Chapter 1
Early June, 1791
The Montclair Orchard
Thursday arrived bright and windless, the orchard leaves shimmering beneath a wide Virginia sky. The Montclair household moved in its usual morning rhythm maids carrying linens down polished corridors, younger children darting between rooms until gently corrected, and the scent of warm bread drifting from the kitchens.
But today, Anabell Montclair felt every sound more sharply.
At twenty years old, with dirty blonde curls that refused complete obedience and hazel eyes that often revealed more than she intended, Anabell prided herself on being sensible. Felicity was the steady one. Catherine was the romantic. Anabell stood somewhere between practical, observant, yet with a heart that stirred when least convenient.
She stood at the parlor window as a carriage rolled up the drive.
“Is he expected?” Mary asked, appearing beside her like a shadow.
“No,” Anabell answered, though her pulse quickened.
The carriage halted. From it descended Daniel Carter.
He removed his hat at once, revealing light brown hair touched golden by the sun. Even at a distance, his green eyes were striking clear and steady, the color of late summer fields. His coat was modest but carefully brushed; his boots showed honest wear from farm work, though freshly polished.
“He looks serious,” Mary whispered.
“He always does,” Anabell murmured, though she could not suppress the faint upward curve of her lips.
Below, Benjamin Montclair stepped forward to greet him, posture composed, expression unreadable.
Inside the drawing room, Eliza adjusted a vase of early roses as if callers were an everyday occurrence which, lately, they had been.
Daniel entered with careful respect.
“Mr. Montclair. Mrs. Montclair.” He bowed slightly. “Miss Montclair.”
His gaze found Anabell only briefly before returning to her father. That restraint alone sent warmth rising to her cheeks.
“State your purpose, Mr. Carter,” Benjamin said evenly.
Daniel clasped his hat in both hands not fidgeting, but grounding himself. “Sir, I wish to inquire whether I may call formally upon Miss Anabell, with your permission.”
The room felt suddenly very quiet.
Catherine’s embroidery needle paused mid-stitch. Young Ben leaned back, eyes bright with interest. Grace tried unsuccessfully to appear uninterested.
Benjamin regarded Daniel carefully. “You now oversee the Carter farm?”
“Yes, sir. Since my father’s passing last autumn.”
“And you manage it alone?”
“With two hired hands and my mother’s guidance.” His voice did not waver. “The spring yield was strong. I have secured contracts for autumn wheat.”
Benjamin nodded slightly. “And what do you seek in calling upon my daughter?”
Daniel did not hesitate. “I seek the opportunity to know her properly. I have long admired her judgment and kindness. I would not presume further without her consent and yours.”
Anabell’s heart beat hard enough she feared it might be heard.
Eliza’s gaze softened.
Benjamin turned to his daughter. “Miss Anabell?”
All eyes shifted to her.
She rose slowly, smoothing her skirts. “I would permit Mr. Carter to call.”
Daniel’s green eyes met hers then steady, relieved, grateful.
“Very well,” Benjamin said. “You may call, Mr. Carter. With propriety observed.”
Daniel bowed deeply. “Thank you, sir.”
The first official call came two days later.
Anabell had chosen her gown with more care than she admitted pale sage green that set warmth into her hazel eyes. She sat in the parlor with embroidery arranged neatly in her lap when Daniel arrived precisely at three.
He brought no extravagant gift only a small basket of early strawberries from his farm.
“For your family,” he said, offering it first to Eliza.
“Thoughtful,” Eliza replied.
Once formalities concluded, Anabell and Daniel were permitted to sit near the open windows under light supervision Catherine stationed strategically at a nearby writing desk.
“I was not certain you would agree,” Daniel admitted quietly.
“You underestimate me,” Anabell said, though her voice held a smile.
“I feared you might consider a farmer too ordinary.”
She tilted her head slightly. “Ordinary men do not ride two miles in the heat merely to ask permission.”
A faint flush touched his cheeks. “No?”
“No.”
They spoke at first of practical matters crop rotation, orchard yields, the difficulty of keeping deer from young trees. Anabell surprised him with her knowledge; she had grown up among the groves and understood land management well.
“You pay attention,” he observed.
“My father says land neglected becomes land lost.”
“My father said the same,” Daniel replied softly.
A shared understanding passed between them both having known the quiet shift of responsibility when a father aged or passed.
After a pause, Daniel added, “I do not seek grand display, Miss Montclair. I seek partnership. A household built steadily.”
Anabell studied him carefully.
His hands were strong, marked faintly from work. His posture held confidence without arrogance. There was no theatrical charm only sincerity.
“And if I am not always steady?” she asked lightly.
“Then I shall endeavor to be,” he replied.
The simplicity of it startled her.
Over the following weeks, Daniel called regularly.
He walked with her along the orchard paths, always at proper distance. He listened more than he spoke. When Charles and Nathaniel challenged him to a race through the lower grove, he accepted losing deliberately to delight them.
He treated Eloise with gentle patience, allowing the baby to tug his coat buttons without protest.
One afternoon, they walked toward the southern rise where Samuel and Lydia’s separate house stood. The apothecary garden bloomed thick with herbs lavender, sage, chamomile.
“You admire her work,” Daniel observed as Lydia stepped outside to greet a patient.
“I do,” Anabell said. “She built something of her own.”
“And you?” he asked carefully. “What would you build?”
The question lingered between them.
Anabell had never been asked so directly.
“I would build a home that is not silent,” she answered slowly. “One with purpose. With laughter.”
Daniel’s green eyes held hers steadily. “I could promise the laughter.”
She laughed softly. “And the purpose?”
“That we would shape together.”
For the first time since his initial call, the space between them felt charged not improper, but undeniably changed.
At supper one evening, as the family gathered around the long table, Mary leaned toward Catherine and whispered far too loudly, “He looks at her differently now.”
“Hush,” Catherine replied, though smiling.
Benjamin observed Daniel carefully from the head of the table. Eliza observed Anabell.
Felicity caught her sister’s eye and offered the smallest encouraging nod.
Outside, the orchard glowed in late sunset, branches heavy with promise of fruit yet to ripen.
Inside, at the center of noise and candlelight, Anabell Montclair felt something quietly taking root not sudden or overwhelming, but steady.
The beginning of courtship.
Not built on grand speeches or reckless romance.
But on shared glances.
Honest words.
And the patient promise of a future carefully grown.
