Dare to Dream

By Jayne M Simon

The year is 1896, and the women’s rights movement is forging ahead. Eighteen-year-old Jenna Newell is at the threshold of her life, hoping to fulfill her dream of becoming a journalist at a time when women are still expected to follow the traditional paths of marriage and motherhood.

Sarah Newell, Jenna's grandmother, has other plans for her, however. Consumed with hatred because of her obsessive love for her deceased daughter, Sarah connives to ensnare her granddaughter in an arranged marriage, but Jenna is determined to live the life she chooses to live. Sarah’s diabolical scheme turns deadly, forcing Jenna to flee the people she loves to protect them, and herself, from a terrifying fiend.

Jenna dares to seek the fulfillment of another dream, as well - to gain the love of the man who has become her protector, her friend.

 

• Language: Unknown
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Oct 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781509243570

Jayne M Simon

Jayne Simon is a life-long learner and lover of great stories. She draws inspiration from her family's personal history and develops characters based on real-life experience. Having retired from over twenty years of nonprofit management, Jayne is excited to embark on her second career - writing novels. She lives in Erie, PA with her husband, three children and four grandsons.

Book preview

Prologue

1886

The funeral wreath swayed in the late-summer breeze. Eight-year-old Jenna Newell sat alone on the porch swing, the gentle back-and-forth rocking motion causing her eyelids to grow heavy with sleep. She closed her eyes, shutting out the world around her.

Now, Grandpa’s gone, too. Jenna was alone—alone and unloved. She came to live with her grandparents as an infant. Other than the kindly housekeeper, her grandfather was the only one to show her affection. She smiled as she recalled her grandfather’s snowy-white mustache tickling her cheek as he kissed her good night. No more kisses, no more hugs…no more happiness. It’s just Grandmother and me.

An image of the wiry old woman invaded her mind; hair pulled so severely into a knot at the nape of her neck, causing her eyes to appear as two tiny slits, her thin mouth set in a perpetual frown, her black bombazine dress rustling as she walked. The image was so vivid Jenna thought she could hear the swish of the dress.

Imagination became a reality as Jenna heard her grandmother’s chilling voice. Wake up, girl; Reverend Hollister is leaving. Where are your manners? Honestly, have you learned anything from me? Come along now.

Jenna opened her eyes but immediately lowered them to avoid looking into the face that terrified her. She wriggled off the porch swing to stand at attention before her grandmother, her hands folded in front of her, head bowed. Yes, Grandmother, she whispered. I’m sorry.

Sarah Newell shook her head sharply and glared down at the little girl. As she turned to walk away, the old woman uttered a stern whisper, Don’t just stand there. Come!

Yes, Grandmother. I’m sorry. These words had become Jenna’s mantra since learning to talk.

Swallowing back tears, which threatened to spill down her tiny face, the child followed closely behind the skeletal figure dressed in black.

Sarah Newell inhaled, and as she exhaled, the scowl disappeared from her wrinkled face. As she approached her departing guest, she offered him a sorrowful look.

Thank you so much for the beautiful service, Reverend Hollister. Samuel would have been pleased. It’s a comfort to know he had so many friends.

****

Mr. Newell will be sorely missed, madam. Your husband did a lot of good for a great many people in this town. I know I speak for all of them when I say how thankful they are that he kept the shoe factory open, despite the sales downturn. His generosity is legendary.

The old minister hesitated a beat, wondering if he should go further. He attempted to take the measure of the woman standing before him, but her face was unreadable. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

"Mrs. Newell…Sarah, I trust you will continue Samuel’s legacy."

The look on the old woman’s face quickly darkened. Yes…well, Reverend, as you know, I did not share my husband’s views on charity. I believe God helps those who help themselves, as the saying goes. This town will no longer be able to depend on handouts from the Newells. An honest day’s wage for an honest day’s work.

The clergyman sighed, any semblance of courtesy now gone from his demeanor. "I agree with you, madam. An honest day’s wage, but can these people expect an honest wage from you?"

The scowl reappeared on Sarah’s face. I am certainly not a cheat, sir; if they want to get paid for a day’s work, they will do a day’s work.

Hollister’s voice now rasped with anger. "And who, may I ask, determines a day’s work?"

Sarah arched her brow. Brushing past the frustrated clergyman, she opened the heavy mahogany door. Why, I do, sir. Good day.

As the Reverend Hollister donned his hat, he strode from the Newell mansion, muttering a small prayer. Heaven help us all.

Sarah Newell’s control crumbled. I agree, Reverend. Heaven help you because I won’t.

Chapter One

December, 1896

It had been raining for five days. The leak began as a small, occasional drop of water. Now it was a steady stream, soaking through the damask canopy that draped the stately bed in the master bedroom on the first floor. Sarah Newell was not pleased!

She summoned a local roofer to assess the situation. After a thorough examination of the roof, the repairman determined that several slate tiles would have to be replaced after many years of neglect.

Sarah slowly walked up the narrow staircase to the attic to see firsthand the damage to the one-hundred-fifty-year-old roof. To her dismay, there were, indeed, several damaged slate tiles. As she was inspecting the roof from the inside, she calculated how much the repairs would cost. Her mood darkened with each discovery of a broken or missing piece of slate.

Descending the attic stairs, Sarah spied the tiny wooden secretary tucked under one of the eaves of the old, gabled house, immediately identifying it as one of the items retrieved from Jenny’s garret in Needham all those years ago. Sarah felt a sharp pain in her heart as an image of her daughter entered her mind. The pain was physical as well as emotional, and Sarah stumbled toward a small chair in front of the secretary.

Slowly, the old woman lowered herself onto the seat. She bowed her head and folded her arthritic hands in her lap. She sat thus, letting her mind journey back over all the painful years since her daughter’s death. Her beloved, long-awaited child was gone forever—taken by that worthless Freddy Perry. Now, all Sarah had left was her granddaughter, Jenna, a constant reminder of her daughter’s foolishness.

Sarah tried to keep Jenny’s memory alive; she even agreed to keep the child’s name the father had given her—Jenna. She’d tried to replicate her daughter’s upbringing in every way; Jenna went to the same school, wore the same clothes. Sarah even insisted the child wear her hair the same way.

Remembering all the sadness of the last eighteen years, Sarah absently opened and closed all the drawers of the old battered piece of furniture. She opened the desk, and her heart lurched as she found evidence of Jenny’s existence: her precise handwriting, paper and pens neatly put away in cubbyholes, little notes to herself, doodlings of Freddy Perry’s name. Sarah shook her head. Foolishness! That man seduced her with silly, romantic ideas. Well, her granddaughter would never know about that side of her family. Sarah would make sure of that! So far, she had managed to erase all evidence of the Perry name from their existence.

As she pondered these thoughts, she absently played with a small, unseen knob situated on the right side of the desk, just beneath the bottom drawer.

Sarah pulled the tiny knob and was astonished as a thin drawer, no more than a grooved slat, slid out from the bottom of the lowest drawer. Inside lay a yellowed piece of linen in which was wrapped a small object. Sarah’s gnarled hand shook as she picked up the cloth and laid it in her palm.

Holding her breath, she carefully unfolded the yellowed cloth. Her breath caught as she viewed the object before her—an exquisitely carved cameo. Ever so slowly, she picked up the pendant and turned it over in her hand. Her interest quickly dissipated as she noted the initial etched into the backside—P.

Her first impulse was to throw the pendant into the fire, completely obliterating any remnants of the Perry name. But Sarah Newell was nothing if not pragmatic. She forced herself to look past her revulsion and see the value of the piece in her hand; she could not deny the expert artistry. But what could be done with the engraving on the back? It could be scratched out, but that would ruin the value. No, Sarah would take it to a chaser; a professional etcher would have the expertise. She rewrapped the pendant and slid it into her pocket. Yes, that big Swedish chaser would know what to do.

****

Eighteen-year-old Jenna Newell lived a very solitary life. While at home, her only interaction with people was visiting Vesta, the aged housekeeper, or Ketty, the housemaid. Her grandmother spoke rarely, and then it was usually to reprimand Jenna for some unfounded transgression. The girls at school were friendly enough, but she wasn’t a part of their social circle because her grandmother forbade participation in after-school activities. Unknown to Jenna, most of the girls were jealous because she was the main object of discussion among the young lads in her class. Because her life was so restricted, there was an air of mystery about her. This aura, in addition to her looks, made her much more attractive to the boys. Jenna Newell was quite beautiful—and she was untouchable.

****

Hurrying down the sidewalk, Jenna buried her chin in the luxuriant collar of the coat, her hands fisted inside the matching rabbit-fur muff hanging from her neck. Any excuse to leave that tomb of a house was welcome, but the bitter cold quickly made her wish her grandmother had checked the weather before sending her out on an errand in this storm.

The large flakes of blowing snow pelted Jenna’s cheeks and forced her to keep her eyes downcast. She didn’t see the figure coming toward her until she walked into it headlong and tumbled backward into a snowbank. Stunned by the abruptness of her fall, Jenna lay quietly as the flakes rapidly began to cover her. It was in moments like these—when she was alone, when the world was void of noise—that Jenna sensed a presence. She liked to think it was her mother’s spirit surrounding her with love.

Enjoying the otherworldly silence, she felt someone standing above her. Her heart quickened as she opened her eyes. But rather than a long-awaited specter, the dark figure looming over her was immense and hulking. Anticipation turned to fear as the image of a man bent toward her, arms extended. She could not see his face because of the steadily falling snow, but she caught his voice, low with a heavy Swedish accent.

My apologies, miss. I didn’t see yu fer all da snow. Please let me help yu up. The man raised Jenna to her feet with a gentleness that belied his size.

Jenna stood and raised her head to stare up at the man who now looked like an enormous snowman. She had never seen a man so tall. His voice was so quiet; she could barely hear him. The words gentle giant came unbidden to her mind.

Thank you for your assistance, sir. Indeed, I apologize for I think it was I who walked into you. I wasn’t looking where I was going, and I wasn’t expecting anyone to be out in this weather, especially on a Saturday morning.

As she made her way around the giant man, he stood to the side, bending from the waist and making a sweeping gesture with his extraordinarily long right arm as he kept his left arm behind his back. Snow Princess, I beg yer forgiveness. Please be on yer way.

Stifling a soft giggle, Jenna walked past his outstretched arm. Thank you, kind sir. Good day.

After a few steps, she turned back, and, although almost blinded by the continually falling snow, she met his gaze. Truly, sir, I appreciate your assistance.

The stranger nodded slightly. Jenna could feel his gaze lingering on her until she disappeared into the storm.

****

Trudging through the untrodden snow in the alley, Johan Iverson fumbled for the key to the shop’s back entrance, careful not to drop it in the deep drifts surrounding the door. Using his enormous boots to remove the accumulation of flakes, he shoved the door open and entered the orderly room. As always, a sense of satisfaction washed over him as he took in his surroundings. Johan was proud of what he had accomplished in the two years since arriving in Natick. His years as a jeweler’s apprentice in the old country had served him well. He smiled sadly, remembering his mentor and friend in the village of his youth.

****

Anders Anderson was the only jeweler in the scenic little village of Nykvarn. Losing his wife and three children to influenza, he had no one to carry on his family business. When a fifteen-year-old orphaned village boy, Johan Iverson, approached him for a job, Anders was pleased to teach him his trade and enthusiastically took the boy into his care. Under the man’s tutelage, Johan learned the fine art of engraving as well as all aspects of the jewelry trade. As the years passed, the young apprentice became a master engraver and jeweler.

Anders was as proud of Johan as any father would be of his own son. Although no legal documents were drawn up, both the older man and his apprentice agreed that, someday, Johan would carry on the family business, but that was years in the future. There was still time for Anders to make a will. Unfortunately, the future came all too quickly, and overnight, Johan’s life changed.

No one could say how or where the fire started; its origin didn’t matter. What mattered was that it started at night and ravaged a quarter of the village of Nykvarn, leaving death and devastation in its wake. By the time the inferno had burned itself out, fifty villagers were dead, and several homes and businesses were destroyed. Among those lost was Anders Anderson, who lay sleeping in his bedroom above his store as the blaze devoured his life and his life’s work.

It was a simple twist of fate that Johan had not been sleeping in the shop at the time. After months of wooing Inga Swenson, Johan had managed to convince the young maiden to meet him for a romantic rendezvous in the woods. Inga’s love for him saved his life, and it was his love for her that changed his life. As the jewelry shop burned that night, all of Johan’s dreams went up in smoke as well. He could not even consider taking a wife now with no place to live, no place to work. Within days of the fire, Johan gathered what tools he could salvage from the burned-out shop and set sail for America, promising his Swedish love he would send for her someday and make her his wife.

After landing in Boston, Johan purchased a wagon, intending to travel to New York to find work. As luck would have it, the wagon lost two wheels in a small town just outside Boston. A great believer in the Norse gods, Johan took the loss of the two wagon wheels as an inconvertible sign this was where he was supposed to be. And so the young Swedish immigrant set about making his jewelry expertise known in the thriving little borough of Natick, Massachusetts.

****

The long, treacherous walk in the storm had done little to quell Jenna’s frustration with her grandmother. Couldn’t this errand have waited until the blizzard abated? What could be so urgent?

Jenna shook her head in sadness. Poor Grandmother. Her heart was colder than the frigid air that now surrounded her; ice water probably ran through her veins rather than warm blood. But why? Jenna wondered again. She couldn’t begin to count the number of times she pondered that question…why was Grandmother so unfeeling, so cold? Why couldn’t she love her own granddaughter? Someday, I will find the answers to all of my questions…someday…

Lost in her thoughts, Jenna went two blocks farther than necessary and had to backtrack, struggling to find her way as the wind whipped her raw cheeks. She was panting by the time she reached her destination. The energy Jenna expended, plodding through the knee-deep snow on Main Street, left her breathless. Every time she inhaled, her lungs filled with bone-chilling air.

The open-for-business sign still swayed from the recent turning of the small plaque from Closed to Open. Jenna shook her head vigorously and gave her coat a quick brush with her hands, removing as much snow as possible before entering the dimly lit shop.

Finding the showroom empty, she raised her voice slightly. Hello? Hello? Is anyone here? You have a customer. As she stood admiring an array of pendants in the front display case, she heard the gentle tinkle of hoops on a rod and the swish of a curtain opening behind her.

****

The doorway from the workroom in the back was relatively narrow, the ceilings not made for a man of Johan Iverson’s height. Even bending his neck, the top of his head brushed the curtain rod. As he came through the entrance and raised his head, he was astonished to see the Snow Princess he had just rescued standing in his shop browsing the display case.

Johan stood in the doorway, gaping at the vision before him. Now that she had removed her hood, he was captivated by the girl’s long dark tresses cascading down either side of an oval face of alabaster skin, her cheeks reddened by the pelting snow. Her eyes were the darkest blue he had ever seen, almost violet in color, and framed by perfectly arched dark brows and long, thick black eyelashes. Her nose was as delicate as her perfect mouth. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

The young woman quickly raised her head and stared across the room at the giant she had literally run into on her way to the shop. Oh my, it’s you. Is Mr. Iverson here? Are you Mr. Iverson?

Recovering from his momentary shock and confusion, he exhaled, letting his breath slowly escape his chest.

Ya, I am Mr. Iverson. Goot mornin’, miss. May I help yu?

After the complete silence of the shop, the baritone voice was startling.

"It is you. The man from the snowstorm! You’re Mr. Iverson?"

Ya, miss. I am Johan Iverson. But I am at a loss. Who might yu be?

"Oh, where are my manners? I’m so sorry. I just wasn’t expecting to see you here. I’m Jenna Newell, granddaughter of Mrs. Sarah Newell. She told me you were expecting a package from her. I have it right here."

Johan watched as she removed her hand from her fur muff and opened her fist to reveal a paper-wrapped object. Jenna took a step toward him, raising her hand and offering up the package.

"Tack, Miss Newell." Johan’s enormous hand seemed to swallow up the package as he deftly lifted it from her tiny palm. He turned and carefully laid the parcel on the glass-topped display case and began to unwrap it.

****

Jenna rose on tiptoes and attempted to crane her neck around Iverson’s broad shoulders to glimpse the contents of the package, but the breadth of him was more significant than she’d judged. Disappointed, she lowered her heels and stood patiently, waiting for the jeweler to inspect the contents and read the note her grandmother had enclosed for him.

The jeweler was so intent on examining the exquisite pendant he held in his hand, he seemed to have forgotten the girl. A polite cough pulled him from his musings.

Excuse me, but my grandmother asked me to wait for a response to her note. Could you please give me an answer so I may return home? I think the storm is worsening.

Johan reluctantly put the pendant on the glass and slowly opened the crisp sheet of vellum to read the dramatic scrawl that filled the page.

It appeared to Jenna that he did everything in slow motion. His response was no exception.

Ya. Please tell your grandmudder I said ya. I can do what she wants. It will take some days, but I will bring it to your house when it is finished.

Jenna knew her grandmother would never reveal to her what was in the package, so she decided to find out for herself. Feigning to know what was in the note, she nodded.

"Good. My grandmother will be pleased to hear that. Now before I go, please explain to me how you will do this."

Ya, sure, yu betcha. Johan picked up the pendant and held it in his broad palm.

Jenna managed to hide her surprise at the beautiful brooch that lay before her. It was an exquisitely carved cameo. The tiny figures were a woman holding a child against her breast in a tender embrace. Her grandmother was always amply arrayed with expensive jewelry, but Jenna had never seen this particular piece. Her curiosity heightened. She had to know more.

It’s one of Grandmother’s favorite pieces. I hope you will do as she asked without taking away from its beauty.

The big Swede shook his head solemnly. I know family heirlooms are very precious. I can assure yu, Miss Newell, the only ting that I will change is the engraving.

The engraving? Show me.

Complying with Jenna’s request, Johan turned the pendant over and showed her the single letter etched on the back of it—P.

Jenna’s curiosity was now mixed with confusion. P? What did that mean? And who had it belonged to? She had to know more. Are my grandmother’s wishes clear to you, sir?

"Ya, yur grandmudder’s wishes are clear. I grind out the letter P and replace it with the letter N. N fer Newell. The metal is silver, so it is soft. It is an easy ting for me to buff out one letter and put in anuder. Yu will see. Yur grandmudder will be pleased."

Jenna’s mind was reeling. A family heirloom? To whom had it belonged before? And why have the engraving changed? Grandmother’s family name was Killian, so what does the P stand for?

Catching the curious look on the jeweler’s face, she pulled the coat tight around her, donned her hood, and headed for the door. As she reached for the doorknob, she turned back to the Swedish giant.

Thank you, sir. I’m sure my grandmother will be pleased. Good day. And with that, Jenna made a hasty retreat back into the storm.

Chapter Two

Magnus Vedderburn carefully guided his milk wagon down the narrow streets. He’d quickly given up trying to steer from his seat. He found his horse was calmer when he wrapped his beefy hand around the harness and whispered in the old nag’s ear. Although the horse was accustomed to all different kinds of New England weather, this early winter storm was proving to be exceptionally harsh; not only was the snow falling in blinding white sheets. The sheer weight of it made the horse skittish.

As the milkman rounded the corner to begin his ascent to the big house on the hill, he pulled back on the harness, signaling for a complete stop. The nag lowered her neck even more against the frigid onslaught and breathed heavily. The wagon’s weight was usually the same, but pulling it through several feet of snow today was exhausting. Although the nag never liked the blinders she had to wear, she welcomed them on this day as she stood in the middle of the road, patiently waiting for her master to assess the situation.

Because his destination was outside the town area, Magnus was trying to judge the depth of the snow on the untrodden road. There were no other buildings this far out, so there were no impediments to the gale-force winds sweeping across the open spaces. As a result, enormous drifts, some almost ten feet high, covered the road.

Years of hauling milk around Natick made Magnus Vedderburn somewhat of an expert when determining the passibility of roads during inclement weather. Whether it was a winter snowfall or the spring rains, one look and the old dairyman could judge the safety of travel on the roads. And it was one look early this Saturday morning in December that made Magnus shake his head and whisper to his old friend.

Not today, my beautiful Hildie. The big house vill not be getting fresh milk today. The old lady vill ust have to make do vithout our delivery. I don’t care about her, but it’s too bad the sweet Jenna must be inconvenienced as well.

Magnus shrugged his shoulders and patted the horse’s nose, taking care to brush the snow from her face. But nothing is to be done, so let us go home.

Using the same ruts in the road, he started to back up the wagon when he saw a ghostly image emerge from behind the cart. Vedderburn was startled to see that anyone other than himself had attempted to brave the storm. The snow-covered figure was bent almost in half as it stumbled toward him, straining against the gale-force winds.

****

Jenna spotted the milk wagon shortly after she left the jewelry shop. She tried calling out to the milkman, but the frigid air, along with the ferocious winds and densely falling snow, deafened all sound. Fatigue threatened to overtake her. Rather than expend the little energy that remained by calling to him, Jenna decided to follow the wagon wheel trail in the snow. She knew that Magnus’s delivery route would eventually take him to the Newell house and safety.

She hadn’t noticed the milk wagon had stopped until her foot bumped into the stationary wheel. Keeping her left hand tucked inside her muff, she drew her right hand up into the sleeve of her coat and managed to grab one of the wheel spokes. She waited for the wind to abate before rounding the corner of the wagon.

Once she had secure footing, she pushed off and trudged toward the snow-covered figure who stood at the rear of his horse, facing her.

****

Magnus caught her as she tumbled into his arms. He used his neck scarf to brush the snow away from her nearly frozen face and was astonished to find it was the child from the mansion lying lifeless in his arms. He could feel her chilled body even through the heavy woolen coat.

"Liebchen! Vat you doing? Vie you out in dis vedder?" Vat is wrong vith dat old voman? Mein Got! Anger fumed within him.

Adrenaline pumped through the man as he quickly wrapped the girl in the bearskin rug he stored under the seat of his wagon. Carefully laying Jenna face down across the horse’s back, he unhitched the heavy reins from the wagon. He removed his thick glove and gave the animal a gentle stroke along its mane with his bare hand, conveying the love he had for the nag.

"Come, my beautiful girl. Vee must take our little liebchen home. I alvays knew her grandmama was cold voman, but this? Tsk! Such a shame! Come, my Hildie. Vee vill do this for the child."

The horse made a soft, snuffling sound and turned her head toward the small figure securely wrapped in the bear rug. She snorted twice as if to warm Jenna with the air from her nostrils.

His trusted companion’s understanding touched Magnus’s heart. He touched his forehead to her long nose, and with a slight tug of the harness, he slowly guided the horse up the hill, careful to keep one hand on the back of his precious cargo.

****

Sarah Newell sat dozing by a blazing fire in the parlor. She occasionally woke and glanced out the window, barely noticing the storm was worsening.

Where is that girl? she muttered impatiently. Off dreaming somewhere, no doubt. No wonder she’s so dull-witted. Must get that from her father, damn his soul. If it’s the last thing I do, I will erase all evidence of him from our lives!

Her daughter, Jenny, had been so beautiful, so bright, she could have had her pick of the young men from good families in Natick—Boston, even. She was too young—just sixteen—when she defied her mother and took up with that…that…workman! And then to be gotten with child so quickly! Sarah’s heart tightened at the memory. Damn that man…damn him…damn him…damn him.

She gave Jenny everything, and how was she repaid? The stupid girl ran off with an ordinary craftsman. And having done so, she ruined her chances for a good marriage to someone with position, someone with money.

Closing her eyes, Sarah nestled into the oversized wingback chair. She pulled a knitted afghan around her shoulders, calling to mind the fortuitous manner in which she had discovered the hidden pendant. What else had her daughter hidden from her?

The heavy pounding on the front door jarred Sarah from her sleep. The room was dark. She looked around quickly, trying to orient herself to the time of day. Spying the ormolu mantel clock, she was surprised it was only eleven o’clock in the morning. The pounding continued.

Ketty, answer the door! Ketty? Her impatience mounted. Ketty! Where is that cursed girl?

Emerging from the warm cocoon of blankets, Sarah rose and turned to the doorway of the foyer. As she rounded the corner to the entry hall, the door flew open, the biting wind and swirling snow invading her home. Amid the rampaging flakes stood a snow-covered figure cradling what appeared to be a small animal