My One True Love

by Deborah Small

  He returned her glare with his customary gentle smile. “It never occurred to me any of this would happen, Maggie, my love. I always believed we’d grow old together. Old enough to see Esther buried and Barrister lord of his own fiefdom at Northwoods. You know he didn’t dream this up on his own, Maggie dearest. She’s behind him, prodding him, because she’s jealous. She wants Sugar Hill. She’s probably convinced him to let her move in here while he stays at Northwoods. But I know you, Maggie. You’re smart and kind. You’ll make the right decision. I believe in you.”

  “Yes, well.” She glowered. “I don’t believe in me.”

  “I believe in you, Mrs. Sweeney.”

  Margaret started so violently she had to grab on to the dresser to keep from collapsing as her knees gave way. Steadying herself, she turned, and stared at Maisie, who stood in the open door of the bedchamber. If not for the white bandage wrapped around her head, one would never know the child had suffered injury. Not with that beaming smile on her face.

  “Maisie, darling.” She brushed at the residual dampness on her cheeks. “Good morning. I...I wasn’t expecting you.”

  Doubt clouded Maisie’s face. “I guess I didn’t knock loud enough. I thought you heard me. I thought I heard you say I could come in.”

  Margaret didn’t believe for a second that Maisie believed her own words.

  She might have knocked, quietly enough that Margaret missed hearing the sound, especially when she was prattling away at her husband’s likeness, but there was no way the child could have misconstrued the muffled laments she overheard for an invitation to enter. More likely, she’d heard Margaret’s selfish soliloquy and opened the door out of curiosity. Perhaps out of concern. Or maybe in hopes of discovering the identity of the person Mrs. Sweeney was speaking to in her bedchamber.

  “Where’s your father, Maisie?”

  Now why had she asked that instead of the whereabouts of Miss Lisette, whose job it was take care of Maisie during the day?

  “Joe?” Maisie turned her head side to side as though scanning for sound in the room.

  Before Margaret could assimilate the implication of Maisie’s presuming her father would be in her bedchamber at this hour of the morning—or at any hour, for that matter—Miss Lisette appeared in the doorway.

  “There you are.” She offered Margaret an apologetic smile as she placed a hand on Maisie’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Sweeney, if she disturbed you. I was in the kitchen helping Miss Alma fix Maisie’s breakfast—”

  “I’m not the least disturbed, Miss Lisette.” Liar. “I always enjoy Maisie’s company.” Though I will be locking my bedchamber door from now on to ensure she must knock loudly enough to alert me to her presence.

  “Will you teach me today, Mrs. Sweeney?”

  Margaret glanced at Miss Lisette, whose eyes flared with surprise.

  “Ah, no love, sorry,” Margaret said. “I’ve not even sent away for the material yet. I’ll do that today, however, and as soon as it arrives, and I’ve had time to familiarise myself with it, we’ll begin our tutelage. I promise. But that will be a couple of weeks yet, I expect,” she added gently.

  Maisie let out a resigned sigh, and Miss Lisette flashed another apologetic smile before advising Maisie that her breakfast was waiting. Margaret locked the door behind them and bowed her head to it.

  This wasn’t going to work. She was too fond of the child, and Maisie was all too comfortable around her. Comfortable, or bold, enough to enter her bedchamber without invitation. And assume Mr. Banner was in here, too. If the child developed an expectation of something more than a professional relationship between her and Mr. Banner...

  She turned around.

  The little girl was hungry for a mother’s affection. She’d sensed that immediately, the first day on the lawn when Maisie had so lovingly scanned her face with her fingertips and so eagerly volunteered to show her around. She felt it, keenly, because it echoed her own need. The need to be a mother. Not a tutor.

  She inhaled, and pressed a fisted hand to her mouth, frustrated by her selfish foolishness.

  She wasn’t the child’s mother, and it wasn’t fair to confuse her in that regard. She needed to keep Maisie at a distance, emotionally at least. Keep them both at a distance.

  But you promised her you’d teach her to read braille.

  “Oh, damn you, George,” she muttered. “What have you gotten me into?”

  Not me, Maggie, love. You. You and your big, caring heart.

  She stared at the framed portraits across the room, lined up like visual aids to the opening acts of the operatic tragedy in which she found herself the unwilling star, complete with a vile villain, a dashing if brooding hero, and a darling and innocent child, whose dog was thrown in for good measure.

  She was tempted to march over, grab up every framed photograph, and toss them all out the window. What stopped her was the knowledge that erasing mementos of the past would have no bearing on her present. Or her future.

  She closed her eyes.

  Oh, heaven, why did caring for others have to hurt so bloody much?

  Chapter 17

  Are You Certain?

  LYONS LEANED FORWARD, his salted brows drawn with doubt. “You’re certain this is what you want, Joe?”

  Joe understood the litigator’s hesitancy. He was not only George’s former, and now Mrs. Sweeney’s current, solicitor, but he was Joe’s legal counsel, too. And a decade-long friend. One of few who knew what he’d gone through and continued to go through since Maisie’s mother had abandoned her and left her with him. What Joe was asking of Lyons now could threaten all they’d worked together to ensure on Joe and Maisie’s behalf.

  But, after a sleepless night balanced on the outer edge of Maisie’s bed, holding her while she slept, replaying over and over in his mind the image of her blanched and stoic face as she submitted to Miss Alma’s practised hand, he could no longer justify leaving things as they were.

  Five stitches. He had counted each one, holding his breath and feeling sick each time Miss Alma hooked the curved needle through the torn edges of Maisie’s pale, bloodied skin. It wasn’t a massive wound but not small one, either. One stitch too many, in his mind.

  She never should have suffered the injury. She might not have had he taken time to remove obstacles from her new sleeping quarters and ensured she’d mastered the layout before leaving her alone. But, distracted by thoughts of Mrs. Sweeney—how lovely she’d looked at dinner, their near kiss in the coach—and whether he might get another opportunity, he’d not spared a thought about the rug in Maisie’s new bedchamber.

  Miss Lisette had. Unable to move the bed without aid, however, she’d decided to wait until morning to request the rug’s removal. Only the morning, as it happened, had been too late.

  Maisie was hurt. And hurting.

  The rug was gone now. He’d cleared it out while she and Miss Lisette were at breakfast. In the process, he realised it was time he cleared up another potentially more harmful obstacle to her well-being, should she blunder into the truth on her own.

  Barrister and Esther Griffiths’s surprise and violent arrival the previous month had derailed his plans to discuss Maisie’s mother with her. Instead, he’d gone home that night and had to soothe her and Miss Lisette’s worries about Mrs. Sweeney’s safety. Then, exhausted from the stressors of the day, they’d packed it in for the night. No one mentioned Maisie’s mother.

  When Maisie didn’t raise the issue the next evening, he left well enough alone, assuming she was still digesting the previous day’s frightening events. When a week went by and she still hadn’t reminded him, he contemplated taking the initiative...and ultimately decided against it.

  Maisie and Miss Chloe had gone back to being the best of friends. He had no interest in upsetting the apple cart by being the one to remind Maisie of her friend’s unkind comments.

  Children’s short attention spans and changeable moods could be a blessing sometimes. In his mind, this was
one of those times, for it permitted him an opportunity to discover real answers for his daughter, not just made-up ones or assumptions. And when he did talk to her about Simone—whether she asked about her again or not—he’d tell her all he could.

  “Yes,” he said to Lyons. “She deserves to know her mother—provided she’s not a danger to her.” And provided she could be found.

  Lyons held his gaze a moment longer before offering a reluctant nod. “All right,” he said on a sigh. “I’ll get my best investigator on it right away.”

  Joe willed his speeding heart to slow to something near normal. “Can you trust him to keep quiet?”

  “Her. And yes.”

  Joe tried not to let his surprise show but failed, if the sardonic, almost pitying smile Lyons gave him was indication.

  “It’s not a man’s world anymore, Joe,” he said. “And I’m not an old dog. I’m a fox wily enough to know better than to box myself in with one option. Men have their place, but Abigail is one of my best investigators—”

  “Abigail? Your daughter?” Joe sat forward in his chair. “But she’s what, ten?”

  Lyons tipped his bearded head back and roared like a benevolent lion. Wheezing, he plopped an elbow on the desk to regard Joe with twinkle-eyed good humour.

  “She’s twenty-one, Joe. If you left that damn plantation more often, you’d know that. She’s all grown up and quite a beauty, too. Got that from her mother, thank God. Though I’ll take credit for her sinister mind.”

  “Sinister?” Joe repeated, dazed to learn the girl in a white frock and blonde pigtails he remembered was now a woman. And a PI.

  Lyons nodded. “Always one step ahead, that girl, and seeing shadows in the darndest places. She likes to poke at them, too, to see what she can bring to light. When she was young and other girls her age were trying on their mothers’ furs and heeled shoes, she was begging me to take her to court and let her sit in on proceedings. Later, she’d quiz me. What was the defendant wearing? The colour of the fourth jurist’s shirt? How many jurists wore eyeglasses or had nicked themselves shaving? Who was making eyes at whom when they thought no one was looking? She warned me the judge in the Abraham Harder case was having an affair with the widow Layton and would find for her, even though I’d raised sufficient doubt of my client’s culpability.”

  “The gardener,” Joe said. “Accused of stealing Mrs. Layton’s jewellery.”

  “Yes. He almost went to prison for fraud committed by Mrs. Layton herself. Not because there was evidence to convict him, but because his boot prints were found in the soil around the rose bushes he’d cut back from her garden doors. He’d been arrested and summarily charged just for doing his job.”

  “By Deputy Klugg, if I remember correctly,” Joe said darkly.

  “Sheriff Klugg now,” Lyons said.

  “Why did Abigail believe Harder was innocent?”

  “Cufflinks.”

  “Cufflinks?”

  “Yes. The judge was wearing cufflinks purportedly belonging to the late Mr. Layton. They’d been included as part of the extensive jewel collection originally owned by the first Mrs. Layton and given to the second Mrs. Layton by her husband as a wedding gift. The cufflinks were custom, commissioned by Layton’s daughters on the occasion of his fiftieth birthday, and were well described in the list of stolen items—a list which, unbeknownst to me, Abigail had slipped from my briefcase and perused during our breakfast the morning I took her to court with me.” He leaned back and laced his fingers over his ample midriff.

  “She noticed one on the judge’s cuff whenever he raised his arm for silence and his robe sleeve slid back. During lunch recess, she told me of her conviction that he and the second Mrs. Layton were in cahoots. She’d witnessed a few discreet smiles between them and believed they were involved. So when court resumed, I requested an in-chambers meeting with the judge and prosecutor and was able to secure my client’s acquittal by expedience of admiring the cufflinks. After confirming for myself that they matched exactly those described in the stolen property report, I informed the judge I’d accept a complete dismissal of charges against my client, and his resignation, in that order. He tried to bluster, but when I suggested we call on Layton’s daughters to confirm or deny original ownership, he folded. As did the case against my client. The charges were withdrawn. A new search, this time of the widow Layton’s home, turned up the allegedly pilfered gems. She fled town with the judge before the sheriff could arrest either of them. Rumour has it they ended up in Canada. I’d have preferred they went to jail. But we both know that wouldn’t have happened even if a conviction had been secured, whereas my client would have gone to prison for life—if he hadn’t been lynched first—had it not been for Abby. But I didn’t regale you with details of the case for simple entertainment.” He leaned forward, splaying his palms on the desk.

  “I need you to understand, Joe, that, at thirteen years of age, Abigail correctly identified the real culprits in a case that could have sent an innocent man to jail. Eight years later, she’s only gotten better. She’s my best investigator. Discreet. Persistent. Patient. And she’s like a bloodhound when she’s on a trail. What I’m trying to say is, she’s good.”

  Joe nodded. Abigail Lyons sounded like a fine person and an excellent investigator. So why did it sound like her father was warning him off of hiring her?

  Before he could ask, a knock sounded on the office door, and a heartbeat later, it opened.

  “Hey, Papa—Oh. You have someone—Mr. Banner.” Abigail Lyons’s voice went from that of a dutiful child to a sober professional to a delighted neighbour in the space of eight words. “I apologise. I thought you were alone, Papa. I’ll come back—”

  “No, Abs,” Lyons said when she started to withdraw. “Come in.” He waved her forward. “This involves you, too.”

  Frowning, she stepped into the room and closed the door. She held a box, which she set on Lyons’s desk as Joe shot to his feet. Lyons remained seated.

  She offered Joe a smile. “How are you, Mr. Banner?”

  “Well, Miss Lyons. How are you?” He tried not to stare but found it difficult, so stunning was the transformation from girl to woman.

  She was a few inches shorter than him, and slender, with smoky lashes framing deep blue eyes. Her hair, darker blonde than in his memory, was tucked away in a smooth twist at her nape, while her long, navy-blue skirt and matching jacket framed shallow curves. A simple cameo brooch at the throat of her indigo-blue blouse, and black half boots, completed her all-grown-up professional ensemble.

  “Wonderful,” she replied, resting a black-gloved hand on the box. “How’s your little girl?”

  “Excellent.” He smiled. “Growing quickly. Too quickly.”

  “Children have a way of doing that, don’t they, Papa?” She glanced fondly at her father, and a surge of emotion forced Joe to hold his smile.

  Jealousy. Envy. Maybe regret. For he knew Maisie would never look at him that way, with eyes shining with adoration. Not because she didn’t love him—he knew she did—but because she couldn’t see him.

  He cleared his throat. “Your father was just telling me that you’re an investigator now.”

  Miss Lyons scowled at her father. “Papa, I told you—”

  “We’re working for him, Abby,” Lyons grumbled. “He’s your next job. Well, not him. But the person he’s asked us to find.”

  “Find?” She looked at Joe, a small frown dimpling her brow. “You want us to find someone, Mr. Banner?”

  No. And then, before he could change his mind, he nodded and told her who.

  She hid her surprise but made no attempt to shutter her approval. It shone in her gaze, spearing Joe with a blade of humiliation. He was spared the awkwardness of having to endure any praise or agreement she might offer, if she thought to, when Lyons suggested she look at the information Joe had provided, which included a decade-old photograph of Maisie’s mother, faintly lined and crinkled from being hidden in his billfold. But Sim
one Villeneuve’s slightly bucked-tooth smile, wild Medusa-like curls, and come-hither look, were exactly as he remembered her.

  While the two Lyons conferred, Joe turned his back to them and feigned interest in the portraits and framed documents lining the wall.

  After almost ten years, he should be used to seeing or hearing the subtle, and not so subtle, judgement others cast his way. He wasn’t. He’d only gotten better at shutting it out by the simple expedience of exiling himself and Maisie to Sugar Hill. On the rare occasion he did venture to town and encounter the obvious, and not so obvious, stingers of doubt and reproach inflicted upon him by those chagrined at his audacity to remain unmarried while raising a child—and not just any child, a girl, and blind to boot—he’d learned to ignore them. Only one person had truly gotten under his skin: the aforementioned second Mrs. Layton. And then, only because she’d sicced the former sheriff on him.

  He’d run into her one afternoon as he was exiting Lyons’s office, Maisie in his arms. The newly minted second Mrs. Layton was just getting out of a fancy new automobile her husband had bought her, and after removing her goggles and headscarf, she made a beeline for Joe, ostensibly to fuss over Maisie, though her gaze lingered longer on his face than it did on the infant in his arms.

  “Where’s this dear child’s mother?” She darted her gaze to the green-painted door with the glass inset on which was printed in bold gold letters: Lyons and Bellman, Attorneys at Law, before fluttering her eyelashes at him. “Don’t tell me there are problems in paradise?”

  The hopeful—predatory—gleam in her eyes had suggested that was exactly what she wished him to tell her.

  Offended by her presumption not only of his marital status but of the possibility he was unhappy and looking elsewhere, he’d been tempted to tell her that he wasn’t married and never had been, just to see her expression. But he’d been raised better. He’d also known that she was new to the area, having met Layton not three months earlier when he’d stopped in at a neighbouring county’s café for lunch while touring in his new roadster and she’d been his waitress. She wasn’t up to speed on local gossip. Bur rather than rectify her ignorance, Joe had simply told her there was no mother—and therefore, no one for her to compete with, though he hadn’t said that part out loud. He’d anticipated that once she discovered he was free, she’d do him the favour of excusing herself and go off in search of greener pastures. It was one thing to seduce a married man and feel superior to the betrayed wife in the process, but quite another to take on the care and feeding of that woman’s man and child. Instead of vanishing, however, the self-interest in her eyes had fizzled as cold calculation sparked to life in its place.