Ten love stories on the eve of midnight.
We invite you to enjoy Hearts Through History’s debut anthology—The Eve of Love, as we take you through three hundred years of family tradition—a New Year’s Eve Costume Ball where love conquers all.
The chronicles begin in Tudor England with Katherine and William, and span centuries as tales of their descendants dance and romance through time with heat from sweet to scorching. We’ll entice you with elaborate masquerades, all-encompassing love matches, and a tapestry of settings that start in Tudor England, journey through the US Colonial and Civil War Eras, Victorian London and Tokyo, and conclude back in the United States on the cusp of the 20th century.
Best-selling authors are joined by new debuts in these ten heart-warming, never before published short stories.
Authors in this anthology include:
- Elf Ahearn – “Love in the Midst of Midnight”
- Eliza Carter – “Lord of Midnight”
- Kathy Crouch – “The Masked Costume Ball”
- Heather Hallman – “Sweets & Spirits Ball”
- Cynthia Anne Hurt – “Mistaken Match”
- Joan Koster – “Beneath the Mask”
- Claudine Lamarr – “Vexed by the Viscount”
- Julia Masters – “Her Forever Home”
- Annie R. McEwen – “The Cinder Wench”
- Zia Westfield – “The Unexpected Miss Nobody”
An Excerpt from my Eve of Love Story Beneath the Mask:
Story Note: “Beneath the Mask” is set in rural upstate New York, the winter following the Battle of Gettysburg in 1863.
December 1863, Ford’s Pond, New York
Lillian Bradley checked that all her pupils were hard at work copying their spelling words, then pulled out the tattered letter that never left her pocket. Missing in action at Culp’s Hill, Gettysburg, his captain had written. Assumed dead.
Dead—with her betrayal in his heart. She ran her finger over the date, July 10th. Why had she given in to her father’s threats and written that letter breaking off their engagement? If only Eli could have gone to his death knowing she would always love him.
Her love was as strong as the day she’d kissed him on the train platform three years ago and sent him to war. The painful hole in her heart would never heal. She knew that now.
If she had her choice, she’d never marry. She’d happily die a spinster schoolteacher.
But she’d given her word to Albert. The wedding was barely two weeks away, and her father would never let her back out. A promise is a promise, he said.
So she’d marry.
She ran her finger over his name: Eli Woods.
Albert Johnson would get only half of her. Maybe that was just as well. He didn’t love her either. He just needed a dutiful woman to mind his invalid mother and work the farm.
“Teacher.”
Lillian refolded the missive and stuffed it in the pocket of her tailored gray serge dress that made her feel in charge even though she was only a few years older than some of her pupils. “Yes, Ethan.”
Ethan Fisher, her youngest student rocked back on his heels, at five unable to camouflage his distress. “Isaac says you won’t be our teacher anymore.”
Lillian glanced up. She gave the Humphries’ boy her patented you-messed-up-stare. The thirteen-year-old knew enough to look away.
Ethan tugged her sleeve. “So is it true?”
She put a hand on his head. “Yes. It is.”
The little boy wrapped his arms around her. “But you can’t leave. You are the bestest teacher we ever had.”
“I’m the only teacher you’ve ever had, Ethan.” Lillian gently extracted herself from his grasp, straightened her skirt, and stood.
She’d put off the announcement as long as she could, hoping that somehow a miracle would happen, and she’d not have to give up teaching.
But the local school board allowed no married teachers, and Albert had been adamant that she give up all ties to her pupils.
“There will be no tutoring other people’s brats. You’ll have plenty enough to do on the farm.” He clamped his huge hands on either side of her head and kissed her like he already owned her. “And plenty of whelps of our own, soon enough.”
The idea of Albert touching her intimately made her stomach clench. He would never be Eli with his gentle hands and tender kisses. But Albert was right. She’d soon be gifted with a family of her own. They wouldn’t be Eli’s children, but she’d love her babes, just as she loved these pupils of hers.
Lillian tapped the ruler on the desktop. Fifteen pairs of eyes stared up at her. “Class. As you just heard. I will no longer be your teacher when you return to school after New Year’s. The county school board will be sending a replacement. Albert Johnson and I will be getting married.”
Mary and Beth clapped. On the cusp of sixteen, marriage sounded like a dream come true. But the younger faces showed glassy eyes, pinched mouths, and disbelief.
Sally raised her hand but as usual didn’t wait to be called on. “Ethan’s right. You are the best teacher we’ve ever had. The old lady before you used to swat our hands with the ruler all the time. Once I even got whacked for just picking up a paper from the floor. You’ve never done anything with that ruler but tap the desk.”
The other children nodded.
Tiny, little Emily half-turned and addressed the class. “We should do something special to say goodbye.”
Lillian laid down the ruler. Dear Emily. It had taken months to give the skinny seven-year-old with the patched dresses and too-small shoes the confidence to speak up in class. She hoped the new teacher would be kind.
Priscilla jumped up. “I know. We should make our Christmas recital a goodbye party.”
Isaac scowled. “We always have a dumb Christmas recital. Besides that’s already planned. Miss Bradley deserves something special—just for her.”
“Relay races,” one of the younger boys yelled out.
“In the snow, stupid?” his older brother chided.
Everyone’s voice chimed in.
“Oh, sled races then.”
“Skating.”
“A bonfire.”
Mary pouted. “No. It has to be a party with food and treats and dancing.”
“My ma could bake a pie.”
“I can bring apples.”
“My uncle plays the banjo.”
“I could dress up as Father Winter,” Otis, the tallest boy in the class, offered.
Lillian moved to the front of the desk and clapped her hands. “Children. These are all wonderful ideas. Maybe we could combine them?”
She pushed her spectacles back up her nose. Her idea was a bit wild, but why not. Soon she would be living in the dour Johnson farmhouse where even Christmas was a solemn day.
“In my family, there is a tradition of having a masquerade ball on New Year’s Eve. We haven’t held one in many years, not since my mother died. It would mean a lot to me to revive the tradition.
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