The Double Rose
Authors: Lynne Erickson Valle
Copyright
The Double Rose
, revised edition.
Copyright © 2014 Lynne Valle
lynneericksonvalle.com
Published by Dove Press, May 2014
ISBN-13: 978-0615746357
ISBN-10: 0615746357
Ebook ISBN-13: 978-0985328733
Category: Inspirational Romance Novel
Cover design by © Nicholas Weston
All rights reserved. With the exception of brief quotes in reviews, no part of this publication may be reproduced in any written, photocopied, electronic, or recorded form without express permission from the author.
The Scripture verse (Isaiah 26:3) contained herein is quoted from the King James Version of the Bible in public domain.
This is a work of fiction. With the exception of a few family elements (noted in the Fun Facts), the story and all characters are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead) is purely coincidental.
Endorsements
A generations-old gift, charming characters and a predestined love.
The Double Rose
is a romance and family drama that will tug at your heartstrings and leave you feeling inspired. Lynne Erickson Valle is a bright new author who writes with sincerity and faith. - Lisa Norato, author of
Prize of My Heart
(Bethany House)
It is hard to put a good book down, and Lynne Erickson Valle’s
The Double Rose
is more than a good book, it’s great! Full of emotion; a lot of good action; it won’t let you down through to the end. How many of us are looking for love in all the wrong places? Marie’s search is like that, but it will surprise you where she is looking. Locked in with the past, present, and future, you will fall in love with the whole family who make this novel so real. I am impressed with how the author has put this story and the story of our Eternal Heritage together. This book will be on my shelf, to be read many times. - Jan Abney, author and editor, South Central Missouri
A beautiful love story told in eloquent language. I commend the author for her talent and passion, and recommend this novel as a great read. – Ilene Leo, author
Dedication
Christopher
Ryan
Joshua
Elizabeth
Laura Anne
Kristin
Jared
Sarah
You are my gifts from God; my treasure;
my joy; my sunshine.
Collectively and individually, I love you from the depths of my soul!
* * *
And to my stepfather, Peter Flaherty, whose generosity placed wings on my dreams.
I love you!
Prologue
Once Upon A Time
Thursday, 15 September 1859
“Woman!” Jeremiah Jones’ holler was his calling card, and Marie Rousseau knew it all too well.
The light of the full moon filtered in the front window as Marie peeked through the calico curtains, confirming the source of the voice. The moon’s tranquil presence contrasted the ranting of the sick soul who stalked the farming territory inhabited by French immigrants northeast of Kansas City.
The uninvited man dismounted his restless chestnut-brown mare near a small corral. As soon as his feet hit the ground, Maple, the salivating bloodhound, met the heels of his leather boots with a snap of her teeth. She snarled and then lunged toward Jones, threatening him with a nip at his trousers. He prowled toward the house and then stopped on the narrow dirt path leading to the dwelling’s front entrance. “Woman!”
Marie studied the pacing, irate man as she pondered what to do. Her daughters, Suzanne and Jacqueline, silently held each other on the other side of the simple wood door. Though they were women by the world’s standards, Marie’s girls were as tender as their young ages—seventeen and fifteen.
For a moment, she indulged in mourning her husband before she opened the door. Together, they might have reasoned with Jones. Marie took a deep breath as her heart raced. Venturing a few steps outside, she called Maple as she patted her hip. The old dog left Jones to return to her mistress’ side.
Jones held his husky arm straight out as he had done to other alleged dissenters in the settlement. While pointing his long, accusing finger directly at Marie, he made his ultimatum. “I have vowed to purge this territory of people like you.” His anger reverberated through every syllable. “This is the last chance I am giving you witches to repent or suffer the consequences.”
His pious nature was exasperating. She cringed at the prospect of another futile debate with the renegade reverend. Marie kept her head erect—eyes focused on Jones as she squatted down to reward Maple with a stroke across the old dog’s back. “What are you afraid of?”
“You arrogant little woman! How dare you question me?” He kicked down some rails of the picket fence surrounding Marie’s flourishing garden, squashing several young pumpkins.
Undaunted by the reverend’s rampage, Marie stood tall in her emerald-green dress—at least as tall as a woman four feet eleven inches could stand. “You are afraid of what you cannot understand—what you cannot control.”
“Woman, you have just used up your last chance.” Jones took one step toward the house, wielding a rail from the felled fence as if it were a medieval sword. “I am done talking.” After thrusting the rail into the earth, he retreated in haste and then mounted his horse.
His quick exit was uncharacteristic of the confrontations he had imposed on Marie in the past. She peered at the moonlit trail and wondered what plot had hatched in the man’s mind.
Marie brought Maple back inside the house and resumed the packing they had begun that afternoon. Jones’ crusade had made staying in their home impossible. By daybreak, they would be safely on their way.
“It looks more like the general store than our front room.” Marie stepped over bed pillows and a pile of folded cotton blankets. “No tears, ladies.” Maternal tenderness swelled in her bosom. “He has chased us from our home, but he will not chase our peace from us. Suzanne, what does the prophet say about peace?”
“‘Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee because he trusteth in thee.’ Isaiah 26:3.”
“Very good, my dear. Now let me have a smile from both of you.”
“Maman, how can God or you expect me to smile while evil lurks under our own windowsills?” Suzanne’s eyes were wet and red, obviously in the midst of a tug-of-war with tears. “Father has been murdered, and we must flee from our home, and my betrothed has refused to accompany us.”
Jacqueline paused from packing her mother’s best dishes. “Don't cry.” Her warm smile melted the heaviness of the mood. “Charles promised to join us in six months.”
Suzanne peered at her mother and sister before replying. “He will never come.” She pulled a pristine white linen handkerchief from her pocket with her slender fingers.
Marie drew near and took her daughter’s hand, then held it close to her heart. Suzanne's palms were wet–and not from toil-born sweat. Jacqueline quickly followed, embracing her sister from her other side.
“When we leave in the morning, I will set my eyes on him for the last time. I can feel in my soul that it will be so.” Suzanne ran the tips of her fingers over the intricate stitches of what she had anticipated being her married initials: S. M. P.
Marie looked deep into Suzanne’s sullen green eyes and mustered the assurance to persuade her daughter’s thoughts toward optimism without denying the reality of Suzanne’s situation. “Darling . . .” Marie paused to carefully choose her words. “I know this is a hard time for you, but we must trust in our Creator. If Charles does not join us, then we must believe he was never God’s plan for you. But know this, God has a destiny for our family—a beautiful destiny.”
The women carefully finished packing their possessions for the next two hours. Near the kitchen table were two large crates resting on a rag-rug made of many years’ worth of favorite remnants from the ladies’ sewing. They had already filled one crate with the family’s cherished collection of handwritten and store-bought books. The other contained glassware wrapped in old newspapers.
Jacqueline looked up from wrapping a fresh loaf of bread in a dish towel. “Maman, do you think father minds us leaving the settlement?”
Marie banged the last nail into the crate containing her husband’s possessions before looking up to answer her daughter’s question. When her gaze met Jacqueline’s anxious expression and raised brows, she set the hammer down on top of the crate. She crossed the room to join Jacqueline by the pie cupboard that was still stained from the morning’s cherry filling. The aroma from the fresh-baked turnovers scented the room as they rested above jars of pickled eggs in the food basket.
Her hand rubbed against pink cotton as Marie caressed Jacqueline’s shoulder. “You know your father was the best man I ever knew.” The radiant love she held in her heart for the man she had buried still glowed, as did the polished wedding ring on her finger. “I daresay he was as near to perfection as any man could be. . . . He wants what is best for us, darling. I am sure he understands and from heaven sends his blessings on our journey.”
Marie’s eyes traveled around the room as she reminisced over the life she had there with her husband. She had many happy memories in that room. An heirloom lace wedding dress was draped over a dining chair. It reminded her that the future held much promise. Hopefully, Suzanne would be wearing it soon.
All the furniture would have to stay behind except the rocking chair next to the fireplace. Her late husband had meticulously carved an image of an eagle, wings spread in flight, across the top of the chair back. Whatever the cost, she would not leave the rocking chair behind.
Maple suddenly aroused from her peaceful sleep. In the midst of her barking, the women heard the sound of several iron hooves rapidly approaching their home. Why had Jones returned so quickly?
“Girls, bolt the door!”
Suzanne dashed to latch the front door while Jacqueline bolted the back. Marie snuffed the candles and then crawled on her hands and knees in order to retrieve the shotguns leaning in the corner.
Marie took a peek out the bottom corner of the west window to count heads.
One, two, three, four
. . .
“Marie!”
Marie recognized the caller as Claude Baudin. How did Claude get mixed up with Jones’ gang?
“It is too late in the evening to be calling on respectable women. What do you want?”
“We want to talk, settle this feud, and then everyone can go their separate ways. We can restore peace to the territory.”
“Not in the house. I will meet you on the porch.”
Her daughters begged her not to go outside. “Darlings, listen to me carefully. The best chance we have for ending things peacefully this evening is if I meet them on the porch. The only one outside of the family who was willing to attend my wedding was Claude. I will not believe he would betray me now.”
Pointing toward the guns, Marie continued, “Get them. I will be going out there in good faith, unarmed. But you two are to latch the door and lay low behind these crates: guns cocked, ready to fire.”
Suzanne and Jacqueline took the weapons with trembling hands and tear-filled faces.
Marie met seven men on the moonlit porch, among whom Claude’s was the only friendly face. Without hesitation, Jones brushed past Baudin and grabbed Marie with hostile force by the right arm.
Outrage rushed across Baudin's face. “What is this!? You enlisted my presence to restore peace.”
“Well,
curé
, your idea of peace is not compatible with God’s.” Jones yanked Marie’s arm as she attempted to wrestle free from his grasp.
The expression on Claude’s face told a long tale of deceitful promises imposed on Marie’s trusting friend.
“You devil! I warn you, Jones, I will defend this family with my life.” He drew a Colt .44 revolver.
The peaceful pastor’s courage humored the cowards. “If you defend their kind, then it
will
cost you your life,” Jones stated as if the situation were amusing.
The fifty-two-year-old man did not stand a chance against the twenty-one-year-old Smith twins who tackled him.
“Stop! Stop!” Marie thrashed her arms and legs as she shouted orders to her daughters. She managed to deliver one hearty kick to Jones’ shin.
The three men rolled down two steps and onto the grass before Baudin’s gun was confiscated. They left him keeled over, blood spilling from his lip, and a Bowie knife in his heart.
Cocking his neck, Jones gave the order to break down the door.
“Shoot girls!” Marie gave her own orders. “Shoot the door!”
Two gun blasts fired. Marie’s attempt to barricade and protect her daughters proved futile when two husky men used their shoulders as battering rams and burst through the bolted door. Jesse Doyle fell dead, but Jones’ four other cohorts invaded the house. Jones dragged Marie through the battered door.
Maple attacked the mob, causing them to squirm briefly before William Foster shot their faithful protector with one fatal bullet. The young women screamed, but Marie offered a silent prayer that someone would investigate the cause of gunfire so late at night.
The three women quickly found themselves held at gunpoint by six intoxicated vigilantes. They stood with their backs to the large stone hearth where only minutes earlier Marie had placed a kettle to simmer her evening tea.
Reverend Jones re-lit the wick of the remaining beeswax candle still dripping in the pewter candlestick stationed on the mantel. He paced in front of the women, boldly making eye contact. His towering six-feet four-inches of stature accentuated Marie’s petite frame.
“I have given you every opportunity to confess your sins, yet you refuse,” Jones stated in a flat, cold tone, unmasked and without the slightest hint of shame. A gold cross dangled over his long, black tunic as he conducted a fool’s trial. “I find you guilty!” He banged a pretend gavel made from the butt of his gun against the hardwood kitchen table.
“The Church revoked your authority.” Marie intentionally spoke with a heavier French accent than usual. “And you are not the law in this territory. If you kill us, it will be cold-blooded murder.”
“This is justice!” Jones spewed his verdict ten inches from Marie. “The same justice I gave to Philip.” The heat of his offensive breath pressed against her face.
Marie had suspected that Jones killed her beloved, but hearing the confession spoken out loud with grotesque justification nearly crushed her ability to stay focused on the critical nature of the present moment.
“Did you think you could escape from justice by running away in the middle of the night?” The mocking expression in Jones’ eyes equaled the condescension in his voice.
How had Jones discovered her plans? Marie wiped her forehead as she resisted the urge to demand to know how he had learned of their planned departure from the settlement.
“At least take pity on my daughters. They are so young. The older one is promised in marriage.” Marie pointed to her daughters, desperately hoping to arouse compassion, but the tears streaming down their faces met none from the drunken men. “I beg you; do not do this wicked thing. As sure as the sun rises, it will come back to haunt you.”
“I have to protect the world from you witches.” Jones reached out his hand and yanked down the blue flag depicting three gold
fleurs-de-lis
hanging on the wall next to the fireplace. “We are going to burn the lot of you and your repulsive French flag.” He waved the hand-stitched flag in front of their faces.
Marie took a deep breath before continuing, “Be reasonable, Reverend. Please be reasonable. How can you accuse us of being witches? We visit with—”
Jones abruptly interrupted Marie. “Demons! These wingless beings surrounded by light that you claim bring you messages are demons.”