Irish Potluck (A Pair of Mail Order Bride Romances)

By Beth Overton

The Secret Recipe That Saved Her Husband (A Mail Order Bride Romance) - A woman comes from poverty and travels to a Kentucky plantation owner who still mourns the recent loss of his wife and mother. She sees that he’s become very thin from his grieving and one day, before she is to throw her first dinner party, she finds a treasure hidden in the kitchen which she believes will help him regain his interest in life.

The Luck Of The Irish For The Fisherman In New Orleans (A Mail Order Bride Romance) - A woman from Ireland goes to New York and works for a year at a menial factory job and faces much discrimination towards the Irish. A notice in a church leads her to correspond with a fisherman in New Orleans, Louisiana and finally, she takes that leap of faith and starts the three-week journey towards her future life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beth Overton
• Release date: Feb 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310593789

Beth Overton

Beth Overton lives in Northern California with her husband and three cats. Besides writing romances, she loves to read everything she can get her hands on, as well as cooking up gourmet delights for her entire family.

Book preview

Irish Potluck

(A Pair of Mail Order Bride Romances)

By

Beth Overton

Copyright 2016 Quietly Blessed & Loved Press

The Secret Recipe That Saved Her Husband (A Mail Order Bride Romance)

The Luck Of The Irish For The Fisherman In New Orleans (A Mail Order Bride Romance)

The Secret Recipe That Saved Her Husband (A Mail Order Bride Romance)

Synopsis: The Secret Recipe That Saved Her Husband (A Mail Order Bride Romance) - A woman comes from poverty and travels to a Kentucky plantation owner who still mourns the recent loss of his wife and mother. She sees that he’s become very thin from his grieving and one day, before she is to throw her first dinner party, she finds a treasure hidden in the kitchen which she believes will help him regain his interest in life.

1889 was a tough year for Sam Thorne.

In the late winter of that year, he lost his elderly mother. She had gone peacefully, in the middle of the night, but her death greatly affected Sam nevertheless. They had been very close all his life.

Equally important to Sam Thorne was his wife, Melinda, who he had married seven years earlier. She had always been a sickly creature, though beautiful. Her skin had been lily white and her eyes had been the color of caramel.

In the spring, she was bedridden with pneumonia and the poor girl wasted away to nothing. She, too, slipped from this world in the dark of night, though that time Sam had been constantly at the side of her deathbed.

Though that summer was hot and good for the Thorne plantations vast crops of tobacco, Sam felt neither joy, nor anything that could come close to happiness. He cast his house into mourning and turned over the day-to-day business to his employees. The house was shrouded all day, and only a single electric bulb was seen burning at night.

Whenever Sam went outside, which was a rare occurrence, he always dressed in black from head to foot. Aside from the few meetings that absolutely required his presence, Sam’s only outings were to church on Sundays where he prayed for the souls of his departed mother and his late wife, or to visit their graves.

Even in wet, dreary weather, Sam Thorne would take his covered carriage to the family plot at the edge of his land and spend long hours talking with his deceased relatives.

The servant that accompanied him, a man named Smith, was sorry to see his master in such a depressed state.

All of the staff at Thorne Plantation hoped to see Sam recover from this dark period, but as the months dragged on, he showed no signs of coming out of the fog.

When winter returned to Kentucky, where even there the temperatures would sink below freezing during the night, Sam was reminded again of his misfortune. He would rise late in the morning, refuse to dress, though his servant begged him to at least put on his housecoat, and he would go to his library and lay down on a red leather couch.

He would remain there all day, sometimes flipping through one old book or another, but never really reading the thing.

At noon he would refuse lunch, and in the evening he would only eat soup or bread. He was like an eastern mystic, fasting throughout the day. So as the winter wore on and the decade changed, Sam grew thin and his face became gaunt. He was forty years old, but looked fifty.

One day, as the winter began to thaw, a priest dressed in the black cloth uniform of that position approached the large Thorne house and knocked rapidly on the door. The priest noticed that the dark curtains were drawn in every window, though this was a rare sunny day.

Presently, the door creaked open, and Smith let the clergyman inside. On a bristled mat, the priest scraped the mud from his shoes and asked if he could see Mr. Thorne. Typically Smith told all visitors that Mr. Thorne would not see them, but in this case he took the risk. He nodded silently to the priest and led him down the hall to the library.

There, on his red leather couch, dressed only in his pajamas, laid Sam Thorne looking forlornly up at the patterned ceiling. Smith announced the priest, whose name was Bergman, and departed swiftly.

Sam Thorne gave no sign that he had heard his servant, so Father Bergman approached the couch with quiet footsteps and looked down at the pitiful man. Sam’s eyes were red and bloodshot. He grunted and used what seemed like all his strength to lift himself into a sitting position.

Help you, Father? he asked.

Father Bergman didn’t respond right away. He looked around at the shelves of books and the paintings that hung where there were no shelves. Some depicted scenes from old Greek myths, while others were contemporary pieces depicting the American countryside.

At last he turned again to Sam Thorne and said simply, We’ve missed you the last three Sundays. Wanted to check on you.

Here I am, said Sam.

His voice was flat. There must have still been some of his old self somewhere within, however, because he offered the priest a seat next to him and pulled a nearby cord two times, which would signal the maid to bring in tea.

Father Bergman took the offered seat with a sigh and appeared thoughtful as he chose his words.

The Lord has given you a great trial this past year, Sam, he said at last. Any man would have been humbled by the losses you’ve had to deal with. But the Lord doesn’t want to see you fail in the face of this trial, no, he wants see what you’re made of, Sam Thorne. There is a time for grief, but just as this winter is turning to spring, that time is passed.

And what would you have me do, Father? Sam asked, throwing his hands in the air. I have no strength left. My will is gone.

I wouldn’t have you do much, Sam, said the priest. Start small. I want to see you in church this Sunday.

Sam nodded absently.

At the same moment the library door opened and a maid entered carrying a silver tray with a pot of tea and two cups. She set this down on a small table near the couch, curtsied, and turned to leave.

Thank you, Claire, Sam said quietly.

When she was gone he turned back to Father Bergman, rubbing his tired eyes.

Do you know why? he asked.

Father Bergman raised his eyebrows.

Why what?

Why did God take my mother and my wife from me?

We cannot know the mind of God, Sam. It is infinite, whereas ours are only too finite. We can only trust in his divine plan.

The priest poured the tea and handed a cup to Sam. He noticed the man’s hands shook as he grasped the handle.

"I know that’s a hard thing to do, but the church is here to help and