Bride Blunder (4 page)

“Simple. He doesn't want to marry
me.
”

If she had her “I'd rathers,” or
druthers,
as Aunt Verlata termed them, Marge wouldn't be confiding in this piquant girl who'd whisked her away from the mill. Proclaiming aloud that Gavin didn't want her did nothing to ease the heart-hollowing impact of its truth and only served to broadcast her shame.

Contrary to what she'd told Gavin's grandmother, she'd done an excellent ninny impression when she hied off like that. Fainting ninnies, at least, held no control over their unfortunate reactions. Unless, of course, they were that vile breed of fake-fainting ninny, whose real classification became far less pleasant.

Marge would have said she didn't believe in fleeing one's troubles but rather standing one's ground and confronting them head-on. Putting off an issue didn't make it go away, after all. Yet when things became unbearable and granted her a moment to make a bid for freedom, she ran.

She ran away from going back in the house to face Awful Ermintrude. She ran from seeing the man she'd rejoiced to marry tell her he didn't want her but would take her on as an obligation. Most of all, she'd run until her heart had no room to feel anything other than the threat of bursting through her corset in overexertion.

What she hadn't expected was running into the woman before her. A woman who'd seen her, upset and fleeing, and not wasted time asking questions but rather taken her hand and led her to what must be a safe place. A woman who now thought the worst of Gavin ... because of Marge.

“Not to be combative,” the younger—she looked younger, at least—girl began, signaling an oncoming disagreement.

“Wait.” Marge held up one hand, palm outward. “Whenever someone says they don't intend to be combative, or argumentative, or disagreeable, or any such thing, it is a sure sign they are about to be. So I will restate that the cause of my distress lies in a mistake and nothing more, in the hopes you will not question my word when I say that Gavin does not want to marry me.”

“Ah.” The other woman, who Marge suddenly noticed wasn't wearing a bonnet or hat any more than she was, seemed to be fighting a silent battle. Her lips twitched. “Easy to see you don't know me. I'm Midge Collins.”

“Marge Chandler.” She barely caught herself before adding how lovely it was to meet her—entirely inappropriate in this situation.

“I know.” Miss Collins lost the battle and a wide smile won out. “I also know that Mr. Miller wrote, sent for, and brought you here to be his wife. So I doubt you have any cause to worry about him wanting to marry you.”

“You think me a lackwit, and I can't say I blame you. What bride, newly reunited with her groom-to-be, runs from him as though chased by the hounds of hell?” Marge pinched the bridge of her nose, hoping to ease some of the tension throbbing behind it. “But a terrible mistake has been made, and I am not the bride Mr. Miller hoped for.”

“Hogwash. You're Marguerite—Marge, if you prefer—Chandler. The woman he's told everyone he's going to marry. The woman he picked up at the stage and brought home to his grandmother. There is no mistaking that.” All merriment faded from her features. “If he's threatened or harmed you, don't try to protect him. It will only get worse.”

“You almost have it right, Miss Collins.” Marge could see there was no recourse but to tell this woman of the mix-up. Otherwise, Gavin's reputation would be forfeit. “I am Marguerite Chandler, who goes by Marge. Gavin Miller did set out to marry Marguerite Chandler. The problem, you see, is that he wanted my cousin. We're both named after our grandmother, but she goes by Daisy.”

“You're putting me on.” Suspicion slid into the set of the other girl's jaw. “Two Marguerite Chandlers, and you're the wrong one?”

“Precisely.” Despite her best efforts, the hot salt of tears pricked her eyes, and her breath hitched once more. Marge fumbled for her handkerchief, barely registering as her newfound confidant flomped onto the shady bit of grass before them.

“Well, that's about as crooked as a snake in a cactus patch. Oh, and it's Midge. Any woman who can keep up when I'm racing down the plains earns that right.”

“Thank you, Midge.” The unspoken offer of friendship eased some degree of the isolation that washed over her in encroaching waves. “Please call me Marge.”

“Do you know,” her companion offered, drumming her fingers against one knee as she thought aloud, “I never did like daisies. They look nice, but I can't say I care for the smell.”

The random nature of the comment did the trick, forcing a chuckle despite the circumstances. “Marguerite is French for
daisy,
and my cousin always smells very nice.”

“I'm sure she does, but this situation you're in puts off an awful stench—and Ermintrude Miller isn't going to make things any sweeter.” Her friend stopped drumming her fingers. “You can stay with my family until you go home, if you like.”

“Go home...” Her knees suddenly shaky, Marge decided to sit before the ground rose up to meet her.

Oh, Lord ... give me strength. If I go home, everyone will know. Half of Baltimore knows of my engagement to Gavin, and none of them will be surprised to learn he wanted Daisy instead. I'll be a laughingstock. Daisy will be wracked with guilt. Aunt Verlata will pity me and trot me in front of prospective suitors until my eyes cross....

“No.” The horror of such a future flashed before her with such agonizing clarity, Marge's stomach lurched. “I can't go back.”

“That gums up the works.” Midge chewed on her inner lip. It was clear as fine crystal that it would do no good to ask why her new friend didn't want to go home.

Because that's the way reality stood. Marge blanched when she thought it over, but the fact she thought it over at all meant returning to Baltimore—if memory served, and memory always served Midge—remained a possibility. An unattractive possibility, judging by how pale the other woman had gone, but that could be due to any number of things. Like pride. Best tread lightly on that one.

“If it were me, I wouldn't be in a hurry to let everyone know either. How much time do you reckon you have? Can you stay until Daisy arrives?”

“Daisy won't marry Gavin. She's to be wed this very month's end—Gavin's father didn't take that into account when he purchased my stage tickets and couldn't transfer them.” A gasp of mirthless laughter escaped Marge. “Otherwise I would have waited a little longer before coming here. As it stands, I'll miss my cousin's wedding and have none of my own.”

“Little wonder you two thought he proposed to the Marguerite without a fiancé.” The words came out with a wince hard on their heels.
Could've been more sensitive there.

“We'd even sent him an invitation to Daisy's wedding.” The beleaguered bride-to-be busied herself trying to find a dry spot on her handkerchief. “I feel such a fool!”

“You are not.” Midge rummaged around in her own pockets until she found a rumpled but serviceable linen square and passed it over. “Proposing via letter to Marguerite without clarifying which one seems a numskull thing to do though. Since we're assuming he thought you were both unattached.”

“A mere oversight...” The rest of the mumble went to the handkerchief.

“A whopping great oversight, if you ask me. More to the point, when he realized what happened, he shouldn't have told you.”

For this, at the root, is what had her hackles in a rage. No matter Gavin Miller got the wrong woman, his trap should have stayed shut. He sent for a Marguerite, he received a Marguerite, and he had no business making her feel unwanted. Real men followed through on their commitments. Just look how much he'd hurt poor Marge.

“He didn't tell me.” A delicate blow punctuated the confession. “Grandma Miller asked why I didn't go by Daisy anymore, and I figured it out.”

“Then he plans to marry you anyway?”
Well, a point to the miller then. At least he had the right idea, even if he didn't carry it out well.

“That's what he says.” A slightly less delicate blow.

“I take it you're less than thrilled.”

“You could say that.” A downright honk.

“Bully for you. Women aren't interchangeable, and I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of my hand when he didn't bother asking for it properly in the first place either.” Midge leaned back. “He's going to have to court you now.”

Marge's hiccup of laughter didn't bode well. “Gavin doesn't want to marry
me,
and he won't. At best, he doesn't want word to get out that he's stuck with the wrong bride.” She groaned. “Folks around here will find out soon enough. Is there an inn nearby? I need a place to stay until I can sort out a plan.”

“No inn, but you're more than welcome at the Reed house—which is my family. I'm adopted, in case you're wondering.” Midge hopped to her feet and dusted off her backside. “What sort of plan do you think you'll come up with, a single woman on her own?”

“Surely I can find work as a teacher out west. I have experience and letters of reference.” Her new friend followed suit in brushing dust from her skirts. “Never thought I'd need those letters, but I always feel it's best to be prepared. It pays off.”

“You're a teacher?” Midge barely held back a whoop. The town council had been looking for someone to take on the local children as soon as they finished building the schoolhouse, and one too many of them had broached the subject with her lately. If they didn't scrape together enough sense to see she'd make a poor schoolmarm, she'd have to find another solution. “Looks like you're an answer to prayer, Marge. Buttonwood needs a teacher.”

“That would be ... ideal.” Hazel eyes blinked in disbelief. “Do you think the town council would consider a woman for the position, or are they solely looking for a schoolmaster?”

“No need to worry about that.” Midge started trekking back toward the mill. “My adopted father and grandpa are on the council. So is the husband of a close friend. None of them would look down on a woman, and all of them would support you on my say-so—especially once Clara and Opal weigh in.”

“I met them briefly before Gavin and I left town.”

“Yes, you would have. They like to meet everyone new. Clara would be the green-eyed blond, Opal the blue-eyed redhead. Clara is married to Dr. Reed, the man who took me in.”

She hurried, pleased when Marge increased her speed to match. Midge did so as much to gloss over the topic of her informal adoption as to get to the mill faster. Much as she liked to ask questions, answering them didn't sit well.

As they rounded the millpond, Marge's steps slowed. “Gavin should be relieved to be well rid of me.” A forced smile accompanied wistful words.

Midge shook her head. “If I'm any judge of men and their mettle—and of this there is no doubt, although you don't know it yet—Gavin will not let you leave him so easily.”

“He cannot stop me from teaching.”

“I did not say he could or would.” She caught sight of her friend's fake fiancé as he rounded the mill like a charging bull. “But, at a guess, I'd say you underestimate his determination to wed you.”

Gavin circled the mill. He searched inside the mill—all three stories. Twice. The barn yielded no sign of a bride on the run either. No woman of sense would go back in the house with Grandma Ermintrude, and Marge always struck him as the practical Marguerite, so he resorted to hollering like a madman.

No results.

In scant moments, his bride-to-be had become a bride-already-gone. With nowhere to run, what strange thoughts crashed in her mind? The most illogical option—returning to the house to throw him off—brought him nose to nose with Grandma.

“Never got the bride you wanted and already lost the one you found?” Sounded like she'd been waiting for him since he'd bellowed for Marge. “You've got a real touch with the ladies.”

“I take it she didn't come back here then.”

“Told you that one had brains to rattle betwixt her ears. No woman with sense or pride stays where she's unwanted if she has the slightest choice.” Grandma Ermintrude cocked her head. “Not that this one has a choice. She just needs time enough to think it through and she'll be back.”

“I
told
you not to call her Daisy.” Gavin gave vent to the ire that continued to mount, swelling with each moment he couldn't look after Marge. “Why couldn't you leave well enough alone?”

“Why couldn't you tell me the truth?”

“You would've used it against her.” She wanted truth? He'd give it to her.

“Never.” A long-buried pain rose from the depths of her gaze. Grandma's voice went soft. “I'd never do that to another woman.”

“Grandma?”

“Now
you.
..” Her customary sharpness returned in an instant. “
You
I would've taunted with it, and that's a fact.”

“Then don't ask why I didn't spill the whole story with her waiting out front.” Anger at himself for how he'd handled things and at her for how her quarrelsome ways influenced him made his tone harsh. “You gave me cause to doubt the way you'd react.”

“Blaming others for your mistakes makes for more mistakes to come.”

“I'm sure there will be.” With that, he headed back to the mill. Until Marge returned, he'd busy himself repairing the gearwheel mechanism that gave way earlier. He set to work, restless in the silence. No turning wheels, no sounds of water churning, gears turning, and grain grinding accompanied him this afternoon. No cheerful
tap
of the damsel against the shoe as grain worked down the hopper between the millstones. Only stillness.

He stopped every so often to go upstairs and outside, checking to see if she'd returned. No such luck. Three times he repeated the process, but it wasn't until he'd replaced the splintered tooth entirely and did several test runs to assure himself of the integrity of the piece that he spotted someone approaching.

No, not
someone. Two
women skirted around the millpond toward him. One wore the purplish color Marge arrived in, so Gavin abandoned his post and hustled to meet them. When he drew closer, he identified her companion as none other than Midge Collins—one of the women he'd hoped Daisy would befriend.

Relief at Marge's safe return crashed against rage that she'd ever left. Regret joined the other two emotions when he saw her reddened nose.
Has she been crying this whole time?

“Marge—we were worried about you.” Somehow it didn't sound like the reprimand he'd intended or the half apology he almost felt appropriate. He sounded stiff.

“Were you?” Miss Collins noticed his voice sounded off. Her very posture spoke of disapproval and suspicion.

“Thoughtless of me to disappear like that.” The mumble hardly sounded like Marge. “But in times of trouble, I find it best to collect one's thoughts and determine a course of action.” This last sounded more like her.

“I already determined what we'd do.” He kept it vague, uncertain how much Marge told Miss Collins. The less anyone else knew about the problem, the better.

He could already hear the gossip if word got out.
“There's our town miller—such a fine head on his shoulders he can't even propose to the right girl!”

“Your plan is unacceptable.” The red all but left her nose. “Thankfully, I ran into Miss Collins here, and we've devised a better one.”

“This is none of Miss Collins's affair.” With great effort, Gavin kept from shouting. “You are my bride. This is a matter between us.”

“Ah, but that's just the problem, isn't it, Mr. Miller?” Miss Collins stepped forward. “Marge is
not
your bride.”

“She will be.” Gavin's jaw thrust forward in an expression of such determination Marge could almost have believed he wanted to marry her.

Almost.

She opened her mouth to reply, but another voice sounded.

“Would you all get inside this house”—Grandma Miller's caterwaul belied her age—“so an old woman can hear what's going on?” Standing on the front stoop, cane planted in the dirt one step down, she glowered at them all from a good distance away. Such a distance, it was a wonder she'd managed to know there was anything going on at all—particularly with the sound of the mill running.

“
Another
watcher.” Midge's mutter made absolutely no sense, and Marge didn't bother asking. “Do you know, I always thought of her as a cantankerous woman, but I'm starting to think she's got spunk. Why don't we all go inside?”

Because you were closer to the truth with
cantankerous
?
She bit her tongue, instead admiring the way Midge managed to work her way inside the house in spite of Gavin's obvious discomfort. All three of them trouped in to follow the old woman's command—although Midge was the only one to manage some semblance of enthusiasm.

Grandma Miller inclined her head in a manner fit for royalty. “Miss Collins, how do you come to join us this afternoon?”

“I ran ... across”—Midge's choice of words would have amused Marge at any other time—“Marge as she sought some time for private reflection. I'm afraid I drew some faulty conclusions regarding Mr. Miller.” Here, her gaze flicked to Gavin. “So Marge explained your predicament to make it clear he'd done her no wrong.”

“Thank you for not letting the townspeople of Buttonwood think I chased you off.” Gavin's dry tone strengthened Marge's resolve.

“So you should thank the gal.” Grandma Miller chose to speak up on her behalf. “If she let Miss Collins think you sent her running off like that for any reason other than the truth, you'd sorely regret it. As it stands, this couldn't have been an easy thing for Marge to divulge. It doesn't reflect well on either one of you.”

“It's hardly Marge's fault, from where I sit.” Midge demonstrated a friend's loyalty already. “But broadcasting she wasn't the woman your grandson wanted will hardly enhance her standing—or her options—in Buttonwood.”

“Options?” The word came out as a muted roar. “What options? Marge will marry me, as planned.”

“I most certainly will not.” She didn't even care that she sounded waspish. “As I said, Midge and I made other plans.”

“Have you?” An old woman's head truly ought not swivel so swiftly nor so far as Grandma Miller's managed during this conversation. “Things grow more interesting by the minute.”

“No, they haven't.”

“Yes, we have. Marge mentioned she's a teacher,” Midge cut in, refuting Gavin's denial. “Buttonwood needs a schoolmistress, and I'm willing to speak on her behalf. It all works out.”

“You see?” A hard swallow cleared her throat enough to allow the words through. “I don't have to marry you.”

“You don't have to marry me, but you will.” Gavin crossed his arms over his chest. “As planned.”

“You didn't plan on wedding me, so it's moot.”

He took three large steps closer and peered down at her. “I plan on it now. I planned on it since you alighted from the stage and I knew why'd you'd come. Make no mistake,
Marguerite
Chandler, before long, you will be Marguerite Miller.”

His stressing of her formal name, far from driving home the point or underscoring any commitment, incensed her afresh. “Marge.” She poked a finger into his chest with each word she ground out. “Call—me—Marge.”

“Good point. If you'd called Daisy, well, Daisy, she wouldn't be here in the first place.” Midge made herself comfortable in a wing-backed chair. “Although I, for one, am quite glad Marge came to Buttonwood. We need her.”

Suddenly, Marge realized she'd just prodded a man. Who wasn't her fiancé. In public. She felt the blush heat her cheeks even as she balled her hands into fists and pushed them deep into the pockets of her lilac traveling ensemble.
Running like a hoyden, confiding in strangers, putting my hands on a man ... what am I coming to?

“You mistake me. I said
Marguerite
because I proposed to her as such, and she accepted that proposal. We are bound by that agreement, and she needs reminding.”

“Fools don't grow on my family tree. He gets that from his mother's blood. My son didn't pass on the type of addled thinking that would make a man keep mentioning he didn't specify which woman he was proposing to.” Grandma Miller made this general announcement while Marge headed straight for her reticule, opened it, and withdrew what she sought.

“Reminding everyone that this whole mess is all his fault won't do him a lick of good.” Midge sided with the old woman. “Marge, what are you up to over there?”

“Here.” She moved to Gavin's side and slapped the money onto his palm, folding his fingers over it. “You did not propose to me. You proposed to Daisy. A misinterpretation doesn't bind me to you, although I do owe you something. This is for the stage fare.”

“I don't want your money.” He made as though to return it, but she backed away. “I want your hand.”

“Do you?” Someone else spoke the question on Marge's heart, and it took her a moment to realize it was Midge.

Lord, I already know the answer. Please give me strength to move forward. I trust it's Your will for me to teach the children here—that there is a reason and a purpose for this horrible misunderstanding.
Otherwise, it would simply be too cruel to leave her standing here, staring at the man she'd been so delighted to marry, waiting for him to say—again—he didn't want her.

Gavin didn't answer immediately, a blessing and curse, in that it showed he was taking time to truly consider the question. His perusal took her in from the top of her head to the tips of her toes before he uttered one word. “Yes.”

Air became unbreathable for an instant. Until she saw him open his mouth and knew the next words would somehow ruin it.

“She is mine.”

Something primal rippled up her spine, but her mind and heart rejected it. “I don't
belong
to you, Gavin Miller.”

“He already said he wanted her.” Seemed like Grandma Miller, along with Midge, was enjoying the show. “What more is she after?”

“Tell him, Marge.” Midge cheered her on. “Tell him what he has to do if he wants you.”

“I won't play out this farce.” Her nose prickled, signaling another onslaught of tears.

“Marge...” Gavin's request cut through her confusion. “Tell me.”

“All right.”
The worst that can happen is he doesn't do it, and
that's already where I stand.
“If you want to marry me, Gavin Miller, you're going to have to do one thing.”

“Which is?”

“Prove it.”