My One True Love

by Deborah Small

  Heat climbed her neck as she held his stare, a prickling inspired by the itchy plague of need only specialised scratching could resolve.

  Lust. It’s called lust, Margaret. Basic biology. But never before had it complicated her relationships.

  Born to wealth and privilege, William had cleaved to the finer things in life while sidestepping the distasteful aspects of it with almost pathological avoidance. He’d preferred her demure and correct in public. In private, he was only slightly less restrictive, and far from liberal. He’d valued her acumen and insight mainly as they applied to business and political staging. In the bedchamber he preferred her docile. Silent. Personal matters were best kept neat, orderly. Anaemic. Like his cupboard of pressed and tidily folded white shirts. The only place she had ever glimpsed him in an unguarded moment was in the bedchamber. Even then, with the lights out and the drapes drawn, only twice had she felt and heard the tears and catch in his voice that signalled short-lived cracks in his emotional armour: once the night his father died, and a second time after her fourth miscarriage when the doctor advised them she’d likely never carry a child to term.

  George, too, had obsessively avoided conflict. Annoyingly so. Like a boundlessly energetic puppy, he’d populated her waking hours with bright-eyed enthusiasm and good-natured interaction to the point she’d purposefully tried to initiate disagreements just to see if she could wiggle a fingernail in and pry open his smiling persona to discover if it wasn’t all a shell game hiding something distasteful. The closest she’d come was the night on the beach when they’d been at odds for all of five minutes over her expressed need to teach.

  At night, he’d been more generous and patient. He’d taught her much about...marital relations. And that was why she blamed him now for the feelings run amok in her.

  Easing an elbow onto the railing, she transferred some of her weight to it but kept her back straight and chin lifted in hopes Mr. Banner wouldn’t notice and query her need for additional support. Lying was not something she enjoyed.

  But she was not above it when the moral outcome superseded the improper means.

  “Are you sure this is where you want to belong?” he asked. “It’s not a forgiving place, even for a woman as fearless as you. Fearless and fascinating,” he added in a barely audible murmur, as though the words were meant only for himself.

  “Fascinating?” she repeated, her voice breathy, a natural consequence of her heart rate doubling.

  With his index finger, he lifted a coil of hair escaped from her pins and gently slid it behind her ear.

  She clung to the rail as her lower body melted with need and the upper half drew tight, her breasts straining against the thin material of her gown.

  “Yes,” he whispered. “You’re intelligent, considerate, wise, and...soft. So soft.” He slid the backs of his fingers along her cheek.

  She straightened to face him, her heart’s pace accelerating to dizzying speed, forcing her to close her eyes as his mouth dipped towards hers—

  “Mrs. Sweeney?”

  She jerked back, using the motion to propel her around to face the speaker.

  “Coral?” She touched a hand to her throat and swallowed to moisten the dryness rasping her voice. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

  “No, ma’am.” The girl ventured out of the shadows enough for the illumination from the study to carve her willowy figure from the darkness. “I’ve turned back your bed, ma’am, and laid out your nightclothes.” It was a subtle hint that she was ready to help Margaret complete her evening toilette so she could take herself off to bed.

  “Ah...yes. Thank you. I...I’ll not require your help this evening, Coral. Thank you. You’re free to go. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  The girl hesitated, no doubt befuddled by her mistress’s staccato speech. Or perhaps not, if she’d been lingering in the darkness prior to speaking out. Then she would know exactly why her mistress sounded like an embarrassed debutante caught in the cloakroom with a beau.

  Inclining her head, Coral said, “Very well, ma’am. Thank you. I’ll see you at seven.”

  “Make it nine.”

  Half-turned away, Coral turned back and, this time without a flicker of indecision, nodded. “Nine it is, ma’am. Good night.”

  “Nine?” Mr. Banner said once she was gone. “That’s late for you—not that it’s not a good thing,” he added. “You work too hard, in my opinion, and start too early. Not to mention, you stay up late.” He reinforced his comment with a nod towards the study.

  The current hour was late for her when compared to the wake and sleep routine she had instituted at Sugar Hill her first day. But it wasn’t unusual.

  She had retired at nine in the evening and risen sharply at six in the morning during her days teaching. In late fall, winter, and early spring, she’d had to stoke the woodstove and dispel the chill in her flat enough to accommodate her morning toilette then heat the school room before the children arrived. She maintained the practice throughout the year, even in summer when nighttime temperatures were sufficient to let the stove lie fallow, in order to take advantage of the relative peace found in the quiet hours.

  There was no jangle, clink, and plod of equine-drawn carts and wagons. No shouts of shopkeepers greeting each other and customers along the length of Main Street as they opened up for the day’s commerce. No clunk of boots and shoes on wooden floors, thumps of texts on desks, shuffles of restless bodies, muffled whispers of those entrusted to her. No screech of chalk on slate or pencil on paper. No squeals of alarm or jeers in the schoolyard to be investigated and resolved. Just her and, in the silence following the kettle’s last echoing whistle, a mug of tea warmly in hand, and her shawl about her shoulders as she watched the sun take its initial steps towards its daily traverse over the Texas plains.

  She had loved those moments alone under the expansive sky, humbled by the knowledge she was but a tiny speck on a massive and grand stage.

  For what was life, but one large and ceaseless operatic tragedy?

  Forcing a smile and a level tone to her voice, she said, “Never any earlier than you, Mr. Banner. Later, most days, in fact. You’re frequently in the fields by the time I pour my first cup of morning tea.”

  “I balance that by going to bed early.”

  “Do you?” she murmured.

  He didn’t reply but held her gaze, eliciting a shiver of anxious anticipation.

  She wanted him to kiss her.

  Didn’t want him to kiss her.

  She wanted to taste him. Touch him. Be touched.

  Go, she commanded silently. Say good night and go. Speak sharply to me. Insult me. Tell me how inappropriate it is for me to be here, alone with you, enveloped in the perfume of blooming trees and flowers, serenaded by bullfrogs and crickets in full view of curious eyes—curious, judgemental eyes that will see not a lonely woman in need of comfort but a widow clothed in black shaming herself and her late husband’s memory mere steps from the house he left her.

  But he only returned her stare with an expression as stormy with need as the hammering inside her.

  Easing her breath from her lungs, she gestured, almost trance-like, towards the terrace doors.

  “Shall we take our discussion inside, Mr. Banner?”

  Chapter 16

  Pain as Gramophone

  JOE’S HEART STUTTERED in his chest, one convulsing beat away from full stop. He swallowed, but there was no moisture to soothe the rawness in his throat as lust screamed at him to accept her invitation. To follow her inside. Take her. On the desk. The floor. Where didn’t matter so long as he quenched the fiery thirst of long dormant feelings.

  Unable to speak for fear he would groan, he gestured to indicate she precede him but stiffened when a small voice said, “Joe?”

  He jerked to stare at the shadows where Coral had been moments earlier, his heart racing as much with guilt as with sexual excitement.

  “Maisie?”

  “Here.”

&nbs
p; “Christ,” he rasped when he saw her. He beat Mrs. Sweeney to her by a half step and knelt to touch his fingers to the folded towel she held over her eye. “What happened?”

  “She fell.” Miss Lisette stood behind Maisie, one hand on her shoulder.

  “I tripped.” Tears filled Maisie’s eyes. “I had to...go. But I tripped on the rug and hit my head.”

  “On the bureau,” Lisette explained. “She hit the edge of it. I heard her cry out and went in to see what happened. I grabbed the hand towel from the washstand to stem the blood, and we...we came to find you.”

  “The bureau?” Joe repeated numbly.

  “Inside,” Mrs. Sweeney said. “Let’s look at that in the light. Miss Lisette, go get Miss Alma. Please. Have her bring boiled water, clean towels, and whatever curative is available for wounds.”

  “Should I send for the doctor?” Miss Lisette asked.

  “Only if it proves necessary,” Mrs. Sweeney said. “For now, let’s get Maisie comfortable on the sofa.”

  Joe followed, and acted on Mrs. Sweeney’s curt directions as she directed him to help Maisie lie on the leather sofa, her head propped on a pillow. His mind was so inebriated with shock and self-recrimination he couldn’t muster the mental acuity necessary to think for himself what to do.

  “No, don’t remove that yet.” Mrs. Sweeney stopped Maisie from lifting off the towel. “Keep it firmly pressed. Mr. Banner, please help her.”

  When he didn’t immediately respond, Mrs. Sweeney physically manoeuvred him to perch on the sofa arm then laid his hand gently but firmly over Maisie’s small hand. As soon as his hand touched hers, Maisie began to sob in earnest.

  Chest and throat aching, Joe slid to kneel on the floor next to her, smoothing a hand over her hair as he crooned reassurance. “You’ll be all right, Maise. It’s a bump. A cut. Nothing a strong girl like you can’t bounce back from. We’ll get you fixed up right. I promise.”

  “Maisie, my little dove.” Loving concern reinforced Miss Alma’s voice. She swept into the room and placed a large porcelain bowl on the desk. Lisette and Rufus followed, Rufus carrying the wooden crate of medical supplies Miss Alma pulled out whenever she had to treat a worker or family member. She was the first line of defence at Sugar Hill, and the doctor was called out only for the worst injuries and illnesses.

  Joe smoothed Maisie’s hair as Miss Alma set out sharp, short-bladed scissors, a bandage roll, a clean compress, jars of catgut of differing diameters, curved suture needles, a bottle of iodine, and one of smelling salts.

  “All right, now, my little dove.” Miss Alma pushed her spectacles up on her nose, before touching her fingers to Maisie’s temple. “Let me have a look.”

  Joe stifled a grunt of shock as Miss Alma gently peeled away the makeshift compress.

  The gash was larger than he’d anticipated, the towel soaked with blood. Maisie’s blood.

  He wavered, and stiffened when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  The caution and gentle admonishment in Mrs. Sweeney’s expression was the silent warning he needed to gather his wits and firm his spine.

  You can’t fall apart now, Banner. She needs you.

  Drawing breath, he cleared his throat, and then changed position again in response to Miss Alma’s request that he sit on the sofa with the pillow supporting Maisie’s head braced on his lap. At least she phrased it like a request.

  Her tone brooked no protest.

  “You hold her hand now, Mr. Banner,” Miss Alma murmured once he was settled and Maisie reclined against him, one small hand in his. “I’m going to clean this cut and stitch it, Maisie,” she added, folding a bandage roll into Maisie’s free hand. “I need you to hold this for me. Can you do that?”

  “If stitches are required, shouldn’t we call for the doctor?” Mrs. Sweeney asked.

  “Not unless you want po’ Miss Maisie scarred for life,” Rufus muttered. “Sorry, ma’am,” he added when Mrs. Sweeney looked at him. “I spoke out of turn.”

  “What Rufus means is that Dr. Hugh was a surgeon in two wars,” Miss Alma said without taking her gaze from the bottle of iodine she was tipping to a clean cloth. “He’s used to working fast and practical. He gets the job done, but we don’t want just the job done.” She set the iodine bottle on the desk. “This is gonna sting, little dove, but I know how strong and brave you are. You’ll be fine.”

  “Miss Alma has a finer hand than Doc Hugh,” Joe said in response to the frown Mrs. Sweeney cast his direction as though to gauge his feelings on the decision not to send for the doctor. “She uses finer catgut and sews neater sutures, so scars are less noticeable.” He looked down when Maisie sucked in a startled breath, her hand closing on his fingers like a vise. But she didn’t jerk her head or fight Miss Alma’s practised ministrations.

  “You do this often?” Mrs. Sweeney asked.

  “More often than I’d like.” Miss Alma inspected the wound. “The bleeding’s slowed enough we can ice the wound. Then I’ll suture it. The ice will help numb things, but it will still hurt.” She laid a hand on Maisie’s shoulder. “You remember what I told you when you broke your arm?”

  “Pain is the body’s gramophone,” Maisie whispered, a tear tracking silently along her cheek. “And no matter how loud it shouts, it can’t kill you. It’s only letting you know something needs minding. The sooner you mind it, the sooner the pain will quiet.”

  “That’s my little dove.” Miss Alma accepted from Rufus a square of ice wrapped in flannel and handed it to Joe along with a clean, dry towel. “Hold the ice on the cut and mop up any water that seeps out as the ice melts. I’ll get the sutures ready.”

  SLEEP REMAINED OUT of reach most of the night, and Margaret awoke exhausted, leaden with lethargy she knew was not solely due to a lack of rest.

  Thoughts of what might have happened between her and Mr. Banner if not for Maisie’s injury, as well as worry about Maisie, had looped in her mind like a dog chasing its tail until she’d forced herself to lie on her back and count inhalations.

  How many slow, deep breaths it had taken to finally lull her to sleep she had no idea, but it had been late. Or very early, for she had a vague recollection of hearing a whippoorwill’s call before remembering nothing until the rap on her bedchamber door. After accepting a tray of tea and toast, she sent Coral away and settled in a chair in front of a window that overlooked the fields.

  She was there less than thirty seconds when she realised she wasn’t simply enjoying the shimmer of green leaves in the morning sun but was actively searching for Mr. Banner. Only he wasn’t there. Or if he was, she didn’t see him.

  She closed her eyes. You must stop this. Not only is it wholly inappropriate, it’s immoral.

  Crossing to the large dresser, she picked up the large gilded frame with a small engraved plaque fixed at the bottom: The Douglas Family.

  Smiling, she roved the familiar faces of her friend and cousin and their large brood: Dianna, Jake, Katie, Amelia, little JJ, and Charlie, the foundling dog the family had adopted.

  Swallowing hard, she brought her gaze back to JJ’s dark-haired and chubby-cheeked visage.

  He might have been hers if not for that damn iceberg, and she hated that part of her that couldn’t decide if she was happy or sad things had not turned out as planned. Instead of gaining a child, she had lost a husband, whilst Dianna had gained both husband and son. And now three daughters and a dog.

  Though exceedingly happy for her now, it had all seemed so grossly unfair at the time, losing William and with him their life savings and any chance she might have had to adopt Dianna’s unborn child, even as a widow. Instead, Dianna met William’s cousin Jake, and they fell in love and married. Now JJ called Jake, not William, Papa, as did JJ’s three sisters. They were one big happy and ever-growing family. But perhaps it had all turned out for the best.

  JJ had three sisters. Three siblings. Three people besides his mother and father who loved him and knew him. Three people who, with luck, would be his frien
ds as well as his siblings. Three people he could count on to be there for him when his parents no longer could be, as he, hopefully, would be there for his sisters. Heaven knew she could attest that it was no picnic being all alone in the world.

  Sniffling, and blinking back tears, she smiled fondly at her friend. “You’re a good mother,” she whispered.

  And she was. Dianna had scoured England and France in the midst of war to find Jake and JJ and bring them home. Margaret liked to think she would have done the same had JJ become her child and William had gone missing in search of him.

  Clutching the frame to her chest, she closed her eyes and let the tears fall. This was why she could not permit any more foolishness with regard to Mr. Banner and Maisie.

  They were not hers to love. They never could be. She couldn’t love either of them, for love always ended in pain. So much pain. Her mother, father, sister, William, George...Everyone she had ever dared love, save Dianna and the entire Douglas clan, was gone. Forever.

  With trembling hands, she set the portrait in its spot on the dresser and picked up the one next to it.

  “Oh, George,” she whispered. “I’m not sure I can do this. It’s getting too complicated. Your nephew wants Sugar Hill, and he’s threatened me harm to get it. And now Mr. Banner and Miss Maisie have lost their home to fire, and Mr. Banner suspects your nephew. Then Maisie fell and cut her head and needed stitches, poor mite. Mr. Banner claims he has no plans to leave, but still I worry he might, if only to protect his daughter. And if he goes, I...I don’t know that I can run Sugar Hill without him. Not yet. But I won’t stop him. I can’t. It wouldn’t be fair. Sugar Hill’s not his responsibility. Your nephew and your sister are not his responsibility.”

  They’re mine.

  She plunked his portrait on the dresser and scowled at it.

  “Why didn’t you warn me?” she demanded. “Why didn’t you tell me what they were like, or about the archive?”