Mave took pity on James, saw him lick his lips yet again, and left what she was doing. She quickly washed a carrot and handed it to him, peel and all. “Had you no money?” she asked as he hungrily took a bite.
James closed his eyes and savored the taste before he answered. “I have my earnings from the South African voyage in an account in Bristol, but that was not enough. I signed on to a ship thinkin’ I would be a year older, and some richer when I returned from Australia, but Hardy tells me that ship sank.”
“You missed the ship, I take it.”
“Aye. I spent the day trying to sign on to another ship, but found nothin’. I was too embarrassed and upset to call her, for she was countin’ on me, and I knew her father would not be pleased.”
“Too bad about that ship.” She stopped cutting the biscuit dough and when her husband came back in the kitchen, she glared at him. “James could call Jillian now, if we had a telephone.”
“The moment I sell the corn, my love,” he promised with yet another kiss on the cheek. “Come, James, we have hay to unload and a cow to milk.”
James grinned at her. “He is saved by a cow.”
“Hump,” she grumbled, as she watched him follow Hardy out the door.
*
That night, James ate the first real meal he had seen in longer than he could remember, complete with mouthwatering hot biscuits and a good size portion of beef pie. After dinner, Mave trimmed his hair and made him look more presentable. He liked Hardy and Mave, and thought to tell them about his friendship with the Duke of Glenartair, but he was apprehensive. Mentioning a Duke might make the charge of sedition seem more likely, and he couldn’t take the chance that he might lose a ticket to Bristol.
He was in luck, for the sky was clear on his first night of freedom. He made a bed of straw, although sleeping on the hard earth would have been ten times softer than his cell floor. He had only just settled down when the farmer’s collies came to see what he was up to. One tried to sleep on his stomach, which made James laugh, and the other took the sneakier approach, inching closer and closer to James’ side. At last, the dogs calmed and let him be in peace.
As exhausted as he was and with a full belly for a change, sleep still did not come quickly. For a long time, he considered the glory of the stars and thought of her. A reasonable man would have given up hope long ago, but James just couldn’t force himself to forget her. His love for her was still as strong as the day he left, and something told him she had not stopped loving him either. His mistake was in leaving her in the first place, but he had long since given up chastising himself on that accord. Just then, a star shot across the heavens and he prayed it was a good sign. At last, he fell fast asleep.
*
Pulling weeds and culling stalks that were growing too close together in the cornfield was hard, but good work. The sun began to darken his pale skin and by the end of the first day, muscles hurt in places he didn’t even know he had. Yet, he was proud of what he accomplished and Hardy seemed pleased. By the end of the next day, his muscles felt better, although his back continued to ache.
Mave made certain he had plenty to eat and drink, and James felt stronger each day. He loved the feeling of the sun shining on his face, and a cool breeze blowing in his hair. The dogs followed him everywhere, and never could he resist watching when a bird flew over. Nothing reminded him of his freedom more than being able to see where it landed.
In the evenings, he entertained his hosts with orphanage stories, telling about his red rock, Leesil, Cathleen, and old Mrs. Forthright. By the third night, when it looked like rain, Hardy’s wife invited him to sleep in the spare room, and that’s where he slept from then on. He slept in a bed, worked all day, ate his fill, helped with the dishes after dinner, and took long baths. Life was peaceful and good.
The only thing missing was his beloved Jillian.
CHAPTER 2
Thousands of miles away in Colorado, Abigail Whitfield had a different, and in her opinion, a much more pressing problem. To Abigail’s delight, the local newspaper asked for every detail concerning the approaching wedding of her daughter, Gloria, to Mr. Ben O’Connell. Ben and Gloria would have preferred a lot less fuss, but Abigail’s only daughter deserved the very best, and she fully intended to give it to her. Abigail’s husband, Claymore, was decidedly less enthusiastic.
An expensive engagement ring of sapphires, pearls, and diamonds set in platinum was normally expected. Such an expense was meant as generous compensation for the bride-to-be, should the groom back out at the last moment. For the wealthy, it prevented breach of promise lawsuits, and most men found it satisfactory. In this case, however, no one was concerned that Ben would back out. In fact, the Whitfields could not have kept him away even if they wanted to. Therefore, the simple cluster of three diamonds in the ring Ben gave his bride-to-be was more than welcomed, especially by the bride, who knew exactly what a much less expensive engagement ring looked like.
First came the formal engagement announcement and celebration, which was held at the Whitfield mansion. Just a few friends were invited, or so Abigail promised. Nevertheless, once she added the newspaper reporter, all of Gloria and Ben’s friends and acquaintances, a photographer, the entire MacGreagor clan, several miscellaneous guests, and of course, her sewing circle – a few friends became quite a gathering.
Abigail loved it. Claymore tolerated it.
There was one man she would not, and indeed did not invite – Provost MacGreagor, for she hated the man. Someone must have invited him, however, for he was among the first to arrive and the last to depart. Abigail was not pleased, but it was a celebration after all, so she was not about to let him spoil the day. Even so, she was seen keeping a close eye on him, just as he kept a close eye on her.
After the engagement party, Abigail happily supplied the reporter with weekly descriptions of how things were progressing. She described Gloria’s trousseaux, the bridesmaid’s dresses, and all the magnificent handmade satin and lace decorations. The actual ceremony was to be held in the church with only family and close friends in attendance, while the reception was set to commence in the spacious ballroom of the Antler Hotel.
It took nearly three days to address and send out all the invitations. It might have gone faster, if she had not been forced to hide the bulk of them from Claymore of an evening. She addressed no such invitation to Provost MacGreagor.
When the wedding gifts began to arrive, Abigail delightedly made a list to be printed in the next newspaper article. The gifts included such things as a sterling silver fish knife, wall hangings, a Victorian tea pot, china serving bowls, a hand painted French porcelain gravy boat, a silver tea service for two, a crystal candy bowl, his and her wedding forks, silver candle holders, vases, brush sets, and gold inlay picture frames.
The feud between Mrs. Abigail Whitfield and Provost MacGreagor began the very moment he arrived in Colorado Springs, and to this day, he had no idea what he said that she found so insulting. He merely pointed out, in the kindest way he knew how, that her hat was on backwards. Well, it was! As near as he could figure, his error was in announcing it in front of such a large crowd at the train station. He had not expected the amount of laughter his remark produced, nor the whispers and repeated laughter that spread amongst the crowd. To his complete shock, the high and mighty Mrs. Whitfield glared at him, a condition he had not been forced to endure since he was made Provost of Glenartair Village in Scotland. It was an unthinkable, highly reproachable act, and he was just as insulted as she had been.
It was the ex-duchess of Glenartair’s fault that Provost MacGreagor was assigned to watch for her at the train station, which he did twice daily. In his opinion, Hannish MacGreagor’s spiteful first wife was more malicious than the potato blight in Ireland, and if he spotted her, he fully intended to alert the clan before she did any more harm. How the duchess managed to slip past him, hire a buggy, and drive to the Whitfield mansion without him knowing was beyond his understanding. This much
he did know – he would not let it happen again.
An elder gentleman with gray hair that was turning white, he had become fond of sitting in a chair near the station wall and watching the comings and goings of all the people. Therefore, he was there when Mrs. Whitfield excitedly came to pick up the box of Chantilly Lace she ordered from France for Gloria’s wedding gown. As usual, she ignored him and stuck her nose in the air as she walked past him, which she always had to do at the train station. She excitedly opened the package so her friend, Pearl, could see, and being the nosey, curious man that he was, Provost MacGreagor stood up and looked over her shoulder.
“Seen better lace in Scotland, I have,” he muttered as he went back to his chair and sat down.
Abigail struggled to hold her tongue, but that didn’t keep her from waiting until he was seated, and then displaying her most disapproving glare. The Provost simply shrugged and looked away, which provoked her indignation even more. She let her glare fade and then in a much more pleasant tone, she went to him and said, “Mr. MacGreagor, I have been meaning to ask you.”
He slowly removed his hat in the gentlemanly way of a Scotsman, but he didn’t bother to stand up. “What?”
“Do you need help finding the barbershop?”
She won that round, for the next time she saw him, his hair, mustache, and beard were neatly trimmed. Unfortunately, it was just the beginning of the feud between the Provost and Abigail.
*
When Provost MacGreagor was not watching the trains, or sitting on his porch carving wooden animals to sell at the general store, he spent his time thinking of ways to get under Mrs. Whitfield’s skin. It wasn’t that hard to do, for she seemed to think she was in charge of most everything and everyone in town, particularly where the MacGreagors were concerned. It was not just her over-exuberant manner that annoyed him. She was the most contemptible gossip he had ever run across.
Occasionally, he too listened in on a telephone conversation. Everyone did, for everyone had a party line. The difference was that no one did it as religiously as Abigail Whitfield. Coincidentally, he and Abigail were on the same line, and he could tell she was constantly on it…he could hear her breathe.
He rarely called anyone, for everyone he knew lived on the same block, except those MacGreagors that lived in Marblestone Mansion. When he had something to say, he just walked down the street. In fact, he could walk most everywhere these days now that there were more shops springing up nearby. He kept his horse at the stables, for he still needed to ride to the train station twice a day and to church on Sundays.
Generations before, the MacGreagor clan converted from Catholic to Protestant, and in Colorado Springs, they attended a small Baptist church on Alamo Street. He chose to attend the same church, even though the Whitfields attended it too. He couldn’t help that. On a busy Sunday, the church could hold all of two hundred believers, but normally, they numbered less than a hundred, especially when the weather was nice, as it was on this day. The residents of Marblestone alone added four adults and eight children, ranging in ages from nine months to fifteen years, and took up most of two pews. The judge, McKenna, and their two children sat in a third pew with any of the servants who wished to attend.
Painted white inside and out, the church had a large, multicolor, stained glass window in the triangle shaped wall behind Reverend Abram’s pulpit. In front of the window, a large oak cross hung from the ceiling. Donated by the Whitfields when they first struck gold, Claymore and Abigail were quite proud of that contribution. Also in the front of the church was a pump peddle organ, which McKenna’s piano teacher, Miss Matilda Meriwether, happily played every Sunday for the congregation. All in all, it was a pleasant place to gather each Sunday, pray, say a last farewell to the dead, and hold weddings.
Provost MacGreagor was raised to believe spending time in church was for the three “P”s – Praise, Patronage, and the Pardon of sins, but when he was given a place of honor in the front pew befitting a Provost, he noticed Mrs. Whitfield was none too keen on the idea. The Provost simply paid no attention and walked down the middle aisle to his seat. Even so, no matter how far behind him the Whitfields sat, he could feel Abigail’s watchful eyes boring a hole right through the back of his head.
A seat at the front of the church was indeed a blessing, considering how the sea of Sunday best hats the ladies insisted on wearing, was not always easy for a man his size to see around. Of course, men wore hats too, but they had the good sense to take them off in church.
The truth be told, he thought Abigail needed a good comeuppance, and he felt himself the right man to give it to her. He thought long and hard about how to do it, made up his mind, and today was the day. He patiently waited until the preacher finished his closing prayer and asked for announcements from the congregation. That was his cue. He slowly and deliberately stood up, and then turned to face the worshipers.
Provost MacGreagor drew an envelope from his pocket and held it up. “I have in my hand an invitation to the weddin’ of Miss Gloria Whitfield to Mr. Ben O’Connell.”
“What?” Abigail asked louder than she should have. She looked first at Claymore and then at her daughter. “Who invited him?”
“I did,” Gloria whispered.
Abigail rolled her eyes, but she didn’t make a public fuss…at least not yet.
“However,” the Provost continued, “the mother of the bride has not yet asked my permission.”
Seated in the row behind the Whitfields, Hannish raised an eyebrow and then exchanged surprised looks with his brother.
“Ask your permission?” Abigail huffed. “Why would I do that?”
“‘Tis a clan tradition,” the Provost explained, “and since Ben is a member of the MacGreagor Clan, the tradition must be upheld. The mother of the bride must wait until after dark, carry a lit candle up the street to my door, and…”
Abigail tried to stand up, but Claymore held her back. “Preposterous. I have never heard of such a thing!”
Provost MacGreagor rarely smiled, and did not smile this time either, even though he had her and he knew it. “Heard about it or not, Mrs. Whitfield, ‘tis the way it shall be.”
Furious, Abigail pushed Claymore’s hand away and stood up. “On a cold day in hell.”
“Mrs. Whitfield!” a shocked Claymore gasped. “We are in a church!”
“Yes, and someone let the devil in,” she shot back.
Provost MacGreagor narrowed his eyes. “If that be the case, I hereby call off the weddin’!”
Abigail turned all the way around to look at Hannish. “Can he do that?”
“Aye,” Hannish hesitated to say. “He is the elder. He can do whatever he wishes.”
“Not to my family.” More agitated than she had ever been in her life, Mrs. Abigail Whitfield stormed down the aisle, yanked open the door, and let it slam behind her.
Hannish puffed his cheeks. “Now he’s done it.” He watched as Claymore and Gloria quickly followed Abigail out the door. He ignored the laughter, gathered his family, and took them outside to the carriage. As soon as the wives and children were seated, he put his arm on his brother’s shoulder. “Which do you think will back down first?”
Cameron shrugged. “I cannae guess. Both are as stubborn as a mule.”
*
Abigail was half way down the street before Gloria caught up. “Mother, do you not want a ride home?”
“No!” She abruptly stopped and turned her glare on her daughter. “Gloria, how could you invite that miserable old man to the wedding?”
“Mother, you said to invite the whole clan.”
“Yes, but I did not mean him.”
Her mother took off again, so Gloria had to hurry to catch up once more. “He means no harm, he just…”
“Oh, yes he does. He means to humiliate me in front of the whole town.”
“Well, perhaps he does, but Mother, can you not do as he asks for my sake?”
“No, and that’s an end to it!”
>
Gloria stopped and watched as her still fuming mother continued on down the street. A moment later, Claymore came in his automobile and stopped beside her. “Does she mean to walk all the way home?” he asked.
“I doubt she knows what she intends to do.”
“Well, get in. This too shall pass.”
Gloria opened the door, got in the back seat, and closed the door behind her. “She will not do it, you know.”
“Perhaps I can persuade her once she has calmed.”
“I hope so. I was rather looking forward to getting married.”
Claymore chuckled. “Do not fret, my dearest child, you shall marry Ben if I have to carry your mother to the Provost’s house, lit candle and all.”
Gloria was not convinced.
*
After he shook hands with the minister and commented on another fine sermon, the Provost mounted his horse and started for the train station. For a brief moment, he wondered if he had gone too far. It was fun getting Mrs. Whitfield all riled up and he could tell several in the congregation enjoyed it too. Still, what would he do if she refused to ask his permission? Perhaps he had not thought that possibility through well enough. Oh well, he decided. What is done is done.
Unfortunately, Provost MacGreagor had not yet heard of a book entitled, The Scandalous Affairs of Alexandra Sinclair, and had no way of knowing that an even bigger disaster was about to plague Abigail Whitfield.
*
At Marblestone, life was as busy as it always was. Justin, the eldest son continued his war with Traitor, the dog, over the baseball. Kate and cousin Anna played with dolls, had tea parties and were learning how to become ladies, which included holding one’s pinky finger out when sipping tea. Connor and his toddler cousins, Patrick and Thomas, constantly got into everything. The youngest, Bridget, wanted Leesil’s constant attention. She seemed always to have a cold and occasionally ran a slight fever, but that was normal for teething babies.
Marblestone Mansion, Book 9 Page 2