Lydia slipped outside and quietly closed the door before slogging over to the back porch bench. Perhaps a minute or two of night air would relieve the pounding in her temples. The threatening storm seemed to have decided against visiting Teaville, but it had left the air smelling fresh, regardless.
Should she marry a man whose parents seemed set against her? Who gave her a headache with their seemingly never-ending private bickering?
She needed this to work. If Papa bankrupted her family, Sebastian could make sure her mother had medical care.
But was keeping her mother healthy for a few more months worth enduring a marriage like that of their parents’? Of course, once Mama was gone, Papa would probably go even deeper into debt, and then where would she be?
The door opened, then clicked shut.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you.” Sebastian walked over and sat beside her, balancing his wine glass on his knee. “I wanted to apologize for Mother. She’s not feeling well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Though his mother had seemed well enough to argue with her husband for fifteen solid minutes.
“What does she want you to get out of Lowe?”
She repressed a sigh. She didn’t want to talk about Mr. Lowe. At the moment, she disliked him for making her life an extra bit harder. “About thirty dollars.”
Thirty dollars. Sebastian’s kingdom for thirty dollars. Maybe she’d extract the sum from her meager savings account, claim Mr. Lowe had succumbed, and be done with it. Even though they weren’t yet engaged, surely Sebastian would give her money in an emergency. “Enough for the sewing machines your mother wants for the moral society.”
Sebastian’s grunt sounded unimpressed. “That can’t be so hard. The man’s made of money.”
His long fingers laced through hers, and she tried to relax but couldn’t look at him or their entwined hands. Lydia stared at a large tree dancing in the sudden turn of the wind, its browning leaves crinkling against each other. “Your parents don’t seem to think we’d be a good match.”
“I wouldn’t listen to their relationship advice.” He huffed. “Your parents married for love, as did mine. None of them ended up happy. The decision to marry shouldn’t be based upon a whirlwind of nonsensical feelings.”
“No,” she whispered. “We can’t be nonsensical.” A beggar woman who hoped a handsome prince would fall in love with her was clearly irrational.
She didn’t need a fairy-tale ending anyway.
“I don’t see why our plan wouldn’t work. All you need to do is help me campaign during election years, and in the interims, you’ll be a woman of means.” He caressed the rough patch on her thumb.
Yes, like Charlotte Lucas in Pride and Prejudice, she’d been offered a comfortable home and protection—and there was no earthly reason she couldn’t be as happy with him as with any other.
“You’d have nothing to worry about except pleasing me.” Sebastian turned her face toward him, the thick scent of wine warming his breath. She forced herself not to back away as his mouth approached hers.
What was wrong with her? She’d always wanted to be kissed. Why be scared?
Her eyes went wide as he pressed his mouth against hers. Shouldn’t his lips be soft? Or sweet and tantalizing? Instead he tasted like the beet soup she’d gagged down at dinner. And what a ridiculous thing to think of during her first kiss. She should be focusing on the kiss itself.
Forcing herself to relax, she found the kissing sensations oddly pleasant, even if tainted by dinner’s overabundance of garlic.
How long was he going to kiss her? His parents might come outside at any moment. Her cheeks flamed, and she tipped her head forward and broke away. They weren’t properly engaged yet. His mother surely wouldn’t approve of them kissing until then.
She scooted away. He moved closer.
She had to get his mind off kissing her again. “If I don’t get a donation from Mr. Lowe for the moral society, will you be concerned that I won’t be able to help with your campaigns?”
He licked his lips, staring at hers for a few seconds before turning to take another sip of his wine. “Sometimes you need to present people with the chance to give to a good cause numerous times before they succumb. Lowe’s supposedly holier-than-thou, though, so he should come around. Shouldn’t be too hard to convince him to support my campaign either. He’d agree that the riffraff in this town needs to be cleaned up.” He smiled. “After you get Mother her thirty dollars, why don’t you work on getting somewhere between five hundred to a thousand for me?”
“Of course, why not?” As if one thousand dollars wasn’t extravagant.
Granted, if anybody in town could afford to donate such a sum, it’d be Mr. Lowe . . . but she’d likely have more luck squeezing one thousand thirty dollars out of a brick.
6
Nicholas paced his study waiting for his cousin Roxie to appear. A surge of wind hit the side of the house, smacking a loose shutter hard against the window behind him and flickering the gas lanterns on the wall. Maybe that storm was coming after all.
If God added rain and thunder to the violent wind, then everything around him would be an echo of his mood—like in The Fall of the House of Usher. Had Miss King read that story? He ambled to his bookshelf to peruse his collection of Poe but stopped himself. She already had his Byron and Twain. If he lent her anything else she might misread his generosity for . . . generosity.
And she mustn’t believe he possessed such a trait.
A tap on the study door sounded, light and hesitant.
He blew out a breath. “Come in.”
The door opened, and Roxie’s golden head poked in. “Is this a good time?”
“Of course.” An hour ago would have been better for his nerves. He gestured for her to take a seat.
“I would’ve come sooner, but Francis went missing.” She stepped through the door and onto his green-and-gold Persian rug. “I finally found him in a closet upstairs playing pirate.” Her face radiated a happiness he hadn’t seen since he’d left South Carolina fifteen years ago.
Roxie dropped onto the sofa, leaned back, and closed her eyes as if she were enjoying a dip in a hot spring.
He rubbed his jaw. He’d expected her to come in hesitant, worried about his impending lecture. “Did Miss O’Conner not find you?” Surely Roxie knew Miss O’Conner wouldn’t keep the news of her planned departure from him.
“She took Francis downstairs for a game before bed. He’s going to miss that bowling alley.” She winced and shot a glance at him.
His heart sunk. “Francis loves it here, Roxie.” As much as he opposed separating a boy from his mother, he should’ve adopted Francis when she’d offered.
“And he’ll find things to love about Montana.”
“Montana?” He sucked air through his teeth. Was she headed to Butte and that awful Dumas place he’d heard about? He walked over to the couch and sat on the arm. “I can’t force you to stay . . . but Francis is well-adjusted. I know I said you shouldn’t give him up, but if you insist on leaving, then let him live with me. He needs—”
“Hush, Nicholas. It isn’t what you’re thinking.” She took his fisted hand between her two dainty ones. “My faith will keep me from straying down that path again.”
“You might plan to make it on your own, but if people find out—”
She shook her head. “I’m going to a place no one knows me.”
“I trust your intentions, but what if you can’t find work? With Francis to take care of . . . if he got sick or was in need, the lure of—”
“I won’t go near a red-light district again, Nicholas. Besides, I doubt there’s such a place near the Flathead Reservation.”
Roxie released his hand and pulled a letter from her pocket. “I’ve been writing a man.” Her whisper was barely intelligible. “And he wants to marry me.”
Nicholas swallowed down the emotion in his throat. Why must he be the one to dash her hopes? “Every woman dreams of
being a bride, and you expected to marry Francis’s father, but a man willing to marry a prostitute—a former prostitute even . . .” He couldn’t look at the fragile expression on her face any longer and turned to stare at the darkened window.
This past year, he’d thought he could help some of the women back into good society through marriage. But he’d found out what most men willing to marry soiled doves expected from their wives . . . “How can we be sure he wouldn’t expect you to supplement his income working the only trade he figures you’re good at?”
She dipped her head and stared at the letter she caressed. “When I first arrived here, I was lonely. You worked all day, and Francis was so little. And . . . you hadn’t any maids I felt I could talk to until this past year. So I amused myself by answering personal ads—pretending I was a lady again. I never intended to string men along, but Larry was so . . . so fascinating. The way he talked about the Jocko River teeming with trout. It was like corresponding with a poet.”
The lump in Nicholas’s throat ached. She looked so hopeful and innocent. He’d always thought she was level-headed, but dreams were just dreams. She had to know this wouldn’t work. “So you haven’t told him, then?”
“I told each man as soon as he offered to marry me. The other ten—”
“Ten,” he sputtered.
She giggled and ducked her head. “Yes. Ten. I really shouldn’t have done it, but most proposed by the third letter, so they hadn’t got their hopes up long.” She looked at him, her eyes suddenly heavy with guilt. “And yes, two of them wrote back offering me a position as a working wife. But I promise you, I’ll never do it again. Not even if I have to live in your basement for the rest of my life.”
She unfolded her letter and smoothed it against her lap. “But Larry’s different.”
“Or he might intend to lead you astray once you arrive.” He stared at the paper, willing it to contain words that would convince him. “He’d have to possess a rare character to accept . . . to believe—”
“He’d have to be a man like you.” She poked him in the knee. “You can’t be the only one.”
“Sometimes I feel like it.” He captured her hand. “How can you be certain Larry is honorable?”
“Here, read it. I don’t mind.” She held out the letter, the paper doing a jittery dance in front of her.
The return address read Reverend Larry Stipps.
“A preacher?” His foot slipped off the hassock with a thud, and he caught himself before he fell on Roxie. No reverend would marry a woman like his cousin.
“I know. How dumb could I be, wooing a preacher man. . . . Well, he’s more a self-proclaimed evangelist to the Indians.” She gestured to the note he held, a silent command for him to read.
Nicholas unfolded the missive and turned it toward the gas light.
“Read it aloud.” She clutched at her neck. “Please.”
He cleared his throat.
“My dearest Roxanna, I received your letter, and I will not lie. Though it contained the answer I’d hoped for in regards to my proposal, I sat in shock for some time over the rest. At first, I felt confused, even cheated. But I’ve done a lot of praying these last nine months, and I think I’ve prayed more than I ever have this past week.
Despite what others might think, I can’t deny that I love you. What was true last month, is true this very second. Though the details you divulged have given me pause, you’re still the woman I love, and your past is part of who you are. I—”
Roxie’s gulp of air and stifled sob stopped him from reading further.
“I’m sorry.” She took his proffered hanky and caught the tear running down her cheek. “I’ve read those words at least twenty times a day. But hearing you read them . . . Well, I’d almost believed I’d made them up, that my brain had superimposed my dreams upon his words of rejection.” She sucked in a shuddery breath. “Because he should’ve rejected me.”
Nicholas pulled her close and rubbed her arm, then examined the man’s firm handwriting. “No, you read his words correctly.” And amazing they were. He’d always believed the church should reach out to sinners and offer them hope, as Christ had, but the churches he’d attended seemed quicker to condemn than forgive. Yet this man . . . he offered Roxie more than Nicholas had ever expected for her. “What does Larry do besides preach?”
“He’s a trapper, a mountain man.”
“Living shut up in a snowy cabin away from civilization isn’t an easy life.”
She stiffened. “Right now we never leave your property, my parents have disowned me, and if the townspeople learned of my past, they’d call my son names like—”
“Shh, say no more. You’re right. I’m not providing any better.”
“Don’t say that.” She blasted the words as if he were her six-year-old. “I only came here hoping you’d take Francis before you tossed me back onto the street. I never expected you to take me in too.” She took back her letter. “You’re the reason I have this chance.”
“And a shaky chance it is, Roxie.” He didn’t want to hurt her, but he had to be honest. “If this”—he tapped the letter—“turns out to be a sham, get yourself to a boardinghouse and wire me directly. I’ll pay whatever it takes to bring you back.”
“Thank you.” She swallowed and stood. “I already bought our tickets. We leave at the end of the week.”
“You should’ve let me get your tickets.”
“I love you, Nicholas, but I want to pay for them myself. You’ve provided for me so well that I’ve never had to touch the money I brought with me. Besides, you’ve given me too much as it is.” She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed hard. “Thank you . . . for everything.”
The woman in his embrace was so different from the hardened lady of the night who’d appeared on his doorstep two years ago, pleading on her knees for him to adopt the scared little boy she’d pushed across his threshold.
This preacher mountain man better be exactly who he said he was.
He held her tightly for a few more seconds before mussing her hair.
She squeaked and pulled away. “Brat!”
“Worm.”
She pursed her lips, her hands firmly planted on her hips. “I hate to admit it, but I’ll miss your sorry face.”
He swallowed his retort and shook his head. “You wait until you’re waving from the train before you tell me good-bye.”
“Yes, sir.”
He stood and kissed the top of her head through her gauzy cap. “As for Francis . . .” He’d miss that kid. “I’ll take off Thursday so I can fish with him one last time.”
“He’d like that.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “I’d better go tuck him in.”
“Would you send Miss O’Conner down?”
“Of course.”
He watched her disappear up the stairwell before returning to his armchair. Through the picture window, the light of a carriage lantern in the distance faded behind a line of trees. Would Roxie vanish like that? Her life snuffed out, too far away for him to help. Or would her faith in God, her forgiven past, and Larry’s sincerity keep her the rosy-cheeked woman she’d finally become once again?
He must stifle his pessimism. If God couldn’t provide his cousin an opportunity to reenter good society, then he couldn’t either.
“Miss Lowe said you wanted to see me?”
He turned toward Caroline and grinned. Her hair bun teetered on the side of her head and moisture glistened above her brow. “I see Francis wore you out. Come in.”
“He’s a handful.” She stood planted in the doorway with her hands at her sides.
“It’s after hours. You can sit.”
Her rigidity melted with a drawn-out sigh. She dragged herself over to the seat Roxie had vacated.
“It seems my cousin will indeed be leaving us.”
She worried her lip. “You’re all right with this?”
He shrugged. “She appears to have a legitimate way back into the world, and if I d
on’t trust God could provide her that, then what are we doing? It’s what we’ve wanted for them all along.”
“Where’s she going?”
“Montana. Getting married to a preacher.”
Caroline hummed in doubt.
Hopefully Roxie would confide in her about Larry and ease Caroline’s misgivings. “Roxie bought her own train tickets, which I’m sure consumed her savings. How is her wardrobe?”
“She has six decent dresses, and the boy is well outfitted.”
“Any of those dresses worthy of being married in?”
“They’re all simple ones, like she wore today.”
“I want you to purchase a nice Sunday dress for her and anything else a bride would want on her wedding day. Don’t ask her, because she’ll refuse.” He loosened his money clip and pulled out several bills. “And buy Francis a fishing rod. Seems there’s trout to be had in Montana.”
She sniffed. “Yes, sir.”
Were tears glistening along her lower lashes? “I never took you for a sentimental woman, Caroline.” He threw her a devilish grin. “Crying at the mere mention of a wedding, are you?”
“No, sir.” She swiped at her eyes. “It’s just that if my sister ever wanted a second chance, I hadn’t much hope she’d have one. But now that your cousin has . . . Well, a miracle like this makes me want to believe God exists.” She clasped his hand instead of taking the money. “Don’t you give up on assisting these ladies. You’re the only reason I haven’t.”
7
Lydia stomped into Lowe’s lumber office. If Sebastian wanted a thousand dollars in addition to the thirty dollars Mr. Lowe seemed so determined not to part with, she’d get it. Along with a partridge in a pear tree.
She headed straight for Mr. Lowe’s secretary’s desk and steeled her back for her upcoming appointment. She would not be rescheduled again. He didn’t need another week to find a fifteen-minute slot for her.
Mr. Black looked up and smiled. “You haven’t changed your mind, then?”
“No.” She pointed to his open desk calendar. “I’ve got fifteen minutes before he leaves for lunch, right? Penciled in. Official.”
A Heart Most Certain Page 4