The Orchard House Read online

  Praise for novels by Heidi Chiavaroli

  The Orchard House

  “As a longtime fan of Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women, I was eager to read The Orchard House by Heidi Chiavaroli, anticipating a glimpse into the life of the author who penned the classic. I got that and so much more. . . . Orchard House invited me in, served me tea, and held me enthralled with its compelling tale.”

  Lori Benton, Christy Award–winning author of Burning Sky, The King’s Mercy, and Mountain Laurel

  “The Orchard House is a captivating story of sisters, difficult relationships, and the mending of broken hearts. . . . Heidi Chiavaroli has written Orchard House with depth and soul.”

  Elizabeth Byler Younts, Carol Award–winning author of The Solace of Water

  “With insight into the complexities of female friendship and sisterhood, Heidi Chiavaroli spins a dual tale that is at once rooted in history and solidly contemporary. The Orchard House is sure to please historical fiction fans, readers of Louisa May Alcott, and anyone who has ever had a friend who felt as close as a sister.”

  Erin Bartels, award-winning author of We Hope for Better Things and The Words between Us

  “A line from Orchard House captures the very essence of this time-slip novel. Chiavaroli did an exceptional job ‘giving awareness through the power of this story,’ merging the poignant topic of domestic abuse between historical and contemporary. This is a story I had a hard time walking away from, even after reaching the epilogue.”

  T. I. Lowe, bestselling author of the Carolina Coast series

  “I knew from the very first page that this was going to be a special book. Lyric, evocative, and honest, The Orchard House is a book meant to be savored.”

  Susie Finkbeiner, author of Stories That Bind Us and All Manner of Things

  “Alcott fans, take joy! Heidi Chiavaroli has brought Louisa’s world of Concord to life through captivating characterization in her modern story line, and in her historical timeline through exquisite detail both carefully researched and respectfully imagined. The Orchard House is a home for the literary soul.”

  Amanda Dykes, author of Set the Stars Alight and Whose Waves These Are

  The Tea Chest

  “Captivating from the first page. . . . Steeped in timeless truths and served with skill, The Tea Chest is sure to be savored by all who read it.”

  Jocelyn Green, Christy Award–winning author of Between Two Shores

  “The Tea Chest brings two women, separated by centuries, face-to-face with the same question: What is the price of liberty? A master at writing dual timelines, Chiavaroli takes us beyond the historical connection between these two women and wraps them together with a shared spirit.”

  Allison Pittman, critically acclaimed author of The Seamstress

  “Swoon-worthy romance, heartbreak, and intrigue combine for a thrilling story that will keep me thinking for a long time to come. Bravo!”

  Amy K. Sorrells, award-winning author of Before I Saw You

  “The Tea Chest is timeless and empowering. Long may Heidi Chiavaroli reign over thoughtful, effortlessly paralleled fiction that digs deep into the heart of America’s early liberty and the resonance of faith and conviction she offers as its poignant legacy.”

  Rachel McMillan, author of Murder in the City of Liberty

  “The Tea Chest is not only a story of America’s birth as a nation, but also one that reflects the clamoring in humanity’s heart to soar unfettered by the weight of chains that bind.”

  Jaime Jo Wright, Christy Award–winning author of The House on Foster Hill and The Curse of Misty Wayfair

  “The Tea Chest is an enthralling story of beauty birthed from sorrow, hope amid ashes, and healing through pain.”

  Tara Johnson, author of Where Dandelions Bloom and Engraved on the Heart

  The Hidden Side

  “The Hidden Side is a beautiful tale that captures the timeless struggles of the human heart.”

  Julie Cantrell, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of Perennials

  “Heidi Chiavaroli has written another poignant novel that slips between a heart-wrenching present-day story and a tragic one set during the Revolutionary War. I couldn’t put this book down!”

  Melanie Dobson, award-winning author of Catching the Wind and Memories of Glass

  “This page-turner will appeal to readers looking for fiction that explores Christian values and belief under tragic circumstances.”

  Booklist

  “Filled with fascinating historical details, Chiavaroli connects two women through an artifact of the past. This heartrending tale will engage aficionados of the American Revolution and historical fiction.”

  Library Journal

  “Both halves of The Hidden Side are singularly compelling, with more of a fine threading between stories than an obvious connection. There is also the shared message that even during times of spiritual darkness, with prayer and hope, forgiveness and new beginnings are always possible.”

  Foreword magazine

  “Chiavaroli’s latest time-slip novel does not disappoint. Both story lines are fully developed with strong character development and they are seamlessly woven together.”

  Romantic Times, Top Pick

  Freedom’s Ring

  “From the Boston Massacre and the American Revolution to the Boston Marathon bombing, history proves the triumph of grace. . . . Evocative, rich with symbolism, honest in its portrayal of human errors, Freedom’s Ring explores what happens when individuals reach the limit of their own ability and allow God to step in.”

  Foreword magazine

  “First novelist Chiavaroli’s historical tapestry will provide a satisfying read for fans of Kristy Cambron and Lisa Wingate.”

  Library Journal

  “Joy, anguish, fear, and romance are seamlessly incorporated with authentic history, skillfully imagined fiction, and the beautiful reminder that good can—and does—come out of darkness.”

  Romantic Times

  Visit Tyndale online at tyndale.com.

  Visit Heidi Chiavaroli’s website at heidichiavaroli.com.

  TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Ministries.

  The Orchard House

  Copyright © 2020 by Heidi Chiavaroli. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of woman in blue dress copyright © Serg Zastavkin/Shutterstock. All rights reserved.

  Cover illustration of tree branch copyright © Juliana Brykova/Shutterstock. All rights reserved.

  Cover illustration of tree and house by Jacqueline L. Nuñez. Copyright © Tyndale House Ministries. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Jacqueline L. Nuñez

  Edited by Caleb Sjogren

  Published in association with the literary agency of Natasha Kern Literary Agency, Inc., P.O. Box 1069, White Salmon, WA 98672.

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.

  The Orchard House is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Tyndale House Publishers at [email protected] or call 1-855-277-9400.

  ISBN 978-1-4964-3472-2 (HC)

  ISBN 978-1-4964-3473-9 (SC)

  Build: 2020-12-31 15:41:54 EPUB 3.0

  To Mom.

  Thank you for not only giving me your beautiful poems for this story, but for always believing in this dream for me.

  I love you.

  Acknowledgments

  AS I SIT DOWN to write this thank-you note to the many beautiful people who have had a hand in t
his novel, I am once again overwhelmed by the collaboration of such an amazing team.

  First, a huge thank-you to my mother, Donna Anuszczyk, for coming to my rescue with the beautiful poems contained within this story. I was an author (one who does not consider herself a poet) with a deadline and in need of poems. More than willing, you graciously gave me your best and amazingly enough, several of them fit my story line perfectly. Thank you, Mom!

  Thank you to another one of my big champions, my agent, Natasha Kern. Your belief in my stories means so much to me. Thank you for your faith when things might look a bit bumpy. I learn something from you each time we talk, and I’m so very grateful for your support.

  To the beautiful team at Tyndale—my amazingly talented and gracious editors, Jan Stob and Caleb Sjogren, and also to Karen Watson, Elizabeth Jackson, Andrea Garcia, Mariah León, and Jackie Nuñez. I can’t imagine a better publishing family to be part of. Thank you for making this writing dream possible.

  Thank you to my critique partner, Sandra Ardoin, for keeping me sane. Also to my sweet writing friends who I know I can reach out to whenever this journey feels like a lonely one—Melissa Jagears, Melanie Dobson, Tessa Afshar, and Amy Sorrells.

  Thank you to the staff at Orchard House for such an amazing tour and for answering my questions. You made Little Women and Louisa May Alcott come alive in an entirely captivating way. I don’t think I could ever get enough!

  To the many readers, bloggers, and reviewers who are enthusiastic about my books and have taken the time to write a review or give a shout-out, you all rock. Thank you!

  Thank you to the three most important men in my life—my husband, Daniel, and my sons, James and Noah—you put up with crazy deadlines, skimpy dinners, and weepy moments. Thank you for always loving me and for giving me the inspiration and support to do this thing I love.

  Lastly, thank you to the greatest Author of all, the Author of life and hope. Do with these words what You will.

  Dear Father, help me with the love

  That casteth out my fear,

  Teach me to lean on thee, and feel

  That thou art very near,

  That no temptation is unseen,

  No childish grief too small,

  Since thou, with patience infinite,

  Doth soothe and comfort all.

  LOUISA MAY ALCOTT, AGE 12

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Preview of The Tea Chest

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  I used to imagine my mind a room in confusion, and I was to put it in order.

  ~ LMA

  Taylor

  CONCORD, MASSACHUSETTS

  JULY 1995

  Thirteen isn’t quite grown-up, but it’s old enough for a girl to realize that hope can be a dangerous thing.

  The first time I realized this I was no more than four. My mother had dropped me off with Uncle Rob. This wasn’t unusual, but this time, she was gone more than two sleeps. Longer than she had ever been gone.

  When I asked my uncle when she’d be back, he only shrugged and said, “You better hope soon, kid.”

  Hope.

  I did that a lot back then. Each morning when I woke, throwing my threadbare blanket off my shoulders and rolling off the couch to search the small rooms of Uncle Rob’s apartment, but finding the woman in his bed was not my mom. Each night, when I fell asleep, thinking if I only hoped hard enough, and maybe held my breath real tight while I did it, my mother would appear by morning.

  But time and time again, hope failed. And still, it seemed, I didn’t learn. Not after I found my mom’s obituary on Uncle Rob’s fold-up kitchen table, where I’d left my precious copy of Little Women when I was eight, not after the police came and hauled him off to jail when I was eleven, and not when I found myself in the vicious grip of the foster care system a short time later.

  And then, a year ago, the Bennetts took me in. And I found hope again. Only this time it was a fragile, frayed thing—a lot like the toothbrush I had growing up that Uncle Rob never remembered to replace.

  Victoria Bennett had been my best friend since we were seven years old, and now she was my sister. Her parents gave me new toothbrushes and Nike sneakers and love as much as they were able. They gave me a chance to go to Jo March Writing Camp at Orchard House, a place Victoria and I had become obsessed with. All those years of immersing myself in the world of Jo March, imagining what it would be like to have a family, to have even just one sister . . . to belong.

  And now I was here, in the very room where Louisa May Alcott had written her best-loved classic. In the very house where she had set the adventures of her “little women.” Dipping my toe in those dangerous waters of hope once again.

  I closed my eyes and soaked in the near magic of Louisa’s bedroom. Beneath my bent knee and through the thin nylon of my string bag I felt the hard edges of my nine-year-old copy of Little Women. In some ways, I regretted bringing it today. Mom had sent it to me that first Christmas after she had left. There’d been no note within, just a thick manila envelope with my name on it, the book naked of any red-and-green holiday wrappings.

  The present wasn’t really suitable for a girl who hadn’t even entered kindergarten. Yet while I knew deep down she had probably grabbed it up as a last-minute thought at some secondhand store, I couldn’t help but imagine and hope that she had spent hours pondering the perfect Christmas present for me, that she had wanted me to have this gift and this message—the story of a family that fiercely loved and went through hard times together—even when she couldn’t bring about that reality in my own life.

  I cherished it more than I ought. Still did. And I couldn’t resist bringing it along today. Hoping that the old would somehow make way for the new. That maybe, just maybe, the wounds of my past would be covered over with perfection.

  Victoria and I had looked forward to this for months, and I couldn’t wait for this moment—the moment when I was certain some grand story would strike my consciousness, when time might cease to exist and the brilliance that had inspired Miss Alcott would descend upon me in a magnificent cloud of glory.

  I looked down at what I’d written, more journal entry than inspired glory.

  There’s something funny about being the one on the outside looking in.

  Not funny ha-ha, and not funny strange, because strange means out of the ordinary, and for me, not belonging is more normal than out of the ordinary. So what kind of funny am I talking about?

  Funny lonely.

  Funny I’ve-gotten-good-at-hiding-my-tears.

  Funny I-wonder-if-it-will-always-be-this-way.

  I hastily flipped to a fresh page, feeling the press of time squeezing tight. I poised my pen over the paper, but nothing came. I peered out the window beside Louisa’s half-moon desk, wondered
if she’d glimpsed the same elm more than a hundred years earlier.

  I sighed and pressed the pen on the page until a small dot of black ink expanded beneath it. A dot, but no words.

  A warm hand fell on my shoulder and the scent of mothballs enveloped me as our instructor, Mrs. Hayes, leaned over my shoulder.

  “There’s no wrong answer in writing, dear. It seems the spirit of the muse was upon you a page back. Perhaps entertain it. You never know where it might lead.”

  I gave her a small smile but hoped she wouldn’t linger. I had only another ten minutes to start my literary masterpiece.

  She left, but instead of concentrating on the birth of words, I looked across the room at my best friend, perched in front of the fireplace. Victoria scribbled furiously in her notebook, not seeming to come up for a moment of air. Story ideas seemed as plentiful to her as daffodils in spring, and although most of them involved Zack Morris or a New Kids on the Block love triangle, at least she had ideas—and guts enough to write about them.

  I swallowed down my jealousy and forced my pen to move across the paper, scratching out a sentence that described a beautiful old English house. When Mrs. Hayes told us our writing time was nearing an end, I looked down at the flowery words I’d painted—beautiful, but without character or conflict within sight.

  When it was time to file out of the room, I took the last place in line and discreetly ran my hand over Louisa’s painted desk. For a fleeting second, the whisper of something extraordinary floated up to me . . . something that felt like possibility and hope and excitement. But before I could grasp it and claim it as my own, it vanished.

  I pressed my hand harder into the white paint, searching, willing some trace of talent to seep into my being. If I concentrated hard enough, perhaps I would become someone special, perhaps a gift would be given to me, perhaps I would be able to support myself so that I would never again have to depend on the state or the foster care system, or even the Bennetts, to do so. If I could just find this secret something, I knew I would find where I truly belonged.