MARGARET: Suffragettes Mail-Order Bride (Choice Brides Agency #3)

by Kate Cambridge

  But still… their first outing together as a couple and he spent it in the arms of another woman? That was a painful blow. Margaret had hoped the man she married would be faithful to her. Was that too much to ask?

  “Excuse me?”

  She turned around, quickly stifling the lump in her throat. Behind her was one of the ranchers she’d met earlier. Charles… something, she’d forgotten his last name. She blinked rapidly, hoping desperately that her distress didn’t show on her face.

  “Yes?” she said.

  He smiled. He wasn’t nearly as handsome as Jake was, but he looked cheerful in a gangly way and offered her a glass of dark red liquid. “I thought you might be thirsty,” he said. “I noticed your fiancé has been neglecting you.”

  The lump in her throat grew more painful and although Margaret didn’t drink wine, she accepted the glass.

  “He has,” she said. “But he has a lot of friends, so I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “I’m surprised,” the rancher said. “If I had a woman as beautiful as you on my arm, I’d never let you out of my sight.”

  Margaret felt herself blushing. She wouldn’t normally fall for such an obvious line, but at the moment she felt a quick shot of cheer at the thought that someone – anyone – might find her attractive. That she wasn’t so hideous that she’d driven Jake away within a day of knowing him.

  “That’s very kind,” she told him.

  “Nonsense, it’s true,” he replied, clinking their glasses together. Margaret smiled despite the tears still pooling in the corners of her eyes. “You’re a suffragette, aren’t you?” Charles asked.

  “I am,” Margaret said, surprised. “How did you –”

  “You’re kind of a big deal in town,” he said, shrugging in a way which seemed self-deprecating, as though it was his fault for hearing the gossip, and not her fault for being gossiped about. “Anyway, I wanted to meet you – my mother is a suffragette.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, she was,” he said. “Since the Montana women got the vote she’s been less active. She’s still part of the movement,” he added when he saw Margaret’s face fall. “But, you know how it is – a lot of time is spent at the branch and not with the family. She wanted to spend time more with us once the battle here had been won.”

  Margaret nodded. She could understand that, in a way. She supposed she might have understood a lot more if she had been a mother herself.

  “So what did she do when she was active?” she asked.

  Charles launched into a long-winded description of his mother’s letter-writing campaigns. Margaret tried to listen to him, but she couldn’t help her mind drifting back to the sight of her future-husband kissing his childhood sweetheart in the office. Would she be able to handle knowing that a man she was attracted to preferred the company of another woman? Would she survive the lonely months and years relegated to the home, caring for his nephew, while he went to parties on the arm of Abigail Drake?

  She hadn’t signed up for this. She’d wanted a man who would treat her like an equal and not go around behind her back with other women.

  Perhaps marrying Jake was a mistake after all.

  Fourteen

  Jake pushed Abby away, wiping his lips and glaring.

  “What are you thinking, Abby?” he asked. “I’m getting married.”

  Abby didn’t look sorry at all. Her shot at Margaret when the two women had met had already put Jake in a bad mood, but then she’d brought him into her office and pushed into his personal space while she’d given him rudimentary business problems her father should have been able to deal with on his own. Then she’d kissed him.

  In his surprise, Jake had kissed her back. It was a reflex – his brain and body falling into old habits without conscious thought. But as soon as he’d realized what she was doing, he’d pushed her off.

  It wasn’t just that he had a fiancée. After the ride to Abigail’s house, when Jake had heard Margaret confess her strategy for staying positive and laughed with her as she’d come up with increasingly absurd reasons to smile, he’d realized how glad he was that he and Abigail were over. That he’d moved onto someone who could be positive and kind without being frivolous. Who could smile without expecting him to compliment her on it. Every time he thought about what Margaret had lost he felt a twinge of recognition – she, like him, had been hurt badly by the world. But she could still smile.

  “Jake, come on honey,” Abigail said, trying to push herself back into his arms. He stepped away and she huffed like a spoiled child. “We’re too good together – you know that mail-order girl can’t do for you what I do – and our kiss just proved it.”

  “She will,” Jake said, perhaps more fiercely than he meant. “And she already is.”

  Abigail rolled her eyes at him. “You’re being dramatic.”

  “And you’re being desperate,” he snapped.

  Her expression soured. She tossed her head so her hair fell over her shoulder and put her hands on her hips. She looked ready to get into a long tirade, and Jake knew better than to be in the same room with Abigail Drake when she got into a tirade. He turned on his heels and headed for the door, which was slightly ajar but thankfully not open so others could see.

  He stepped out of the office and into the drawing room, taking in the sounds of people chatting over the piano and the smells of various alcohols in the air. Jake hated these things – standing in a room full of people trying to be cleverer and more refined than they really were was exhausting. The way that Abigail had disrespected Margaret and the rest of the room had just watched filled his blood with burning rage. Jake had been frozen with anger at the time, but Margaret had rallied quickly, holding onto his elbow with her delicate fingers and looking more beautiful than anyone in the room as she’d asked him to introduce her to his friends.

  Jake gazed around, looking for his fiancée in the milieu of people. He spotted her next to one of the couches with a glass of port wine in her hand and a laugh on her lips.

  Then he saw who she was with.

  Charlie Hamilton. His mother had been a part of the women’s suffrage movement with Cora, but she was a lot more interested in following on the trail of a movement which was already heading towards success. Before the Montana laws had looked like they were going to change, Mrs Hamilton had stayed in her kitchen gossiping about sad little women who were beating a dead horse – but once she’d felt the wind changing she had hitched herself to the wagon and ridden on the wave of success that women like his own mother had worked hard to obtain.

  Her son was smiling his oily smile at Margaret, leaning into her space just on the edge of propriety. He had a glass of wine as well, and as Jake watched he clinked their glasses together and leaned on the couch in a way which would have seemed lazy and unabashed if he weren’t watching Margaret with such a calculated gaze.

  Jake was suddenly hit with an overwhelming shot of jealousy. Charlie Hamilton was charming and good with girls – he’d only known Margaret a few minutes and she was already smiling at him like she’d known him her whole life. Jake hadn’t gotten her to smile so quickly. He couldn’t help but seethe at the thought that she might prefer Charlie’s charm over him. Jake could never put people at ease the way Charlie could.

  “Well, look at that,” Abigail said, coming up behind Jake. “Your mail-order girl seems to be keeping her options open.”

  Jake pursed his lips, determined not to rise to her bait. He left Abby in the doorway of the office and made his way over to Margaret and Charlie.

  “Hey Charlie,” he said, stepping up next to Margaret and sliding her arm through his.

  Margaret flinched – he must have spooked her by sliding up so silently – and looked up at him with wide eyes. There was something off about her expression.

  “Hey Jake,” Charlie said. His smile hung on but there was something more guarded about it now, as though he had been doing something he knew Jake wouldn’t like.

  Like flir
ting with my fiancée, Jake’s mind supplied.

  “You having fun?” Jake asked Margaret, effectively freezing Charlie out of the conversation.

  She avoided his eyes. “Yes,” she said. “Charles was just telling me about his mother’s work with the Montana suffragettes.”

  Charles. Jake had needed to ask her to call him by his first name. He wanted to pull her closer. Stand between her and Charlie and make sure the other man couldn’t even look at her.

  But Jake reminded himself that he and Margaret weren’t married yet. That he had no claim on her beyond the expectation that they would be man and wife – until then, she was technically allowed to flirt with whoever she wanted. For now.

  “Well, we’ve got to head out now,” Jake said. “I want to get home early.”

  “Oh?” Margaret said. “I didn’t know that.”

  Jake gave her what he hoped was a pleasant smile, but it probably came out as a grimace. “Don’t want to keep Mom up waiting too late,” he said. That seemed like a reasonable reason to cut their evening short. He’d introduced Margaret around and shown Abigail that her sneaky little meddling wasn’t going to ruin him, and now he was exhausted.

  He glanced over his shoulder. Abigail was leaning on the doorframe of the office with her arms crossed, watching Jake with an amused smirk that made him want to growl at her like a dog. He pulled Margaret closer, wanting to shield the woman from Abigail’s meddling, and nodded to Charlie.

  “See you later, Charlie,” Jake said, pulling Margaret towards the door.

  “Sorry about this, Charles – it was nice to meet you!” Margaret called over her shoulder.

  Charlie waved to her, but his wave stuttered when Jake threw him a glare. The other rancher ought to have known better than to flirt with another man’s fiancée.

  Jake held Margaret’s hand in the crook of his elbow. She went with him, her face and jaw working as though she wanted to speak, and Jake wished he could explain his rudeness to her. But he didn’t want her to think he was a jealous cad.

  They rode back to the ranch in silence. Margaret began to shiver as soon as they were out of town, her short sleeves revealing goose bumps on her pale skin, and Jack had tried to give her his jacket. She’d refused – apparently preferring to shiver in the buggy rather than accept his clothes. He’d wanted to ask if she would have accepted the jacket if Charlie had offered it. But he’d resisted.

  The longer he knew Margaret, the more convinced he was that she would be an ideal partner for him. Perhaps it was his own wishful thinking – the rationalising response of a mind burning with infatuation – but Jake wanted to keep Margaret forever. He didn’t want her to be scared off by Abigail, or by the responsibility of raising William, and Jake certainly didn’t want her to fall for the charms of an idiot like Charlie Hamilton. The longer they rode in silence, the more he wished she would turn to him and start listing reasons to smile, or make a joke about chickens as hats. But she stayed silent, staring at the horizon which was barely visible in the soft moonlight.

  When they arrived back at the cottage, Jake helped her off of the buggy and led her into the house. She didn’t thank him. He followed her into the cottage, expecting to walk with her into the living room where Cora would no doubt be waiting, but she went straight to her room. Jake was left to linger in the hall.

  “Jake?” Cora asked, poking her head out of the living room. “Where did Margaret go?”

  “To bed,” Jake replied. “She must have been tired.”

  Cora gave him a hard look. “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” he replied. He squirmed under her gaze. It was remarkable how she could reduce him to a ten-year-old with one look. “Abigail was rude to Margaret.”

  Cora growled. “Well of course she was. Abigail Drake is a spiteful one –”

  “And then I saw Margaret flirting with Charlie Hamilton.”

  He expected Cora to be shocked. He didn’t expect her to laugh.

  “Jake MacDonald, tell me you are not jealous of that weedy little fool!”

  Jake shrugged, feeling heat rising in his cheeks. “Not exactly –”

  “You know that girl only has eyes for you.”

  “I wish you’d stop saying that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re getting my hopes up!”

  He hadn’t realized he was raising his voice. He glanced at the door, half-expecting Margaret to be standing there, listening. But the doorway was empty.

  Jake ran a hand through his hair and ducked his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see his mother’s expression – whether she was shocked or smug, he didn’t want to deal with it. Not when there was so much on his mind and so much to think about.

  “I gotta go – goodnight, Mom,” he said.

  And before she could protest, Jake was out the door.

  Fifteen

  Margaret woke up the next morning feeling listless and weary. She lay for a moment in bed watching the sunlight slowly move along her white bedsheets before sighing and pulling herself out of them. Her eyes were still sensitive from crying and the letter she wrote to Elizabeth the night before was lying on her bedside table, ready to be sent. Margaret stared at it for a moment before walking over to the vanity and fixing her hair into a braid.

  She’d collapsed into bed the night before, only managing to take off her dress but not bothering with her under clothes. She stripped those off and put on a fresh pair.

  “The sun is shining,” she told herself, though there was no real conviction in her voice. “You’ve written a letter to Elizabeth and soon she’ll set things right, like she always does. You’ve still got William to play with and Cora to talk to.”

  But she couldn’t bring herself to go and see Cora at the breakfast table. She’d heard the other woman arguing with Jake the night before – Margaret couldn’t make out the words to their conversation, but she’d heard Jake’s raised voice.

  Instead of going into the kitchen, Margaret made her way outside, walking towards the barn with a mind to see the chickens. As she walked, the brown dog with the black spot on her back approached, smiling a doggie smile and wagging her tail.

  “Well, at least you’re happy to see me,” Margaret said, giving the dog a friendly pet on the head. The dog fell into step beside Margaret as she continued towards the barn. “I still need something to call you. What about… Spot?” The dog didn’t look impressed. “Feefee?” The dog snorted. Margaret snorted with her. It was a terrible name – the kind of name society women liked to foist on their pets; and then they wondered why the dogs snarled so much.

  When Margaret came to the barn, she found Will there. He was playing with the chickens – holding them by their torsos and moving them around in mid-air while their heads remained poised in the same spot.

  “Morning, Margaret!” he said when he saw her. “How was the party?”

  “Awful,” Margaret replied.

  “Gran says that Abigail Drake is a devil child.”

  “I don’t think I know her well enough to judge,” Margaret said, though a very large part of her agreed with Cora’s assessment. At the very least, Abigail Drake was a rude woman who liked to kiss engaged men.

  She watched him for a moment, enjoying the sight of William playing while the dog chased chickens around the barn, yipping lightly as she tried to bite their tails. Will had his stuffed bear in the hay beside him, sitting up as though it meant to observe the proceedings.

  “Would you like to see the stream with me?” Will asked when he was tired of his games.

  Margaret needed to take a moment to remember what he was talking about. The stream was at the very edge of the MacDonald property, coiling around the corner of one field like a snake with trees hanging over to dip their branches in its surface. Margaret nodded.

  “Of course,” she said.

  So she and Will walked hand in hand towards the stream. Will’s bear hung by his side, swinging in the air. She wanted to know where he had gotten it, but a p
art of her had already guessed. It was too old and well cared for to be anything other than a beloved toy from one of his parents. Margaret wished she had something of her parents to carry with her always, but everything had been lost in the fire: photographs, keepsakes, her mother’s jewelry, and everything else of value. By the time firefighters had put out the blaze, Margaret had been left with nothing but the clothes on her back.

  She didn’t want to tell Will that – not yet, at least. It was a lovely day and she didn’t want to spoil the mood, nor did she want to give him a cause for more fear in his life.

  “Are you in love with Uncle Jake, yet?” he asked as they approached the stream. The water was shrouded in shadows thanks to the thick canopy of leaves and branches above it, and thick grass grew at its edge. Margaret was surprised to see that the water appeared to be moving quite quickly – rushing over fallen branches and logs with some haste, throwing up white bubbles as it went.

  Margaret felt her heart clench at Will’s words. She couldn’t be in love with Jake… could she? Surely it was too soon? She was certainly taken with him and she loved to make him laugh. She enjoyed their conversations when he was actually engaged in them, and they seemed to have a similar sense of humour. She was attracted to him, of that there was no doubt. But she barely knew him. She couldn’t love a man she didn’t know.

  Besides, she thought, she would be a fool to love a man who still carried a torch for his former sweetheart. Without trust, how could there be love? There can’t be. Jake may be handsome and a good match for her in temperament, but loving him would cleave her in two. She repeated that to herself firmly as she searched for some noncommittal answer to give to Will.

  “He and I are still getting to know each other,” she said. “I think it will take a while before we know each other well enough to be in love.”

  Will frowned. “But if you don’t love him, will you still marry him?” he asked.

  Margaret thought of the letter sitting on her bedside table. She wanted to answer honestly, but when she looked down at the boy next to her she realised she didn’t know what the honest answer was. She may have had some misgivings about Jake and whether she was ready to commit to spending the rest of her life with him, but there was one thing about this whole business that she had absolutely no misgivings about, and that was Will. She was mad about that boy – his joy in play despite his heartbreak, and the way he tried so hard to be a gentleman like his mother had taught him made her feel as though there was still hope for her and light at the end of her dark tunnel.