Copyright © 2019 by Tabetha Waite

Cover Art Design by Wicked Smart Designs

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I’ve always enjoyed stories by Charles Dickens, who celebrated the unsung, common-born heroes. In honor of his works, I hope you enjoy my Regency take on those a little less fortunate.

Chapter 1

London, England

December 4, 1815

Miss Pleasant Hill stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, her gaze riveted on the sign in the shopkeeper’s window. She ignored the weight of the basket in her arms, the jostle from the passerby, and even the cold chill of icy wind mixed with tiny pinpricks of ice that flew at her face and coated the covering on her hair. None of it mattered, because that sign was the answer to her prayers.

While Pleasant stayed plenty busy as a washerwoman and caring for her sick mother and three younger siblings, taking on another position as an apprentice for a cordwainer was something that would require little effort. Her father had been a cobbler in Ireland, so she already had experience in how to repair shoes, even if she’d never manipulated the leather from scratch to create a specific design.

But with this bit of extra income, it might just be enough to give her family the Christmas season they all deserved.

She set the basket on her hip and pushed open the door, glancing up at the silver bell that heralded her entrance. Beside it was a clump of festive greenery.

“Mistletoe,” she whispered, as the lovely, welcoming heat of the shop enveloped her, followed by several familiar scents.

“May I help you?”

Pleasant turned her head at the sound of the smooth, even timbre of the masculine voice. But instead of seeing a face to go with the sound, no one was behind the counter. She took a couple steps forward and saw the profile of a man’s body on the other side of a wooden beam. He was sitting on a crude stool with an apron draped over his common clothes, and was using a burnisher to shine the bottom of a boot.

But it wasn’t what he was doing, so much as his appearance that had arrested her attention and made her tongue abruptly stick to the roof of her mouth. Unlike most shopkeepers she’d met in London, he was younger, likely in his early-thirties, if she had to guess. His dark hair had yet to turn gray, although it was lighter in spots, as if he’d spent a lot of time out-of-doors. Without any facial hair, his strong jaw was clearly defined, and when he turned his head to look at her, she was surprised to find that his eyes were as green as hers.

She wondered if he might be as fascinated by her as she was with him, but when his gaze flicked along her form without any sort of interest, her hopes fizzled away. “What can I do for you, miss?” he asked almost impatiently this time.

Finally, Pleasant found her voice. “I’m here to inquire about the apprentice position.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “I see.” He set aside the boot he’d been working on, laying it on a wooden shelf with several others, and grabbed a cloth to wipe his hands. He tossed that on the counter and crossed his arms over his chest, causing the muscles in his upper arms to tighten under his shirt.

His forearms were exposed, and she noticed that they were nicely tanned and covered with a sprinkling of dark hair. But it was his hands, strong and steady, that she admired. “You’re Irish?”

“I am,” she confirmed, wondering if that made a difference when his accent marked him as definite English.

He gestured to the basket in her arms. “And a washerwoman?”

“Yes.”

He nodded, but said no more, just continued to study her. Abruptly, he asked, “How old are you?”

She lifted her chin slightly. “I’m four and twenty.”

His brows flew upward at this. “I would have guessed much younger.” He rubbed a finger across his bottom lip in apparent contemplation. It was rather distracting. “Very well, do you have any qualifications?”

“My father was a cobbler in Ireland. I used to assist him.”

“Is he with you in London?”

“No.” Pleasant had to swallow over the tight lump that had suddenly formed in her throat. “He passed away about a year ago. My mother and siblings moved to England after we…lost our home.” She hated to admit that part, that because she was a woman she’d been overlooked on her merits in taking over her father’s trade, thus resulting in a lack of work and the inability to pay their rent.

“What does your mother do?”

Pleasant was glad for something else to focus her mind on. “She’s a seamstress, and she helps me with the wash, but she’s ill, so she’s restricted by what she can do.”

“I see,” he murmured. “And your siblings?”

“Niall is thirteen, Connor is eleven, and Fiona is seven.”

He appeared to consider this. “There is quite a difference in your age compared to that of your brothers and sister.”

Pleasant shifted the weight of the basket. “Aine is my father’s second wife. The woman who gave birth to me, my true mother, died when I was born, but Aine has always treated me as her own.”

“It sounds like a close family,” he guessed.

“We do what we can,” she hedged, not wishing to earn sympathy, but at the same time, wanting to impress upon him the importance of hiring her by being honest. “I love them very much. It’s why I am here to inquire about the position. I want to offer them a good Christmas. I promise that I will work hard.”

He rose to his feet and walked toward her. Pleasant wasn’t sure what his intentions were when he stopped before her, his towering height almost intimidating, but when he reached out and took the basket from her and set it on the floor, she couldn’t help but feel relief as the weight of the wet laundry had eased. She was so used to packing it around day after day that it was almost a part of her until it was gone.

He reached out and took one of her hands in his. He frowned when he looked at her hands. She knew what he saw. The once creamy flesh was tainted red and rough with the continual use of the lye soap. She yearned to draw back her hand, but the feel of his warm flesh on hers was rather…comforting. Strange that, considering he was a complete stranger and his touch should mean nothing.

He released her and his green eyes bored into hers, as if trying to see into her very soul. Several heartbeats passed, and she hardly dared to breathe, but then he seemed to come to a decision. “My name is Cornell Reed. I shall expect you here tomorrow morning at eight to see what you can do.”

Pleasant couldn’t help but smile. “Thank you, Mr. Reed. You won’t regret it.”

“I will be the judge of that, Miss…?”

She bobbed a brief curtsy. “Pleasant Hill.”

His lips twitched slightly. “You didn’t even have to make that up, did you?”

She was confused. “Pardon?”

“Never mind.” He waved a hand. “Until tomorrow.”

Dismissed, Pleasant picked up her basket and strode out the door.

The door to the cramped confines Pleasant shared with her family squeaked in protest when she opened it. As usual, when she returned with a load of laundry to be cleaned, her mother was sewing in her chair by the fire, while Fiona moved a broom about the room in an effort to clean.