Prologue: Christmas Stocking Sweethearts
November, 2024
Stitching melodies of love, one stocking at a time
In 1854 Nightingale, Texas, nineteen-year-old Melody Nightingale feels trapped by her family's expectations. As the only daughter of the town's founding family, she's expected to make an advantageous marriage and take her place in society. Instead of attending the endless round of tea parties, Melody longs to share her love of music with others. She also has no interest in the eligible suitors her mother parades before her, she’d much rather discuss her favorite books with shopkeeper John Hartley.
When she discovers her housekeeper's daughter secretly playing the piano, Melody makes an impulsive decision to give the child lessons—a choice that defies the strict social boundaries of her time. And in doing so she helps shy young Zoe find her confidence through music.
Melody realizes she's finally found her own path, one that leads far from her family's carefully laid plans. Ignoring her parents' disapproval, she becomes the town’s piano teacher. It’s a calling that she pursues with great enjoyment and passion, eventually touching the lives of hundreds of students. And perhaps even that kind-hearted shopkeeper…
This heartwarming story of love, music, and finding one's true path launches the Christmas Stocking Sweethearts series, introducing readers to the remarkable woman whose handmade gifts will touch lives for decades to come.
September 1854
Nightingale, Texas
Melody Nightingale’s fingers stumbled over the keys, a jarring discord shattering the morning quiet. She winced, glancing nervously at the parlor door. Had anyone heard? At nineteen, she was supposed to be the musical pride of Nightingale, Texas, not fumbling like a beginner.
“Focus,” she muttered, flexing her fingers. Despite the sunlight streaming through the lace curtains, she shivered. In just a few hours, she’d be called on to perform flawlessly for the Willoughbys—and their eligible son. The weight of her family’s expectations pressed down on her shoulders, heavier than her silk dress.
Melody closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath, and cleared her mind of all but the music as she began again. This time the melody flowed from her fingertips, filling the spacious parlor with the haunting strains of Mozart. As she played, the tension in her chest eased. Here, lost in the music, she could forget about suitable marriages and society’s demands. Here she was free.
But for how long?
As the final notes of the sonata faded away, Melody allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. Much better.
…
“Without music,” Melody mused, her fingers absently tracing the piano’s smooth curves, “life would be but a hollow echo.” The sentiment, born from countless hours lost in the beauty of melodies and harmonies, settled in her chest like a cherished truth.
Melody’s gaze drifted to the daguerreotype on the piano’s lid—her parents, Thomas and Victoria, stood proudly beside her grandfather, Gregory Nightingale. The town’s founder. The weight of that legacy settled on her shoulders like a familiar, if sometimes burdensome, cloak.
Rising from the bench, Melody crossed to the front-facing window, drawn by the autumn sunlight. Nightingale, Texas, sprawled before her, a patchwork of neat buildings and tree-lined streets. The Nightingale home, while not ostentatious, stood as a testament to the family’s prominence, overlooking the town like a benevolent guardian.
Melody stared down Main Street, her gaze lingering on Hartley’s General Store in the distance. A familiar flutter stirred in her chest as she spotted a figure who seemed to be arranging a display in the window. She couldn’t really make out his features from this distance, but it had to be John Hartley. Their shared love of literature had blossomed over the past year, sparked by a chance encounter at the town’s small library. They’d both reached for the same well-worn copy of Pride and Prejudice, their fingers brushing for just a moment. Since then, they’d often found themselves discussing favorite authors and debating the merits of various literary works during Melody’s visits to the library or his store.
“Oh, do be sensible,” she chided herself even as a wistful smile tugged at her lips. John was kind, hardworking, and as passionate about books as she was about music. But a shopkeeper was hardly the sort of match her parents envisioned for their only daughter.
“Melody!” Her mother’s voice floated up from downstairs. “We need to prepare for tea. The Willoughbys will be here soon.”
With a sigh, Melody turned from the window. “Coming, Mother!” she called back, stealing one last glance at the piano.
Melody continued down the stairs headed into the dining room, where her mother was already arranging flowers in a crystal vase.
“There you are, dear,” Victoria Nightingale said, her tone a mixture of warmth and gentle reproach. “I was beginning to think you’d lost track of time again.”
Melody moved to help with the place settings. “I’m sorry, Mother. I was practicing, and you know how I tend to get carried away.”
Victoria’s expression softened. “I know, darling. Your dedication to music is admirable. But remember, there are other skills a young lady must cultivate as well.” She paused, adjusting a napkin. “The Willoughbys’ son, Edward, will be joining us today. He’s recently returned from his studies in Boston, you know.”
Melody felt a familiar tightness in her chest. Another potential suitor. Another expectation to meet. “Yes, Mother,” she replied, keeping her tone neutral. “I look forward to hearing about his experiences.”
As they worked side by side, Melody’s thoughts swirled with half-formed dreams and desires. There had to be more to life than afternoon teas and suitable marriages. If only she could find a way to merge her family’s expectations with her own aspirations—to bring the joy of music to others, to make a real difference in Nightingale.
The soft clink of china and the rustle of linen filled the air as mother and daughter prepared for their guests. Outside, the bustling sounds of the town drifted through the open window—the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, the chatter of passersby, the distant whistle of a train. All the while, Melody’s thoughts kept drifting back to her refuge of the piano upstairs and to John Hartley’s kind smile.
As she arranged the delicate teacups, Melody squared her shoulders. One day, she promised herself. One day she’d find a way to make her mark on the world. For now though, there were social niceties to observe and expectations to meet. Such was the life of a Nightingale daughter.
At least for the moment.
