Beneath the Apple Leaves
Praise for Harmony Verna’s
DAUGHTER OF AUSTRALIA
“Verna’s elegant and concise writing evokes a clear sense of the expanse and cruelty of the bush country and the toll it extracted from its people while examining themes of abandonment and human connection, the ebb and flow of life’s fortunes, and, ultimately, how our choices create our personal sense of identity. A beautiful, heart-wrenching story set at the turn of the twentieth century, Daughter of Australia is a compelling read!”
—Ellen Marie Wiseman, author of What She Left Behind and The Life She Was Given
“A captivating story of love and the search for identity. A mesmerizing debut novel.”
—Kristina McMorris, New York Times best-selling author of The Edge of Lost
“A dazzling debut. Her story pulses with a cast of intriguing characters.”
—Duncan Alderson, author of Magnolia City
“What distinguishes this powerful story of a love forged in a lonely and difficult childhood is the keen and vivid depiction of a harshly beautiful land and the people who choose or who are forced to inhabit it. This is a novel readers won’t soon forget.”
—Holly Chamberlin, author of Home for the Summer
Books by Harmony Verna
DAUGHTER OF AUSTRALIA
BENEATH THE APPLE LEAVES
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
BENEATH the APPLE LEAVES
HARMONY VERNA
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Praise for Harmony Verna’s - DAUGHTER OF AUSTRALIA
Books by Harmony Verna
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PART I
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
PART 2
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
PART 3
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
PART 4
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
PART 5
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
BENEATH THE APPLE LEAVES
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2017 by Harmony Verna
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
eISBN-13: 978-1-61773-944-6
eISBN-10: 1-61773-944-8
First Kensington Electronic Edition: July 2017
ISBN: 978-1-6177-3943-9
First Kensington Trade Paperback Printing: July 2017
For Eleanor,
whose love of the land pulses in my blood
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Words can hardly express my deepest appreciation for the family, friends and readers who have supported and guided me during the writing of this novel. Every smile, every word of encouragement and every hug has given me the fortitude to chase this dream.
The seeds of this book came from my mother, Marilyn, who shared the stories—the sorrows and the joys—of growing up on a farm in rural Pennsylvania. A life sustained on the whims of the land is a hard one, and I am humbled and proud of the strength and sacrifice of my German ancestors. Together, they sowed a legacy of hard work and a deep respect for the land—one in which I hope to carry and pass on to my own children.
To the wholesome and beautiful people of my home city, Pittsburgh, I thank you for your unique character and rich heritage and humor. And for those brave men and women who served on the battlefield and on the home front, you will forever hold my highest esteem.
To my precious agent, Marie Lamba, of the Jennifer De Chiara Literary Agency, you are simply the best—my fearless cheerleader to the end. And once again, sincere gratitude to my brilliant editor, John Scognamiglio, and the entire Kensington team for helping me bring this story to life.
Most of all, I want to thank my husband, Jay, and my three boys, who have supported me through deadlines and cold dinners, sleepy days and sleepless nights, all the while making me feel deeply loved and appreciated every step of the way.
* * *
Historical Note: Despite Pittsburgh’s spelling with an h after 1911, several sources, including the Pittsburg Press, did not incorporate the h until after 1917. In order to maintain historical accuracy, I have kept the original spelling of Pittsburg Press throughout the novel.
PART I
Each dawn as we rise, Lord we all know too well,
We face only one thing—a pit filled with hell.
To scratch out a living the best we can,
But deep in the heart, lies the soul of a man.
With black covered faces, and hard calloused hands,
We work the dark tunnels, unable to stand
To labor and toil as we harvest the coals,
We silently pray “Lord please harvest our souls.”
—“The Coal Miner’s Prayer,” by W. Calvert
CHAPTER 1
“Quiet now.” The two words pounded against the walls, elongated and echoed. “Just keep your eyes closed.”
Andrew obeyed the orders, held tight to his father’s large hand, his own tiny fingers in the womb of the callused palm. His feet stepped blindly on the downward slope. Water dripped and tapped hollowly through the tunnel, the air cool and damp to the skin, reminiscent of the early morning fog that congealed in the valley.
His father stopped and slid from his son’s grip. “Now, open your eyes.”
He was still blind. He blinked again and again and again, but the darkness was whole and complete, eternal and deep as a well. Andrew rubbed his eyes, his fingers invisible and absent in front of his face. His breathing thickened and panicked in short gasps. Invisible walls pressed from above and below, from the left and the right. The black drowned, heavy as a man’s boot stomping upon the lungs. Andrew reached one way for his fa
ther and then the other, his hands clawing the emptiness.
“Papa!”
“I’m right here, Son.” Strong arms wrapped him instantly. “I’m right here.”
Andrew clung to the rough fabric of his father’s shirt, buried his head against the burly stomach, the light smell of tobacco and chopped wood bringing comfort to his senses, a familiarity to the void. He closed his eyes and fell into the scents.
His father took hold of Andrew’s shoulders while he lowered to the boy’s level. “I just needed you to see.”
“I can’t see anything!”
The man grinned, a subtle sound of lips over teeth. “Meant you just needed to see what it’s like down here.” A scrape and hiss came to a stone and ignited a flame. With the match, his father lit the candle on his miner’s helmet, highlighting the firm streams of old wax that formed like dripping egg whites. The glow of the wick grew into a small yellow orb, just large enough to show the man’s forehead, eyes and bridge of the nose.
His father squeezed the little boy’s hands in urgent pulses. “I need you to know that this will not be your life.” The eyes spoke, the mouth still eclipsed under the blanket of onyx. “I won’t have my son picking coal. Do you hear me, Andrew?” His words were gentle in their pleading. “You work hard. Study hard. You build a life for yourself when you get older. But not here. I won’t have you picking coal. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take care of your family. Always.” He swallowed bitterly. “But not this way.”
“Yes, sir.”
The eyes watched him, moved slightly as if the missing mouth tried to form a sound. “You’re better than this,” his father finally said. “Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
Andrew listened to the words, struggled to balance the weight of them against his desire to go home, to flee into the light again. “Yes, sir.”
His father stood then. “You never come down here again. Promise?”
He couldn’t get out fast enough. “Yes, sir.”
CHAPTER 2
Uniontown, Pennsylvania—1916
Beneath the open and shattered hillside of the Pennsylvania coalfields, between the blurred swings of autumn and winter, Andrew Houghton bundled against the cold and put an arm around the young woman by his side. “You warm enough?” he asked.
“I’m f-f-fine.” Her teeth chattered through her forced smile.
“No, you’re not.” Andrew stopped, shed his coat and draped it around her shoulders. “Better?”
She gave a slight sigh and nodded. “You’re going to freeze without your jacket.”
“Me? No! Feels like summer,” he mused, and put his arm back around her, his skin shivering. “Besides, got my bruises to keep me warm.”
She grimaced. “You’re too handsome to be messing with those fights, Andrew.” Gingerly, she touched his swollen cheek, and he stiffened. “Besides, how you going to kiss me with your lip swollen like that?”
Andrew gave a quick, uncomfortable laugh and loosened his grip. He should have known better than to hold her so close. She stopped and pulled the large wool coat tighter around her body, her eyes beseeching. “Why haven’t you ever kissed me?” she asked in earnest.
The cold cut through his thin linen shirt. “If the police captain caught me kissing his daughter, there would be a couple broken bones to go with this bruise.”
“Don’t tease me,” she said. “You’re no more afraid of my father than you are of those men in the boxing ring. So, tell me why you won’t kiss me. The truth this time.”
Andrew exhaled slowly, looked at the pretty young woman, her soft eyes brown as a doe’s. He could kiss her. He could take her in his arms and kiss the lips that waited. After all, pleasures were few and far between in the coal patches. But that’s all it would be—a quick blast of pleasure, a sweet distraction soon to sour. He didn’t want to lead her on. “I can’t offer you anything,” he finally said.
She stuck out her chin and scoffed. “What does that mean?”
“Look,” he started, and tried to think; she wasn’t making this easy. “I’m just not looking for a girl right now,” he said as kindly as he could. “I just don’t feel that way about you. I’m sorry.”
Her jaw dropped and her eyes fluttered with the rebuff. “Do you have any idea how many men would jump at the chance to be with me?”
“I don’t doubt it,” he consoled. “You’re a beautiful—”
“Do you have any idea how many men beg to kiss me?” she shouted. “Do you?”
His skin numbed under the gooseflesh and he was tired. His face hurt in pulses. He was relieved he never kissed her. “Well, you shouldn’t have any trouble finding a replacement then.”
She snarled in disgust and tore off his jacket, threw it at his chest. “Should have known better than to cohort with a coal miner’s son.”
“Cohort,” he teased, amused by her tantrum. “Is that what we were doing?”
“You think you’re so smart, don’t you?” She snorted white steam from her nose. “Should be kissing my feet I’d even talk to you, let alone let you walk me home.”
Andrew slipped on his coat, relishing the warmth. He turned off his ears to her whiney trill and turned around.
“Never would have let you kiss me anyway, Andrew Houghton!” she hollered. “Take me a day to wipe the soot off my mouth!”
He smirked, gave a dismissive wave and kept walking.
“So proud, are you? One day you’ll be picking underground and I’ll be dancing over your head!” Her last ranting filtered away into the night. Dodged a bullet with that filly, he thought gratefully, and blew a hefty puff of white air from his mouth.
The road back home was quiet, the sky black as pitch. Lanterns were turned off in all but a few windows. A stray dog scurried nearby, licked at a fetid puddle. Andrew knelt down. “Come here, girl.” He clicked his tongue.
The dog inched forward, the head bowed low, the back hunched, ready to sprint at the slightest hint of aggression. Andrew stuck out his hand, let the dog sniff his fingers, her ears pulled back protectively. He smiled and scratched the neck of the pup, who hurried forward and gave two great licks to Andrew’s face. “Whoa, girl.” He laughed. “What’s with everybody trying to kiss me tonight?”
A garbage can tipped and crashed. A feral cat shrieked and the dog jolted into the night. Andrew stood, wiped the dog’s drool from his swollen cheek with his sleeve. The silence seeped with the cold, brought a melancholy to the empty stretch ahead.
He turned from the even road of the town center toward the rutted and sloped curve that headed to the mine housing. The melancholy grew—a nostalgia for a life that didn’t exist, a longing for the type of woman that didn’t exist. It seemed all the women he met fell in two categories: the spoiled girls from town and the listless, broken girls from the patches. He wanted neither.
The lines of a poem by Atticus drifted into his thoughts, the words pantomiming each boot step forward:
Her heart was wild, but I didn’t want to catch it,
I wanted to run with it, to set mine free.
CHAPTER 3
Plum, Pennsylvania—1916
Lily Morton emerged from the forest like a porcupine, the pine needles sticking stubbornly in her hair and needling through her dress. After plucking the ones deep enough to poke her scalp, she ignored the rest and plodded through the light snow toward home.
Instead of taking the shorter route through the valley, Lily climbed the slope of the old cornfield, the green pinnacles long browned and severed to splintered stalks. This was an open land, a land of even rows and endless swords of withered corn and ground straw. Her worn boots stepped with great concentration between the crisp sticks and occasional rock and tangled thorn bushes. In her imagination, she stepped like a soldier through a battlefield of bones, working hard not to desecrate as she picked her way across enemy lines. And she laughed at this. Laughed at the childish game, for she was no longer a child. The mirth left
. She wasn’t a child or a porcupine. This wasn’t a battlefield in a brave war. She was a young woman who plodded through an old farm field that mirrored a million other farm fields in rural Pennsylvania. The cold stung her cheeks then and she veered hurriedly down to the valley.
In the open land, Lily sprouted. She changed as the seasons, expanded and contracted with the phases of the moon, shifted with the clouds and rose and rested with the tidings of the sun. She knew the soil that crunched and purred beneath her footsteps; knew the sky that hovered above her skin. She knew the songs of the birds and the secret language of the ants and bees and crickets. From the valley, Lily stretched her legs up the sharp incline of the hill and evened her stride as she reached the one-lane road—and here along the reclaimed, man-made stretch she knew her way by heart but was lost again.
Lily passed the Sullivan farm, the white farmhouse quiet and sleepy in the encroaching twilight, the gentle white smoke rising from the stone chimney. A few miles more and she would pass the Mueller homestead, the smell of their hogs drowning out the natural scents of frozen earth and distant wood fires. If she walked for an eternity along this road, the pictures of those houses would repeat in a stuttering image, one after another, just like the inhabitants within the reposeful walls.
The wind cut wickedly through Lily’s sweater, the fabric silvered and shiny at the elbows. She regretted not wearing a coat and ran the last mile home. And once there, she did not refuse when her sister made her drink strong tea by the fire, did not complain as her sister plucked and pulled at the nest of pine needles in Lily’s ashen hair.