Page 1 of The Heart of Bennet Hollow

Lizbeth Bennet clutched the handle of the wicker basket with hope. The same hope with which she’d gathered each and every wildflower within. Slipping inside the farmhouse, she traded the brightness of day for the dim light of Ma’s kitchen—the very heartbeat of Bennet Hollow.

“Did you spot the new train car, by chance?” Jayne asked from the table, her voice as soft and mountain grown as a wild birch grove. “They say it’s called the Pemberley.”

Lizbeth lowered the basket to the table and handed a sprig of lacy white yarrow to her older sister. “I didn’t wander far enough. Have you seen it yourself? This Pemberley?” Having just come in from the sunny garden, she brushed her hands clean and sat. “Clearly I’ve missed the gossip.”

“I saw it when I walked into town this mornin’.

” Jayne examined the contents of the basket.

Her golden hair was bound up in rag curlers, and a single band of gray twine wrapped her pale wrist, holding a tiny nugget of violet amethyst that Pa, a geologist, had unearthed in a mine.

“It’s the prettiest sight, Lizzy. Brighter than a new penny perched there right on the track. ”

Lizbeth rolled back the sleeves of her striped work dress and tried to imagine such a view.

A breeze blew cool against her bare neck from the open window, causing her homespun collar to flutter.

Her sisters had been on the lookout ever since some weeks back, when the owner of the New River Coal Company had announced his coming guests—a slew of coal barons and investors, all eager to bid on the property that was now for sale.

And the best part of all among the Bennet sisters... the dance that would mark their arrivals.

“Do you know his name?” Lizbeth asked. “The man who owns this train car?”

“I can’t recall. But...” Jayne’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I hear he’s the wealthiest of the investors. Maybe even more than all of them put together.”

“There’s no way folks could know that.”

“Well, the rest of the investors arrived on the train. This other man owns a whole piece of it.” Jayne’s pretty eyebrows lifted.

From where she stood at the stove, Ma chimed in.

“And I’m sure one of these fellas’ll want to buy the coal company with Mr. Jorgensen so bent on retirement.

” She shook her head slowly as though unable to decide if that were a good or bad omen.

“Change is comin’ to New River and it’s gonna affect more than just the coal mine. Mark my words, girls.”

A slow shiver crept up Lizbeth’s spine. No wonder murmurings were spreading from one end of town to the next.

How could only a few men spark such attention?

“Mr. Jorgensen’s all but flung open the doors to the hoist barn.” Ma stirred the fire with an iron rod. “Wants these investors to see the town at its best.”

“How do you know this, Ma?” Lizbeth asked.

Ma winked. “It’s my job to know these things.

I saw his wife and the other ladies wipin’ dust from the windows.

Some boys tried to peek inside, but Mrs. Jorgensen shooed ’em off.

” The iron poker clattered as she coaxed the flames brighter.

Sparks popped and sputtered. “The rest’ll have to remain a mystery ’til tonight. ”

With a sigh, Jayne lifted a snip of wild roses from the basket and plucked petals from the stem. A tiny puddle of pink formed on the rough-hewn table.

Lizbeth did the same with a bundle of chamomile. She’d gleaned the green and white buds from the meadow behind the barn where blackbirds lined the fence, squawking for the scraps of table bread she sometimes brought them.

“Now whatever’s this about?” Ma tilted the basket to peer inside.

Lizbeth lifted a scrap of linen from her embroidery stash. “Sachets. Jayne hatched the idea and I searched the farm.” Now they could fashion scented secrets to tuck beneath their bodices for the dance this evening. An event mused to be the finest they had ever attended.

Or might ever hope to attend.

Ma nodded, looking pleased. “It’d do well to marry a few of you girls off sooner rather than later. And to think of such wealthy men here in town. I hope they stay a good long while.”

“Ma!” Lizbeth gasped.

“Well, you two are of age, and your sisters are right behind. It doesn’t seem like anyone ’round these parts has caught your eye. A mother can hope. Least give me that.”

Jayne widened her eyes playfully and chose another flower. “I’ve been told the train car has a parlor and a dinin’ room. All dressed up in velvet curtains as deep a blue as the midnight sky. Just imagine being whisked away into the grand unknown aboard such a dream.”

Lizbeth smiled softly. At twenty, she was two years younger than Jayne.

Her other sisters—Maryanne, Kit, and Lacey—stairstepped after her.

Though the younger three still walked to school each day, they were just grown enough to attend the coming barn dance.

The very girls that bounded down from the second story now, brown braids flying.

Like chicks on a stoop, they filled the crooked stairwell in a chorus of sun-faded skirts, mountain drawls, and tattered boots.

“I heard tell the owner’s a sight to see as well!

” Sixteen-year-old Lacey winked brazenly and twirled around the post. “A coal baron all the way from Vermont. They say he’s rich enough to own all of New River if he fancies to.

Oh, I hope he notices me.” She gasped at the basket of flowers and climbed beneath the banister for a better look. “Whatever’s this for?”

Lizbeth and Jayne exchanged knowing smiles.

“Just a little somethin’ for tonight.” Lizbeth nudged the basket aside.

But Jayne patted the bench beside her. “Have a seat and join us. There’s larkspur and some wilted mint, but I reckon the herbs’ll be the most fragrant.” Squinting, she adjusted one of the rags in her hair, appearing eager that the curls would turn out.

Like two curious colts, Kit and Maryanne edged nearer.

Lizbeth loosened a length of thread from the spool. “Better get a move on and fetch the kettles, girls.” She gauged the light through the window where a late afternoon wagged its finger at them for dawdling. “Time to hurry if each of us are to bathe before the dance.”

“Water’s steamin’.” Ma flapped a rag at the white cloud billowing from the kettle’s spout. “And the iron’s hotter than the July sun. There won’t be a wrinkle among my girls tonight.”

The younger three grabbed kettles and basins, starting for the stairs.

Ma continued. “We may be poorer than the Jorgensens but we can make just as fine an entrance. Even if we don’t own a coal mine. And we best find out this new man’s name so your pa can introduce you girls proper tonight. Lizzy, I hope you’ve finished sewing your new blouse.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Eyes down, Lizbeth tried to focus on her task as she unraveled the same spool of thread.

Her other sisters were more patient with the details, and her newest blouse had a flaw or two that she hoped would go unnoticed.

She was better at embroidery than more practical sewing.

The very reason Ma had her refocus on stitching up a sampler this year. One that was only partially finished.

With a two-story farmhouse, a well-tilled garden, and two loyal mules, Lizbeth knew her family was better off than the mining families on the other side of the river, but not by much.

Now, just past sixty, Pa ran their home from the modest savings he’d tucked away before he slowed down his work as a geologist for several mining companies.

Such circumstances had all of them considering who might marry first. .. and when.

Lizbeth knew some fine colliers, but something in her heart longed for more than sweeping the porch steps on one of the row houses where miners and their families dwelled in the shadow of the coal company. A place where grime and dust tried to coat anything in its sight.

Was that the life she was meant for? Who was she to think that there might ever be more?

Ma had fussed that she was headstrong . Pa dubbed her noble .

And all the girls knew her as well-read .

Those weren’t particularly good qualifications for a bride.

No. Men around here needed women who could diaper a baby and store coins beneath the mattress.

Stretching provisions remained the order of the day, not reading books or caring for her mules or hoping she could have a purpose that she’d been uniquely made for.

Tilting the basket, Lizbeth searched for more chamomile, unable to believe that a man might love her and her purpose.

That he could need her for such. Especially since she didn’t yet know what that purpose might be.

Best she remain alone and live out a quiet life right here, surrounded by her sisters and her beloved mules.

Perhaps that was her calling all along. Otherwise, she’d need to nail her dreams to the floor and go the way that all young women in New River went.

To be a miner’s wife, owing every cent her husband made to the company store just for flour and salt.

Upstairs, the younger girls chattered over which reels and waltzes they thought the band might play and which men they hoped would ask them.

By the sound of it, Lacey had her eyes on the lead spragger while Kit fancied a jig with his younger brother.

As for Maryanne, the girl was as sensible as a mile marker, so she hushed their squeals, hoping this might be a night for conversation instead.

Threading a needle, Lizbeth reached for a scrap of linen. Should any fellow notice the earthy scent of chamomile, he would find Lizbeth in his arms. But should a man favor the fragrance of rose, he’d be charmed by a turn around the floor with Jayne tonight.