Lilacs for Juliana (The Christy Lumber Camp Series Book 3) Read online

  Lilacs for Juliana

  By

  Carrie Fancett Pagels

  Hearts Overcoming Press

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, places, characters, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2015 by Carrie Fancett Pagels

  All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever- except short passages for reviews – without express permission. For information, email [email protected].

  First Edition

  August 2015

  ISBN-13

  ISBN-10

  Cover Art by Cynthia Hickey

  Photograph, of model Amber Goos, taken by Kathleen Harwell

  Dedicated to

  My Daughter

  Cassandra Rose Pagels

  My favorite baby girl.

  Ever. And always.

  And a blessing.

  Introduction

  The Christy Lumber Camp Series, Book Three

  Readers of The Fruitcake Challenge and The Lumberjack’s Ball, have already been introduced to my hero, Richard “Moose” Christy, and to my heroine, Juliana Beauchamps. Please bear with me, in the overlap with The Lumberjacks’ Ball, Book Two. Book Three, Lilacs for Juliana, begins midway into the time frame of The Lumberjacks’ Ball. One significant story element also occurs in The Lumberjack’s Ball. However, I felt Juliana’s and Richard’s story had to start at their initial meeting.

  I hope you will enjoy this next installment in The Christy Lumber Camp Series!

  NOTE: The Beauchamps family chart follows, but the Author’s Notes section, including historical information, is at the back of the book, as are acknowledgements, and information about the author and her other books.

  The Beauchamps Family

  Our heroine, Juliana Beauchamps, and her family:

  Mrs. Eleanor “Nora” O’Rourke Beauchamps, almost 70 years old, matriarch, b. 1821. Bore last child at age 46.

  Pierre Beauchamps, patriarch, b. 1819, d. 1887.

  Gerard (also paternal grandfather’s name), b. 1841, died in Civil War 1863.

  Emmett (maternal grandfather’s name, Emmett O’Rourke), b. 1843.

  Pierre (also father’s name) b., 1845, d. 1865.

  Phillip (same as her uncle, father’s eldest brother), b. 1846, d. 1864.

  Sean (also her mother’s eldest brother, Sean O’Rourke), b. 1854.

  Pascal, b. 1857, d. 1889, m. to Melanie with 3 children.

  Connor, b. 1859.

  Juliana (named after the mother's mother, Juliana Lacy O’Rourke) Beauchamps, 28, b. 1863.

  Claudette (named after her father's mother, Claudette Goullier Beauchamps), almost 24, b. 1867.

  Chapter 1

  St. Ignace, Michigan - April, 1891

  The scents of leather-bound volumes of Keats, Longfellow, and Wordsworth, the slightly acrid odor of ink, and the fresh aroma of paper enveloped Juliana. Seven years earlier, she’d finished her librarian studies and returned home to the brand new facilities and a job that she’d prayed for every night. She sighed contentedly, ready to begin her first children’s reading group of the day.

  Her assistant, Gracie, soon to age out of the orphanage at almost eighteen, waved at the twenty orphans being escorted in by Father Paul.

  “Good morning, ladies.” He smiled at them while clutching the youngest child’s hand.

  “Good day, Father.” Juliana grabbed her book about life in the lumber camps.

  Gracie inclined her head, with a hint of displeasure tugging at her pretty features.

  Once they passed, Juliana touched the girl’s shoulder. “It’s not his fault, you know.”

  “I know, but where am I to go?”

  “Like your priest and I have told you—God will provide. Plus, I feel pretty sure we can get you hired here.” She hoped it wasn’t wishful thinking.

  Soon Juliana had joined the little group, read them a short nonfiction book, and engaged in one of her favorite pastimes—storytelling. While she loved reading, the oral tradition of telling tales had been passed down to her by both her Irish mother and her French father. One of his favorite stories was about Paul Bon Jean, and so she launched into an exciting story of Bon Jean clearing out all the pines in one Quebec town in only an afternoon.

  Raising her hand high overhead, Juliana waggled her fingers. “So, the famous lumberjack, Paul Bon Jean, stood a head taller than any other man in the lumber camp.”

  Little Timmy Miller’s blue eyes widened as he seemed to look past her.

  After dropping her arm, Juliana pulled her lace shawl up over her head. She hunched over and rested her hand on Mr. Simmon’s cane, borrowed for a prop. She warbled her voice, emulating her elderly Irish grandmother, “But Bon Jean possessed the kindest heart of all the shanty boys—regardless of what a huge man he was.”

  One of the most overactive of the children, Virginia, frantically raised her hand high but the others shushed her. They must wish to hear the end of the story very badly to try to quiet that little firecracker. Wobbling her way a few steps, Juliana scanned the group, who all now seemed to be focused on something, or someone, right behind her.

  Oh no! Had that interfering library trustee come in yet again to observe her at work? She cringed.

  One of the boys leaned forward and tugged at her scarf and pointed behind her. She’d not turn for anything—these kids were going to get the performance she’d promised them. “Not now, Timmy,” she whispered to him.

  “Bu…bu...but, Miss Juliana, Paul Bon Jean is here!”

  Whirling around, Juliana almost tripped over the cane. She came face-to-flat belly with a giant’s red-and-black-checked flannel shirt. She swallowed as a massive hand cupped her elbow, and steadied her. Taking a step backward, she spied red long johns peaking out at the top of the man’s broad chest above his collar, where a tuft of dark chest hair was met by a shaggy black beard. As Juliana backed up one more step, her heel nudged against someone and a child squawked in protest. “Sorry!”

  The giant Bon Jean lookalike cleared his throat. “Beggin’ yer pardon, miss, but hearin’ that story put me in mind of those we tell in the camps.” His deep bass voice resonated through her.

  From her viewpoint, Juliana could see the man’s face, or what showed of it. Wavy dark hair protruded from beneath a faded red Frenchman’s cap, met by equally dark eyebrows—ruler-straight over charcoal black eyes, which widened as he surveyed her from head to toe. Ivory skin shone around his eyes. His cheekbones and solid nose were kissed with rose-petal pink. Kissed? Where had that word come from? Maybe from those full, kissable lips easily viewed beneath his bushy beard. Juliana blinked, suddenly unsteady, and grateful for the giant lumberjack’s grip on her person.

  “Miss Beauchamps?” No, no, a million times no. The trustee supervisor entered the library, accompanied by two of his minions, both men clutching pads of paper.

  She must have groaned aloud because Bon Jean’s lookalike released her. “Are ya all right, Miss? Them fellas troublin’ ya?”

  Gaping at him, he must have read her expression because he swiveled to face the trio that surged toward them like Lake Michigan in its fury on a stormy day. “Good day, fellas.”

  Hatchens narrowed his eyes and craned his neck back. “We’re with the library board.”

  “I’d say ya got a winner of a librarian here, ain’t ya?”

  When
the trustee failed to respond, the lumberjack gestured toward the group of quiet children. “Sure makes me wish I was a little fella myself, again.”

  Tears of gratitude misted Juliana’s eyes.

  Somehow the lumberjack steered the men away from her. Juliana pressed a hand to her chest, her heart hammering against the stiffly starched fabric. “Let’s get back to our story.”

  Timmy stood and handed her the cane. “But Miss Juliana, that was Paul Bon Jean.”

  Blonde curls bobbed vigorously on Virginia’s fair head. “We want him to tell his story.”

  Unable to resist, Juliana swiveled around to view the titan again. Mr. Hatchens and his assistants had their backs to her as Bon Jean said something to them. His gaze connected with her and he winked. Heat burned her cheeks. The trustee and the minions turned, scowling as the stranger strode back over toward them.

  “Look, he’s coming.” Edward Jennings, one of the older boys moved up to the front row and Juliana gestured him back—he was too tall and the others couldn’t see.

  Forcing herself to breathe, Juliana watched as Bon Jean pulled up a stout wooden chair, turned it around and straddled it, his muscular thighs bumping against her dark skirt.

  Oh Lord, just let the floor swallow me up now. One of the tiniest orphans, Regina, stood and toddled up to Mr. Bon Jean. Goodness, she needed to discover his name.

  “Bon Jean?” The dark-haired tyke pulled at his beard.

  “Today I am.” He grinned at the little girl. “Now, listen up and I’ll tell you about my adventures.”

  A half hour later, Juliana still sat, her chin in her hand, transfixed. Surely her chair had become a wood stump and Bon Jean himself truly had visited with her sweet bevy of children, many of whom had begun life in the lumber camps.

  “Ahem.”

  Juliana looked up into Mr. Hatchens’ cold eyes. “Yes?”

  He pulled his watch from his vest and tapped its face. “Time for our chat. And time for this little spectacle of yours to end.”

  Bon Jean stood and looked down at the man. “No disrespect, sir, but I’m simply a visitor and I’m guessin’ this little gal needs to direct these children to their next activity. Right, Miss?”

  She gave a curt nod. Saved again by the giant.

  The door to the library opened and Sister Mary Lou, the pretty nun in charge of the orphanage, headed toward them.

  “Good day, Mr. Hatchens. You must be telling the children about your plans to add a new playground to our field.” She beamed at the man, whose face flushed red.

  He leaned in. “That was supposed to be our secret, Sister.”

  “Oh! I’d forgotten.” She shrugged dismissively and fluttered her hands at the children, who began to rise. “Thank you so much, Miss Beauchamps, for your program—our students love it.”

  “Not me today, Sister Mary Lou, but…” Juliana was going to point him out but Bon Jean seemed to have disappeared.

  The trustee, too, left them and the tension eased in Juliana’s neck.

  Her friend leaned in. “He’s good at causing pain, isn’t he? I’ll never figure that man out.”

  Juliana laughed.

  “Say, when are you going to stop dressing like me, dear?” Sister Mary Lou frowned as she pointed out Juliana’s black garments.

  She sighed. “Makes me look more authoritative, don’t you think?”

  “The only thing it makes you look like is a tiny blackbird, my friend. The children have begun calling you the pretty little blackbird and that has to stop.”

  “What?” She couldn’t help but scowl as several children giggled at this comment. “Why, I never…”

  Bon Jean’s dark head popped from behind a row of men’s adventure books. He had the nerve to grin at her.

  “We’ll see you tomorrow then, Juliana?”

  “I’ll be here.” If Hatchens hadn’t fired her yet.

  After Sister Mary Lou guided the children out of the library and presumably back to the orphanage, Juliana rejoined her assistant at the counter.

  “Isn’t he the prettiest trout in the stream?” Gracie sighed.

  “Who?” Juliana quirked an eyebrow at the attractive girl. Who had caught her eye now?

  “Mr. Christy, that’s who.” Gracie played with the silver chain on her slender neck and twisted the pearl dangling from it.

  “Who is Mr. Christy?” The name had a nice ring to it.

  “Bon Jean. Only he’s really Mr. Christy the new lumber camp boss outside of town.”

  A camp boss. So he was more mature, as she’d thought, and not a green shanty boy. “How did you find out?”

  “I asked him.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes.”

  She’d have to try that herself next time.

  “How?”

  “He came up to the librarian station and asked about you and the children.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes. Mr. Christy also checked out a pile of books.” She fluffed her thick, curly hair. “He seemed much more interested in orphans and books than in me.” Gracie picked up a fountain pen and made a curlicue C and then wrote out Christy on a patron card. “And he also spent a fair amount of time craning his neck to look at a certain dark-haired librarian.”

  Earlier in the day, when Richard had first entered the library, he’d planned to inquire about their collection of Mark Twain’s work. The young helper, at the desk, said that if he wanted to check all of Twains’ books out then he’d have to ask the head librarian, who was working with the children. Before he could get away, though, the pretty girl peppered him with more questions than a passel of camp cooks trying to find out who’d stolen a tray of biscuits. After answering a few of her inquiries, Richard had sought out the librarian. When he’d walked closer to where the children sat in a circle, he spied one of the older girls pretending to be an elderly woman. No sign of a librarian. Then he’d listened. The scarf on her head bobbed as she’d told the story of Bon Jean, one of the stories they loved sharing around the lumber camp, but she was doing it all wrong. Tiny, but with a commanding voice. And when she’d turned to face him, he’d changed his mind. That was no child, no crone, nor a librarian—that woman had the face of an angel framed by chestnut brown curls. Even at the recollection, his heart sped up as though he’d just cut down a mighty white pine.

  Could be St. Ignace had some good things to offer. Sometime today he needed to stop at Cordelia Jeffries’ inn and see if he might stay in town. The vacant lumber camp outside town, so isolated, was giving him the willies. Night sounds, usually so familiar in the woods, sounded eerie out there. He could admit that to himself, but danged if he’d tell his sister, Jo, who was busy with her new bakery. Maybe he’d share that with Ox—his brother would understand. Jo’s future mother-in-law, Mrs. Jeffries’, owned the inn and both she and Ox were already staying there. Their father remained with the lumber camp crew near Mackinaw City while Richard made arrangements for the new camp in the Upper Peninsula. Pa had placed a lot of confidence in him, allowing his youngest son to assume duties as camp boss while Ox pursued work as a carpenter and craftsman.

  As part of his new duties, Richard had a lot to accomplish in St. Ignace before he headed back out to what would soon be his Christy Lumber Camp. He stopped at the largest newspaper and placed his ad for the cooks he’d need, if he expected to keep his shanty boys happy. He paid the clerk, who dipped his fountain pen in a nearby inkpot and recorded the transaction. “Say, can ya tell me which store is the best in town?”

  “Labron’s store is the biggest.”

  Probably one of their newspaper ad customers, too, which might be why the clerk recommended Labrons’, but Richard would check it out. “Thanks. I think I passed it walking here.”

  The sandy-haired man jerked his thumb backwards. “Two blocks up.”

  After he’d entered through the mercantile’s heavy walnut doors, Richard scanned the huge store for the register. A half-dozen men hovered around the counter, behind wh
ich stood a tall, ginger-haired man he assumed was the proprietor. The customers smoked pipes, some making purchases, and the others simply clutching newspapers. Some people had no sense. With all this wood, any kind of smoking should be prohibited. As a lumberjack, he knew to respect the power of fire.

  “Excuse me, sir.” The queue parted and he approached the counter. “I’m Richard Christy, the new Camp Boss outside of town at Grand Corners.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” But the man’s eyes flickered past him to the men behind. “I’m Charles Labron, the proprietor.”

  Labron was only a few inches shorter than him. Unexpectedly, that old sensation of being ready for a fight rose up in him. So many men had challenged him to a tussle over the years. But this mercantile owner held out his hand and didn’t squeeze Richard’s knuckles off when he shook his hand. Richard tried to push aside his jitters. How was he going to get the camp a reasonable food contract, and not get fleeced, if he came across as more fidgety than a green lumberjack with his first cut?

  “Sir, I need the price to fill an order for victuals for one weeks’ feed. It’s for a camp of fifty to seventy five men.”

  Mr. Labron spit out a number. The cost quoted to him exceeded what he’d expected by about twenty percent, and Richard’s head swam at the difference between what he’d anticipated and what was fact.

  “Thank you.” He turned, and the men again swarmed the counter.

  “Yost? You say it was him?” The bank president, who Richard had met earlier, asked Labron.

  “Yes, sir. The brewery owner himself.”

  “What’s he doin’ up here so early—when it’s not even the season?” a beaver-coated man grouched.

  Richard ran his hand through his hair, as an ache spread atop his head. Already he was failing. Should have known things would be more expensive above the straits.

  A pretty blonde, in modest attire, pulled Richard aside, tugging at his wool sleeve. “Excuse me, I think my husband may have misquoted you back there, sir. I’m Mrs. Labron and I’d be glad to help you.”