A Place For Miss Snow Read online

  Cover images: Woman © Lee Avison / Trevillion Images; Vathia, Mani, Greece © ilbusca, courtesy istockphoto.com

  Cover design copyright © 2016 by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  American Fork, Utah

  Copyright © 2016 by Jennifer Moore

  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., P.O. 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.

  ISBN: 978-1-52440-097-2

  For Dave-bey, my brother and friend.

  There is no chicken.

  Acknowledgments

  I cannot say thank you enough to those who helped bring about this book. First, and most of all, I have to thank my brother, Dave Lunt. This book was his idea. He told me stories about the Maniots and the klephts and the Filiki Eteria, brought me books, and even met me in Greece, where he had an entire trip planned out where we could see Areopolis and Limeni and the Taygetos mountains firsthand. Not everyone gets to have a professor of ancient history for a brother, and I thank my lucky stars that I’m one of the lucky ones. Thanks to Dave and his wife, Jana, for planning the adventure, and to my sisters, Allison Harris and Amanda Lunt, who came along for the ride. You all made it one of the best experiences of my life.

  Thank you to Themis Sokratous, our waiter in Limeni Village, who made us laugh and told me all the insider tips about the Mani.

  Thank you, Father Matthew and Bill Rekouniotis, for taking the time to show me the cathedral in Salt Lake City, for giving me a personal tour of the Greek History museum, and for answering so many questions. I cannot imagine a more touching way to spend a Sunday morning than attending the Holy Liturgy. Thank you for explaining the beauty of your church and for your kindness and patience with all my questions.

  As I have been working and researching, so many lovely Greek people have come into my life, willing to share family stories, traditions, and recipes. Thank you to Jodie Sanders and her father, Nolan Karras, for telling me about their grandpa, Ionnis Karakalios, and letting me use his name in the book.

  Thanks, Helen Mellos, for your family recipes.

  Thank you, Tiffany Schwebach, RN, for answering baby-delivery questions.

  Thanks, Fred Luedtke, DDS, and Renn Veater, DDS, for teaching me about teeth problems, old-fashioned dentistry, and the healing properties of myrrh.

  Thank you, Jen Geigle and Dave Lunt, for reading through my rough draft and helping me tighten up the story and get the Greek words right.

  As always, thank you so much, Covenant, for your work: publishing, editing, marketing, cover design, and everything that goes into making my story into a beautiful book. Stacey Turner, I am so grateful that you’re my editor and that you are patient with deadlines and know how to talk me down when I get crazy and stressed.

  Thank you to my wonderful husband, Frank, and my awesome sons for all your support while I work so hard to follow my dream. I know it’s a sacrifice for all of you.

  And last of all, thank you to my Heavenly Father for putting such wonderful people in my life and giving me the chance to be a writer. Every day I’m grateful for it and the blessings, people, and experiences that enrich my life through it.

  Chapter 1

  Alexandros Metaxas glanced over his shoulder and cursed under his breath when he saw two British soldiers following him. The large parcel he carried must have aroused their curiosity. He maintained a casual gait despite the tightness in his shoulders and the burden weighing him down. He did not wish to attract further attention by quickening his pace along the dock. Those who had sent him warned that the mission would be dangerous, but he hadn’t expected trouble the moment he stepped off the ship. His eyes darted around the island harbor, looking for a place to shake off his pursuers, but he saw only fishermen unloading nets full of the day’s catch on the rocky beach. Turning his path toward the noisy center of town, he lengthened his steps and hoped to find concealment in a crowd.

  As he approached the Corfu City marketplace, his gaze traveled over his surroundings. Pastel-colored Venetian-style buildings with slate roofs were interspersed with open squares and church steeples. Red geraniums flowed from window boxes, and ornate iron railings decorated upper-level balconies. The sight was very similar to his home of Nafplio, even down to the Byzantine citadel atop a hill high above the city, and he was not prepared for the wave of nostalgia that clogged his throat.

  He gave himself a hard jolt. This was no time to be sentimental. His training took over, and he paused, pretending to admire figs at a fruit stand and glancing back the way he’d come. The red-coated soldiers were still following about fifty meters behind. If they judged by his clothing and the origin of his ship, they probably assumed he was a Turk—which was reason enough for suspicion. He could easily convince them otherwise, but if they stopped him, they’d undoubtedly search his bundle. And if they did so, his mission—along with years of planning, months of preparation, and most likely his very life—would end in a matter of seconds.

  Shifting the bulky weight on his shoulders, he ducked behind a group of scarf-wearing old women, switched direction to follow a heavily laden donkey cart past an inn’s outdoor taverna, and turned immediately down a small alleyway. Dashing around the next corner, he spotted a plain door at the rear of the building. A delivery entrance for the inn—precisely what he was looking for. He hurried inside, closing the wooden door behind.

  Alex stood in a dimly lit passage and waited for his heart to calm. Along the walls, boxes and crates were stacked in orderly piles. Ahead, he could hear the sound of voices and the clanking of dishes. He took a few steps and opened the first door he came to, just enough to peek through the crack and see that the room was deserted. He slipped inside, thanking St. Christopher, the patron of travelers, that nobody had stopped him.

  The small chamber was filled with old barrels, broken furniture, and odds and ends. There were no windows, so with the door closed it was nearly impossible to see. But after a moment, his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and the light filtering through the boards of the ceiling helped him to distinguish the shapes around him.

  He pulled a bundle of clothing from his pack, took off his embroidered vest and loose breeches, and stuck his legs into fitted trousers that he hoped covered his scuffed boots. He tucked in his cotton shirt, slipped on a waistcoat, a cravat, and a jacket. The heavy woolen clothing immediately made him sweat, and he thought, not for the first time, how strange it was that urban Europeans copied the British style of dress—especially in the humidity of the Mediterranean. After dressing as a peasant for the past week to blend in with the other travelers on the ship, the woolen clothing felt restrictive and thick. As he slipped off the worn cap and tied his hair back with a leather cord, he worried about his lack of a top hat. With the limited amount of space in his belongings, he’d left behind his fine boots and hat, hoping if he carried himself with confidence, nobody would question his poor fashion. After all, he was on a Greek island not in a London ballroom.

  His disguise complete, he concealed his clothing with the remainder of the parcel behind a dusty shelf where it would be unnoticed until his return. He paused only a moment as he exited the room. If the parcel was found, the entire mission would be terminated. But being discovered with it would produce the sa
me result. He stepped into the hall, then strode straight through the kitchen and up the stairs. A few servants looked at him with a confused expression, but none inquired as to what he might be doing in their domain. He knew they would not have hesitated to throw him out if he wore peasant garb, but the people of the Ionian Islands still did not know what to make of their new British rulers. And Alex used their uncertainty to his advantage.

  He walked through the dining area and crossed the open patio. When he was about to step onto the street, the sight of the two soldiers made him pause. The men were heading directly toward him. Alex did not have time to consider whether they had gotten a good look at his face earlier or if his costume had changed his appearance enough that they would not recognize him. He veered back among the diners.

  Taking a quick appraisal of the patrons, he saw two young ladies at a table with an empty chair. He assessed them in a glance as he made his way toward the table. Sisters, he thought, one not yet twenty, and the other perhaps a few years older. They seemed the best choice among the diners, harmless and pleasant. Alex said a quick prayer that the young women would not be distressed to be joined by a stranger. If his luck held, his charm would win them over instead of arousing their suspicion.

  He approached and saw the elder sister was listening to the younger. Her eyes were kind, but her mouth turned in a smile that seemed a bit forced. A patient listener, he thought. He overheard a snatch of their conversation as he drew near.

  “And did I tell you, Lieutenant Ashworth is paying me a visit tomorrow morning?” The younger sister clasped her hands together. “He sailed with Captains Drake and Fletcher on the HMS Venture, you know, and he was with Brigadier-General John Oswald, as the army invaded Cephalonia and forced the French garrison to surrender within a matter of hours.”

  “I believe you did tell me, Molly,” the elder sister said. Only the slightest tick of her mouth told Alex she’d likely heard these facts numerous times. “Lieutenant Ashworth is quite a hero.”

  “You are too right. And he did dance with me at—”

  Alex glanced once more at the soldiers and slid into the empty seat, stopping the young lady’s words. “Good afternoon.”

  Both women turned toward him with wide eyes.

  The younger sister, Molly, drew in a fast breath. She sat up straight in her seat, smiling.

  The elder seemed to recover from her surprise quicker. She cleared her throat. “Sir, you have made a mistake.”

  Alex furrowed his brows. “A mistake?”

  She did not appear to be amused by his feigned innocence. Squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, she narrowed her eyes. “This is not your seat. Kindly remove yourself.”

  Molly looked back and forth between the two, biting her lip. Her nervous expression told Alex that she would not make trouble. The elder sister was the one he needed to win over. And the task wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d hoped. He studied the woman. Chestnut brown hair pulled back and pinned in a simple twist at the base of her neck. Her skin was fair, a sight he was not used to in the Mediterranean. In spite of the hot sun, she did not have a single freckle. She had likely never ventured out of doors without a parasol or bonnet. Based on her rigid posture and the way no lock of hair escaped its pins, he had the thought that a freckle would not be bold enough to blemish her face. Her lips were pink, pursed at the moment, but full and nicely shaped. Her eyes shone with intelligence. She sat perfectly straight in her seat with raised brows, looking down her nose at him as though he were a naughty school boy.

  The naughty school boy inside him would have loved to tease a reaction from her. Had they both been fifteen years younger, he would have pulled her braids or untied her shoes. But his current task unfortunately did not make allowance for goading the overly proper woman. For a fleeting moment, he wondered whether she was prone to anger or laughter when caught off guard. The former seemed the more likely, and Alex wondered exactly what it would require to make her smile. He stopped himself before his mind wandered too far from his mission. He realized he’d been staring too long.

  “I beg your pardon. I simply meant to make your acquaintance.” From the corner of his eye, he saw the soldiers speaking to a man he thought might be the inn’s manager.

  “A gentleman should know, it is an extreme breach of etiquette to speak to a lady before he is introduced.”

  Alex expected her to wag a finger at him in disapproval. “Then if you will allow me to introduce myself—”

  She cut him off. “A gentleman does not introduce himself. He waits until the lady expresses an interest and approves the acquaintance.” She folded her napkin and set it beside her plate. “Now if you do not vacate the seat, sir, I shall report your conduct to those British officers.” She lifted her chin in the direction of the soldiers.

  Molly’s gaze still moved between them. She looked as though it took all of her effort not to interrupt.

  Alex shrugged a shoulder and pulled off his gloves, finger by finger, without showing the slightest bit of trepidation at her threat. “By all means, miss. I believe that is the precise reason the army is stationed in Corfu, to enforce proper British etiquette on those not suitably familiar with the customs. They are probably patrolling this very moment for ladies who sip their tea too loudly or gentlemen with untrimmed fingernails.” He set his gloves on the table and turned to the younger girl. “Now, miss, did I hear your name is Molly?”

  Molly’s sister’s mouth opened and closed. “This is highly improper,” she muttered, running her finger over the fold in the napkin.

  Molly hurried ahead and answered, the curls on her forehead and around the sides of her face bouncing as she nodded. “Yes, Molly Campbell. My father is Sir James Campbell, inspector-general in Zakynthos. We arrived in Corfu last week from London to meet him for an extended stay.

  The elder sister let out a huff and with the tips of her fingers, lining up the ends of her silverware, exactly spacing apart each utensil.

  Alex held back a smile. If nothing else, he had managed to silence her protests, and her prim mannerisms amused him. “A pleasure, Miss Campbell, and this lovely lady, who may or may not wish for my acquaintance, she is your sister?”

  Molly looked at the other woman and put her fingers in front of her mouth to hold back a giggle. “Oh no, Miss Snow is my chaperone.”

  Miss Snow lifted her face toward him. She gazed at him steadily, but he noticed her cheeks had colored the smallest bit. Though she held her emotions tightly, he could see that the label embarrassed her.

  Alex did not fully understand the British customs, but he knew some British ladies were eligible for a man’s attention while others weren’t. He’d thought the distinction had to do with age and had been under the impression that chaperones were much older women who were widowed or had given up hope of marriage all together. But Miss Snow couldn’t be older than twenty-three.

  He shrugged again, pretending to look as if he was not completely confused by the strange rules, and employed his most teasing tone. “Well then, Miss Campbell, if Miss Snow does not wish for my acquaintance, we will simply have to converse among ourselves, won’t we? And without a chaperone to keep us in line, who can tell what sorts of mischief we might get into?”

  Molly pressed her fingers to her lips, giggling again. Her blonde ringlets, small pink lips, and bright blue eyes were the very picture of British beauty. Although she did not look like the most intellectual person he had ever met, she was cheerful and her manner set him at ease. She shook her head. “Oh, you are a tease, sir.” Turning to her companion, she tipped her head and opened her eyes wide. “Miss Snow, you will allow me to introduce our new friend, won’t you?”

  Miss Snow moved her saucer a few inches to the side and turned the cup so the handle was in line with her napkin. “Very well.” She lifted her gaze, and Alex was struck again by her eye color. A dark blue line around the iris surrounded a lighter color that he could not name as either blue or green. Gray, he decided, like the
goddess Athena’s. A fortunate omen for his mission.

  “Diana Snow, I am pleased to introduce—” Molly lifted her hand toward him. “I’m sorry, sir, you never did tell me your name.”

  “Alexandros Metaxas.” He closed his eyes and bent his head forward in a small bow.

  “A pleasure, sir.” Miss Snow’s brow furrowed. “Metáxi?” She pronounced each syllable. “Silk?”

  Alex pulled back his chin in surprise but wished he hadn’t when the stiff collar and tight cravat practically choked him. “Yes, my family is descended from silk merchants. Miláte Elliniká? You speak Greek?”

  “Ochi, no. But I am learning. Modern Greek is much more difficult than the ancient language I learned in school.”

  “Extraordinary. I have never met an Englishwoman who studied my language.”

  “Perhaps you should improve your circles of acquaintance. I know of quite a few very well-read women. Many of whom speak multiple languages.”

  Alex again felt a ripple of amusement. Where Molly’s laughter and joyful manner had made him like her immediately, Diana Snow was an enigma, a puzzle he wanted to solve. “And, if I might ask, is there a particular reason you chose to study modern Greek?”

  “Obviously because I was traveling to Greece.” She blinked and looked at him through partly lidded eyes as if his question was absurd, but she did not fully pull off the expression. He could tell by the way she could not hold his gaze and the spots of pink in her cheeks that she was secretly pleased at his notice. He did not think Diana received much attention with Molly and her contagious joy taking center stage. Did she wish for attention? He again felt a pull to know more about Miss Snow.

  Molly shifted in her seat, recapturing his attention. “And what about yourself, sir? You speak English very well. Where did you learn?” She must worry that he would be put off by Diana’s manner and thus sought to change the subject.