Bride Blunder (8 page)

“Oh no, you won't catch me tagging along to a dinner party.” Grandma shook her head. “Fodder for gossip is all anyone will want. The conversation cuts through folks the same time the knives slice through the meat.”

No matter how Gavin insisted she wouldn't be tagging along—or coaxed and even hinted that surely Grandma could more than hold her own in any discussion—he wound up heading over to the Reed household alone. Not that it came as a surprise. Grandma refused the day before, and he'd had to mention to Dr. Reed that the old woman wasn't feeling overly sociable these days.

Not that Gavin could call to mind a time when Grandma ever seemed overly sociable, but the point still stood. Well ... maybe that afternoon when Marge arrived, ran off, and returned with Midge Collins in tow. Grandma Ermintrude seemed downright gregarious when surrounded with so much conflict. Though she may just have seemed more companionable than Marge, who bristled so pointedly at him once she'd learned of the mix-up.

He wouldn't have minded having his relative along this evening to help monitor the conversation and put in place any noses that started poking about in his business. Honestly, Gavin wondered if it wouldn't do Grandma good to get out and about more. If some friends wouldn't improve her outlook and give her something to look forward to beyond sneaking in those little barbs whenever they spoke.

Not that he could manipulate her into coming. He'd thought perhaps the lure of Miss Collins's company, along with witnessing firsthand how he and Marge handled their foray into town life, might convince her. With that failing, he had no choice but to arrive on the doorstep with nothing but staunchly suppressed concerns about how much Marge mentioned during the sewing circle she'd attended that afternoon.

“Mr. Miller!” Clara Reed opened the door and took his coat, peering behind him as though expecting someone else.

“Grandma didn't feel up to coming—I mentioned to Saul that might be the case.” It seemed an explanation was needed.

“Oh, Saul told me.” She still held the door open. “Mr. Geer, welcome!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Reed.” Amos appeared in the entrance right behind him, making Gavin marvel at how silently the other man moved. “Glad to be here.”

“Good to see you, Geer.” He nodded in acknowledgement as Mrs. Reed took their coats to some closet or another.

“And you.” The other man's gaze skimmed the room, coming to rest on where Marge and Miss Collins stood chatting. A slow smile spread across his face. “I met Miss Chandler the other day. Buttonwood has a lot to thank you for.”

“No thanks required.” Gavin didn't like the way Amos Geer peered in the direction of his woman. Nor the way he addressed Marge—not “your fiancée” or “your bride-to-be” or even “your Miss Chandler,” as would have been appropriate. No, Geer left it at a simple “miss,” as though Marge might still be available. Gavin forced a chuckle. “My reasons for bringing her here are entirely selfish, after all. Excuse me.”

Without waiting for a response, he headed straight for Marge. “Good evening, my dear.” He cupped her elbow in his hand and angled close. Almost immediately, he felt calmer.

“If you'll excuse me...” Miss Collins murmured some pretext for politely making herself scarce. Her thoughtfulness raised his opinion of her a notch—though it would take a lot more for him to be glad of her budding friendship with Marge.

“Gavin, how was your day?” She must not have realized she used his first name—no blush stained her cheeks.

He wouldn't mention it. If she continued the familiarity, he'd have good reason to call her Marge as he was used to—a clear signal to any upstarts who thought “Miss Chandler” might not be firmly attached. Besides, he liked the sound of his name on her lips.

“Well enough, though much improved now that I can enjoy your company.” Ah ... here came the first faint stirrings of that blush. Excellent.

“I see you're continuing where we left off this morning.” Her pause didn't elicit the reaction she sought, because she clarified. “More flattery?”

“You insult me.” He steered her over to a sofa and sat down next to her. “Flattery means you think the statement false.”

“Perhaps not false ... but certainly overdone.” She scooted away a little bit. “Thank you, all the same.”

“You're more than welcome.” Under the pretext of making himself comfortable, he sprawled more—taking up every inch of space she'd just put between them. “I think you underestimate how much it means to a man to have something to look forward to at the end of a long day's work.”

“Mrs. Reed will be delighted to hear you think so highly of her dinner party.” Her smile brightened as Opal and Adam Grogan approached them.

Gavin sat in silence for a moment before exchanging greetings with the Grogans. They took a few chairs nearby and began the meaningless chitchat always present at such occasions—the sort of conversation that encouraged a man's mind to wander. Particularly when he had a lot to think about.

He watched Marge smile and speak, noticing how animated she was—the way she used her hands and leaned toward whomever she spoke with. His bride-to-be really was an engaging little thing, but she wasn't proving easy to catch. The ease with which she deflected compliments created an unforeseen challenge.
Daisy always took them as her due. Why doesn't Marge?

Gavin kept staring at her. The more she tried to ignore it, the more the awareness grew, until it curled up into a tight, nervous bundle of uncertainty ricocheting within her ribs.

Why is he staring? What is he looking for? Is he comparing me to Daisy? Is he looking for flaws?
These she almost understood, but it was the last possibility that made her want to weep.
Is he trying too hard to find something he might like—to convince himself he hasn't made such a bad bargain if he marries the other cousin?

The entire time she discussed modern farming methods with Opal's husband, she could scarcely concentrate on recalling all the facts from the journal articles she'd read. Honestly, while she realized how important developments in steam-driven threshing would be to agriculturalists, Marge's interests were taking a decidedly self-centered turn.

Am I boring him? Is he thinking how horrible looking and dull I am compared to Daisy?
She shoved the doubts away and tried to focus on the conversation. After all, Mr. Grogan appeared fascinated by her comments. Hopefully Gavin noticed that ... and it pleased him.

Not that she set out to please him. Marge fell silent as the two men began discussing the relative merits of steam versus water power for various aspects of cultivation.
Daisy would be bored to tears.
Even Opal, who had the same vested interest in farming machinery as her husband, seemed less than entertained.

She gave the other woman an understanding smile. “That's a lovely brooch you're wearing, Opal.”

“It belonged to my mother.” Her hand fluttered up to touch the long, thin pin adorning her collar. Studded with seed pearls and the faceted shine of marcasites, it glimmered in the lamplight.

“She always wears it.” Her husband slid his arm around her waist, pulling Opal—and the chair she sat in—closer. “Opal's very loyal to her family.”

“Mama's brooch and my wedding band.” His wife thumbed the thin circle of gold adorning the ring finger of her left hand.

“That's better than all the finery I saw in Boston.” Marge leaned forward for a closer look. “What you have there are true treasures.”

“Exactly.” Opal's blue eyes shone with the sparkle of joy. “I'm so glad you understand.” Impulsively, she reached out and clasped Marge's hand. “And I'm glad you came to Buttonwood.”

“So am I.” Gavin's deep rumble spoke her thoughts before Marge so much as opened her mouth.

“Are you?” It took incredible effort to keep the words light and teasing, but Marge turned from the Grogans to search Gavin's expression while he answered.
Are you really?

“Of course he is!” Mr. Grogan stepped in, but not before Marge caught the flash of uncertainty in Gavin's eyes. “He hardly spoke about anything but your arrival up until now!”

“I very much doubt that.” Hopefully a gentle smile hid the sorrow behind her reply.
Because Gavin wasn't talking about me at all—he was talking about Daisy the whole time. Two days in my company won't have changed his choice.

“Mr. Grogan exaggerates,” her fake fiancé murmured.

“Somewhat,” Opal admitted. “Though Mr. Miller did speak quite highly of you. It was plain to see how much he anticipated your arrival, Marge.”

Clara bustled up. “Perhaps it's not the best of manners to mention it, but it's easy to see Mr. Miller is pleased to have you here. He can scarcely keep his eyes off you!”

Ah ha! So it's not simply my imagination.
Marge could feel the heat of a bright blush sweeping from her cheeks down her neck.
Gavin
is
staring.
Now the only question was why she seemed embarrassed by the fact when he was the guilty party?

“Why would I want to?” He lifted a brow. “She's so animated it's easy to get caught up in what she's saying.”

“Isn't it though?” Clara perched on the last seat in the arrangement. “Forgive me for my absence; I was just checking on Maggie. But the important thing now is that I noticed the same thing earlier. Even with her hands busy sewing, Marge is an energetic speaker.”

“Something her students will appreciate.” Adam Grogan's words made Gavin stiffen beside her, but certainly no one else noticed. “I must admit, when Midge first came to us asking that we hire your Miss Chandler on to help start the school, I had my doubts. Now, I'm more and more pleased by the decision.”

“Your Miss Chandler”?
Marge's spine straightened to match Gavin's. The last thing he needed was for the townspeople pressuring him into marrying her. True, Mr. Grogan didn't know the details of their situation, but those types of comments would steer Gavin down the aisle whether he wanted to go there with her or not. And Marge didn't see any way to stop it, short of confessing the whole sorry situation.

Which meant she and Gavin would continue to play this infernal game of cat and mouse, as he toyed with her before swallowing his pride and his hopes and settling for a poor imitation of what he'd really wanted. Unless she stayed strong and saw through his ploys long enough to set them both free from the entire tangle.

“Marge will be a wonderful asset as she helps set up the schoolhouse.” Gavin placed an emphasis on “set up” that no one could mistake. “I understand Miss Collins is to be the regular schoolteacher, after the initial starting up period?”

“It's far too soon to discuss timetables.” She somehow managed to keep from glaring at the man. “I'll very much enjoy working alongside Midge to implement a curriculum and workable schedule that best suits the needs of the children. Without the building and without having met the students, obviously it's impossible to judge what will be needed.”

“You give yourself too little credit.” Gavin's smile suddenly looked predatory. “I'm certain it won't take you long to have things in order.”

“We'll see.” Marge kept her tone noncommittal, but inside, she stewed. How dare he interfere with her livelihood in a bid to maneuver her in front of the altar? Had the man no sense at all?

“Daisy, he's here!” Mama poked her head through the door.

“I'll be downstairs in just a moment.” Daisy forced a smile until Mama shut the door again. Then the smile fell from her face.
I should be relieved. No ... I should be excited.

Yesterday had marked the first day since their engagement—and, if she were to truly think on the matter, long before even that—Trouston hadn't called upon her or escorted her to some event or another. An absence made all the more conspicuous considering what had happened the night before.

I don't want to think about that.
She shook out her skirts then smoothed them nervously. Daisy didn't recall absolutely everything from that night, but any time she started to remember, she pushed the thoughts away. They were too shameful, too embarrassing, too ... unpleasant. And now, for the first time, she didn't want to see Trouston.

Yes, you do want to see Trouston.
She looked at her reflection, dismayed by how wan her cheeks seemed. Daisy gave them a quick pinch.
He's your fiancé, and you'll be wed before the month is
out. Anything that happened isn't important because you'll be together.

Except ... except that she had the nagging sense it was important. That the way he insisted she drink the Scotch ... how his hands went everywhere ... the way he demanded things he didn't have a right to yet ... Somehow, all of that did seem important. But it was too late now. No changing her mind, no changing the past, and no changing the fact that he was waiting for her downstairs.

She put an extra bounce in her step as she reached the small parlor—her favorite room in the house. Here, the lighting was best, the seats were coziest, and even the rug seemed most plush. It never failed to lift her spirits to entertain a close friend in this little jewel box of a room. Until today.

“Trouston?” Her step faltered at the look on his face.

“Miss Chandler.” He gave a scarce inclination of his head.

“Why are you calling me that? You've called me Daisy for ages.” She looked and saw a new hardness bracketing his mouth, a stiffness to his neck, a disdainful glint in the eyes that before had so openly adored her. Her heart fell to the toes of her embroidered slippers. “What's happened?”

“I think you know.”

“You are ... displeased with me.” Her fingers curled around the back of a chair.
Shouldn't he be sweeping me into his arms, vowing his eternal love? Telling me how much my trust means to him, how sorry he is that he hurt me?

“Oh no.” His gaze raked her with an appraising leer she would have protested under any other circumstance. “You pleased me all too well,
Miss
Chandler.”

The memories she'd stomped down welled to the surface, searing the back of her throat with the acid taste of bile. “I told you we shouldn't ... that I wanted to wait.”

“But you didn't. And, while I enjoyed the experience, I have to say it's not worth taking a strumpet to wife.”

She recoiled as though he'd slapped her across the face. “What are you saying, Trouston?”

“That's Mr. Dillard to you.” How had she never before noticed how sinister his sneer was? “And obviously, I'm saying that I won't bind myself to soiled goods. You're no better than you should be, which makes you not good enough to be my wife.”

“But you love me.” She blinked back tears, but they spilled down her cheeks anyway as she walked up to him, hands outstretched. “I know you do. I'm your sweetikins.”

“I enjoyed what you had to offer.” Another smirk. “Now you can play ‘sweetikins' to another man. You still look the part of the innocent, my dear. I'm certain you can trap some poor, unsuspecting clod before he realizes the truth.”

Something inside her gave way the moment her slap cracked against his curled lip. “You insufferable—” Her voice broke before she could utter a word that should never come from a lady. She lifted her hand to strike again, blindly seeking to vent the rage and hurt he'd inflicted upon her.

“Easy now.” He caught her hand with ease. “I'll allow the first one—it's little enough compared to what I took. Any more and you'll have me rethinking my decision to be generous with you.” Trouston's fingers—cold, always so cold—clamped around her wrist in an ever-tightening vise.

“I don't want anything from you,” she hissed, trying to yank free. Daisy bit back a cry when he wrenched her wrist in a cruel motion and tried to beat him off with her other hand.

“Oh, I think you do.” He caught her other wrist and yanked her close, the reek of his cigars washing over her. His mouth clamped over hers, cutting off her breath in a slimy assault.

Struggling only brought her closer against him, so finally Daisy stilled, sensing somehow that's what he wanted.

“Good girl.” He was breathing hard. “If I'd suspected you had such spirit, I wouldn't have ended things so swiftly.” Trouston let go of her right hand, wrenching his family engagement ring from her left. “As it stands, you're too popular for me to enjoy anything more than what I've sampled.”

“You'll get nothing more from me.” She jerked away, retreating behind the settee. “Don't fool yourself.”

“Don't fool yourself, Daisy.” He lingered over her name, making a mockery of the way he'd wooed her. “If I chose, I could demand more of your delightful ... company ... in return for my silence regarding your wanton behavior.”

Her gasp made him grin.

“As it stands, I'm giving you a choice. Either you cry off the engagement, giving the standard reason that you've decided we shall not suit, or I'll break it off publicly and you'll be ruined.”

“No.” Daisy's knees wobbled. “Miss Lindner?” A horrible certainty swamped her as she recalled the way Trouston's previous fiancée suddenly cried off their engagement, leaving him heartbroken and dashing when he started to court her. “You've done this before.”

“A gentleman never tells, my dear.” Trouston headed for the door, opening it, and looking back one last time. “Unless, of course, you make me.”

“Don't make me ask what happened last night.” Ermintrude pounced the moment Marge showed her face downstairs the next morning. “I won't ask, you know.”

“You just did.” She shook her head at the older woman's blatant attempt to extort all the details without making a request. “Leaving off the question mark doesn't make it less of a request, you know.”

“I know no such thing, nor do I care to. What I do care to know is how you held up in the face of all that curiosity last night. It was the first time I felt tempted to attend something other than church since we got here.”

“Then why didn't you?” She led the way into the kitchen.

“The drawbacks outweighed the lure. As time passes and the disappointments of decades etch themselves into your mind and flesh, you'll learn to avoid as many as possible.”

Marge halted, eyes fixed on the older woman as she bustled forward in a pointed show of ignoring any reaction to the words she'd just spoken. She noted the slight stoop to Ermintrude's back and suddenly wondered if it tattled of the weight of regrets.
How long has she lived this way—expecting so little that she makes no concessions for others?
Pity welled up, unbidden, at the idea.
And she expects I'll become the same?

“I hope not.”

“I know better.” Ermintrude lifted her cane and poked it toward the pantry. “Fried ham and flapjacks this morning, missy.” She moved to the shelves and picked out a large mixing bowl, bringing it over to the table. Setting it down heavily then settling herself before it, she waited for Marge to bring over the flour, sugar, crock of butter, and oiled eggs. “We'll need milk, so you can gather your thoughts and try to refute me when you get back.”

“Very well.” Rolling up her sleeves both to prepare for battle and to draw up the large bucket dangling in the well, keeping the milk cool and fresh, Marge marshaled her arguments. She marched back to the kitchen with milk in one hand, a pail of water in the other, and plan of attack at the ready.

“Heh. You've got a fire in your eyes and a set to your jaw to tell me a good conversation is in the offing.” Ermintrude cracked an egg on the edge of the bowl with a deftness that belied her age. “So tell me, Marge-not-Daisy, how is it you foresee so clearly that you won't seek to protect yourself from disappointments as years go by?”

She set down the bottle of milk with a
thud.
“A low blow, mentioning Daisy.” Marge swallowed any hurt the reminder caused and focused on the injustice of her opponent's tactics. “To resort to such tricks so soon smacks of desperation.”

“Not at all. You're a teacher—easy to see you'd be inclined to make any debate an academic one.” She splashed milk into the batter. “Academics aren't my style, and you'd best be prepared to deal with the school of experience.” Ermintrude thrust a wooden spoon and the mixing bowl toward Marge. “No one escapes it.”

“Why escape it,” Marge countered as she fit the mixing bowl into the crook of her left arm, “when you can shape it?”

“Quick. I like it.” The gleam of appreciation gave way to discomfort as she lurched toward the stove to start water boiling for morning coffee. “Even if it is just like a teacher to think she can control what life hands to her or what other people do. It never works that way.”

“It's foolish to think one can control another person.” She plunged the spoon into the bowl and began mixing, her arm moving faster as the words came pouring out. “No matter how much we may wish we could order what other people want or think, it's impossible.”

If it were possible, everything would be different. Gavin would want me for his wife, we'd be getting married tomorrow, and everyone would be happy.

“It's stirred enough.” The older woman tugged the bowl away, making Marge realize she'd absentmindedly mixed the batter until bubbles were forming. “Avoiding disappointments is far easier than taking them out on flapjacks, Marge.”

“You're focusing on the wrong thing, Ermintrude, by thinking only of the negative. I choose to focus on my response. And I choose not to pull away from everyone and everything because I'm afraid of being disappointed.”

“Now we come down to the meat of it. The way a person has to respond to disappointments. Well, I hate to tell you this”—it didn't sound as though the older woman hated to tell her so at all—“but there's only one thing that people do consistently when they can't have what they want. The same thing you'll do once you set aside your pride.”

“I'm not a proud woman.” A twinge told her that might not be entirely true.

“That's why you'll do what I did—what Gavin is already willing to do.”

In spite of the churning in her stomach warning her against it, Marge gave in to curiosity. “What's that?”

“Settle.”