Behind the Veil: The Ideal Courtship Trilogy, #1

By Amy Brailey

Emma Randolf, an incredibly romantic sixteen year old, consistently daydreams to escape her not so romantic farm life in Sappington, Missouri.  When she discovers that just on the other side of the veil is the very world she dreams of, full of knights and ladies and courtly manners, she is unprepared for the reality that this new world comes with a fierce battle between two competing kings.  Emma must now examine each kingdom to decide which she wants to fight for.  Through a series of tragedies, Emma must decide whether she is willing to risk pain for true love or embrace lies for personal safety.  The decision will lead her to the true king and the knight that will steal her heart.  

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amy Brailey
• Release date: Nov 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393881537

Amy Brailey

Amy Brailey won the Young Author’s contest in fourth grade and has wanted to be a “real author” ever since.  After completing her debut novel Behind the Veil, she felt there was more to be gleaned from the characters, and the decision to make the Ideal Courtship Trilogy was born.  Finding Frances is the second installment in the series.  Today, Amy is most often found grading papers in coffee shops (and daydreaming about other stories) or in her junior high history classroom where she is a 27 year veteran teacher. 

Book preview

Prologue

Caleb closed his eyes, erasing the flames all around him.  He wished he could close his ears to shut out the screams, but those seemed destined to haunt the wee hours of the night.  He took a deep breath, choking on the ash that hung in the air like snowflakes.

Pull yourself together, Caleb, he muttered, trying to breathe evenly.

His eyes wandered to the cart where the three girls looked back with tortured eyes as others milled around trying to bring comfort.  He tried to smile, failed, and looked away.  He’d found them clutching each other in the deep recesses of the many barns people always sought for shelter. 

Poor things, he mused.  Don’t they know it’s the first place soldiers look?

Talking to yourself again, Caleb?  David joined him, surveying the scorching landscape.  Another job finished, and a lot of new workers too.  Once we get them broken in, we’ll have the luxury we deserve.  Whatever you think of his methods, he’s effective.

Yes, Caleb said, wondering if David’s statement revealed what he thought of the king’s methods. 

We’re about to head out.  David slapped his shoulder and walked towards the wagon, stopping to set in a small boy who was crying for his parents.

Caleb shook his head, watching David’s retreating back.  How did I get here?  He looked down at his hand, resting on the sword, the red stone shining bright.  Red, like the blood of so many townspeople whose deaths had left three girls huddled on a barn floor or a little boy crying for his parents.  He knew that feeling.  It had been him three short years ago.  Before he was broken in.  The smell of fire still woke him up in a cold sweat.

You coming?  David looked back and waited for him to catch up.

Yes, Caleb said again.  Did he have a choice? He ran his fingers over the hilt of his sword one last time before running to catch up with David.  Where are we going next?  With this king, there was always a next.

Well, training the new captures will take some time, but word on the street is we’re going to start in a different region.  The scouts will be setting up a base camp in some small town in Missouri no one’s heard of.  Sappington, I think?

Never heard of it.

Like I said.

That’s good if you’re trying to lay low, but that’s never been his style.  What’s in Sappington?  They had reached the rest of the army who were loading anything of value into the remaining wagons.

Not sure, David answered, shrugging.  I just go where I’m told.

Me too, Caleb said, hoping David didn’t recognize the bitterness in his voice.  Too bad a place isn’t even on the map before it’s about to get wiped off it.  Too bad indeed. 

Chapter 1

"She walks in beauty like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes."

~ George Gordon, Lord Byron

She Walks in Beauty

Emma Randolf tapped her pencil distractedly.  In her mind, she could picture the soaring marble columns, the crystal chandeliers, and the whirling couples.  She shook her red-gold curls, closing her eyes and straining to hear the music that echoed off the vaulted ceilings.  Emma nestled deeper into the window seat overlooking the back pasture where she often sat daydreaming of love and the life she lived only in her imagination.  But today, her gray eyes were as stormy as the sky outside.  Those who knew Emma well could predict her mood by those eyes. 

Today’s storm had been caused by Herman Sheffield.  Herman! she sputtered. 

Emma reached up to curl her hair ribbon around her finger, and the scene came rushing back.  She had been strolling along home, minding her own business, having just purchased the most adorable ribbon, when who should approach but Herman.  Herman Sheffield lived on the farm adjacent to the Randolf’s and had recently adopted the annoying habit of waylaying Emma at every possible opportunity.  She stiffened, remembering him strolling beside her even now.

Emma! He had called, hurrying up to match her stride.

She tried to be pleasant, but Emma found Herman exceedingly dull.  Hello, Herman.  She had sighed, kicking a wayward stone.

Were you at the General Store? He asked, eying her bag. 

In answer, Emma had simply held up the ribbon. 

Instead of admiring the ribbon as any proper gentleman would do, Herman had launched into a description of all the exciting things one could find at the General Store and the items they should sell from town.  Within seconds, her eyes had glazed over.  Emma longed for an exciting life, and Herman seemed determined to dash her ideals at every turn. 

She shuddered, trying to imagine actually being courted by Herman.  And what kind of a name is Herman, I ask you? She said to no one in particular, tossing her curls again.  Imagine yelling that up the stairs for the rest of your life. ‘Herman, it’s time for dinner.’, ‘Herman, the cow’s loose in the lilies again.’, ‘Herman, Mr. March stopped in to see you.’  No, it simply will not do.  I could never have a romantic suitor named Herman.  She sighed.  No matter how many none-too-subtle hints she gave, Herman would see her home anyway.  The audacity! 

She tapped her pencil so hard it left a dent in the page of her diary.  She closed her eyes, and the ballroom swam into view again.  She had been trying to decide what to call the hero of her story when thoughts of Herman had intruded.  The man fortunate enough to be loved by Emma Randolf would have to have a strong, sensible name.  But, what?  What name would describe someone strong but not domineering, proud but not arrogant, humble but not groveling?

Jeffrey, she whispered, savoring every letter.  A tall handsome man stepped into the ballroom, smiled, bowed, and extended his hand inviting her to dance.  That was it.  She would call her ideal Jeffrey.

A noise from the doorway made the ballroom disappear and brought Emma crashing down to reality.  Her mother’s voice reached her before she came into view. 

Who are you talking to? Lora called, turning the corner.

No one, Mother, Emma closed her diary.  I was just thinking about my future.

Really?  Lora tilted her head, cocking one eyebrow.  She had little patience for Emma’s daydreaming.  Lora herself was a hard-working woman who must have been a great beauty in her day, but now most often looked worn down by the hard work and honest toil of running a farm in Sappington.  Too often, she had to drag her daughter’s attentions away from cloudless climes and starry skies and back to the more mundane tasks like mucking out the stables.

Was that Herman I saw walking you home?  She inquired with barely disguised approval.  Unlike Emma, Lora thought the world of Herman and could already imagine him married to Emma and bringing seven children over to grandmother’s house. 

Mother, please, Emma’s gray eyes flashed dangerously.  I do trust that I will find a suitor less tedious than Herman.  Herman—what a name!  I think I’d walk right into Barry’s pond if Herman were my lot in life.  No, Mother, my aims are much higher than Herman Sheffield.

Lora sighed—it was the special sigh she reserved for those times when Emma was being exceptionally unreasonable. 

He’s a good boy, Emma—almost a man.  Old Amos Jones says he’s practically running the Sheffield place.  Will you please try to be reasonable, Emma?  You must realize you’re almost sixteen.  I was married by the time I was your age.  But, you stay lost in this dream world of yours worrying about noble brows instead of valuing a man who can provide for you.  All the while, your sewing’s abysmal, and you still haven’t managed a decent pie.  This ideal you’ve cooked up won’t want you if you can’t keep house, whatever his name is.

Emma bit the corner of her lip.  In addition to tossing her red-gold curls in a particular way that made the sun leap off them like molten fire, this gesture also hadn’t escaped the notice of many local boys.  How could she explain to someone so—settled, yes, that was the word—that her heart ached for mountaintops and gurgling springs not slopping pigs and churning butter.  She dreamed of medieval times when women were beautiful and strong men fought battles just for the love of them. 

Mother, any man who only wants me for my pies and my darning isn’t worth a second look, she replied, tossing her head emphatically.

But, any man who works hard and is willing to put a roof over your head is!  You said you were thinking about your future, Emma.  Well, these are the things you have to think about.

Now it was Emma’s turn to sigh.  It always came down to this:  Who was going to provide for her?  Why did life have to be so dull?  Emma closed her copy of Byron, gathered her books, and eased herself out of the window seat.  I’ll go milk the cow, she said, resigning herself to the present world, completely unaware that just outside her vision was the very world for which her heart ached.

Chapter 2

"Strengthen me, enlighten me!

I faint in this obscurity,

Thou dewy dawn of memory."

~ Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Ode to Memory

Emma held the sides of her skirt out, listening to their rhythmic swishing as she walked out to the barn.  If she held her back perfectly straight and stepped with her toe first instead of her heel, she could just imagine she was a dancer.  She closed her eyes momentarily, and the farm around her was replaced by marble floors and towering columns.  She wasn’t a dancer;  she was a courtier on her way to the royal ball, proud, but just a trifle nervous about the impression she’d make on the handsome Prince Jeffrey.  Looking to her left, she could just see the porter pounding his rod to announce her:  The Lady Emma Randolf to see you, Your Highness. 

Sighing, Emma pulled open the heavy barn door, watching the court fade into the wood and hay of the Randolf stable.  She petted Belle’s velvety nose.  Belle, the jersey the Randolfs kept, looked back at her with wide, forlorn eyes and continued chewing, flicking a few flies with her tail.  Impulsively, Emma swept a deep curtsy in front of the cow.  Good afternoon, Your Highness.

A soft chuckle made her eyes fly open in disbelief.  She whirled to see her father leaning jauntily on the handle of a pitchfork. 

And the rest of the day to you, m’lady, he answered, still chuckling as he inclined his head. But you don’t need to call me ‘Your Highness,’ Father’s just fine.  He reached over to tug one of Emma’s ringlets.  He was the only one who could get away with that.  Thomas Jackson had tried it in first grade and had gone home with a bloody nose.

Oh, Papa, Emma laughed, taking his hand and holding it to her cheek.  She had used her pet name for him. I didn’t see you.

I’d imagine one would lose sight of a common farmer amidst a court full of lords and ladies.  Henry smiled, causing the corners of his eyes to crinkle in that dear little way Emma loved so much.  His gray eyes, just like hers, often expressed his feelings.  He looked down at her, his face reflecting his concern.  But, what makes you sigh so, my dear?

Oh, Papa, Emma sighed again, dropping his hand and turning back towards the door, trying to think of a way to express her trials.  It’s just . . . she paused, landing on the source, Herman Sheffield, she finished lamely. 

Hmm . . . said her father, cocking one eyebrow as he continued to study her, trying to see what Herman had to do with anything.

He walked me home today, she continued.

And . . . he prompted, still at a loss.

Emma turned back to meet his gaze.  Don’t you see, Papa?  Herman!  Herman Sheffield.  Who wants to be escorted home from the General Store by Herman Sheffield?

Apparently, not you?  He chuckled again as he removed his hat and raked his brow with a worn sleeve.  Henry Randolf’s life seemed woven with a laughter that surrounded like a warm blanket, drawing everyone around into its waiting arms.  Not that he hadn’t had his share of hardship;  heaven knows he had.  Anyone who had worked the land understood hardship.  But somehow, the struggles of life had only increased Henry’s joys in the small things.  He exuded delight.

Come here, Emma, Henry changed the subject as he put his arm around Emma.  Abandoning the pitchfork, he led her up the ladder and over to a corner of the loft where he dropped into the hay, pulling Emma down beside him.  Molly finally had her kittens.  I was just admiring them when you came in.  We won’t have a mouse around come harvest time.  Aren’t they perfect?  Just look at them nestled against their momma.  He pointed to the tiniest kitten, eyes shut tight as it struggled for its place.  The little calico’s my favorite.  They should put all thoughts of . . . her father wrinkled his nose, "Herman Sheffield out of your mind."

Emma laughed, tossing a fistful of hay in his direction which he easily avoided.  Her laugh was tinkling against her father’s full and robust laugh.  She settled back and leaned against his shoulder.  Thank you, she said.

For what?  He asked, smiling down at her.

For not telling me to be reasonable and settle down with a good solid provider like Herman Sheffield.

His arm tightened around her involuntarily.  Your mother wants what’s best for you, he said, correctly guessing that Lora was the one who had used those words.  "And so do I, you know that, Emma.  We both love you so much.  I guess maybe I’m not so anxious for my princess to grow up.  And honestly, he added, mimicking his daughter, Herman Sheffield?  I ask you." 

They both fell back into the hay laughing.

Chapter 3

"Another’s heart is a rare and fragile gift. 

Hold it gently, and with both hands."

~ Nigerian Proverb

With the easy grace of one who doesn’t recognize that everything is about to change, Emma strolled to school admiring the bluebells along the road.  She loved beauty in any form.  Picking a few sprigs, she had just reached up to tuck them into her hair when she noticed Herman approaching.  She just managed to turn her head before rolling her eyes.

May I carry your books, Emma?  Herman asked, extending his hand as if it were a foregone conclusion. 

If you must, Emma sighed resignedly as she passed her books into his hands.  She studied him as he tried to arrange his books and hers in a way he could carry.  Herman wasn’t unattractive.  His hair was a bit too straight and plain brown to be noteworthy and his arms and legs a bit too gangly, despite years of hard farm work.  No, it wasn’t his looks.  And Herman had a heart of gold, caring for each person around him with a genuine grace Emma could never manage.  She wished she could like him.  Her mother was right—it did make sense.  But, Herman had nothing that gave that strange stirring of the heart that Emma longed for.

Our sow gave birth to fourteen piglets last night, Herman shared, eyes shining with excitement.  He finally had her books tucked under his arm.  Pa says I can keep the money we make on this litter.

Won’t that be nice.  Emma said, feigning interest.  It never ceased to amaze her how much Herman cared about things around the farm.  Emma herself tried to escape into her imagination as much as she could.

I know.  Amos Jones says pork prices are going up due to some crop failures further west.  The drought this spring set many farmers back, but thankfully, we weren’t affected.

Emma stared at him.  Herman was practically skipping over the prospect of pork prices.  Pigs!  This was what her mother wanted her to hear for the rest of her life?  Herman was looking at her, obviously expecting her to share in his enthusiasm.  How fortunate for you, she managed, and his excitement tremored again.  Glancing up the road, Emma could just make out the carefree walk of Elizabeth Horton.  Oh, look, Herman, there’s Lizzy.  Emma waved enthusiastically at her friend who had just turned to look behind her.  Lizzy!  Emma was sure Lizzy could see the pleading in her eyes even from ten yards away.  She did and beckoned for Emma to join her.  As Emma’s best friend, Lizzy knew all about Emma’s aversion to Herman. 

Looks like she wants to talk to you, Herman nodded towards Lizzy since his arms were full of books, again . . . he said more quietly.

But, Emma had heard and felt a twinge of guilt in spite of herself.  I’m sorry, Herman.  But, please excuse me.  I must ask Lizzy about our Latin homework from last night.  I don’t think I conjugated my verbs correctly at all, and you know she’s the best in the class.  Emma unceremoniously reclaimed her books from Herman’s hands and practically raced to join her friend.

Emma and Lizzy could not have been more different, but somehow, they had instantly connected.  While Emma was a dreamer, golden and beautiful, Lizzy was kindhearted and practical.  Her glossy brown hair and sea-green eyes were attractive, but more common than Emma’s radiant curls.  But, instead of resenting Emma for overshadowing her, Lizzy seemed content to enjoy Emma’s flights of fancy and settled herself to the momentous task of keeping Emma in line.

Has Herman been regaling you with all his virtues again?  She laughed as Emma hurtled towards her.

Save me!  Emma panted in her traditional, melodramatic way.

What was your excuse this time?  Lizzy asked, waving to a forlorn Herman before turning around again.

Latin homework.  Get your book out.  Emma commanded, and Lizzy began shuffling her books.  Finding the right one, she opened it, and the two began walking again.

So, what’s new in the world of farming?  Lizzy asked as they crested the hill bringing the school house into view.

Apparently pork prices are up.  Emma giggled as she hooked her arm through Lizzy’s.  The two girls continued laughing until they reached the schoolyard.

Chapter 4

"Come live with me and be my love

And we will all the pleasures prove . . .

Fair lined slippers for the cold

With buckles of the purest gold."

~ Christopher Marlowe

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

The Sappington school was a one-roomed school house, owing to the small number of students who lived on the surrounding farms.  Though they were often jealous of the conveniences of town life, most students enjoyed the comradery and closeness of living in community.

Emma liked the fact that with twelve grades to focus on, Mr. Meyer left her plenty of time to daydream and compose stories.  Today, she was imagining which dress she should wear to meet the handsome Prince Jeffrey.  She had just decided on a sea-foam green organdy with a string of pearls when Mr. Meyer’s voice cut into her reverie.

Emma Randolf, I have asked you three times to name the capital of Iceland, Mr. Meyer barked.  He was a good teacher who somehow managed the balance between mentor and disciplinarian while remaining well-liked.  But, he was not to be trifled with.

Startled, Emma lifted her chin out of her hand where it had been resting and noticed the class turned around staring at her.  Her face flushed at once.  I’m sorry, sir, Reykjavik, she answered, dropping her lashes with just the right amount of repentance.

Hmm, Mr. Meyer grunted.  She had gotten the right answer, which took some of the steam out of his frustration, but he corrected her anyway. If you can’t pay a bit more attention during Geography lessons, young lady, I’ll have to . . .

But, Emma’s chin was