents.

  Father is concerned with the timing and Mother refuses to have the party in this heat. The planning will no doubt take at least a month to complete; however, this news does not distress me.

  Tradition on my birthday will hold with or without a party. After dinner we will sit around the fire and talk about the day of my birth. One day I must take the time to tell you the story. It leads to a wonderful ending, the home in which I live.

  I wish you could see the green loblolly pine trees, the magnificent magnolias with their large white blooms, and Mother's garden brimming with colorful flowers and birds. As I rest on a bench, woodpeckers, wrens, Acadian flycatchers, and other birds flutter nearby.

  But please, tell me how your studies are coming along? My tutor, Mr. Hughes, insists he has a right to read my correspondences. Even though he encouraged me to find someone with whom to communicate, and played a part in our meeting, I vehemently disagree. I have hidden our letters from him.

  Amelia and Cora pander to Mr. Hughes. Clucking like baby chicks, they follow him around, batting their lashes, and pretending to swoon. Oft times they stare into space in a dreamy fashion during our class exercises. Needless to say their studies…

  "Stephen? Where are you brother?" Delia's voice rang through the hallway.

  Stephen folded the letter as his sister opened the library door.

  "There you are. I've been searching everywhere for you."

  "You found me."

  "Ah, yes. Well, Father wants to see you."

  "Do you know why?"

  Delia placed her hands on her hips. "I do not. I was in the middle of having my hair combed." She wiggled her head of randomly bouncing, cascading curls.

  He sighed. "I guess I'll just have to go in search of Father."

  "I guess you will. And please, do stop hiding away and reading your letters. Occasionally we need to find you."

  Delia stomped to the door and slammed it. Stephen leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on a corner of the desk. The letter sat folded within his reach. If he closed his eyes, he could remember every letter from Millicent Beaumont.

  In his mind he tried to envision her from her descriptions. He conjured up long dark, chestnut hair and sparkling green eyes. Would her skin be as smooth as silk and as white as porcelain belying her red hot temper and tongue like a whip? In her letters she was unable to hold even the tiniest opinions to herself.

  Visions of his pen pal came to a screeching halt.

  "Stephen Green, get your sorry hide outside this instant. The wheel busted when Moses brought the wagon around. Your mother is determined to visit her sister today and if we don't fix the wagon, I'll have to carry her on my back!"

  Stephen stood, buried the letter in a desk drawer, and followed his father. Heat slapped him when he stepped onto the veranda. He shielded his eyes from the blinding sunlight.

  His father motioned toward the wagon. "Moses went to get help. We need to lift the wagon box up then take the old wheel off and put a new one on."

  Shuffling his feet, Stephen gnawed at his lip. Twenty-five years old and he felt like a child. "Father, I need to tell you something."

  "Yes?"

  Inhaling a calming breath, he squared his shoulders. "Do you remember last month when we missed a load of supplies?"

  "I do."

  "We have no new wagon wheels."

  His father, Walter Green, a notable and upstanding member of society, grabbed his hat and threw it on the ground. Hissing harsh words under his breath, he stomped in a circle. Through clenched teeth, he said, "What you're telling me is that we don't have a wagon wheel to replace this one?"

  "Yes, sir, I'm afraid so."

  "How am I going to get your mother to her sister's house? Do you know what this means?"

  Stephen shook his head. His mother was a m
ild-mannered woman most of the time. Only once had he seen her riled enough to raise her voice; it hadn't been a pleasant experience.

  "Let me tell you what it means. It means she will retire to her boudoir and sulk. She won't come out until she gets her way. I can't believe this. That shopkeeper is in for an earful when I see him."

  The ranting continued until Moses returned. Unsure of what to do without another wheel, Stephen waited for his father's instructions.

  "Moses, you might as well tell the men to go back to the fields. We can't repair this wagon now."

  Moses scuffed his feet against the ground.

  "Do you have something to say?" asked his father.

  "Yes, sir. Beggin' your pardon, but Josiah here is fairly good with repairin' things. I think he might just be able to fix this wheel."

  While details were discussed, Stephen sat on the steps and thought about Millicent. He needed an invitation to her birthday party. There had to be a way to secure one for himself, and not Stephenie.

  ****

  Hot and humid air blanketed the plantation. Millicent fanned herself with little relief. Sweat beaded, causing her dress to stick in the most uncomfortable places. Bayou Sara in August was miserable.

  With her back propped against a tree, Millicent alternately stared between her frolicking siblings and the blank piece of paper on her lap. A ball sailed her way. Quickly, she grabbed the ink well and steadied it. If the liquid stained another gown her mother would have her hide.

  "Please do watch where you are throwing that thing."

  "Sorry," yelled Cora, her fourteen year old sister. Slim, with a boyish figure, she was the most athletic of the three. Light brown hair, almost tawny in color, fell to the middle of her back, and amber eyes offset her face.

  Amelia, the middle sister, was a little on the round side with rich mahogany hair and eyes. She was shorter than her sisters, which she used to explain her extra girth. At sixteen she thought she knew everything.

  Millicent was the oldest, having recently enjoyed her eighteenth birthday. In her own appraisal she was completely average with medium brown hair and eyes that tended to be hazel or green depending on the lighting. In height, she stood above Amelia but below Cora.

  Cora and Amelia went back to their game and Millicent directed her attention to the empty page. She had sent a letter to Stephenie only a week before. Excitement over her upcoming party drove her to want to write more. There were so many details to discuss.

  Mr. Hughes, their tutor, had insisted Millicent needed a way to enhance her literary skills. Her options had been to either write more book reports or write to a friend. Millie picked the latter when Mr. Hughes said he knew the perfect person. She was a woman of similar age and background, whose family ran a cotton plantation. Both women had multiple siblings and were the eldest.

  At first Millicent didn't like the idea of writing letters to someone she'd never met. But writing book reports was even more loathsome.

  Finally, she wrote her first letter. Weeks passed before she received a reply. She'd never written to a stranger and the challenge of expressing herself adequately had been a strain. Before sending that first post, she'd read it at least a dozen times. The reply, however, had dissolved her misplaced fears. Stephenie was indeed like her and they had much in common.

  The first correspondence led to many more. She found herself writing to her new friend biweekly. Replies came at the same rate. There always seemed to be something to talk about. Whether she complained about her sisters or she talked about plantation issues, the friends always found common ground.

  Things that could not be spoken aloud to her sisters could be shared with Stephenie without fear of reprisal. The possibilities for sharing bottled up secrets were endless. The first time she'd written such information her heart had jumped and butterflies danced in her stomach. As the letter was carted away for delivery, she'd expected to be caught and punished, but nothing had happened. With no censure, she became emboldened.

  Letters received in return from her new friend were encouraging. They lavished praise on her for her decisions. Rarely was a chastisement included.

  Now, a new letter to Stephenie could not wait because of what had happened the evening before. Chandler Wright, an attractive man from their old neighborhood and a family friend, had come for a visit.

  They had sat at the family table and talked of politics and current events with vigor. Amelia and Cora had frowned at her, but Millicent had turned her head and stuck her tongue at them.

  Of course, she knew her sisters were only trying to protect her. After all, Chandler Wright had been previously engaged, having left his bride at the altar. Their attempt to warn her fell on deaf ears. Flattered by his attention, she had suppressed her natural feelings of common sense.

  She sighed. "Impetuous" was a word her father had used to describe her on more than one occasion.

  If she had just hidden in a corner far away from Chandler, then he would never have been able to do what he did. But reason went out the window when she met a gentleman of uncommon intelligence. She had sat beside him and spoken her mind about current events until he leaned over and said, "Would you meet me outside later?"

  Contemplating the letter, Millicent gnawed her lip. Guilt clenched her gut. Would Stephenie think poorly of her revelation that a man of such questionable character had stolen a kiss in the garden?

  Truthfully, she should never have agreed to meet with him after supper, yet she had. She blamed this on living in Bayou Sara. There were so few entertaining bachelors that young ladies counted themselves lucky if they garnered the affection of one.

  "How long do you intend to stare at that paper? Come play. The movement will do you good." Amelia motioned her forward.

  Placing her writing stuff on the ground, Millicent stood and joined their game.

  Chapter Two

  Tucking the letter to her bosom, Millicent headed into the maze. Stone paths led to a secluded spot in the middle of the arboretum. Inside, completely hidden from prying eyes, she pulled out the letter and opened it.

  Dear Millicent,

  I received your letter in the post today. As always I love hearing your latest news. The party sounds divine.

  As for the occurrences in my own life, I'm afraid they are rather dreary at the moment. Cotton season will end soon and the entire plantation will busy themselves with gathering and preparing bales for shipment.

  The heat is oppressive and I find myself wishing that we weren't required to wear so many layers…

  Millicent finished the letter and a pout tugged at her bottom lip—only one mention of her party and nothing more? Didn't her friend wish to attend?

  She had believed Stephenie would beg for an invitation, or at least bemoan the reasons she couldn't attend, but all she'd said was that it sounded divine.

  Pacing the grass, Millicent tapped her finger to her forehead. The entire letter seemed as if something plagued her friend; not as friendly or detailed as normal. It was almost standoffish; like talking to someone who was only an acquaintance.

  Gathering her skirts she raced back to the house. Prickly hedges grabbed for her gown but she expertly avoided them. Skidding to a halt in front of the grandiose porch, Millicent paused for breath.

  "Catching your breath, my dear?"

  The sound of her father's voice behind her caused her to jump. "Father! You scared me."

  "Sorry. Where are you going in such a hurry?"

  "I need to write a letter to Stephenie. She didn't even ask about attending my party."

  "I see."

  "Do you really? She is my best friend in the entire world! She needs to be at my eighteenth birthday party."

  "Of course she does, dearest. But we must not concern ourselves with the details just yet. First we must–"

  "Gather the cotton, ship the cotton; yes I know. Then we have to wait for mother to plan my party. Why, it may be December before everything is complete."

  "I dare say it
may."

  "Father! You can't mean it," she groaned.

  "I'm afraid so. Bayou Sara is busier than ever. We must wait our turn like everyone else. However, I promise not to make you wait a day later than necessary."

  "What about Stephenie? She lives so far away she needs to know when the party is scheduled so she can make plans."

  "Then invite her now. She can stay until the party." Her father's attention turned elsewhere. "Well, dear, I must be going. I have much to do."

  Millicent ran to her father and kissed his cheek.

  "Away with you, my little dove. I have business to attend to." His brisk words were buffeted by his smile.

  Millie rushed to her room and grabbed some paper. Her first order of business was to invite her friend for a visit.

  ****

  Stephen groaned. The letter had arrived a few hours earlier. Crumpling it in his fists, he fought the urge to throw it into the fire. What was he going to do?

  "That bad, huh?"

  Startled, he turned to the door. "Charles? What are you doing here?"

  Charles Vincent, Stephen's best friend and twenty-two year old owner of the neighboring plantation, cocked an eyebrow at him. "I thought I'd ask if you wanted to go for a ride, but I can see you're busy destroying a perfectly fine piece of paper."

  Stephen stared blankly at him.

  "If you don't want to ride, please let me know so I can either take a seat or leave posthaste to find another partner."

  "I am sorry Charles. I find myself distracted."

  "Distressing news?"

  "Not exactly. I've been invited to a party."

  "A party? Where and when?"

  "If only it were that simple."

  Charles entered the room and sat on the red velvet sofa, crossed an ankle over one knee, and placed his arm across the back. "Explain."