In Name Only

by BIEBER, JANET

• ISBN13: 9780449002858
• ISBN10: 0449002853
• Format: Trade Book
• Copyright: 2000-07-01
• Publisher: Ivy Books

Summary

A straitlaced spinster and a rugged ship's captain discover a passion that's anything but proper. . . THE SAINT. When her sister dies leaving four young children motherless, Valeriana MacPherson becomes determined to care for her nieces and nephews, despite her disapproval of their cigar-smoking, whiskey-drinking rake of a father, Ian Patterson. A shipping captain who refuses to conform to the rules of society, Ian riles her in ways no man ever has and awakens a passion in her that she never knew existed. THE SINNER. Ian has never been confounded by any woman as much as his prim and proper sister-in-law. The minute Valeriana marches into his house, he is ready to send her packing--until he sees the magic she works on his children . . . and on his own jaded heart. And when her father's cruelty threatens to shatter all their lives, he boldly dares to make her his wife, challenging them both to the most tempestuous battle of all: true love.

Author Biography

Janet Bieber lives in Columbus, Ohio, with her husband and three children. She began her writing career as a coauthor with Joyce Thies, writing under the name Janet Joyce; together they wrote more than twenty romances. She is also the author of Highland Bride.

Excerpts

April 10, 1834

Lily Patterson was dead.

The day she and her tiny stillborn child were laid to rest dawned as bleak as the hearts of those who mourned her. A flurry of snow the night before had dusted the ground in patches. As cold and dismal as the morning was, most of Cleveland turned out for her funeral.

They patted the survivors, mumbled their condolences, and wiped their eyes as "dear Lily's" parents, sisters, husband, and children said their final good-byes. Though the family had gone home long ago and the sky threatened rain, the crowd was reluctant to leave the cemetery. Huddled in little groups against the bitter wind blowing in from Lake Erie, they talked in hushed tones.

Everyone thought Lily's pa had preached a fine service for her. MacPherson's voice had faltered now and then, but that was to be expected. The preacher had been mighty fond of his second eldest daughter.

Her husband and children had borne up well--all things considered. The four little mites looked so lost standing there with their pa, grandma, and aunts. In shock, most likely.

It was not surprising because everyone was shocked.

"I saw her Tuesday. Pretty as ever, she was, and the very picture of health. I surely did not think to be attending her funeral by Friday. So sad. So very, very sad."

"Didn't even know she was carrying again, did you?"

"She weren't so far along she showed."

"The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away."

These and similar remarks were met with sighs, slow shaking of heads, and muttered, "tsk, tsk, tsks."

As tragic as Lily's sudden passing had been, the cause was not so unusual as to merit much discussion.

Women sometimes died in childbirth. It was a fact of life.

What was really keeping everyone gathered at the cemetery was what had happened immediately after
the funeral.

The reverend had cast the first handful of dirt upon the smooth cedar casket holding Lily and her tiny infant's remains. "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the resurrection unto eternal life. Amen."

The family had followed his lead, first Ian, then Rose and the children. Instead of a handful of dirt, Rose and the children had tossed sprays of forsythia, the only blossoms blooming this early in Rose's vast garden behind the parsonage. Valeriana, Laurel, and Primula had stepped up then and added more of the fragile yellow blossoms. Then the family had slowly begun to wend their way through the crowd toward the carriages waiting at the edge of the cemetery.

The crowd was quiet and solemn as, one by one, each gathered up a handful of the soil and cast it into the grave.

Suddenly the silence was broken. Crying, "Beauty is gone from this world! I cannot bear it. I must leave it, too." Anson Phillips threw himself into the grave.

The grave diggers had a devil of a time getting the man out so they could finish their work.

"Always thought that painter man was a bit odd," someone finally had the courage to say. Thus the silence that had been weighing so heavily ever since Phillips had been led away was broken.

"Heard he painted Lily's portrait more 'n once and was teaching her to paint. Said she was the most beautiful woman he ever painted and a promising pupil, too," one of the men remarked.

"Still no cause to make such a spectacle of himself," his wife stated with an appropriate huff.

"Well, artists are a sensitive bunch, I'm told," someone else offered.

"Best he move on. Won't be many folks in these parts wanting him to paint their pictures or teach their children after this."

"Shoulda left the fool in there and thrown the dirt on him. Never did think he was much of a painter, or much of a man, neither."

"God be thanked the family wasn't here to witness such a thing."

Finally, the heavens opened, and the rain effectively put an end to the discussions ... at the cemetery.

As certain as the sun would come up the next day, and the day after and the day after that, Lily Patterson's funeral would be discussed for weeks, perhaps months. At least until something more interesting occurred.

At the Patterson house on Euclid Street, a pair of black-ribboned mourning wreaths hung on the wide double doors. Having deposited the family safely at the door, two carriages were just pulling away from the wide portico that sheltered the main entrance of the house. The family had arrived just as the rain began.

Inside, "the Marys"--as the family called the two maids, Mary Flick and Mary Cunningham--had just finished lighting the lamps and stoking the fires in the hearths. It was not yet midday, but the lighted lamps and crackling fires chased away some of the gloom and damp, as did the scent of cinnamon and other spices that wafted from the kitchen.

The cook and housekeeper, Gerta Hosapfel, had been baking almost nonstop since the night her mistress had died. What she hadn't prepared, others had. A steady stream of visitors had been arriving bearing linen-covered baskets since the word had spread of Lily Patterson's passing.

Helpless in the face of death, women found their own comfort in the preparation of nourishment for the living. And so they had come, bearing the fruits of their labors until the larder was full and both the sideboard and the long table in the dining room were fairly groaning with every manner of food. During the wake, a sizable dent had been made in the potages, cakes, pies, and heaping platters, but several more crowds of visitors could have been sustained by what still remained.

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Excerpted from In Name Only by Janet Bieber
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.