A dreadful feeling pushed through Molly, one born of disappointment and anger alike. “No one is ‘allowing’ me to take part in the Chautauqua! I will earn this opportunity myself. Just see if I don’t!”
“There’s no call for you to make yourself upset,” Adam coaxed, his graying hair gleaming in the lamplight. “I mean well, Molly. You know I only have your best interests at heart.”
She did. But that didn’t help when her family’s constant lack of faith ground her down, time and again. Molly gave her papa a frustrated look, unwilling to go on arguing with him, but equally unwilling to back down.
Marcus threw his napkin onto the table. He fixed them both with a cocksure look. “I have tried one of Molly’s cinnamon buns. Just yesterday, in fact,” he informed Adam. “It was delicious. I have no doubt she’ll win herself the booth she hopes for this year.”
Molly turned to him in amazement. Was it her imagination, or did Marcus suddenly possess all the chivalry of a legendary knight in shining armor? His defense had come a trifle late, to be sure, but it had come. Doubtless he’d been too stunned until now to muster a reply.
Fiona and Grace returned to the dining room, bearing trays of Dr. Graham’s infamous porridge. Even as they set the trays onto the table’s edge and began serving, Marcus continued. To Molly’s increasing delight, he looked her papa directly in the eye as he spoke firmly.
“You should also know,” he said to Adam, “that the arrangement between Molly and me owes itself to more than business endeavors.”
Gasps were heard around the table.
“I care for your daughter, Mr. Crabtree,” Marcus continued, resolute and splendid. “But this—” he swept the assembly with an expression of dislike “—this is more than I can stand.”
Molly’s heart sank like a stone. In the space of a breath, she plummeted from giddy gratitude to grim despair, toppled by Marcus’s bitten-out words. What did he mean? Being amongst her family was more than he could stand? Or being with her was not what he wanted?
Marcus did not meet her eyes, but the tone of his voice said much. He’d seen her as her family did, Molly realized in that painful moment. Either that, or he saw her family without the same affection that she did, and wanted no part of them, not even for the sake of winning her. Fervently Molly wished she’d never embarked on this dinner. Its cost to her had turned out to be much too high.
A moment passed. No one said a thing.
Then Adam Crabtree tossed his napkin onto the table as Marcus had. He stood with an air of hearty cheerfulness.
“Well, now. I’d say we all know where we stand then, don’t we?” He put both hands on his hips and nodded. “Perhaps a rousing game of charades in the parlor, everyone? Fiona, will the porridge keep?”
“I—I suppose so,” her mama said, obviously confused as she rang the bell for Cook. In whispered tones, she instructed the woman to return everything to the kitchen, then bring coffee and tea to the parlor.
Molly and Marcus stood as well. Molly did so miserably; Marcus stiffly. He paused.
“Might I have a word with you first, Mr. Crabtree?” he asked.
Her papa hesitated. His gaze flew to Molly, then returned to Marcus. He frowned. “Very well.”
Molly froze. This was it. Marcus meant to make his apologies to her papa in private, then run from their dinner like a visitor from the asylum. From here on, her dealings with Marcus would be tinged with discomfort or, worse, pity. Her spirits sank even further.
She’d so hoped Marcus would see past her family’s…eccentricities, and love them as she did herself. No matter that they protected her overmuch. Molly knew they meant well.
Bravely she went to Marcus’s side. She forced herself to meet his fearsome gaze, to confront his tight-pressed lips and rigid stance. She touched his sleeve.
“Thank you for coming tonight, Mr. Copeland. I fear I’ve…just come down with a woeful headache. I won’t be able to join everyone in the parlor.”
Molly delivered the lie through trembling lips, standing on quivering legs while doing so. Disappointment threatened to choke her as she swallowed hard for courage. Marcus’s impassive expression told her nothing of what he felt.
“Goodnight, everyone,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
Then she gathered her skirts and fled upstairs to the sanctity of her room…where no one would see her weeping for all she’d lost, between the stew and the surprises served up at table that night.
Chapter Thirteen
Morning pushed its way into Molly’s chamber far too early the following day, rousing her to the remembrance of all that had passed the night before. She groaned into her pillow. What must Marcus think of her now? Things would never be the same between them. Never.
With no choice but to carry on, though, Molly did as she always did. She washed and dressed, buttoning her favorite yellow calico gown over her chemise and petticoats. She brushed her teeth and fixed her hair. Then she trod the worn stairs to the dining room, hoping to sneak through it for a piece of toasted bread and escape to her shop before anyone knew she was awake.
“Molly!” Her papa glanced up, already at the dining table with his coffee. “You look well this morning. I’m glad.”
Ah. Her headache of last night. Remembering the excuse she’d made, Molly put a hand to her forehead. “Yes, I’m fine.”
“’Tis probably that yellow gown that flatters you so.”
He nodded knowledgeably. Molly arched her brow.
“Perhaps,” she managed, taken aback.
“Or the way she’s done her hair,” her mama said, breezing into the room with a bowl of oatmeal. She sat down, then nodded toward her daughter approvingly. “That chignon suits you.”
Molly swept her hand from her forehead to the haphazard knot she’d pinned at her nape. As long as she could recall, her mama had never before resisted the urge to refashion her hairstyle. “It…does?”
“Indeed.” Grace turned from the sideboard, her bicycling costume stained grass-green at its skirt hem. “I suppose you’re up early to head to your bakeshop? Very industrious of you, Molly. I don’t think I’ve mentioned how much I approve of your determination to succeed in business.”
“No, you…haven’t.”
“Then I’ve been remiss.” With characteristically brisk movements, her sister offered a cup of coffee on a saucer. She smiled as Molly accepted it. “Because I find your fortitude most impressive. I hope you do get your Chautauqua booth.”
“Thank you.” Finally! Molly had been able to utter two words in proper succession. Marveling at the change in her family, she pulled out a chair and sank into it, setting her coffee aside. “Thank you all.”
“We’ve been remiss,” her mama said, pouring cream from an earthenware pitcher onto her oatmeal. She stirred. “Treating you as though you were a flibbertigibbet of a girl in short skirts, when by now you’re a fully grown woman with ambitions of her own.”
Molly’s mouth dropped open in surprise.
“She’s always had ambitions,” Adam pointed out, nodding. “The girl’s after my own heart. Remember how I started the Pioneer Press with a single printing press, assembled beneath an oak near the town square? I couldn’t afford so much as a roof over my business.”
“You erected a canvas canopy soon enough, dear,” Fiona said, gazing at her husband fondly. “That was a start.”
“Indeed it was. Indeed it was.” Adam blinked. He shook his head, as though remembering those times before his newspaper had become Morrow Creek’s largest and most popular. “But my point is, Molly takes after me! It’s plain as day to me now.”
Astonished, Molly gaped at them all. What had come over them? While she’d slept, her family had changed personalities entirely. Their new opinions of her would take some getting used to.
Still, she thought giddily, she was certain she could accomplish it.
Sarah bustled into the room, carrying several McGuffey readers and a few slates for her students. She said h
er good-mornings to all assembled, then paused beside Molly’s chair.
“The Chautauqua committee will be meeting after school today, Molly. If you’ll deliver me some baked goods before then, I’ll take them to the meeting and put in a good word for you.”
Molly gazed up at her. “You’re…not angry with me? About what I said last night?”
“Pish posh.” With a beatific smile, Sarah settled into her chair. She plunked down her schoolteacher supplies. Arranged her skirts in a show of feminine vanity that was utterly unlike sensible Sarah. “You don’t know Daniel McCabe and his nephew as well as I do, that’s all. If you did, you’d understand.”
Relieved, Molly nodded. “Thank you. I’d appreciate any help you could give with the committee.”
“Consider it done.” Cheerily, her sister began breakfast.
So did everyone else. Their conversation resumed, roving from topic to topic in a characteristically Crabtree way. Several times, the talk turned to Molly. In each instance, someone in her family found reason to compliment her, to bolster her, to praise her efforts or encourage her. It was a completely unprecedented turn of events, nearly enough to tempt Molly into departing late for the shop, just to savor it.
She may have lost Marcus Copeland’s good regard over dinner last night…but she’d definitely gained her family’s. Molly hardly knew what to make of it.
“Oh, Miss Molly,” the cook said, bustling into the dining room with a tray of toasted Graham flour bread. “I’m glad you’re up and about. I was hoping you would help me improve my bread baking this morning. If you’re willing.”
Everyone gazed at Molly expectantly, pleasant smiles in place.
“That’s it!” she cried, leaping to her feet. She flung her napkin to the table and faced them all with her hands on her hips. “What is the matter with you? I go to bed with my world all in place, and I awaken this morning to find you’ve gone mad, to the very last one of you!”
They gawped. Cook plunked down her toast and backed hastily from the dining room. The clatter of her burdened tray hitting the table was the only sound to be heard, save Molly’s hastily drawn breath as she prepared to go on.
“Next you’ll be claiming I am a genius seamstress. A songstress of renown. A certain winner for the longest line at all the Chautauqua booths!”
“Well…” her mama began. “Your special cinnamon buns are—”
“They are as hard as the rocks tumbled by Morrow Creek, and you all well know it!” Molly cried. “At least they have been, until now. So why, why have you chosen this morning to flatter me with so much kindness?”
Her parents and sisters hung their heads in apparent shame. They had a right to feel embarrassed, Molly thought in indignation. Did they think her a fool? Certainly she’d had a difficult time of it last night, with Marcus’s sudden outburst at the end of dinner and his subsequent leaving. But that didn’t mean…
All at once, the truth struck her.
“Are you doing this out of kindness for me?” Molly asked in a shaky voice. “Are you being especially nice today, because you feel sorry for me after last night? Because of—” she swallowed hard, searching for courage “—because of Marcus?”
Four sets of eyes guiltily averted from her gaze.
“You are, aren’t you! Sweet heaven.”
Molly strode to the window, needing to work off some of the emotions whirling through her. She paced back, pinning them all with a knowing look as she fisted her hands by her sides.
“Thank you,” she said, striving for understanding. “Thank you for caring, and for trying to help me. But you needn’t tiptoe around me, and you needn’t lie to my face in order to—”
“They weren’t lies!” Grace insisted.
“They weren’t,” Sarah confirmed. “I meant what I said.”
Waving away their protests, Molly went on. “Just because Marcus has left me…”
A fresh wave of misery swept her. Into the silence it forced upon her, Fiona spoke.
“Oh, Molly. You don’t understand.”
“I do understand! I understand that Marcus sped out of here as fast as his feet would carry him last night, after speaking with Papa. That he probably will never be back, and I was a fool to think he would be.”
She collapsed onto her chair, burying her face against her folded forearms. Tears burned her eyes. They threatened to slide down her miserable cheeks the moment Molly let her guard down. But she did not want to let them fall now, with her family to witness her unhappiness. She shook her head.
“I have to leave,” she blurted.
She rose, grabbing a shawl from one of the spare dining chairs lining the far wall. Blindly, Molly dragged its soft knit over her shoulders. She made her feet move, forcing them to carry her toward the front door, toward her escape. She meant to go to the shop and lose her troubles in the new techniques she’d learned—that, or weep in private.
“Molly, wait,” her papa said. He grabbed her arm, halting her progress. “Listen to me.”
“I can’t.” She wrenched her arm free. “Please let me go.”
Her mama and both sisters urged her to stay as well. As far as Molly was concerned, that was just more proof of their intention to baby her. Right now, that overly familiar tactic was the last thing she needed.
“No, daughter,” Adam said. “I won’t let you go.”
Molly blinked at the sternness in his voice. It was so unlike her absentminded, warmhearted papa that she quit her struggles. She blinked at him.
“Copeland did speak with me last night,” he confirmed, his steely gaze locked with hers. He patted her arm gently, then released her. “But you did not stay downstairs long enough to know the truth of it. ’Twas not a prelude to escaping here, as you think.”
Molly sniffled. A tiny sliver of hope struggled to life inside her. She stared at her papa, not daring to breathe.
“Last night,” Adam said, sweeping everyone at the table with an oddly proud, endearingly pleased look, “Copeland spoke with me in private for a reason we might all have expected, after hearing him stand up for our Molly—”
“So chivalrously, too,” her mama interrupted with clear excitement. She exchanged satisfied glances with Grace and Sarah. “Why, it certainly put all of us in our places, didn’t it? Reminded us of how poorly we’d been treating our Molly May, and how we should change.”
“Our eyes were opened to the truth,” Grace confirmed.
Sarah and Adam nodded.
Ah. So that explained their change of heart. Marcus’s interference had made an impression upon them. Funny, that one man’s defense had accomplished the very thing Molly had struggled for all these years.
But she didn’t want to think about that now. She wanted to know what else her papa had to say. “You were saying, Papa?”
No one heard. They were all too busy nodding to each other to heed her or to see the impatient, nudging look she threw Adam next.
“Papa!” Molly cried.
“Oh, yes. You’re wondering what happened, aren’t you?” Wearing a grin, her papa removed his spectacles. He took a moment to polish them. He fixed them back in place, then regarded his daughter with clear mischief. “It’s simple, my dear. Last night, when Copeland and I spoke in my study…he requested my permission to ask your hand in marriage.”
Marcus found Molly outside her bakeshop that afternoon. He strode toward her from behind, admiring the swish of her skirts as she bent with a basket over one arm and something else in her opposite hand. Her muttering grew louder as he neared.
“Open up, blast you!” she said, jiggling her shop’s doorknob.
It did not yield. Balling up one fist, she dropped her basket to the porch. She glared at the door. Then she kicked it. Her yelp of surprise carried clear to the street.
Marcus grinned. “That’s two inches of solid pine making up your door. Nothing so dainty as your foot will have much of an impression upon it.”
She whirled, her hat ribbons flying. “
Marcus!”
“And my foot will likely shatter it, due to my immense size and strength.” He pretended to ponder the problem as he climbed the last few steps to stand beneath her shop’s hanging sign. “It looks like we’re both stuck out here. Together.” He gazed upward in sham consternation. “Whatever shall we do?”
“I can’t imagine,” she said, eyes wide.
Her lighthearted tone was a perfect imitation of his own. Hearing it, Marcus wanted to laugh aloud with pleasure. All would be fine between them. Evidently, Molly’s headache had gone, and so had any awkwardness from last night’s dinner.
The dinner that had made him understand her, and her reasons for striving so hard to succeed, at long last.
Happily he drew her close on a murmured greeting. Molly came into his arms with gratifying ease, her skirts swishing around his booted feet. Face tipped upward, Molly stood in his embrace…smiling. Smiling, in fact, as though she knew a delightful secret and wasn’t yet prepared to tell it. He found himself smiling as well.
Because he did have a secret. A secret to share with her. When the right time came, of course.
“That’s the loveliest sight I’ve seen all day,” Marcus told her, clasping hands with her. Her warmth reached out to him, prompting him to bend his elbows and tug her a little nearer. Their joined hands—hers gloved, his bare—rested cozily against his shirtfront. “You, smiling.”
“Ah, but you’ve spent the day with lumbermen.” Her nod was knowledgeable. “Doubtless they’re less than lovely after chopping trees and dragging logs.”
“True. But in the mornings, before they head into the forest, I have to admit…they’re passing fair.”
For his teasing, Molly gave him a playful swat. Something glimmered as she moved, hung around her wrist on a knotted cord. Marcus grabbed it.
He turned it over in his hand. “A key?”
Lisa Plumley - [Crabtree 01] Page 17