Had his faith been so weak God had to put him through this? He pressed a hand against his temple in an effort to soothe the jabbing behind his eyes that was impossible to touch. He needed to stop dwelling on something he couldn’t reason away. “I intend to entrust my entire estate to you, if you’ll entrust me with …”
And what exactly did he need from Helen? “Promise me your loyalty, Miss Barker. I’ve seen it on display in regard to your family and faith; it’s all I ask of you.”
Chapter 2
Helen pinched her nose shut to keep the dust she’d just stirred from tickling up a sneeze.
“I just can’t believe you’d agree to marry him in a week. It’s … it’s …”
Helen clamped her free hand against her forehead, hoping to smash away the headache Margaret created by her nonstop talking while pacing in front of the footboard. Why couldn’t her sister fold the items on the bed waiting to be packed into Helen’s two trunks instead?
“It’s unseemly.”
“Achoo!”
“God bless you.”
Well, that was one way to get her sister to bless this marriage—probably the only way. Helen sniffled and searched for her handkerchief amid the pile of embroidered linens she’d collected. She’d placed them around the house years ago when she realized they’d never leave this house for a home of her own.
Not anymore. She smiled but then noticed the coffee stain on one of her crocheted doilies. Would Neil want her old handmade things? He could probably afford to buy all the fancy linens she desired. And they’d all be pristine.
Would he care about the stains? He wouldn’t be able to see them soon anyway, and since he wasn’t marrying her for love, he probably cared even less about the things she brought with her.
“In the week since Mr. Oliver proposed, he hasn’t taken you for a walk, a carriage ride, or to the hotel for dinner.” Margaret stood looking out the window, her hands clenching her hips. “He didn’t even drop by to see you—”
“He saw me at church on Wednesday.”
“That’s not the same. You’ve let him get away with doing nothing to win you. Just because no one else has wanted you, doesn’t mean you can’t get something more out of him. He’s got more money than all of Don’s brothers combined. He could at least have taken you to see that opera singer who came through town yesterday.”
Rather Margaret had hoped he’d take them all to see the opera singer yesterday.
“Whatever are you going to talk about to that man? You can’t discuss the Bible every day.”
Helen sniffled again, using the handkerchief to hide her smile. Talking about theology was far more interesting than last night’s dinner argument over whether Don and Margaret could afford to reupholster the ottoman and the settee to match, or just one of the items, or neither.…
“He can’t possibly love you, so how’d you capture his interest?”
And now she used the handkerchief to hide a scowl. Of course no one could actually be interested in Margaret Abernathy’s ugly sister.
She’d believed that herself only just a week ago.
Of course, Neil wasn’t really interested in her.
“He’s not good enough for you, Helen.”
“Come again?” Now her head truly ached. She’d never thought highly of her sister—just as Margaret had never thought much of her—but she must have misunderstood. “How can a poor, homely spinster be too good for a rich, handsome man?” Never mind the reason she had no money was because she’d helped Margaret raise her brood. Maybe she should’ve found a paying position all those years ago. Her sister and late mother might actually have thought her valuable then. But now that her youth had slipped away, finding a position would likely be difficult, if not impossible.
“Well of course he’s good enough. But, but … well, he could afford to pay you quite the sum for your assistance, yet he’s figured out a way to steal your services for free. We can’t afford help, yet he could hire a hundred people off the street if he wanted to.”
Helen crammed her winter petticoat into the trunk and pressed her lips together. Breathe.
“Achoo!”
All right, don’t breathe too much. She snatched up her handkerchief to cover another sneeze.
“God bless you.”
“That’s right, Margaret, God blessed me.” She moved to empty her side table’s little drawer. “You’d have been happy if Mr. Oliver had asked for any of your girls’ hands.”
“But he’s at least twenty years older than Lula, and he’s way too old for any of the others.”
“Yet if he’d asked for Lula’s hand years ago, you would’ve given your blessing despite the age difference.”
“Money isn’t all that matters.”
“I don’t believe that was your sentiment when Eunice got engaged.” Money was the only reason Eunice married Delbert, a man fourteen years her senior. And Margaret had been thrilled with the match.
“Well, what about Jeffrey?”
Helen placed her three journals and pen set into one of the little compartments in the tray sitting across the top of the trunk. “Marrying Neil won’t change anything about that.”
“But surely he’ll feel you are condoning what Mr. Oliver did to him.”
Neil hadn’t done anything besides make a good business deal for himself. And though Don often chastised his son for not thinking things through, Margaret insisted Neil had swindled her favorite son from his property. How else could a man she found socially unacceptable make so much money if not by cheating?
Perhaps Neil hadn’t told the boy he was underselling … and maybe he had and Jeffrey didn’t care. Either way, Jeffrey was miffed after learning Mr. Oliver was making a handsome profit with the property.
And with Jeffrey just returning from another jaunt around the West Coast, would he fume over his aunt marrying Neil?
But how could she not pursue a future beyond this small attic? As much as she loved Jeffrey, he was a bit of a hothead. In a few years, he’d engage in some other business idea and would care little about his past transaction with Neil. And she’d have declined this opportunity for nothing. Besides, she couldn’t change the past … but she could transform the future. “As Neil’s wife, I’ll be in a position to keep other young men from being taken … if that’s even necessary.”
“I have a bad feeling about this.” Margaret frowned, evidently too busy wringing her hands to pack the two winter petticoats left to stuff into the larger trunk.
Helen snatched up the garments and crammed them in. “Here, hold this lid down.” She’d not let herself react to her sister’s jealousy or pettiness.
“Miss Barker?” Mrs. Wall poked her white-capped head into the room. “A driver’s waiting for you downstairs.”
Margaret stiffened, but at least kept her weight on the trunk lid. Her sister was always annoyed when the house staff spoke to Helen instead of her—as if no one in the household could function without her input.
Helen pulled on the leather straps until the buckles lined up with the holes then picked up the timepiece hanging from her waist. “It’s not even lunchtime yet.” Neil had told her they’d marry at three. She’d not expected him to send someone for her until nearer the ceremony.
“He’s in the parlor.”
Margaret bristled even more. Hopefully the driver wasn’t touching anything when they went down to talk to him.
With one last glance around, Helen made sure everything had been packed. She’d not meant to finish early, but perhaps it was a good thing. Was Neil always ahead of schedule? Was he anxious? Had he forgotten what he’d told her?
Making her way down the narrow stairs, Margaret treading heavily behind her, Helen brushed at the dust clinging to her blue-and-cream-striped skirt. She shouldn’t have donned her wedding outfit until after packing, but nothing could be done about it now.
They stepped into the dark-green-and-gray-wallpapered parlor, where the driver, a man of maybe forty years, in a jacket a
nd trousers that’d seen better days, stood ill at ease holding on to a ledger of some sort. He tipped his hat then must have realized he was still wearing it inside, because he snagged it off. “Miss Barker, ma’am?”
“Yes.”
Margaret cleared her throat, but the driver ignored her.
“Mr. Oliver wanted me to give you this.” He handed Helen the thin dark green ledger—or was it a journal? “He told me to wait for your answer.” Fidgeting, the man’s gaze darted around at the frilly furniture.
Mrs. Wall stepped around Margaret. “Since it’s lunchtime, I propose Mr. Ferguson come to the kitchen. I’ve got an extra meat pie.”
“What answer is Mr. Oliver expecting?” Margaret eyed the notebook and the dust-covered driver.
“I don’t know, ma’am. Miss Barker could answer though.”
Helen crossed to the short fancy chair in the corner of the room and sat before opening the journal. She didn’t need to sit, but it’d keep Margaret from looking over her shoulder. A single piece of paper lay just inside the cover.
Dear Helen,
I realized I hadn’t said all that I meant to say Wednesday. I was surprised that you agreed so readily, and my tongue, as usual, stayed tied. I, however, want to make sure you know what kind of man you’re marrying, and rather than attempt to say it and forget things again, I figured writing would give me the time to ponder all that needed to be said. I want to lay out all my foibles and perhaps what you’ll consider assets before you go through with your vows. I don’t take vows lightly, and from what I know of you, you won’t, either. I’ve told no one of our engagement. If what I’ve written here makes you reconsider our arrangement, inform my driver, Mr. Ferguson, and he’ll inform me. I promise not to react in any way detrimental to you if you change your mind. Regardless of your choice, I hope you’ll still discuss the finer details of scripture with me in the future.
Earnestly,
Neil
She smiled at the words on the page.
It’d be too easy to love Neil. Except their match had nothing to do with love. Mutual need and convenience was all their relationship was supposed to be. But could she keep her emotions in check? What happened if she came to love him but he stayed as aloof as ever?
Her hands started trembling. Could she remain in her sister’s suffocating attic when she could help run a business and have a house of her own?
No. So she’d figure out what to do with love or the continued lack thereof later—if that ever became an issue.
And why did she have this glimmer of hope that he might come to care something for her? She was too old to believe in fairy tales. No handsome prince fell for the ugly duck paddling in his pond.
Helen laid the note down in her lap. “Mrs. Wall, if you’d escort Mr. Ferguson to the kitchen and have my lunch brought to me, I’ll have him on his way shortly.”
The big wooden door to the church creaked open behind Neil. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone right now, so he kept his head down and continued praying … though his prayers hardly contained words—more an attempt to shake the uncertainty off his shoulders and onto the cross.
“Neil?”
He glanced up and over his shoulder, blinking several times against the dim interior, waiting for his eyes to adjust.
Stupid. His eyes weren’t going to adjust. “Helen?” He’d spoken her Christian name aloud on Wednesday and it had felt wrong, but he had to shed the informality lest he keep barriers between them. He’d kept people at arm’s length his whole life, but he couldn’t do that with a wife.
“Yes.”
He started at the voice only a few feet away, as if she’d come out of nowhere. He could just make out her silhouette. The sanctuary’s darkness must be more encompassing than he’d thought. Otherwise he should have seen her movement sooner—he wasn’t that bad off yet—he shouldn’t lose that much vision in an hour or two.
But why was she here early? He surely hadn’t been praying for three hours already. “What time is it?”
“One.”
The air fluffed between them when she sat, the fabric of her skirt beside his leg looked striped. Probably the blue pinstripes she often wore, the pattern giving the illusion she had more curves than she did.
He swallowed against imagining her profile too much. Of course, her shape or lack thereof was likely the only thing he’d see of her from now on. “How did you know I was here?”
“Mr. Ferguson told me.”
He’d sent his driver to the Abernathys’ only minutes before noon. She couldn’t have read everything he’d written already. At least not with enough time to ponder all the implications.
She turned toward him. “Were you planning to sit in the dark for another two hours?”
“I didn’t think praying would hurt anything.”
“I don’t think praying ever hurts.”
“Not so sure about that.” He clasped his hands in front of him, trying to see if they were trembling as hard as they felt. “David was a rather brave man. ‘Search me, O God, and know my heart: try me, and know my thoughts: and see if there be any wicked way in me.’ I myself haven’t been brave enough to truly pray that very often.”
“I suppose not many of us ask God to be so truthful with us, as if we could keep our faults hidden if we refuse Him permission to look.”
He nodded. Were his faults why she’d come early? Had she seen the truth about him in the small notebook he’d filled over the last three nights and realized she’d been too quick to agree to marry him?
She had been too quick to agree. He’d been pondering this arrangement for almost two weeks, and she’d given him an answer in three days.
Was this why he’d felt such unease?
But he’d promised, and he’d decided; so he’d follow through—if she’d have him.
He sat in silence, keeping his eyes on his hands, so he might get a glimpse of her face from his peripheral vision. It was difficult to look away from what he wanted to see and rely on his eyes and brain to piece together the images from the edges of his vision. Today’s darkness seemed worse than yesterday’s though. Would it clear up again?
Helen remained silent beside him.
Why was she here if not to break things off? “Mr. Ferguson gave you the notebook?”
Surely after laying bare the deficiencies of his character, she couldn’t be antsy to marry him.
“Yes, he did. Were you trying to talk me out of marrying you?”
“No.” Not exactly.
“Good, because it didn’t work.”
His facial twitch started acting up. He knew it wasn’t as visible as it felt, but unable to see her expression, he couldn’t do anything but imagine her staring at his blasted cheek.
“Your failures are anything but. You seem to believe that giving away only twenty-five percent of your income or punching a man’s face hard enough to disfigure him despite the fact that he was”—she cleared her throat—“forcing his attentions onto a woman should be looked down upon. Well, you’re wrong; those don’t deserve to be included on your list of failures—”
“Granted those two things could be seen as something I shouldn’t regret, but did you read the whole list? I also let my sister string along a man, knowing she’d likely jilt him, because I’d hoped that by some miracle she wouldn’t. And then there’s my pride over having acquired so much when most came through God’s favor. And that time I took a drunk man’s purse so he couldn’t purchase any more liquor, but then justified keeping his money so I wouldn’t have to go back and talk to him—”
“I read it.” Her hand landed on his, and suddenly he had a nervous muscular tick near his thumb as well.
Her long, soft fingers were cool to the touch, so he wrapped his hand around them. When he realized what he’d done, he forced himself to keep hold of her. Holding the hand of the woman he was about to marry wasn’t improper, but he’d not thought about how her skin would actually feel.…
“I trusted you bef
ore I read your letters, and after reading them, I know my trust isn’t misplaced. But the real question is whether you should trust my abilities. I’ve never been involved in any type of business. I’ve done nothing much beyond household duties: clean floors, change diapers, cook meals.”
“I trust you whether or not you have the right job qualifications.” Not that he was hiring her for a job.
Please God, sometime in the future, I hope You’ll help her feel something more than obligation toward me.
He squeezed her hand thrice. “I know your character, Helen.”
She fidgeted. “You didn’t mention your dealings with Jeffrey in your journal.”
“Who?”
“My nephew, Jeffrey Abernathy. He has red curly hair and a thin mustache. He stands a little shorter than you but is skinny as a rail. He sold you property near Orchard Street.”
“Oh.” One of her sister’s large brood. “He sold that to cover a debt, as I recall.”
She said nothing more.
Surely she didn’t want him to pick apart her nephew’s character—she had to know he wouldn’t have much good to say. Jeffrey wasn’t particularly a bad kid, but there was definitely troubling aspects to the young man’s personality. “Is there a reason you brought him up?”
He caught a subtle movement he assumed was the shake of her head.
She squeezed his hand tighter. “I trust you.”
The ensuing silence lasted long enough that the noise of their timepieces slowly went from ticking separately to in sync. Did she intend to sit with him for two hours? “Do you want me to summon the pastor, or …”
“Why don’t you go back to praying?” She scooted closer. “I don’t hear you pray much.”
He swallowed and concentrated on his hands again, except one of them held a woman’s fingers, warmed by his own. Had his sisters’ hands been this soft?
His mouth was too dry to form words. What had she asked him again?
“Dear Lord,” Helen began, “I ask that you help both of us become the people you want us to be—together. We’ve been on our own for so long, we may have difficulty learning to consider each other above ourselves.…”
The Convenient Bride Collection: 9 Romances Grow from Marriage Partnerships Formed Out of Necessity Page 21