What Is and Could Be: Could Be, #1

By Katelyn Buxton

Timothy Wright's life revolves around stories. Ever since he had his accident, books have been his only window to the outside. The characters inside are family—he's sailed the high seas in quest of a white whale, plunged through rabbit holes, and been scolded by the ghost of Christmas present. But when a cheerful Veridan maid comes into his family's employment, he begins to remember that life could be more than what happens between the pages of his books. In fact, it may be that of all the adventures he's called home, the most frightening, exhilarating, and rewarding one is yet to come.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Katelyn Buxton
• Release date: Nov 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201192747

Katelyn Buxton

If you’ve chanced across this page, odds are you’re wanting to know a little more about this "Katelyn" person. Well, the truth is, I’m just like any other author. I spend my days dreaming about stories and falling hopelessly, head-over-heels in love with my characters. I'm the author of the Warriors of Aralan series, as well as a sci-fi standalone called Tè Nan Lezar, and a couple of nineteenth-century-inspired serializations titled What Is and Could Be and To Live and To Breathe. When not pursuing a literary career, I can be found with my nose buried inside a book I didn’t write, baking cookies, taking photos, learning French, watching movies, and spending time with my friends and family. My passion is to always give God the glory through my writing in hopes that these stories will touch some lives.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I wish that I were dead, he said, eyes alight with the fervor of his feelings. I wish that I had never signed up for the war, I wish that I had never—

The words ran on the same every time, desperate in their human urgency. Timothy closed the book and looked out the window. Drip, drip, drip. The rain pattered on the shingles, rolled from the eaves and splattered on the garden path. The world was gray, washed of all color. He wondered if the sun would part the clouds soon. It had been raining for such a long time.

The daffodils in the bed by the window bowed, overladen with heavy water droplets, and the lawn was sodden, the rickety wooden shed filled with garden tools nothing more than a brown smear in the shapeless curtain of rain.

Timothy rested his elbow on the cool of the windowsill, breath fogging the glass as his wheelchair creaked. How was it that a boy only fifteen years of age could echo the sentiments of a war-hardened soldier in a book? He certainly didn’t know what it was to ride into battle, blood roaring in his ears. He didn’t know what it was to taste the sting of gunpowder on his throat. He didn’t know what it was to lie bleeding on the battlefield. But Timothy did know what it was to wake up and feel—believe in—a leg that was no longer there.

In a motion as habitual to him as breathing, his hand moved to rub his right knee—the little that was left to him after the foolish accident that had robbed him of a future.

A mahogany clock wreathed in gilding ticked on the mantelpiece, contrasting with the airy white of the lace curtains. Velvet-upholstered furniture completed the rest of the sitting room, except for one large glass-paned bookcase taking up most of one wall.

Timothy dropped his gaze back to the worn red cover of the novel he’d been reading. That bookcase wasn’t where The Tales of Walter Cavendish had come from. His prison walls would have seemed much closer if it was the only bookshelf the Wrights owned.

Raised voices outside the window caught his attention. What he saw made him fumble for the latch keeping the window closed, but the frames were old, stiff, and swollen with humidity, and it was several moments before he could force the pane open. When he did, a draft of cool air hit him full in the face bringing with it the shrill voice of Mrs. Bradley, the Wrights’ cook, who was currently in the business of pursuing the housemaid with a rolling pin.

You thieving little—if I catch you—

Mrs. Bradley, what is the meaning of this? Timothy demanded, wishing his voice didn’t rasp from so long a silence.

Mrs. Bradley stopped mid-grab and left off trying to catch the maid’s wrist long enough to beam a breathless smile. Good morning, master Timothy. I just caught this wretch trying to make off with your mother’s best silver spoons. Mrs. Bradley inched her fingers towards the maid’s apron pocket.

The maid—Timothy never could remember her name—snatched her apron out of reach. The idea!

It’s true, I tell you! Mrs. Bradley protested, great round face glistening with rain and righteous indignation.

Come in, both of you, Timothy sighed, and turned his wheelchair about to face the center of the room. His parents were out visiting, so it fell to him to settle the quarrel.

In they came; the maid prodded ahead of Mrs. Bradley as if the latter fancied herself a prison-keeper, and the former smoothing her drenched locks with wounded dignity.

Timothy surveyed them in silence for a moment, watching as the same rain that had wept from the sky dripped onto mother’s favorite carpet. He took a deep breath, and nodded to the maid. Empty your pockets.

She lifted her chin with an injured sniff, but after hesitating a moment plunged her hands in and came out bearing an assortment of items, none of which were spoons.

Timothy shifted and his chair creaked. Inside out. Come on.

Mrs. Bradley lifted her chin in triumph just as the maid’s blustering shell crumbled. Please, master—

Give Mrs. Bradley the silver, leave this instant, and I will answer that you ran away. No one will be the wiser. Certainly, she could be sent to prison for this act of thievery, but Timothy didn’t have the stomach to see another free young creature caged. Being dismissed so suddenly was punishment enough.

The maid took a step forward as if in anger, then her face twisted and she turned away, giving the stolen silverware back to the cook. Timothy looked at Mrs. Bradley as the maid’s clicking footsteps receded down the hallway.

Another one gone, she sighed, contemplating the silver in sober silence. The third in as many months. Mrs. Wright will not be pleased, young master Timothy. She will not be pleased.

Chapter 2

Mrs. Wright was a nervous, fluttering creature of solid proportions and gifted with a thick crown of blonde to hide the thick head beneath. It wasn’t that she was utterly senseless, Timothy reflected—only that she chose to follow the latest fashions and gossip rather than apply herself to serious thought.

She breezed through the sturdy doorway opened by the cook, voluminous skirts rustling. "Mrs. Bradley, what a time we have had! Did you know that Miss Thompson is engaged? I told her just the other day, you know, that—Charles! Do shake the umbrella outside! You’re dripping water all over me!"

Timothy heard all this rather than saw it, as he was still occupying the same room by the same window, but the front door was only separated from the sitting room by a short wall terminating in another open doorway. He did not hear Mrs. Bradley’s polite reply, but his mother soon bustled into the room to stand at his side, hands clasped. And how are you today, Tim?

Timothy tensed at the use of the pet name, and looked beyond her to where his father had appeared in the doorway, as stolid and nonsensical as his mother was frivolous. I’m fine, mother. But the maid ran away.

Mrs. Wright gasped. "Not with the silver, I hope! The housemaids always are extraordinarily fond of silver. I’ve never understood it. I’d run off with my mother’s amethyst brooch rather than silver spoons."

Timothy looked at her evenly. Not with the silver.

Mr. Wright left the room while Mrs. Wright went to the window and wondered aloud what should be done.

I suppose we’ll have to put an ad in the paper as we’ve done with the last three maids, mother, Timothy observed, but she wasn’t listening—so after glancing back out at the rain, he picked up his book.

break

Whether or not Mrs. Wright heard her offspring an ad was put out, and very soon nobody at all showed up. Mrs. Bradley whisked around the house in an unapproachable temper because of all the work she’d had to do alone for three days, and Mrs. Wright flitted between the front door and the sitting room in a state of nervous agitation not likely to give Timothy the quiet he needed to read. So he wheeled his chair to the front door, grabbed the crutches propped in the corner with the umbrella, and hobbled outside and down the front steps by dint of careful maneuvering.

He was not confined to the house, but he rarely left it except when the weather was fine and he could pass into the garden encapsulating the back three-quarters of the house without being seen. Children gaped, boys shook their heads, girls whispered, women pitied, and men pretended that they had not seen the one-legged hobbledehoy slipping into the Wrights’ garden. He had learned by now that it was better not to excite the gossips.

After fiddling with the latch fastening the damp wooden gate shut, he successfully made his escape into the orderly jungle his mother fondly described as her garden. Everywhere was a state of charming decay. Flowering bushes arced over muddy paths, moss-laden bird baths stood tilted, cracked statues of cherubs peeked from the shrubbery, and bedraggled dandelions, daffodils, and crocus pushed through last autumn’s leaves in a valiant effort to bring spring to every corner of the shadowed yard.

He limped over to one of the benches and sat down, pulling out the book he’d stashed in his pocket. When he opened it, the pleasantly musty aroma of its pages mingled with the cool earthen smell of spring permeating the garden.

For a while he was lost to the world contained within. He was no longer crippled because he’d been a foolish boy, but because he’d served Solarium and paid with his freedom. It was comforting to think that he’d lived a life—made a difference, somehow—before he was resigned to the charity of others.

Gradually, however, a creeping feeling as of someone watching him dawned on his senses, and he looked up. At first he could see no one, but then he caught it—an eye. It was unmistakably an eye, and it was staring at him through the space between the gate and the frame that held it in the wall.

He frowned, and it disappeared. Wait! he called, grasping his crutches. Despite his irritation, he wanted to see what manner of person made so bold as to glue their eye to the Wrights’ gate. Come back!

For a moment there was silence, but when he finally wobbled upright the gate squeaked open. Before him stood a girl of not more than fourteen, with delicate freckled features, long red braids, and an upturned nose.

And she was wearing their maid’s uniform, white apron and all. Who are you? he asked, curiosity anything but satisfied after this revelation.

She curtsied guiltily. Mary O’Connor, if you please sir.

Why are you here?

She curtsied again and pointed back towards the gate she’d left open, where a bucket of hearth ashes could be seen. Mrs. Bradley said that I could dump the ash somewhere here, sir. She paused for a moment, looking at him with wide, earnest eyes, and then seemed to make up her mind to plunge ahead. Are you master Timothy? They told me—they told me you weren’t well.

I suppose you thought I had consumption? he asked drily.

Mary flushed right up to the roots of her bright red hair. Well, sir, I didn’t—

Timothy hobbled nearer, wishing that the mud didn’t stick to his crutches and make everything so slippery. No, consumption forgot about me, he said bitterly. I’m in perfect health except for this. He gestured to where his right leg should have been.

Mary continued staring at him with wide eyes, as if she’d never seen anything like him before. She probably hadn’t.

So Timothy changed the subject. "You’re our new maid?" As if the neighbors’ maid would be trying to dump ashes in their garden.

Mary curtsied again, but seemed unconscious that it was the third time she’d done it since meeting him five minutes ago. Yes, sir. Mrs. Wright hired me on the spot, she did, and said that I was sure of a job so long as I left the silver alone. And I will sir, I will! She nodded vigorously.

Where are you from? Timothy asked, ignoring the fact that his mother had hired a mere scrap of a girl to maintenance twelve rooms. There was a curious, whispering lilt to Mary’s voice and he could not recall where he’d heard the like of it before.

Martin Street, sir, Mary said cautiously, showing reserve for the first time since she’d appeared.

Before that.

Sir, I was born in Solarium, but my mum and dad came here from Verida, Mary answered slowly, then rushed ahead. But please sir, oh please, don’t make them send me away because of that. I’m a hard worker, and my mum will be so pleased when I tell her of this. There are seven of us, but I’m the oldest, and I’ve worked hard near all my life. I know just what to do.

Timothy’s first reaction was one of disgust, since Veridans were almost universally despised by his people. But it was hard to be repelled by the inoffensive creature standing before him, hands clasped, and green eyes oh, so wide.

It was at that moment that Mrs. Bradley leaned out of one of the bedroom windows looking out into this portion of the garden, and beckoned with impatience. Are you going to stand there talking off poor master Timothy’s ears all the livelong day, or are you going to empty that pail of ashes as I told you to?

Yes, ma’am! Mary flew to the bucket, nodded good day to Timothy, and scurried around the back of the house. He wasn’t sure what she’d find that way, but it wasn’t where ashes were disposed of. He glanced at a large wooden box half hidden by the nearby shrubbery. She’d learn in time.

Chapter 3

Mr. Wright had been so good! As soon as he had come home, he had asked Mary if she had a family. When she answered that she did, he’d paid her fare and set her in a cab to go home for one more night before taking up residence in the Wrights’. After that, she’d only be free on holidays and every third Sunday. It was a long walk from the Wrights’ to the O’Connors’. She was grateful for his unexpected generosity.

Mary bounced back and forth between the windows on either side of the cab, unable to believe her luck. She’d applied at many homes during the past few weeks, but to be accepted into such a one as the Wrights’! To be sure, young Mr. Wright was a little strange, and Mr. Wright senior was a man of few words, but it was an honor. Such an honor!

The horse’s hooves clip-clopped, and she pressed her nose to the grimy glass, watching as ladies and gentlemen, rich and poor, passed by the window. She’d never had a ride in a cab before, and it proved to be a thrilling end to an uncommonly good day.

Two and three-story buildings towered next to the street with overhanging eaves that loomed

Reviews for What Is and Could Be

[Bethany Fehr · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This gentle story warmed my heart in so many ways: the sweet friendship at the story’s heart, the many tips of the hat to the classics, the characters' rediscovery of wonder, the author's pleasant sense of humor and comfortably eloquent prose, and the cozy sense of nostalgia for days gone by. I love that the story focuses on hope and healing, yet it isn’t afraid to engage with deep pain and doesn’t need to have a classic, fully-resolved happy ending to bring the characters to a better place. The ending is a brave and meaningful choice on the author's part. I can tell that the characters' journey means a lot to the author, and this book feels like a personal invitation to share in the things that have given her joy and comfort. Buxton's writing has beautiful spirit of expectancy and generosity that has left this reader feeling grateful, uplifted, and cared for.

The story isn't perfect—I would have liked to have gotten to know Mary as well as I got to know Timothy, and there are a few places where the characters' motivations weren't quite clear to me. But stories don't need to be perfect to be worthwhile, meaningful, and beautiful, and What Is and Could Be is all those things.