The Scandalous Mrs. Wilson

by Laine Ferndale

“A happy Thanksgiving to you too,” Jo said, kissing the woman’s cheeks. Her liberal application of perfume blasted away the comforting smells of roast pork and evergreen. “And how lovely you look! May I offer you some punch?”

  Mrs. McSheen paused to consider this. “I shouldn’t, but it’s a special occasion, so I suppose it would be in poor taste not to partake.” She gave a dramatic sigh.

  Ilsa poured Mrs. McSheen a glass of punch, and Jo tried very hard to nod at the appropriate moments in the litany of McSheen family illnesses and misfortunes. Soon, however, the door rang again. Doc Stryker was wearing a crushed velvet suit of indeterminate vintage— a little threadbare at the elbows but still in excellent condition—and he carried a carved wooden cane in one hand and a jug of beer in the other. Since the destruction of his precious still, Doc Stryker had switched to beer. Hops grew wild in these parts, and it would be months, he said, until his new batch of hooch reached the critical potency.

  All the girls stopped what they were doing to greet him.

  “Ladies!” Doc said, grinning widely. “No need to fight over me. There’s plenty of the old man to go around.” He winked at Jo. “It’s the suit that does it. Drives the ladies wild. Why, I’ve been charming gals in this suit since before you all were even thought of.”

  He handed over the jug then took Ilsa by the arm. “Now. You’ll all be happy to know that I’ve come in good time to sample the roast to ensure that it’s of the highest quality. Not that I would ever doubt you, my dear Ilsa, but one can never be too careful. Even the finest chef can benefit from an impartial palate.” She patted his hand, and together they strode off to the kitchen.

  More guests arrived, and the room filled up with the rustle of taffeta skirts, the shriek of knives on china, and happy chatter. A group had assembled by the piano, and everyone was taking turns half remembering the lyrics of carols. It didn’t seem to matter what the words actually were or what language they were in. Nils dipped in and out of Danish. Someone else sang in Gaelic. The pianist kept up, and everyone clapped along. Ilsa and Nils danced a jig in the middle of a circle of stomping people, and suddenly everyone was swinging their partners around so that the room seemed to tilt dizzily with the rhythm of the twirling bodies.

  Jo leaned against the wall with a small glass of punch in her hands and watched the skirts of every colour seem to blend and swirl together. She closed her eyes. The warmth of the music and the alcohol diffused through her limbs. A good night. For the first time in months, she felt grateful for what she had, instead of spending her time focusing on what she’d lost.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by Ilsa slinging her arms around her. “It’s hot in here. Let’s get some air.” She was breathless from dancing and high spirits, as happy as Jo had ever seen her.

  Jo smiled back. Together, they wove their way through the dancers and out into the sharp air and silence of the back porch. It was much cooler outside, and a brisk breeze blew down from the mountains. Jo closed her eyes again to listen to the soft rustle of the leaves collecting in drifts among the trees and the buildings, and the lapping water of the gently steaming lake. The crunch of shoes in the fallen leaves made her open her eyes.

  She started to remark to Ilsa that they needed to head back inside, but the person standing in front of her wasn’t Ilsa.

  “Hi,” Owen said. The warm, golden light of the porch lamp made his sandy hair glow.

  “How did you—?” She looked around. He seemed to have magically appeared out of the ether. In one hand, he held a suitcase. In the other, a folded piece of paper. “How long have you been out here?”

  Owen smiled sheepishly. “Maybe a half hour. Ilsa certainly took her time. I was beginning to think that she was going to let me starve to death on your doorstep just to teach me a lesson.” He gestured to her dress. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

  Jo took a few steps towards him. She touched his face. He was back. He was here. Somehow, he was really here. “Oh, my God. Come in. Come in!” She reached for his hand, only to bump against the suitcase he was still carrying.

  “Wait,” he said. “I have something for you. It’s taken me so long to respond to your letter that I thought I’d better hand-deliver mine.” He set the suitcase down and held out the piece of folded paper in his other hand. She took the paper from his— trembling?— fingers.

  Despite her sudden clumsiness, she unfolded the letter. It bore only two words: Look down. And there, on her kitchen porch, was Owen Sterling on one knee. Her hands flew to cover her gasp and stayed there, pressing against her lips.

  “You are the most astonishing woman I’ve ever met,” he said. His hair was askew with the breeze, and his cheeks were pink with cold, giving him an almost boyish look. And that expression: she’d been dreaming of that expression in the long months since he’d left. “You’re smart, and beautiful, and brave enough to know what you want and to fight for it. I’m so, so sorry it took me so long to realize that you’re what I want.” Even in this serious moment, his eyes contained so much humour and warmth. “Because you’re the only thing I want, Jo. I don’t need a big house or a motorcar or the club memberships as long as I can have you. I should never have run away from you over a single disagreement, and if you can forgive me for that, I swear that I will never leave your side again. Because I love you.” For once, her inner chorus of worries and constraints was silent. All of her “what ifs?” vanished. And there, between Owen’s fingers, an opal ring shimmered in the faint light. More magic. “Will you marry me?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, finally lowering her hands to rest on Owen’s broad shoulders. He surged to his feet, guided the ring on to her left hand, and captured her in a deep kiss before she had a chance to say another word.

  In the distance, she registered that her party guests were watching from her windows, clapping and cheering, but they seemed a million miles away. He kissed her, and she kissed him back, and their bodies fit against each other as if there had never been a separation.

  Finally, he pulled away to give a showman’s wave to the crowd streaming out of the bathhouse to surround them. Last among them was Doc Stryker, who muscled his way between them and clapped Owen on the shoulders.

  “Good on you, lad,” he said, grinning broadly. “See what happens when you listen to old Doc Stryker?” His eyes drifted up. “A lovely betrothal. And under the mistletoe, no less.”

  Jo hugged Ilsa. Her friend’s blue eyes were brimming with tears. “You minx,” she said. “What else have you been hiding?”

  “Drinks are on me!” Doc exclaimed to universal approval.

  Owen and Jo emerged from the chill of the night into the parlour, which was heavy with the scent of punch and cigar smoke and pine boughs and guttering candles, all edged with the constant mineral tang of the springs. Everyone shook their hands. Everyone asked to see the ring. Finally, drinks dispensed, Doc Stryker let out a whoop and rushed over to hug the pair once more. Jo hadn’t seen him move so fast since the fire.

  “What did I tell you, my lad?” he told Owen.

  Owen smiled. “I’ve lived long enough to know that when a barkeep gives advice, it’s best to heed it.”

  “A barkeep and a doctor. And it’s times like this that make me miss that bottle of port I had tucked away behind my bar for special occasions. Ah, no matter.” He hobbled back over to the punch bowl and poured a generous drink for both of them. “This ladies’ brew will have to do. To the happy couple!”

  Everyone raised their glasses in a noisy, disorganized cheer.

  “To the happy couple!”

  “To Owen and Jo!”

  “Where will you be spending the night?” Mrs. McSheen piped up. The crowd fell silent. “Obviously, for you to stay here would be out of the question. I’m positive, however, that I can arrange a special rate for you at the St. Alice. They speak so highly of you there.”

  “Oh, come off it, woman,” said Doc. “Let the young people be. They’re too old for chaperones.” He winked at Mr
s. McSheen. She recoiled in horror but read the mood of the room and wisely held her tongue.

  And with that, Jo and Owen were surrounded by other, slightly less genteel congratulations and suggestions. Finally, Owen took her hand, and they slipped away into the relative privacy of the kitchen. For a moment, they simply stood facing one another, holding hands. She could not believe that he was so near, that the blue eyes she had spent so much time imagining were staring straight at her.

  “I should kiss you,” she murmured.

  “Now, now,” he said, running his thumb along the top of her hand: the gesture that sent a flush of heat down into her abdomen. “What would Mrs. McSheen say?”

  Jo laughed. Owen laughed too and bent down to kiss her smiling lips. “Are you sure you’d be all right with my moving in with you? We can think of something else, if you want.”

  She smiled. “No more thinking. I’ve spent so long making this complicated, but it’s actually very simple. I love you. I love this place. If you’re willing, I’m happy. I ... oh, Owen, I’ve never been so happy.”

  “Well then,” he said, folding her into his arms. “That’s settled.”

  And it was.

  About the Author

  Laine Ferndale teaches literature and writing to pay for a fairly serious chai latte habit. She began writing romance novels in graduate school; The Scandalous Mrs. Wilson, inspired by her honeymoon in the historic spa town of Hot Springs, Arkansas, is her first book. She lives with her husband and her adorably needy cat.

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  Crimson Romance

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  Copyright © 2017 by Laine Ferndale.

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  First Crimson Romance e-book edition MAY 2017

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

  ISBN 978-1-5072-0478-8

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

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