Bride Blunder (15 page)

Our children.
Marge kept hearing Gavin say the words, feeling his hand pressing in silent promise against her shoulder, long after he left to rejoin the men.
“Blessed...”

It seemed to her as though her heart could double as a spare bellows for the smithy, the way it expanded many times past its original size, fighting with her every time she tried to close it back down to something manageable. The struggle played out again and again, and each time, Marge lost a little more ground to the swelling happiness when Gavin did something thoughtful or kind or ... even ... just spent time with her.

She'd snapped the feelings shut once she learned about his original intent to marry Daisy, determined to contain the damage and never again let false hope buoy her spirits. Because at first, she'd seen no way Gavin could be pleased with her as a substitute bride. Midge's challenge that he prove he genuinely wanted to marry Marge seemed an impossible one.

The entire situation seemed a veritable Pandora's box. So Marge let out the hurt, confusion, and disappointment by refusing to marry a man who didn't choose her. She poured out her heart in prayer, on the pages of her journal, doing her best to rid herself of the anger and upset. The only thing she didn't let out was her hope—the foolish, forlorn hope that somehow Gavin would come to want her. And prove it.

That stayed locked away. Marge knew about the hope, knew it didn't shrivel up or waste away. Felt it grow stronger with each gesture Gavin made. The daisies. His asking her to read with him in the parlor. And now ... his telling the town gossip how much he respected her judgment and ability. And mentioning, for the first time, the children that would complete their family...

It was that confounded hope that swelled her heart until Marge could barely sit still. It seemed she floated through the rest of the day. Had anyone asked, she couldn't have recalled the details of Ermintrude's and Lucinda's constant sniping. Wouldn't be able to describe the food she helped prepare, much less what any of it tasted like. Only two things would mark the day in Marge's memory.

Gavin, and the children.

Not their own. Though the thought made her giddy, it was the children of Buttonwood—her future pupils—who wrested Marge's thoughts away from romance and made the day of the school raising something even more special.

At the beginning of the day, Marge felt the need to stay close to Ermintrude and make sure her friend felt comfortable. Not that she needed to worry, as Gavin's grandmother waded into the social waters of Buttonwood with the bravado anyone who'd met her would come to expect. Marge didn't worry about whether or not Ermintrude would seem at ease ... but she watched carefully to see whether or not it was all show.

After dinner, when the dishes were cleared and the men were back to raising the schoolhouse roof, Marge decided Ermintrude carved out a splendid niche among the other older women of the town. Save Lucinda Grogan, of course. But in a strange way, Marge would have guessed that having a sparring partner to enliven things is what made Ermintrude feel most at home. After all, there had to be something satisfying in finding an adversary when someone loved to debate as much as Ermintrude.

So with her friend settled, Marge took advantage of the opportunity to join Midge. She'd noticed her friend and coteacher watching over the town's children while the other women got things ready for the massive dinner. Now, she hurried over to the group of youngsters before anyone stopped her for more chitchat.

“Miss Chandler!” Midge greeted her in the same type of loud voice Marge herself used to get the attention of her students during recess. “Glad you could join us.”

The controlled flurry of activity around the two women ground to a halt. Older boys looked up from a game of marbles; older girls stilled their jump ropes. Squares of hopscotch scratched into the earth were abandoned; the thin, piping voices of younger children called their friends back from games of hide-and-seek or sardines. In no time at all, Marge found herself surrounded—and stared at—by a group of about twenty youngsters.

“Good afternoon.” Marge made a point of smiling at each and every one of them—even the toddlers too young to attend school. Then, especially, the ones who looked old enough they might be needed at home or choose not to attend or do so sporadically.

“Good afternoon, Miss Chandler.” The slightly singsong cadence of the classroom greeting started at different times, but all the children ended together. A good sign.

“I look forward to getting to know you.” Nervous glances met her pronouncement.

“Why?” A little girl, looking to be about eight years old, cocked her head to the side like a curious little owl.

Marge chuckled. “Because you're each worth knowing.”

The other children watched this girl's reaction. She blinked, as though thinking it over, before breaking into a wide grin. “Yeah, we are. Most of us, at least.”

“Some of us, you might regret.” A towheaded boy who looked to be older than the girl puffed out his chest.

“Speak for yourself, Roger!” Some good-natured jostling looked like it might devolve into shoving, so Marge cleared her throat. Immediately the children stopped fussing.

Midge raised a brow, a silent acknowledgement she was impressed, and if Marge didn't miss her guess, a warning that the children wouldn't always be so easily reined in. That was par for the course—students always trod lightly in the beginning, growing bolder as time passed.

That's when things got interesting. For now, though, Marge would take advantage of the sweetheart period to establish ground rules of order and get to know the children.

“For teacher.” A small girl—most likely the youngest who would go to school—shuffled forward, a slightly wilted ringlet of flowers like the one Midge wore clutched in her hand. The shy offering obviously came not only from the little one but from the group of girls encouraging her to step forth.

“Thank you.” Marge stooped, untied her bonnet, and took it off so the little one could rise up on tiptoe and crown her. “It's lovely. What's your name?”

“Rachel.” She looked up. “I wanna go to school, but Mama's not sure I'm old enough.”

“How old are you?”

“She's five.” The curious girl, Annie, spoke up. “And smart, too. I'll make sure she won't be any trouble if you let her come.” Her face, Marge realized, was an older version of Rachel's. The two must be sisters.

“Five is a fine age to start learning. Rachel is welcome.” A swell of murmurs and giggles made Marge look up from the littlest one's beaming face, to realize almost every child wore a matching grin.

Obviously they approved of her decision. It looked like an extremely well-established group, everyone friendly despite the disparity in ages. Their closeness would be both a blessing and a challenge as she sought to keep discipline, but Midge would be a help there.

It wasn't until after Midge introduced each child then sent them off to play that the two women had a chance to discuss their pupils.

“They're a handful, but good kids.” Midge looked fondly over the entire group. “Do you usually have so many?”

“Yes. Baltimore is a large city, so there are plenty of children. They aren't usually so close as these though.”

“I see.” Her friend seemed to be considering something. “Before we talk about the school, I've been itching to know how things are going with Mr. Miller.”

“Oh.” Marge felt her smile grow wide enough to make her cheeks ache. “Don't worry—he told Lucinda Grogan today that he doesn't see a reason why I can't be a wife and a teacher, so long as the town approves.”

“Good.” Relief, almost palpable, made the one word a sentence. “So then, it sounds like you're thinking about being his wife?” She cast a glance back toward the schoolhouse, obviously trying to pick out Gavin from among the men working.

“After today, I've pretty much made my decision.”

Midge's gaze whipped back. “Which is?”

She drew in a deep breath. “The next time Gavin asks me to marry him ... I'm going to say yes!”

Another week passed almost before Gavin could reconcile the passage of time. The town council had scheduled school to begin two days from now, and in the week since the schoolhouse raising itself, he'd gone out of his way to spend more time with Marge before teaching took her away several hours a day.

Well, no ... he hadn't gone out of his way. More like he'd made sure his way coincided with hers at as many points as possible. Mealtimes simply didn't offer enough time to spend in her company when he'd be missing the opportunity so soon. The time they spent in the parlor reading helped, but Gavin somehow fixed it in his head that if he couldn't convince Marge to become his wife before the start of school, he'd never manage it. And that was a lesson he refused to learn.

Their days fell into a sort of a pattern he wouldn't have expected. He woke up earlier these days—perhaps a side benefit of sleeping on the bottom floor of his mill with the gear housings. The windowless room that used to bother him since he couldn't tell what time it was, and whether or not night ended unless birds heralded the arrival of morning, became a blessing. Without light to tell him when to wake up, he naturally seemed to err on the early side, which gave him more time each morning.

Time he used to go to the house, slip upstairs, and shave every day so he looked his best. Not that Marge ever commented on it, but Gavin knew she noticed by the small, secretive smile he saw tilt her lips once he started coming down freshly smooth. Just one more thing to appreciate about Marge—the way she valued little things.

He even liked shaving more these days, because he could hear Marge and Grandma poking around the kitchen downstairs, smell the enticing aromas of breakfast, and know it all awaited him once he finished. Besides, while Gavin didn't stoop to eavesdropping, the two women sometimes grew animated enough in their conversation for him to overhear parts of it.

Agreeable arguments—that's what Grandma handed Marge every morning. Not because of her agreeable nature, but because of Marge's. That is to say, Marge had an agreeable nature, but she gave as good as she got each and every day, refusing to let Grandma plow her into a corner and get the best of her. Easy to see that they both looked forward to their morning debates.

Not quite so easy to admit Gavin looked forward to them, too. Particularly when he couldn't let on that he listened in to what they said. That would be rude. But he liked what he heard. He liked the way Marge turned things back on Grandma, challenged her to get out and interact more with people in the town. Gavin didn't spare much thought on the matter before he heard Marge point it out, but Grandma kept to herself too much. Besides, when she talked more with other people, she seemed in better spirits.

Best of all, she made better coffee.

At some point, Marge started joining him after breakfast for the morning ritual of opening the sluice gate. She didn't say much, but he could tell by the way she leaned over the railing to watch the water turn the wheel she enjoyed the power and precision of it. Something they had in common.

There was a beauty to the way the rushing water spilled over the wooden slats, pushing them down and bringing the wheel round and round. Everything a set motion, everything a shared purpose as it brought the mill to life. Shared purpose and appreciation is what made things work well together, after all.

It's what would make his and Marge's marriage such a beautiful system.

She sees it, too. I know she does now. That's why she's going to say yes when I propose this afternoon. Again.

Gavin didn't say much over dinner, too busy planning the proposal that would win him Marge's hand once and for all. The smile that took up constant residence on his face fell away for a bit as he pondered. He knew it not because he felt it, but because of the concerned glances Marge kept sending him.

She knows me. She notices my moods. I notice that she notices. Lord, You sent me the right wife. Thank You for not allowing my plans to ruin our lives. And now that I appreciate what You've brought me, I ask Your help in keeping her.

After dinner, Gavin asked Marge to take a turn around the millpond. As he'd pretty much expected, she readily agreed.

Wonder if she knows I'm going to ask her again. I wonder if she plans to say yes.
He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, pleased to note how well her height suited him, how he didn't have to make a conscious effort to slow his steps to accommodate her.
We match—surely she sees that....

He turned to look at her, drinking in the lines of her profile for the scant second before she turned a piercing gaze upon him.

“What's wrong, Gavin?” Concern shaded her features. Concern and something else—something he couldn't put a name to.

“Nothing's wrong.”

“You hardly spoke all through the meal.” The other emotion strengthened until he could identify it as anxiety.

She may not want to, but she feels for me.
“I keep thinking about the way nothing's wrong—everything feels right, Marge.” He heard the sound of a large wagon coming toward the mill but ignored it. The customer could wait while Gavin attended to the important things in his life.

“Oh?” A flash of understanding replaced the anxiety.

“Yes. We get on so well—things have never been better. I know you wanted me to prove my desire to build a life with you, and I think we're already creating one.”

“What do you mean?” She stopped walking, but it didn't pull him up short. Like so much with Marge, it seemed natural.

“The time for wondering and waiting is over. Marge,” he murmured, clasping one of her hands in both of his as he spoke, hoping that her sudden paleness boded well, “you must know what I want.”

“Daisy?” She whispered her cousin's name, a faint question calling into doubt the outcome of his proposal.

“How could you think that?” A swell of anger almost kept him from noticing that she didn't look him in the eyes. Almost. “Look at me, Marge!” He dropped her hand, reaching to brace her shoulders.

“No.” She stared past him as though fixated. “It's Daisy.” A few swift blinks, and she shrugged his hands away, stepping past him.

It was only when he reached for her elbow to stop her from leaving that Gavin saw what Marge had seen moments before.

The sound he'd heard wasn't a wagon. Their visitor was no customer. Instead, stopped before the mill, sat a grand, glossy black coach the likes of which didn't belong on the prairie. And beside it stood someone who belonged there even less.

“Daisy?”

Dusty. Dry. Desolate.
These were the words Daisy would use to describe the great mythical American West.
And really, that's a shame, because so many people are going to be disappointed when they get here.

She alternated between peering out the coach windows and keeping them closed so as little dirt as possible clogged the stuffy air within.
Worse, all those words start with
D
.
She frowned.
D
was her favorite letter, after all.
Why did I never notice how many dreary words begin with it until now?

Dreary. Oh no. There's another one.
Between what Trouston had done, days on end with no one to talk to, and the mounting suspicion that her escape would be rather disappointing, Daisy felt dangerously close to the doldrums.
Now that I've started thinking in
D
's, I can't seem to stop. How depressing.
But the more she tried to stop, the more she noticed it until it became a sort of awful game.

She had a small notebook in her reticule filled with words starting with
D
now. If nothing else, it helped pass the time when the ruts in the earth grew too bothersome to allow her to doze off. Yet all the way through, she clung to the hope that Buttonwood would prove some sort of shimmering oasis on the Oregon Trail—a haven for weary travelers where she could anticipate lively entertainment and the bracing sympathy of her cousin while she recuperated from Trouston's abuse.

But Buttonwood, when they finally pulled up to the town, was just that. A town. To be sure, it boasted more than any other outpost she'd seen for days, complete with a church, smithy, general store, café, and what looked to be a schoolhouse. All in all, quite adequate if someone wanted to ... subsist. Or carve a niche in the unforgiving prairie. Daisy wanted neither.

Actually, at the moment she wanted two things: a good chat with Marge and a bath.
Although
—Daisy wrinkled her nose as she stepped from the coach into the dry heat she should expect by now but always hoped against—
perhaps the bath should come first.

Nevertheless, she pasted on a bright smile for the driver, as she always did, and looked around. A three-story building—the mill—dominated this area. She'd seen a nice little house when they drove up, too, so perhaps Mr. Miller created a corner of civilization here. But the best thing in sight was the figure staring at her from the far side of the millpond.

“Marge!” Daisy didn't waste another moment. She grabbed handfuls of her sea green traveling costume to lift the hem out of danger and started to run. “Marge!”

Odd that Marge wasn't moving.
Must be shock. She and Gavin are so surprised to see me!
It didn't matter. Once she'd gone about halfway, her cousin came to her senses and started rushing to meet her. Gavin stayed where he was, but Daisy liked that. Her sister's husband didn't really belong in the moment of their reunion, after all.
Good for him for realizing that!

Then the time for thinking mercifully ended, and she met Marge's embrace. Folded into the familiar comfort of her cousin's hug, Daisy took the first deep breath she'd managed in weeks. It smelled faintly of lemons.
I forgot that Marge always smells like this. Fresh and new—just what I need.

She clung to that hug for longer than perhaps she should have, but Daisy needed a moment to collect herself. It simply wouldn't do to face Gavin with red-rimmed eyes. Already she'd arrived unannounced, and while Daisy knew Marge would welcome her with open arms, uninvited houseguests weren't the most beloved individuals in the world. Weepy ones sank to the bottom of the list, so she took a few more of those wonderful deep breaths before letting go of Marge.

Strange.
Gavin only now began to approach them. No smile warmed his face. Unease twinged between Daisy's shoulders. Or perhaps that was one of the side effects of traveling so long? In either case, the sensation didn't strike her as pleasant.

Worse, Marge didn't look overjoyed either. Oh, her cousin smiled, obviously pleased to see her; but something shadowed the hazel of her eyes. Since Marge didn't make a habit of pouring out her heart and seeking comfort for whatever troubled her, Daisy knew she'd have to pry it loose.

But then, it might be good to focus on someone else's problems for a while. Heavens knew she'd gotten far too much time to ponder her own, trapped in that coach.
Time to move on.

“Marge?” She reached out and grabbed one of her cousin's hands. “What's wrong?”

What's wrong?
Marge blinked, trying to process her cousin's sudden appearance, still attempting to understand what it all meant.
You're here ... for starters.

But she couldn't say that and hurt Daisy's feelings. It sounded all wrong, because the truth of the matter was Marge wanted to see her cousin.
Sort of.
Admittedly, now didn't rank as the best timing.
Or does it?

She resisted the urge to glance back toward Gavin, whom she knew hadn't yet joined them. Somehow she always knew where he stood—how far away, what direction, and so on—without needing to actually see him to verify it. If he stood directly behind her, waiting for a turn to greet Daisy, Marge would feel a pleasant prickling along the back of her neck.

Instead, an ominous churning in the vicinity of her stomach told her Gavin still hadn't recovered from the surprise of her cousin's arrival.
Is he happy to see her? Glad she showed up before he proposed again?
Because if Marge didn't miss her guess—and, after all, she rarely allowed herself to be mistaken—that's what he'd been building toward when she caught sight of Daisy.

Lord, does he still want her? Is he looking at the pair of us, even now, remembering why he chose Daisy in the first place? Seeing her delicate beauty and realizing anew just how far short I fall of her standard? I'd hoped ... Oh, Father, why did You bring her now? Why not in a few days? After—

Suddenly other troublesome aspects of Daisy's appearance hit her. Not just the repercussions for her and Gavin, but the timing. What it meant. Marge craned her neck, realizing Aunt Verlata should have joined them by now. But no one else emerged from the coach. No one.

“I should ask you that same question, Daisy.” She searched that beautiful face, noticing much later than she should have the tension drawing Daisy's forehead too tight, the slight puffiness around her eyes, the darker imprint along her lower lip that tattled of her nervous nibbling.... “What's wrong?”

A pronounced sniff preceded the answer. “I
missed
you, Marge.” But Daisy's green eyes looked downward as they always did when she tried to hide something.

“I've missed you, too.” Marge's reassurance won a far-too-brief smile. “But where is Aunt Verlata? Where is your fiancé?”
Why are you here, when you should be in Baltimore preparing to become Mrs. Trouston Dillard III?
Questions crowded her mind—all of them suggesting a scenario Marge didn't want to contemplate. “You're to be married this weekend! How are you here?”

Only two possibilities presented themselves. Either Daisy hied off, abandoning her engagement without a word to Aunt Verlata or Mr. Dillard, deciding to avoid the unpleasantness of breaking it off, or Daisy had already married him and found she disliked the company of her husband.

Lord, help me, I hope it's the second. If Daisy's in a sulk over married life not being as grand as she'd hoped, I can handle that. Soothe her
ruffled feathers and send her back. But if she's run off, I can't salvage her reputation or engagement.

Which would mean Daisy was single. In Buttonwood. Right under Gavin's nose.