The Convenient Bride Collection: 9 Romances Grow from Marriage Partnerships Formed Out of Necessity
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“Very good, Miss MacDougall. I did perceive the brogue in your father’s speech.”
“He grew up in Scotland and immigrated here as a boy.”
“So you were born here in New York?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Radclyfe gave her a sly wink. “And what a pretty lassie ye are then.”
“Don’t play with me, Mr. Radclyfe. You and I have nothing in common.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure. I love to read as much as you do.”
Anna stiffened. “I trust that you will not bring that up again, sir.”
“Why not? I find it fascinating that you secreted yourself away in a dressing room to read a novel in the middle of a ball.”
“I wasn’t—” She broke off. She didn’t like the fact that she’d been found doing something unladylike. “I don’t wish to discuss it.”
“But you agree it’s a rather mutinous act.”
“I agree to no such thing. I find this conversation outrageous. You know nothing about me, yet you presume to pass judgment. As I said before, we have nothing in common, and I think this dance must end. I generally find these affairs distasteful.”
“Then we do have something in common, as I also usually avoid balls.”
“Then why are you here?” She sniffed. “Wait. Don’t tell me. You’re looking for a wealthy American wife.”
He gulped. “I—”
“I’ve called you out, sir.” She stopped dead in the middle of the ballroom floor, while the dancers surged around them. “I wish to return to my father.”
He sighed and offered his arm. Several times he started to say something then stopped.
It didn’t matter how handsome or charming he was. A year ago she had been down that path, and nothing would compel her to tread it again. She mentally practiced the stinging words with which she would bid him an icy adieu. But she forgot them in a flash as they arrived at the table and she noticed her father’s face. Cold tentacles of fear gripped her throat.
“Papa, what’s wrong?” He had developed a dreadful pallor, and a bluish shadow edged his lips.
“I dinna ken,” he said hoarsely. “A terrible weakness has crept over me.”
Anna took the chair next to him and laid her hand on his forearm. “Are you in pain?”
“No, lassie. Just dreadfully tired.”
She let out the breath she’d been holding, feeling weak herself. “We’re going home at once.”
She turned to ask Mr. Radclyfe to send for their carriage but he had disappeared, just when he might have proved useful. But a moment later, he pushed through the crowd with a silver-haired gentleman who looked vaguely familiar.
“Miss MacDougall, this is Dr. DeVries.”
Anna threw a look of gratitude toward Mr. Radclyfe and stepped aside for the physician, who quickly assessed her father.
Mr. Radclyfe gently touched her shoulder. “I’ll see that your carriage is brought round at once and return to assist you.” He disappeared into the throng.
“Papa, can you walk?”
Dr. DeVries shook his head. “Let him rest.”
A fine sheen of perspiration broke out on her father’s forehead. He groped for his handkerchief and mopped his face.
Anna loosened his cravat and fanned him. His face had lost some of the greenish-gray pallor by the time Mr. Radclyfe returned. With his strong arm around her father’s waist, they negotiated the halls and steps of the opera house to the waiting carriage.
Her father took a deep breath of the cool spring air. “Better already. I think it was too close in there. Sorry I spoiled your fun, lassie.”
“Please, Papa …”
Mr. Radclyfe helped him into the carriage, closed the door, and then turned to her, his breath misty. “Miss MacDougall, please forgive—”
“There’s nothing to forgive. As it’s likely I will never see you again, good night.”
The footman opened the carriage door and assisted her inside. Then her father rolled down the window. “Don’t forget my invitation, Robert. Next week. Hyde Park. I have a few things I can show ye about fly-fishing. Bring a friend if you like.”
Anna’s heart sank. What a kerfuffle. Now she’d have to face him for two weeks or more.
Mr. Radclyfe smiled and looked past her father to meet her eyes. “It will be my pleasure. Looking forward to it.”
Baron DeVille pounced on Rob when he returned to the ballroom. “Where the deuce have you been, Rob? I’ve been hunting for you all evening.”
“I’ve met an interesting girl.”
“It’s about time.” DeVille grinned. “What’s her fortune?”
Rob shrugged. “I’ve no idea.”
“What?” DeVille choked. “Who is she?”
“Anna MacDougall.”
DeVille’s eyes widened. “MacDougall? As in Philip MacDougall?”
Rob nodded.
DeVille put his hand over his heart. “You’ve hit the mother lode, my dear man. Anna MacDougall—she’s worth millions.”
Rob gasped. “Huzzah!”
“He’s the MacDougall in the MacDougall Sewing Machine Company. Singlehandedly revolutionized the industry and cornered the market for twenty-five years. Very shrewd man, that MacDougall. Bought out every smaller company until he was the main manufacturer.”
“My word.” He’d had no idea, and the thought of his need to marry for money had vanished when he had seen Miss MacDougall’s face.
DeVille blinked. “You truly didn’t know who she was?”
Rob shook his head and smiled.
“Who introduced you?”
“No one.”
DeVille groaned. “Don’t keep me in suspense, my good man—how did you meet her?”
“I slipped into a dressing room to avoid that blond in the white velvet. And tucked away at the back, I found a striking redhead in green silk reading a book.”
DeVille rolled his eyes. “Please tell me you didn’t approach her.”
“Unfortunately, I did.”
“You know better.” DeVille frowned. “So what happened?”
“I spoke to her.” Rob shook his head. “She wouldn’t accept my apology or give me her name. So I watched for her and offered my assistance at the supper table, and managed to worm my way into an invitation to visit their country estate.”
DeVille clapped his hands. “Well done.”
Rob shrugged. “Not really. She can’t abide me.”
DeVille pursed his lips, thinking. “I’m trying to remember … I think she was engaged last year. But then it was called off.”
“Do you know why?”
“I think the chap was after her money.”
Rob groaned. “That doesn’t bode well for me then.”
DeVille grinned. “Unless you can make her fall in love with you.”
They reentered the ballroom, and though Rob dutifully danced with a bevy of young ladies eager for his attention, his thoughts kept returning to the girl in the apple-green silk.
The ball ended at one a.m. Before he and Deville left for their hotel, Rob slipped into the dressing room and retrieved the copy of Dorian Gray from its hiding place.
Chapter 3
Anna sent an urgent message to her father’s physician upon their return home at midnight. Fortunately their mansion on Fifth Avenue stood just a few blocks from the opera house. Two of the burlier footmen assisted her father up the curving flight of marble steps and into the east wing, which contained his suite of rooms.
Her father asked for privacy while the doctor examined him, so Anna paced the hallway outside his bedroom door until the pattern of ribbons and scrolls in the Aubusson rug had been burned into her brain. Winnie hovered nearby, along with Mrs. Ludley, the housekeeper, and their butler, Mortimer, and some of the other maids and footmen.
Mortimer approached. “May I get anything for you, Miss Anna?”
“No, thank you, Mortimer.”
She’d clenched her teeth for so long her jaw ached. The grandf
ather clock downstairs chimed one a.m. when the door opened and Dr. Buchanan exited the room, frowning as he rolled down his shirtsleeves and pocketed his stethoscope.
“Is he well?” Anna clasped her hands and waited for the doctor’s pronouncement. “Spare me nothing.”
Dr. Buchanan drew her to a sofa in the hall and carefully chose his words. “He is stable, for the moment, Miss MacDougall.” He hesitated, fumbling for words. “But … he isn’t a spring lamb anymore.”
“He has always been hale and hearty.”
Dr. Buchanan nodded sympathetically. “My dear, sometimes our bodies tell us it’s time to rest.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
The doctor avoided her gaze and stood. “He prefers to tell you himself, Miss MacDougall.”
Dread rose into the back of her throat, and she swallowed hard. “May I see him?”
“Briefly. I left some medications for him and administered a mild sedative. I’ll be back to check on him tomorrow. Good night, my dear.” He stroked his gray mustache and gave her an appraising look. “You need some sleep as well. I’ll see myself out.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
Anna opened the bedroom door and quietly slipped inside. Her father lay propped up on pillows, and he opened his eyes when she entered the room and pulled a chair to his bedside. His face had regained his usual ruddiness, and the blue shadow around his lips had disappeared. Two corked brown glass bottles stood on the nightstand labeled “Digitalis Leaves” and “Nitroglycerin.”
“You’re feeling better, Papa?”
“Aye.” He sighed. “But it’s to be expected, lass.”
“What is?”
“That my life is nearly over.”
“Don’t say that. I can’t bear it.”
“But I must say it.” He took her hand and held it tightly. “It’s my heart, Anna. It’s failing. I’m nearing seventy, ye know. I willna be here forever. We must talk—”
“Don’t, Papa!” She jerked her hand out of his and stood up. “I can’t.” Her throat swelled, and she pressed her hand over her mouth, shaking her head to hold back the tears.
He gazed at her, his eyes deep and soft in the lamplight, and nodded. “Another day then, lass. Kiss me good night, and then off with ye. Let an auld man sleep.”
She rested her face against his and then kissed his cheek. Instead of going down the hall to her own bedroom, she stopped at the door to the bedroom that adjoined her father’s. Her mother’s bedroom hadn’t been touched since her death seven years ago on a snowy December night. Crystal perfume bottles waited on the sterling silver tray, and all her mother’s gowns still hung in the huge mahogany wardrobe. Every eight days, a maid dusted the room and wound the little French ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. The faint fragrance of Guerlains’s Jicky still lingered in the elegant room. Her mother had adored its classic sweet hay and lavender scent.
Anna sank to her knees beside the bed and grasped the counterpane. She laid her cheek against the silk and uttered a great sobbing breath. Losing her mother at the age of twelve had been the most difficult event of her life, compounded by witnessing her father’s deep pain and sorrow at losing his beloved wife. Now she had to face the fact that her father was growing older and it would only be a matter of time before she lost him, too. Why did it have to be this way?
Her mother had been fond of quoting Ecclesiastes, and one of her favorite verses came to Anna’s mind. “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die … a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.…” Oh, how her mother had loved to dance!
“I wish you were here, Mama,” she whispered into the darkness. She closed her eyes and thought of her mother’s beautiful face and cornflower-blue eyes, and most of all the way she would laugh—not politely, but throwing her head back with a deep belly laugh when something amused her.
Anna swallowed the lump in her throat. Elizabeth Mary DuPont MacDougall had firmly believed in her Lord Jesus Christ and the eternal life He had given her. Anna knew her mother was alive somewhere with Him and that one day they would be reunited, and that comforted her.
Anna turned her attention to the Lord. “Father, thank You for getting Papa home safely. Thank You for what a wonderful parent he has been.” She swallowed hard. “Please, let me have him a little while longer.”
Anna woke at dawn after a restless night and came down to breakfast early. Her morning tea arrived as her father entered the room fully dressed but walking slowly and holding on to the chair backs as he slipped into his seat across from her. “Good mornin’ to ye, lassie.”
“Papa!” She dropped her spoon, and it clattered against her teacup. “I didn’t expect you downstairs.”
He rang the silver bell beside his plate. “Can’t stay in bed … all day.”
Here in the sunny light of the breakfast room, the gray pallor had returned and the stubborn blue shadow ringed his lips again.
“Have you taken the medicine Dr. Buchanan left you?”
“Not yet.” He placed two tiny pills on the table.
The butler entered the breakfast room.
“Coffee, Mortimer,” her father instructed.
“Very good, sir.” Mortimer nodded and left the room.
Anna frowned. “Take your medication, Papa.”
He nodded and slipped one of the pills under his tongue and then the other when Mortimer returned with the coffee.
Mild spring air filtered in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and with it came the sounds of traffic on Fifth Avenue below, the clip-clop of horse’s hooves, an occasional shout, and the clattering of wagon wheels on the cobblestones.
Her father mopped his forehead, where a faint sheen of perspiration had broken out. “Have ye ever heard such a clishmaclaver? I’m ready to get out of the city, Anna. I’m pinin’ for Longmeadow. Let’s go away tomorrow, earlier than we’d planned.”
The thought of their country estate in Hyde Park immediately brightened her spirits. “We need to give the servants a day to prepare, Papa. And I forgot to tell you that Nora’s in town. I invited her to stay with us at Longmeadow.”
“Wonderful. We’ll have a full house then, won’t we?”
Anna bit her lip. “Shouldn’t you rescind your invitation to that Englishman?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Why? He’s a canny lad. I like him. Ye might, too, if ye give him a wee chance.”
“Papa.” How could she make him understand? “I don’t want to marry. Ever. I can’t … Stuart …” She floundered, helpless to push away the waves of panic that threatened to engulf her at the thought of trying again.
Her father laid his hand over her trembling fingers. “I know, lassie. But you’ll have to humor me. I haven’t given up hope, even if you have.”
Chapter 4
Longmeadow, Hyde Park, New York
May 1, 1899
The MacDougall carriage entered the towering stone and iron gates of Longmeadow as the purple shadows of late afternoon lengthened across the wooded lawns. Flowering white dogwoods and redbuds bloomed among the stands of maple and oak. The mansion stood at the end of a long green park like a perfect jewel, simple yet magnificent with its colonnaded front portico and walls clad in creamy limestone.
Before her father could exit the carriage, Anna ran up the stone staircase, burst through the heavy front door past the waiting staff and on through the octagonal solarium, then pushed through the french doors to the south portico that overlooked the Hudson River. From her vantage point she had a grand view of the Catskill Mountains, the sloping green lawns, and the river below. The crabapples that edged the bluff mingled rosy blossoms with the pale spring green of newly leafed trees. She took a deep breath and sighed luxuriously as her father came onto the veranda and put an arm around her shoulders.
“I agree,” he said, breathing hard. “It’s a bonnie place.”
“It never changes.”
/> Her father laughed. “It’s changed, lassie. At one time the river was as high as the bluff there.” He pointed to the edge of the lawn. “And don’t forget all the arrowheads ye gathered as a child. We aren’t the first to live here, and we won’t be the last.” He gave her waist a squeeze. “Let’s have tea in the garden?”
“Of course, Papa. I’ll go change.”
Her maid, Winifred, a petite brunette with hair wound in a braided coronet, was already hard at work unpacking in the bedroom when Anna came in.
“Help me change, Winnie, and then take the rest of the afternoon off. This can all wait until tomorrow.”
Winnie turned her mistress around, undid the tiny buttons on the back of the bodice, and helped her out of the skirt. “One of your tea gowns?”
Anna nodded. This was her favorite time of the day, when she could leave her corset off and wear loose dresses with no train. “Take my hair down, too, Winnie. It’s only Papa and me for dinner tonight.”
Feeling light and refreshed, she skipped downstairs like a little girl as the French revolving clock chimed four. Her father was waiting for her, and together they passed through the french doors of the breakfast room and down the tidy graveled paths to the huge flowering crabapple in the center garden, so loaded with pink blossoms, that barely a bit of green could be seen. Underneath its spreading branches stood an old cedar bench, weathered to a silvery gray. The tea table had been set up among the gauzy carpet of pink petals and covered with a snowy damask cloth.
Birdsong floated on the warm breezes of the balmy afternoon. Honeybees buzzed among the roses, and hummingbirds darted in and out of the trumpet flowers, the drumming of their tiny wings adding to the musical notes of water falling in the fountain. Her father sank onto a bench and exhaled a long deep breath as the perfumed peace of the garden washed over them.
“Anna,” he said, taking her hand and looking deep into her eyes. “My darlin’ girl. We must speak of it. My heart is failing. It’s gotten auld, along wi’ the rest of me.”
“Oh, Papa,” she said. Tears brimmed in her eyes.
Her father put an arm around her shoulders and drew her close. “Weel, then …” he said. “I’ll be fair sorry to leave ye, lassie.”