A Prequel Short Story for A Heart to Treasure

Obadiah Howard met Eliza Hill seven years before the events in my next release A Heart to Treasure, and while both of them reminiscence about that day in the book, I thought it might be fun to write about it. Because who doesn't love the moment when the boy meets the girl for the first time? :)

I hope you enjoy this prequel short story!

When Obadiah Meets Eliza

Blean, Kent 1787

I needed to leave.

But there I sat, mired in my seat like someone had dropped sandbags on my shoulders.

Mrs. Potts’s usual morning fare of cold meats, cheese, and bread tempted me to eat a little more. The hours stretched long between breaking our fast at ten in the morning and when we dined at four in the afternoon. These days, I was too old to sneak into the kitchen to beg a slice of honey toast off Mrs. Potts to tide me over. But if I ate more now, I ran the risk of Father lecturing me on gluttony.

Or worse, the seams Mother sewed for my sixteen-year-old body might finally snap under the strain of my broadening seventeen-year-old body.

Of course, standing up ran the same risk. But, if I sat here much longer, Father might notice my empty plate and accuse me of idleness, ensuing another dreaded lecture.

Lectures must be avoided.

He looked directly at me during them instead of past me. Under such caustic scrutiny, I’d never be able to hide how I hunched my shoulders to fit into my frock coat, or the way my silk waistcoat strained until little gaps appeared between the buttons.

I had to stand and soon.

But every time I stood, the stitches stretched to the point I almost prayed they’d hold. Only, it didn’t make sense to ask God to make these clothes last indefinitely when He was the One Who’d added to my stature.

It’s not like I chose to increase. Not that Father would see it that way. He’d blame me for growing, just like he used to blame my mother.

At least he couldn’t belittle her anymore.

Did Mother raise her head in Heaven? Did she look people in the eye and speak to them? Heaven was supposed to wipe away all tears and fears, right?

No, wait. That was Jesus. But if that was true, why hadn’t He wiped away her tears and fears here on earth?

I should know the answer to that. I was destined for the church after all, right from birth. That’s why Father named me Obadiah, God’s servant. At least, that’s the story he told. Sometimes, I think he just wanted to appear more “righteous” and “holy” because he gave his son some obscure Biblical name belonging to a doom and gloom prophet.

And not a prophet to Israel either. Obadiah wrote to the Edomites. Who even cares about the Edomites?

I nudged my napkin until it lay tucked under the edge of my plate. I really couldn’t sit here any longer. He’d reach the end of the newssheets soon, and I’d better be gone before he finished.

I twisted to the side as much as possible, not daring to put my hands on the table because that flexed my ever-increasing shoulders. Using only my legs, I pushed up.

A loud rip blasted through the silence of the break fast parlour. In trying to save my coat, I’d split the side seams of my breeches.

“What have you done?” The acid words flew from behind Father’s paper before he even lowered it. Then the paper came down, and thunderstorms shot from his unforgiving countenance. “Are you deaf, boy? What did you do?”

There was no more hiding. No sense in hoping or praying. No one ever came to my rescue.

I straightened. The stitches in my shoulder seams groaned audibly, but thankfully they held.

I faced Father, head up. I knew the routine. No flinching. No twitching. No slouching. No breaking eye contact, and under no circumstances should one stop listening.

Nor should one rush to speak. In fact, holding one’s peace was highly recommended. But whenever he stopped talking and glared with those cold grey eyes, one had better answer.

I took a deep breath, preparing to speak the truth, but the action sent two of my waistcoat buttons popping off. One landed in Father’s freshly heated tea, splashing the near-boiling beverage onto his hand.

Father exploded from the table, and despite all my inward admonitions, I flinched.

That’s when his words let loose.

I suppose I should have known I couldn’t hide forever. No matter how hard Mother and I tried, he always found something wrong with us. And maybe, he was right to do so.

For I never seemed to get anything right even when I really tried.

~

The scrolling letters on the shop sign spelled out Hill’s Drapery in nearby Canterbury. Mrs. Potts had assured me that Hill's knowledge would satisfy Father's sense of taste, and his prices would appease Father's meagre purse. Added to that, Mother had come here for years.

I hoped Mrs. Potts was right for I knew not what to buy nor how much I was allowed to charge to Father's account. Just that it couldn't be "too much." Whatever that meant.

Taking a shallow breath—lest I bust the buttons on this waistcoat—I pushed open the door.

A scream tore through the air. I froze. Trying to work out what had happened.

“Papa, help me! Papa!” The female voice from somewhere deep within the shop jolted me into action.

I tore through the front of the shop and out the back into a hallway. Where did one go from here? It’s not like the sons of gentry frequented the backs of shops.

“Papa!” The calls led me to a storage room where a girl dangled by her fingertips from a top shelf. A ladder lay on the floor. The petite thing kicked and twisted as she tried to catch hold on another shelf. But her legs were the wrong height to catch either the one below or above.

I lunged forward. “Begging your pardon, miss.” I wrapped my hands around her waist and lifted her down. My frock coat—which had held up through the morning’s events—ripped. Even though she barely weighed a thing.

Of course, it would pick now to rip. With a pretty girl looking at me.

And such an enchanting creature she was with her dark hair slightly messed and pink splashing across her cheeks.

She was older than I'd thought, now that I could see her face properly. Very near my own age I’d dare say. 'Twas her slight frame which had thrown me off at the first for her head barely reached the level of my heart.

“Thank you,” she said so politely.

If I could have pried my tongue loose, I’d have said… something intelligible, I hope. But she’d rendered me mute.

“To whom do I owe my gratitude?” she asked, looking up at me through lowered lashes. So demure and ladylike, despite her near tumble.

“Obadiah Jonathan Howard.” I blinked. Why had I given her my full name? Maybe Father had the right of it. I was a useless simpleton.

“Thank you, Mr. Howard.” She gave me a little curtesy.

“And you are?” I asked.

“Eliza Hill.”

Presumably the proprietor’s daughter then. She was very well mannered for a shopkeeper’s daughter and dressed in white too. Mr. Hill must have good taste. 

We stood there a bit longer in silence. I’d have happily stood all afternoon just staring at her, except she bent, lifted the ladder, laid it against the shelves, and resumed her climb.

She made the second rung before I snapped to attention. “What are you doing?” I laid my hand over hers on the rung to prevent her climbing any higher. What a pity I wore gloves.

“There’s a cat up there.” She pointed with her free hand at a dark corner of the top shelf.

I saw nothing.

Well, I saw nothing of the cat because I didn’t even look for it. Her dark hair was almost black with a lovely sheen.

“There.” She pointed again.

I leaned closer to her, as if I meant to see where she pointed her arm from her perspective. And then I moved closer still because she smelled like some kind of flower. Only, I didn’t know the name of the scent.

“Do you see it.” She jiggled her finger towards the corner. “He’s trembling.”

I still wasn’t looking at the supposed cat. She had such a lovely, delicate profile and my heart had taken up an interesting, erratic beat the closer I got to her.

At last, I wrestled my eyes off her fine features to follow the direction of her finger. There in the shadows, darker than all the rest was… something that resembled a feline. The black blob did tremble, but terror wouldn’t have been the word I’d have used to describe those yellow eyes and accompanying hiss. Unless one meant terror inducing.

“Let me climb up there,” I said, squeezing her hand.

She gave a little start at the pressure of my hand, and her voice came out a touch breathless. “Are you sure?”

My coat had already ripped. And besides, Mother would have been appalled if I hadn’t offered.

A gentleman should always assist a lady, and despite Miss Hill only being a shopkeeper’s daughter, there was something very genteel about her.

And it wasn’t that she wore white, for the gown was a common round gown made of cotton not silk. Nay, it was her whole manner and demeanour which seemed genteel.

“I’m sure,” I said.

She gave a little nod and slipped her hand out from under mine. Part of me wanted to snatch it back, but she’d already moved away.

I made quick work of the ladder, all the while hoping I didn’t lose any more stitches or buttons. At least my shoulders felt much freer. That helped as I fished for the cat. It hissed and scratched, making me glad I wore gloves after all. I got it by the scruff of its neck and dragged it out.

Then nearly dropped it on the way down the ladder for all its feisty complaints. The ungrateful thing tore my coat sleeve to shreds.

I was a rung or two from the bottom when Miss Hill rushed forward and scooped the cat into her arms. He did not appreciate that as much as I would have. But still she soothed and petted him despite the way he attacked her.

“There now. There now, you’re safe. No one will harm you under my watch.” He kept right on howling. “You’ve a bad time of it, haven’t you? I bet everyone is mean to you just because you’re black.” Miss Hill's voice emerged as sweet and smooth as warm honey. “It’s not like you can help what colour God made you.”

The cat growled. I thought only dogs could do that.

“Oh, hush, now. Don’t you fear. I’ll be kind. You’ll see. I’ll take good care of you.”

If she kept talking that way, I’d crawl into her arms, desperate for someone to tell me I didn’t need to be afraid.

Her gentle words and ministrations must have worked on more than just me because the cat quieted and bumped her chin with his head. Just a little rub, a tiny touch against that porcelain-like skin.

An ache swept through me. I wouldn’t mind touching her jaw myself, feeling how soft that skin really was. Letting myself sink into the promises of peace and safety I heard in her voice. Nay, ‘twas more than that.

Just her presence sent a sense of assurance flowing through me. Like I could be more than what my father said I was. More than I thought I was. Like—

The sound of a door opening jolted all of us, but most of all the cat. He tore out of Miss Hill’s arms, scratching her delicate cheek in the process. Then he sprinted out of the room and disappeared into the hallway the opposite direction I'd come in.

“Oh.” Miss Hill held up her hand to touch the blood on her cheek.

I whipped out my pocket handkerchief and held it out to her.

A startled exclamation came from the hallway, and a man came to the door a moment later. “Lizzy, love, what—” The man caught sight of us, and his eyes narrowed. He barely held on to his civility as he said through gritted teeth, “I do beg your pardon. I’m Hill. May I be of assistance?”

It must have looked very bad.

A gentleman in the back of the shop with his daughter. My clothes in ill repair and his daughter slightly dishevelled and holding her cheek. I opened my mouth but wasn’t sure how to defend myself.

“He rescued me, Papa.” Thankfully, Miss Hill didn’t seem to suffer the same affliction. She took my pocket handkerchief with a very pretty thank you for me before explaining the whole story to her father, including how the cat had ruined my coat.

Mr. Hill’s suspicious glares faded away. “Thank you. For saving my daughter.”

“Think nothing of it. It was my pleasure.” And it really had been my pleasure. I couldn’t quite stop thinking of it myself. Her gentle grace and the way she made me feel almost ten feet tall for grabbing a mean cat which would have found his own way out of the shop eventually.

Miss Hill began once again to impress on her father my supposed great service.

How tiny she was, and ladylike, and kind. I found myself drifting into a gentle whirlpool listening to her. And I didn’t much mind if it proved bottomless.

“Come,” Mr. Hill said, pulling my attention off his daughter. He beckoned me to follow him to the front. “I’ll pick out my finest broadcloth for a replacement coat.”

Here we entered a delicate area. I couldn’t afford his finest. “That is unnecessary, sir. An ordinary one will do.” The cheaper the better.

He turned to look at me, and I tried not to flinch under his probing gaze because it wasn’t the same as Father’s. I knew how to stand strong under icy glares, but Mr. Hill had something in his eyes I’d rarely seen. If I hadn’t been a complete stranger to him, I might have been tempted to call it caring.

But precious few had ever looked at me like that, and I must be mistaken now. For why should he care about me?

“We must pay for his new coat, Papa. He was helping me when it tore.” Miss Hill’s voice came from behind me, and I squashed the urge to angle the rip near my shoulder away from her. She had to have already seen it from her position.

Mr. Hill still regarded me closely in that thoughtful way. He must have seen how my clothes were too small. That they would have torn even if I hadn’t been rendering his daughter assistance.

“We’ll replace your coat without charge.” He turned to the front again.

“That’s not necessary. I didn’t do it for reimbursement.”

Mr. Hill’s eyes came back to settle on mine. “I know.”

He did?

What exactly did he know? Because the look he gave me said there was more to those words than met the eye—er, ear.

“It’s Mr. Howard, yes?” Mr. Hill said.

“Yes, sir.” Wait, Miss Hill hadn’t mentioned my name. “Do I know you, sir?”

“I knew your mother, may she rest in peace. You have my condolences on such a great loss.”

His sincere words tore through my chest, and I had to press my tongue to the roof of my mouth to hold back the emotions building in me.

“Thank you,” I eked out.

No one besides our two servants had looked at me in that way, as if he truly knew how hard it had been to lose the one parent who loved me, even if she hadn’t offered me comfort or protection. Just Mother's presence had given me courage. To know I didn’t stand alone.

But not even Father’s parishioners knew that.

They thought the Vicar of Blean was all a gentleman ought to be. He never let them see what went on within the walls of our vicarage. Belittling me in front of witnesses would only demean himself. He didn’t want the rest of the world to know what a worthless son he had.

Of course, they had to know. It’s not like I could hide my numerous faults or my too broad shoulders which bulged with more muscle than was seemly on a gentleman.

“Eliza,” Mr. Hill looked past me to his daughter. “Will you see to the supplies in the cart out back?”

A flash of something which looked like disappointment crossed Miss Hill’s face.

If I had as much money as the proprietor likely assumed a gentleman had, I’d have liked her to stay. To pick out the colours she thought suited me, hopefully a nice sapphire coloured silk for a new waistcoat, a shade to match her eyes.

But she obediently left with a soft, demure smile over her shoulder at me.

My chest swelled, even though that was rather dangerous right this minute to my buttons and I had nothing about which to be proud. I might be a gentleman, but I wasn’t much of one.

The moment she disappeared my shoulders dropped. Now I had to explain my situation to Miss Hill’s father.

“Mr. Howard, I presume you’ll wish to continue with your mother’s arrangements for your clothing?”

My breath came out in a great whoosh. Maybe I wouldn’t need to explain anything after all. “If you please, sir.”

“Good. Good. Then we’ll have you fixed up in a jiffy.”

~

Mr. Hill had seen to everything, even arranging and bargaining with a tailor for his services. I walked home in amazement. Even though I still didn’t know how much I should have spent or not spent, I felt confident in Mr. Hill’s abilities.

But it wasn’t the father I thought about all the way home. And I only spent half the trip on his daughter. The rest I devoted to inventing reasons to go back to Canterbury to see her again.

I detoured to the vicarage’s kitchen, as I always did when I came home.

Mrs. Potts, our housekeeper and only female servant, turned from her place at the stove, slaving over our dinner. “You’re smiling.”

It took a moment before I realized she was right. My cheeks spread so wide they hurt.

She blinked at me. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you enter this house with a smile on your face.”

Because I hadn’t. Every step closer to home, my muscles would tighten. The shadows grew darker even at midday. I had never forgotten what miseries lay within these walls.

Until today.

Today I met a girl who could see past pain and fear. Who cared for a mangy cat when no one else would. Such a girl might be able to see past my faults.

Father’s words had always made it seem like I’d never be enough. Happiness was a hopeless dream, but if she could love that cat, then maybe she could love someone like me.

A thrill raced through me, and I felt myself stand just a little taller as something in my battered heart mended itself.

“What happened, Master Howard? Did you get to Hill’s drapery?” Mrs. Pott's asked.

“I met Miss Hill.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Potts pulled back a step.

“She’s wonderful.” In my head, I started to spin ideas for how I might win the heart of such a treasure.

“Now, you be seeing here, Master Howard,” Mrs. Pott said with a fierce frown. “I didn’t send you all that way for you to break that girl’s heart. She’s a good girl, and I’ll not stand for you trifling with her.”

“Trifle?” Just the thought sent a blast of heat through my blood. “Mrs. Potts, I intend to wed her.”

Stay tuned for the continuation of Obadiah and Eliza's story releasing in October 2025!

Order A Heart to Treasure here