Marblestone Mansion, Book 6

by Marti Talbott

  She grinned and took her husband’s arm. “I cannae wait.”

  When it came time for the box lunch social to begin, all the MacGreagors watched to see who would win the privilege of sharing Madeline’s lunch with her. Half of Palmer Lake was there, and she was not without admirers. Four men were willing to go as high as thirty-five cents, but when Tom offered a dollar, two of them walked away.

  “One dollar and one cent,” Tom’s most ardent competition shouted.

  “One dollar and five cents,” was Tom’s reply, to which his opposition finally threw up his hands. Madeline grinned, took Tom’s arm and off then went to sit on the grass with the rest of the MacGreagors.

  Their stomachs full to the brim and after everything was put away, Tom clasped his hands behind his back and asked Madeline, “Care to see the view from that bridge?”

  “I would,” she answered.

  Leesil watched them walk down the path, and then whispered to Hannish, “Did he not choose the bridge that is farthest from us?”

  “I would if I fancied Madeline. She is quite becoming and he best snatch her up before she finds another.”

  “Snatch her up? You make it sound as though he chooses the best hammer in the general store. Snatch her up,” Leesil scoffed.

  *

  Tom stopped in the middle of the bridge, rested his arms on the railing, and admired the trestle beneath a railroad bridge that ran parallel to the one they were on. Several feet below was a creek that would become a raging river in spring, but just now, the water gently flowed down the slight incline.

  “Do you miss Palmer Lake?” Tom asked.

  She moved to stand beside him and folded her arms. “I miss the lake, but not the boarding house and certainly not the Café. I am quite content at Marblestone. I like all the people, and I think they might like me too.”

  “They do, they have told me so.”

  “I can usually tell when someone does not like me?”

  “Who could possibly not like you?”

  “The cook at the café?”

  Tom chuckled. “She does not count.”

  “She does not mean to be that way, but she has become a bitter woman. Her dreams did not come true as she expected them to.”

  “What dreams are those?”

  “The same as all women…a home where she can cook for her husband, make his bed, have his children and teach them what love truly is, even when he is stupid.”

  He pretended to look worried. “You intend to marry a stupid man?”

  “No, but all men are stupid from time to time.”

  “I have heard the same about women.”

  “Naturally, you have heard wrong.”

  “Naturally.” For a moment, Tom silently watched a leaf float down the creek. “What will you teach your children about love?”

  “I shall tell them love is almost as important as honor.”

  “Almost? I have never heard that before.”

  “My mother was a good woman and my father truly loved her, but he did not always honor her.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, when she set down a rule, he did not always make his children obey it. Perhaps she did not discuss it with him first and that was the problem, but he thought it fun to break the rules she set down for us.”

  “You mean he ridiculed her?”

  “Not always, but sometimes. Mother found it hurtful and cruel, for she only meant to help us grow into fine men and women. Yet, with Father not honoring her, we children learned not to honor her as well. As long as I live, I shall never forget the hurt in her eyes the first time I dared laugh at her.”

  “Is that what you meant when you said a hundred words cannot heal the wound just one can make?”

  “Yes. Now it is your turn. What sort of life do you want?”

  “The usual I guess; a home, a wife and children. There is nothing grander than the soft skin of a baby’s cheek when you hug them, or the first time the little one hugs you back.”

  “You must be the oldest.”

  “Third oldest of seven. We had our problems, but my parents were happy, I think.” He held his breath and hoped she wouldn’t ask any more questions about his past. He considered pouring his soul out to her then, but that wasn’t the right time either. If the truth was going to upset her, they should be at home where she could go to her room, and do whatever women do when they get upset. Here, the MacGreagors would know something was wrong and ask questions.

  CHAPTER 9

  Prescot, Hannish, Claymore, and Moan, were proud of the trout caught the Sunday they went fishing. The cooks prepared it splendidly, and when Prescot announced dinner was about to be served, the family headed into the dining room – all but Leesil, who took one whiff of the fish, turned right around and walked away.

  “What is it, my love,” a concerned Hannish asked as he followed her across the parlor to the stairs.

  “‘Tis nothin’ that will not pass. Forgive me, but I wish to lie down for a while. I shall eat later.”

  “As you wish. You are certain ‘tis nothin’ serious.”

  “Quite certain.” She kissed his lips and headed up the stairs, hoping to put as much distance between her and the smell of fish as possible.

  *

  It was not until after dinner had been served that Tom lightly knocked on Leesil’s bedchamber door.

  “Come in.”

  “Miss Leesil, I thought you might like a sandwich.”

  “So long as ‘tis not a fish sandwich. I cannae abide the smell just now.”

  “It is ham.”

  “Bless you, Tom, I am quite starved and you have saved me the trouble of havin’ to sneak into the kitchen later. There is hardly a time when no one is there, you know.”

  “Can I bring you anything else?”

  “Nay, this is plenty. I do hope no one saw you.”

  “Madeline hates fish, so I made two sandwiches and said they were for the two of us.”

  “You are right dead brilliant.”

  He grinned, cautiously opened the door, looked both ways, and slipped back into the hallway.

  *

  At last, August became September and by mid-September, the days began to cool in Colorado. The end of September meant hayrides, the baseball playoffs, and the gathering of the harvest. October meant fresh squash for dinner, a favorite of most in the household, croquet matches in the front yard and long walks for couples in love.

  Still, Tom did not tell Madeline about his past. He was just so in love, the fear of losing her was too great. If the others wondered what was taking him so long to propose, they kept it among themselves. Tom, they decided, had his reasons. Love did not prevent him from entertaining everyone with his wild stories each time he came back from town.

  “You’ll not believe this one,” he said, sitting down to dinner with the rest of the servants.

  “What now?” Dugan asked.

  “Two quite reputable women in England swear they have been visited by the ghost of Marie Antoinette!”

  “Is she not the one who was beheaded in France?” Gretchen asked.

  “Aye, and her husband, Louis the XVI, with her,” Cook Jessie answered. “What part of England?”

  “Does it matter?” Keith asked.

  “Aye, it matters. In the south of England, most anythin’ is believable,” Jessie answered.

  “Spoken by a true Scot,” Dugan muttered. He winked at his Scottish wife and then continued to eat his meal.

  Shepard finished his bite and then used his fork as a pointer. “Tom, I have discovered your secret.”

  “What secret, I have no secret.” Instantly terrified, Tom dared not look at Madeline and held his breath.

  “Miss Virginia Gray asked about you today. She said she has a new book of hoaxes she wishes to show you.”

  “Hoaxes?” several alarmingly asked at once.

  Tom silently released his held breath.

  Shepard nodded. “It seems our sly Mr. Tom has enter
tained us with things that were claimed years ago. The giant found buried on a farm in Wisconsin, the robber who robbed the robber, the man-eating tree, giant potatoes in Colorado, and now the ghost of Marie Antoinette – all hoaxes played on the public in years gone by.”

  Tom hung his head. “You have caught me.”

  “Well, I liked hearin’ them,” said Millie. “It was fun guessin’ if they were true or not.”

  “Me too,” said Madeline. “So long as the hoax is not played on us.”

  Once again, her words stung Tom and it was clearly time to tell her the truth.

  *

  That night, Tom took Madeline for a walk in the moonlight. “I have a confession to make,” he said, gently pulling her into his arms.

  “What?”

  “I want you to know, I am truly and deeply in love with you, but first I must...”

  She put her fingers on his lips to make him stop talking. “Those are the only words I shall ever need to hear. I am truly and deeply in love with you too.”

  Tom’s heart was so full of joy; he just couldn’t bring himself to tell her. At that very moment, she loved him as much as he loved her, and he wanted to hang on tight to her words for as long as he could. He gently touched her face, ran his fingers across her lips, and when she closed her eyes, he urgently kissed her, as though he somehow knew the world was about to rip her out of his arms.

  He was right.

  *

  For Mr. George Graham in London, October did not mean long walks for couples in love. It meant cold, wet, dreary days of waiting for his wife to come out of the Husher mansion.

  Three times in the last few weeks, he got close enough to let the duchess see him, but each time, Lady Husher got between them and didn’t move away. He suspected someone had actually died, for when the duchess appeared in public, she always wore her mourning attire, complete with the hat netting that obscured her beautiful eyes.

  It was a shame, for he loved her eyes, even if he did not necessarily love her.

  He stood under the eave of a doorway across the busy avenue, and watched as three traveling cases were loaded on the back of the Husher carriage. His hopes were high and when, at last, she came out of the mansion and climbed in, he hurried to his rented one-horse buggy, opted to drive it himself and followed.

  She still wore her widow’s garb, but the traveling cases were a sure sign she was going on a journey of some sort. He couldn’t lose her this time – he might never find her again.

  The streets were crowded with horses and buggies all vying for a spot in the rush of people going both toward and away from town. He kept as close as he could, but at one point, George fell in behind a taller than usual coach and nearly lost sight of her. It was only after her carriage turned down another street that it became clear she was going to the train station.

  When he turned his buggy accordingly, he escaped his position behind the tall coach, and fell in behind a wagon hauling wooden crates. He was then crowded further back by the driver of a four horse carriage, who risked oncoming traffic to go around and get ahead of him.

  Disgruntled, George spat out a few choice words, and sought an opportunity to regain his former position. He pulled his buggy toward the oncoming traffic and then back to the center repeatedly, but it was to no avail – he simply could not get up the nerve to try it. At last, the carriage turned off and as the line of vehicles drew closer to the train station, the traffic began to thin and speed up. Once more able to see the back of his wife’s carriage, he elected not to pass the crate loaded wagon and kept his horse at a steady pace instead.

  It was a mistake.

  When it came to trains, the wealthy always had the advantage of buying tickets well in advance and avoid waiting in a line at the station. The Hushers would certainly have done as much for the duchess, and that meant she could quickly board one of several trains going to different destinations. He could not. The best he could hope for, was to know which train she was on and pray he had time to buy a ticket – that is, if he had enough money in his pocket to afford one.

  Suddenly, one wheel of the wagon in front of George hit a rock. The wagon teetered on two wheels for a brief moment before it flipped over, tossed the driver to the street, and scattered its contents across both lanes.

  He pulled his horse to a halt just in time, and watched as the duchess’ carriage kept going – putting still more distance between them. Desperate, he dropped the reins and jumped off the buggy. On foot, he darted through the carnage in the street and the alarmed pedestrians, and ignored the injured driver. He further ignored drivers of the coaches and buggies waiting to go the opposite way, who demanded to know what the holdup was. Instead, he kept his eyes glued on the Husher carriage – pulling farther and farther away.

  George Graham’s breathing was already labored when he began to run down the middle of the street. It began with a slight pain in his left arm, which he grabbed hold of with his other hand. When the pain radiated into his jaw, he slowed down and then stopped. He could feel his heart beating wildly as he gasped for air, and then in the next instant, the excruciating pain struck a deadly blow to his chest.

  The duchess heard nothing, saw nothing, got on the train and never knew her first husband lay dead in the street behind her. She might have cried a tear or two if she had known, for George was the husband who best understood her, and the third husband to die before his time. As fate would have it, she truly was a widow now. Indeed, she liked George well enough, yet it was the train robber Jedediah Tanner she would love until she died.

  As soon as the train began to move, she carried her satchel into her private Pullman compartment, pulled down the shade, and shed her mourning clothing in favor of a pale green blouse, a dark green skirt, and a matching jacket. Equipped with the latest facial enhancements and out from under the ever watchful eye of Lady Husher, she felt human again – finally.

  *

  With Moan and his family off on a picnic, it promised to be a quiet and peaceful Saturday lunch for Leesil and Hannish. However, it was soon interrupted when Bat Masterson rang the bell at Marblestone Mansion’s front door.

  Prescot hurried to answer it, and no one was more surprised than he to see his old friend. “Are you not a sight for sore eyes?” He asked, vigorously shaking Bat’s hand. “Come in, come in.”

  A tall man in his 40s, Masterson spoke with the slight Irish accent he inherited from his immigrant parents. He removed his hat, looked around the white marble foyer and softly whistled. “Who did you have to rob to afford all this?”

  Prescot lowered his head in shame. “I am but a lowly butler.” Just as quickly, he lifted his head again and smiled. “The place belongs to Hannish MacGreagor.”

  “The Scot I’ve heard so much about? The one who is famous, for having the good sense to sell his silver mine, before it dwindled away to nothing?”

  “That’s the one, although he didn’t know the silver was nearly gone at the time. I worked the mine with him and I never guessed it either. What brings you to this part of the world?”

  “You.”

  When Hannish walked into the foyer to see who it was, Prescot said, “Ah, here is the man himself. Mr. Hannish, this is an old friend of mine, Bat Masterson.”

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Hannish. He politely shook the stranger’s hand and then motioned him into the parlor. “How is it you know Prescot?”

  “I make it my business to know where all the great prizefighters are. I heard about a fight in Colorado City, where a man took on five hardy men at once, and I knew it could be none other than Prescot.”

  “That was some time ago. We are quite captivated by his fightin’ skills ourselves.”

  “He’s the best I’ve ever seen, Mr. MacGreagor, and I mean to take Prescot with me when I leave. We’ve got a big fight coming up in Denver, and…”

  Prescot cleared his throat, “I cannot. I have given up fighting for good.”

  “Would a five hundre
d dollar purse change your mind?” Masterson asked.

  Prescot raised both eyebrows. “Five hundred?”

  “Most are putting their money on Big Blue Carter, but you can put him down easy.”

  Prescot shook his head. “I am tempted, but I’ve a wife and child to think of now, and I am not as eager to get my face knocked about as I once was.”

  “Mr. Masterson, will you not join us for lunch? We were about to go in,” said Hannish. “And of course, you must join us Prescot.”

  Masterson nodded. “If ‘tis not a bother, Mr. MacGreagor, I’d be pleased.”

  “No bother at all. ‘Tis right this way.”

  Instead of following Hannish to the dining room, Masterson hung back a little and whispered to Prescot, “He’s no idea who I am, right?”

  “Not a hint. He and his wife have not lived in America long enough to be caught up in the outlaw fever.”

  “Good, the less they know, the fewer questions they will ask.” That’s what Masterson was expecting anyway. He was introduced to Mrs. MacGreagor, and was about to sit down when he spotted a face he recognized. He opened his mouth to speak just as the doorbell interrupted him and Prescot immediately went to answer it.

  “It is difficult to imagine him being a butler,” Masterson said to Hannish.

  “He is the best I’ve ever seen,” Hannish said.

  “Mrs. Whitfield has arrived,” Prescot announced, barely beating Abigail through the door.

  “Right on time,” said Leesil. “Tom, set another place, will you?”

  “Of course, Miss Leesil,” Tom said, reaching for the extra place setting they kept for Abigail on the running board. He was trying very hard not to notice, but he could feel Bat Masterson’s eyes on him. His stomach began to churn, he started to sweat and he could hardly think. Unless by some stroke of luck Masterson didn’t say anything, he was done for.

  “Well, my stars if you are not Mr. Bat Masterson,” Abigail said as Prescot pulled out a chair and seated her next to Leesil. “I have seen your picture and I rarely forget a face.”

  “Nor do I,” Masterson said, trying not to make his meaning obvious to anyone but Tom. Tom, he observed, ignored the comment. Prescot seated Masterson at the end of the shortened table facing Hannish, and sat beside him.