A not so distant love, p.1
A Not-So-Distant Love, page 1
Cover imagery: Historical Woman Standing in Field © Abigial Miles / Arcangel Images; Landscape of Cliffs and Neist Point Lighthouse on the Isle of Skye in Scotland © Steve-Goacher / istockphoto.com
Cover design by Tara Leong
Cover design copyright © 2023 by Covenant Communications, Inc.
Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.
American Fork, Utah
Copyright © 2023 by Heidi Kimball
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., PO Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of Covenant Communications, Inc., or any other entity.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Name: Heidi Kimball
Title: A not-so-distant love / Heidi Kimball
Description: American Fork, UT : Covenant Communications, Inc. [2023]
Identifiers: Library of Congress Control Number 2023931175 | ISBN 9781524424497
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023931175
First Printing: October 2023
To my kids—Kate, Emma, Sammi, and Luke
No matter where you go,
no matter what you do,
I’ll always be your biggest cheerleader.
Praise for Heidi Kimball
A Not-So-Distant Love
A Not-So-Distant Loveby Heidi Kimball is a historical romance novel set in 1830s America and Scotland. The book is written exquisitely. Readers will feel as if they are sharing the journals of each character, as the raw emotions of different scenes seem to lift off the page and directly into your heart. The plot and characters are well developed. The author did her research well as she describes the 1800s culture, food, Society’s rules, different classes of people, livelihoods, mannerisms, hardships, and everyday life of the period. Part of the book is set in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Being from the area (an hour away), I can attest to the accuracy of the historical information provided. I thoroughly enjoyed Kimball’s novel. I could not put it down, as the anticipation of what would happen next got the better of me. I recommend it to any reader who enjoys historical romances.”
—Readers’ Favorite five-star review
“Absolutely stunning. A Not-So-Distant Love has everything I want in a historical romance: a vivid, memorable setting, lyrical prose, and a toe-curling romance that will break your heart and put it back together again. This is Heidi Kimball at her very best.”
—Joanna Barker, author of Otherwise Engaged
“With impeccable research and sweeping prose, Heidi Kimball penned an evocative story guaranteed to enrapture. A Not-So-Distant Love presents a skillful blend of the untamed splendor of the Highlands with the vibrant energy of Pittsburgh, effecting a stunning portrait of romance, hope, and the beauty of redemption.”
— Rachel Scott McDaniel, award-winning author of The Starlet Spy
Heart in the Highlands
“Get the tissues out because this one will have hearts twisting and turning from page to page!”
—InD’tale Magazine
“Readers will be hooked from the start of this tender love story of hope and forgiveness. Bringing together an independent, willful heroine and a flawed but loving hero, Kimball’s rich detail and relatable emotion will plant this story in readers’ hearts long after the last page.”
—Megan Walker, author of Lakeshire Park
“With gorgeous prose and heartfelt emotion, Kimball has woven hope, strength, and the power of forgiveness into her latest masterpiece. Kate and Callum are vivid characters whose poignant past will leave readers hungry to discover their happy ending. One of Kimball’s best works, it is sure to be a favorite of lovers of the Regency era, Scotland, and second chances.”
—Arlem Hawks, author of Georgana’s Secret
“As I’ve come to expect—delightfully and eagerly so—with every Heidi Kimball book, Heart in the Highlands captivated me from the opening pages! Callum (a Scottish hero—swoon!) and Kate took up immediate residence in my heart, both wonderfully layered and lovable but flawed enough to be relatable. I loved the themes of forgiveness and second chances woven throughout this story, as well as the atmospheric setting, and the romance was everything I hoped for. Definitely one for the keeper shelf!”
—Melissa Tagg, Christy Award–winning author of Now and Then and Always
“Shimmering with romance and steeped in Scottish tradition, Heart in the Highlands transports you to Regency Scotland, where an arranged marriage unravels only to be stitched back together again with colorful, poignant threads. A story of hope and healing and happily ever afters!”
—Laura Frantz, Christy Award–winning author of Tidewater Bride
Acknowledgments
Before I mention all the people who made this book possible, I must first acknowledge the help of my Heavenly Father. This book, more than any other, required everything I had. It required more than what I had. I’m so grateful for the very real heavenly help that helped me see this story through.
Next up, my own romantic hero, my husband, Dave. He was the guy behind the scenes making things happen—in this case, making dinner, taking the kids to activities, putting them to bed, taking on more of the household chores—so I could finish this story. I couldn’t do this without you, babe. And frankly, I wouldn’t want to.
I also owe a debt of gratitude (as always) to Joanna Barker for believing in me and this story even when I didn’t. You’re my shot of whiskey for confidence and I’m lucky to have you.
To so many others in the writing community: Jess Heileman, Deborah Hathaway, Jillian Christensen, Megan Walker, and Arlem Hawks. And my own sisters, Alison Bytheway and Amanda Moore, who are always the best beta readers. Thank you for helping make this story shine.
I’m also grateful for my team at Covenant. Kami is my rockstar editor who is patient with me even when I miss deadlines. And thank you to Tara Leong for the beautiful cover.
Finally, a huge thank-you to my readers. For all of you who asked for Charlotte’s story . . . you are the reason I wrote it.
“Where Thou art—that—is Home.”
—Emily Dickinson
Chapter One
Edinbane, Scotland
April 29, 1835
Charlotte lay back on the hill, letting the soft Highland breeze whisper across her face, the sun’s rays pushing through the crisp air to slowly warm her. She inhaled, breathing in the sweet smell of gorse. In the next few weeks the bleating of young lambs calling for their mothers would cover these climbs. Charlotte smiled, closing her eyes. Nothing in the world could compare to spring in the Highlands.
Nothing.
But, for a moment, the world around her faded . . . the beauty, the scent, the sounds all growing blurry, unfocused. Charlotte’s awareness narrowed to nothing more than the heavy thump of her own heart—the steady rhythm that had become a drumbeat these past few months. The feeling that had burrowed inside her, urging her forward, away, into something unfamiliar and elusive, with only the promise of an unknown something.
Since Grandfather’s passing it had only gained urgency.
“Charlotte?” Iseabel’s musical voice carried up the hill, interrupting Charlotte’s worries. She sat up, bringing a hand to her brow and squinting against the sun as her young sister’s figure came into focus. At nearly twelve, Iseabel was all elbows, knees, and feet.
Her arms were full of wildflowers—white, purple, pink, and yellow—in a bed of leaves and stems. “These are for ye.” She stepped forward and laid them across Charlotte’s lap.
Charlotte breathed in the lemony scent of sheep sorrel. “They’re perfect. Thank you. I’ll put them in a vase as soon as we are home.” She glanced at the sun, gathered the flowers in her arms, and stood. “Much as I hate to say it, we should head back and dress for dinner.”
“So soon?”
“Don’t sound so disappointed. Tavish will be joining us tonight.”
“He will?” Iseabel’s face brightened considerably.
Charlotte nodded. Their table had been sparse of late, with Grandmother and Aunt Olivia down in Edinburgh for a few weeks and Bram and Graeme gallivanting around the Continent. Tavish and his twin brothers had become like brothers to Charlotte and Iseabel in the years since Uncle Ian’s passing, as at home in Castleton Manor as in the small cottage where they’d been raised.
“Let’s run, then,” Iseabel said.
The suggestion caught Charlotte off guard. Her sister was obedient and reserved. Not spontaneous. Not rambunctious. In many ways, she was the very opposite of Charlotte, so anytime one of those characteristics even so much as peeked its head out from behind her sister’s stoic manners, Charlotte felt honor bound to encourage it.
“Let’s,” she agreed wholeheartedly and linked her arm with Iseabel’s.
Charlotte shot forward, jerking Iseabel along with her. Her sister’s shrieks of surprise soon became giggles as they flew down the hill together, passing lazy ewes and patches of thyme and budding heather.
At the back door of Castleton Manor they paused to catch their breaths. Charlotte had a stitch in her side, but it was well worth it. Iseabel’s eyes were sparkling.
Tavish appeared at the back door. “Harriet mentioned I might find the two of ye coming this way.”
“Tavish!” Iseabel waved shyly, an undeniable blush reddening her cheeks.
“Are we truly that late?” Charlotte asked.
“I arrived a little early.” His eyes met hers, probing. Was she ready?
She swallowed. Nodded.
Harriet chose that moment to come up behind Tavish, her wrinkled mouth turned down in that perpetual frown of hers. “No sense in coming back on time if you insist on dawdling out here once you’re home.”
Iseabel straightened at once, untying her bonnet and handing it to Harriet. “I’m off to dress for dinner.”
“I’ll be in the library until we’re summoned for dinner,” Tavish said, then mouthed, “Good luck” to Charlotte and backed away.
“Coward,” she mouthed back, left alone with the Englishwoman who had been a nursemaid, a governess, and in many ways, another grandmother to her. Easing out a ragged breath, she took stock of herself. Her dress was damp and wrinkled, her curly brown hair a tangled nest.
“You left your bonnet behind on purpose,” Harriet said with disapproval.
Charlotte affected an air of innocence. “Not on purpose. I’m forgetful.”
“You never forget when I’ve promised to make ginger biscuits.” Her eyes narrowed as she examined Charlotte’s face.
Charlotte smothered a grin. “Of course not. I’m only forgetful when I find it convenient.”
Harriet muttered under her breath and shooed her away. “Upstairs with you, or you’ll be late for dinner again.”
Charlotte did as she was told and all too soon found herself sitting in nervous anticipation at the dinner table. As planned, Tavish waited until the dishes were being cleared to make his announcement. He cleared his throat, his eyes darting toward Father. Charlotte’s pulse lurched. “Perhaps we could all meet in yer study for a few moments, Uncle?” Tavish asked.
Father nodded. “Of course.”
By some unwritten rule, Father’s study was the place they’d always gathered for conversations of importance. Usually, it was in celebration of some piece of happy news—the twins making it through an entire term at Oxford without being suspended, a successful lambing season, Charlotte being granted the inheritance of the dukedom.
Tonight, however, there was a hint of tension in the air as they gathered in the study. With Bram and Graeme traveling abroad—still in Milan, according to their latest letter—the levity and banter of the group were sorely missing. Harriet settled herself in the corner with her knitting. Mother sat in the chair behind Father’s desk, and he stood behind her, one hand on her shoulder.
Iseabel took the seat next to Charlotte, her soft hand resting on Charlotte’s arm.
The room was unnaturally quiet.
Tavish stood by the door, alone. He pushed his glasses up his nose and sucked in a breath. “Uncle, Aunt.” He looked at each of them in turn. “Ye have been nothing but generous tae me, treating me—and my brothers—as yer own sons after our father died. I can never repay ye for the education ye provided me. Please believe me when I say I wouldn’t wish tae hurt ye. But I wanted tae let ye know, that after much consideration, I’ve decided tae pursue some opportunities in . . . America.”
An arctic breeze seemed to blast through the room.
“America?” Father echoed. His shoulders stiffened, tension lining his features.
“America,” Tavish confirmed with a nod. “Pittsburgh, tae be exact.” His eyes flicked over to meet Charlotte’s.
She eased out a breath, trying to calm the unnerving spiral of her insides. Iseabel’s hand tightened on her arm, a tangible reminder of her sister’s aversion to change.
The tick, tick of the ormolu clock sounded from out in the entryway. Charlotte prayed Father’s glance wouldn’t turn in her direction.
Mother clasped her hands together, calm as ever, and spoke in her cultured English accent. “How long have you been considering going?”
“Almost four months.” He thrust both hands deep into his pockets and met their gazes. “This is not a conclusion I’ve come tae lightly.”
Father leaned forward. “But what about yer—”
“My mother has given her blessing,” Tavish interrupted. He must be more nervous than Charlotte had thought. He never interrupted. “I must go and at least explore the possibilities. It is time tae make my own way in the world.”
Tavish had confided his concerns to Charlotte more times than she could count, but her parents were taking in this revelation for the first time. Tavish was like a son to them, and she feared what his decision might cost them.
What her decision might cost them.
Father ran a hand through his hair, no less handsome for the fact that the brown was now scattered with strands of gray. “Yes, of course. But why not here? There are plenty of opportunities here. Or in Edinburgh, if ye must.”
Tavish turned, fully facing Father. “Opportunities open tae me only because ye are my uncle—a duke.” Father winced. “I hope ye will not think me ungrateful, Uncle, but I want tae find opportunities for myself. And I believe America is the place tae do it.”
Tavish walked toward the cavernous stone fireplace that dominated Father’s study, then turned to face all of them. “I am sure ye remember my good friend from Oxford, Liam Magann. He’s invited me tae come and stay with his family in Pittsburgh while we explore some investment opportunities in mining and iron.” He blew out a breath. “I leave come the beginning of June.”
Mother rose, stepping into place at Father’s side, as if she could sense a brewing storm. She looked at Charlotte. “I cannot imagine you don’t have a word to speak against this.”
Charlotte blinked, wide-eyed, heart in her throat.
Now was the moment to confess the truth or keep quiet. There was still the chance to deny the desire bubbling within her, choke back the words that would doubtless wound her parents, her father especially. Stay.
But she could not.
She let out a breath in a mad rush of air. “I want to go with Tavish. Not for good, of course. For five or six months, perhaps,” she said. From her earliest years, Charlotte’s accent had mirrored her mother’s, and she turned to the woman who had given birth to her, desperate for her approval. Without her support Charlotte could not hope to stem the tide of Father’s concerns.
“Ye too, Charlotte?” Father’s gray eyes fixed on hers, lanced through with betrayal. “With travel time back and forth, ye’d be gone nearly a year.” He said the word as if it gave him physical pain.
Iseabel released her hold on Charlotte’s arm. A cramp of worry formed in Charlotte’s stomach. Despite the many hours she’d spent on her knees, all she felt now was uncertainty.
“I’d not let Charlotte out of my sight,” Tavish said, coming to stand beside her. “She’d be well looked after. Ye need not fear on that account.”
The quiet click of the door signaled Iseabel’s retreat.
Mother laced her fingers through Father’s, turning to Tavish. “Tavish, much as we trust you, Charlotte cannot travel unchaperoned. She’s still an unattached young woman, and one—whether she wishes to acknowledge it or not—of affluence and import.”
“I am hardly young, Mother,” Charlotte found herself saying. “I’ll be twenty-three next week.”
“I assure ye,” Father chimed in, shaking his head, “twenty-three is not the pinnacle of wisdom ye think it tae be. I made some of the greatest mistakes of my life when I was but a few years older than ye.”
“But I am not allowed to make mistakes for myself, is that it?” Charlotte demanded. Tavish shot her a quelling look, but little good that would do with her blood warming. Though Charlotte was only a quarter Scottish, she had four full quarters of a Scots temper.
