Chapter 1
Characters and ages in 1791
Felicity Elizabeth Montclair (22)
Thomas, Henry (5), and Elisabeth Whitaker (2)
Eliza (31) and Ben Montclair (35)
Lydia (19) and Samuel Montclair (23)
Anabell Jane Montclair (20)
Catherine Theodora Montclair (18)
Mary Rose Montclair (17)
Johnathan George Montclair (17)
Benjamin Louis Montclair (15)
Grace Elenore Montclair (14)
Charles Edward Montclair (10)
Nathaniel James Montclair (10)
Victoria Evangeline Montclair (10)
Eloise Jane Montclair (1)
Early May, 1791
Williamsburg, Virginia
The air in Williamsburg was soft with the promise of summer when Felicity Elizabeth Montclair stepped down from the family carriage, lifting her pale blue skirts just enough to avoid the dust of Duke of Gloucester Street.
In a few short months on July 10 she would be twenty-two.
Blonde hair, the color of ripened wheat from the Montclair orchard, fell in careful curls beneath her bonnet. Her blue eyes, bright and observant, missed very little. Williamsburg knew the Montclairs well. Their vast orchard just beyond town once a plantation was now famed more for its apple blossoms than for its past. Felicity’s father, Benjamin Montclair, a dark-haired, green-eyed gentleman of thirty-five, had reshaped its legacy into something gentler, prouder.
At his side in life and reputation stood her mother, Eliza only thirty-one, red-haired and striking, with an elegance that made strangers whisper she must have been born to nobility rather than commerce.
But today Felicity was not thinking of orchards or reputation. She was thinking of ribbons.
“We must find something finer than last year,” insisted Anabell, her dirty-blonde curls bouncing as she pushed open the door to Carter’s Mercantile. At twenty, Anabell had a practical mind but a romantic heart.
“For Eloise,” Catherine added with a grin. Catherine, who had just turned eighteen in June, had a talent for finding beauty in small things.
Inside the shop, bolts of muslin and silk lined the walls. A bell chimed as the door shut behind them.
Felicity moved toward a display of children’s things tiny slippers, lace caps, painted wooden toys. Little Eloise would turn one on May 29. The baby’s red hair was only just beginning to show, a bright spark like their mother’s.
As Felicity examined a delicate ivory teething ring carved in the shape of a swan, she heard a man’s low voice nearby.
“No, Henry, we cannot purchase the entire shelf,” the voice said, patient but weary.
She glanced over her shoulder.
A tall gentleman stood near the ready-made coats, dark brown hair tied neatly at his nape. His coat was well-cut but plainly worn. A little boy of four clutched his hand, his curls a lighter brown than his father’s. Nearby, a nursemaid rocked a small golden-haired infant girl.
The gentleman caught Felicity looking.
For a moment, neither looked away.
He inclined his head politely. “Forgive us, miss. My son believes himself master of this establishment.”
Henry puffed out his chest. “I do.”
Anabell stifled a laugh.
Felicity smiled warm, genuine. “Then we are honored to be in such important company.”
The gentleman’s expression softened. “Thomas Whitaker,” he said. “At your service.”
“Miss Felicity Montclair,” she replied, with a graceful curtsey. “And my sisters, Miss Anabell and Miss Catherine Montclair.”
Recognition flickered in his eyes. “The orchard family.”
She nodded. “So we are known for our apples.”
“And your generosity,” he added quietly.
There was something in his tone that made her study him more closely. He was not old perhaps near thirty but there was a shadow about him. A grief worn thin but not erased.
“You are purchasing for your children?” she asked gently.
“My son Henry,” he said, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “And my daughter, Elisabeth. She is newly one.”
The nursemaid adjusted the baby’s bonnet. The little girl blinked large gray eyes at Felicity.
“She is lovely,” Catherine said softly.
Thomas’s jaw tightened for the briefest moment. “Their mother passed last winter.”
The words hung between them, tender and raw.
Felicity felt her heart shift not with pity, but with understanding she knew that pain well. Williamsburg was small; sorrow rarely stayed hidden long.
“I am sorry,” she said simply.
He bowed his head. “Thank you.”
Henry tugged on his father’s coat. “Papa, may we have the blue waistcoat?”
Thomas sighed faintly. “If it fits and if it does not cost the moon.”
Felicity stepped closer to the display. “May I?” she asked, lifting the small garment and holding it against Henry’s shoulders. “It suits you perfectly.”
Henry beamed.
Thomas watched her watched the easy kindness in her manner, the way she spoke to his son not as an inconvenience but as a person.
“You have a gift,” he said quietly.
“For waistcoats?” she teased.
“For steadiness.”
Her sisters exchanged a glance but wisely drifted toward the ribbon counter.
“I am only the eldest daughter,” Felicity replied. “There are eleven of us.”
“Eleven?” His eyebrows rose.
She laughed. “My brother Samuel is three-and-twenty in August and married to Lydia she is apprenticed in apothecary work. Then Anabell, Catherine, Mary, Johnathan, young Ben, Grace, Charles, Nathaniel, Victoria… and baby Eloise.”
Thomas shook his head in amazement. “Your household must rival the Governor’s Palace.”
“It rivals a battlefield at supper,” she admitted.
For the first time since she’d noticed him, Thomas laughed fully.
The sound changed him.
They spoke longer than propriety strictly required about the orchard’s spring bloom, about his law practice, about Henry’s fondness for climbing anything remotely vertical. Felicity learned he had studied in Richmond before returning to Williamsburg to care for his ailing father and then for his young family.
When at last the purchases were wrapped blue waistcoat, sturdy shoes, a small embroidered cap Thomas hesitated.
“Miss Montclair,” he said, voice lower now, “might I call upon your father one day regarding orchard contracts? I believe there are matters in which I might be of service.”
Felicity knew well enough it was not orchard contracts alone that prompted the request.
“You may,” she said, meeting his gaze steadily. “My father receives callers on Thursdays.”
Henry waved as they departed. “Goodbye, apple lady!”
Felicity laughed, lifting her hand in farewell.
Outside, Anabell immediately seized her arm.
“Felicity Elizabeth Montclair.”
Catherine leaned in. “A widowed lawyer.”
“With kind eyes,” Anabell added.
“And two darling children,” Catherine finished.
Felicity pretended to inspect the swan-shaped teething ring she had purchased for Eloise.
“He seemed lonely,” she said softly.
“Perhaps,” Anabell replied, “but not nearly so lonely as he was before you held that waistcoat.”
Felicity did not answer.
As they climbed back into the carriage, she looked once more toward the mercantile door, half expecting him to reappear.
He did not.
But something had shifted.
The orchard would bloom within weeks. Eloise would turn one. Summer would come with its heat and harvest.
And on July 10, Felicity Elizabeth Montclair would turn twenty-two perhaps no longer merely the orchard family’s eldest daughter, but a woman standing at the quiet edge of something new.
