Amelia (The Marriage Market Book 1) (10 page)

"No, absolutely not," Duncan said calmly when his wife approached him in the parlor.

"But you must, mon husband. The house is full of jeune filles, it is not right for a man to be in residence. You must go and stay with Hugh, it is, after all, your fault."

"How is it my fault?" he demanded, rising to his full height and towering over his petite wife.

"You give your sons too much," she cried. "Always it is their way. I have tried to teach them, ah…refinement, but they want to get their hands dirty." She shivered in disgust. "They could have been diplomats, but they would rather cut down trees. Ah, I have never understood them," she insisted, spinning away, her skirts swirling about her.

"Or me," he said quietly, his hands on his hips.

"No, it is you who have never understood me," she spat. "I feel like a guest in your home. You treat me like a porcelain doll, a bebe. I am a woman, worthy of respect," she shouted, pointing at her chest. "But do I get it? Non, your sons do not even like me. They think I am foolish and annoying. They think me silly," she said, turning her back on him and holding a hankie to her eyes.

"Now, lassie, that's not true. I know the boys can be a bit critical, but this is a rough country, not like France. Here men have to be strong and independent."

"So, they do not need a woman in their pa pa's house?" She sniffed again. "You do not need me; you humor me as you would a child. You are like them, happy to see me go away. You never say no when I ask if it is all right, because you do not care if I am here or not," she sobbed.

Duncan went to her and pulled her into his arms.

"That is not true," he insisted. "I only want to make you happy. I built this house for you, it is your home, and I don't try to stop you from traveling because I know you enjoy it so. And you always come back to me. You are making a Tempest in a teacup once again."

"Do not say that to me, not again. You treat my emotions as though they have no meaning," she shouted, spinning out of his arms and pushing him away as she stormed to the fireplace. "I will make you see that I am a strong woman," she screamed, picking up a figurine and throwing it at him. It shattered against the wall in a million pieces. Her dark eyes were flashing with fire as she picked up another one.

"Do not throw that at me, Tempest. Do you ken?" Duncan said, finally raising his voice. As always, his accent returned when he became angry. "I'll no be tossed out of my own home."

"I thought you said it was my home, built for me?" she cried, throwing a china Scottish terrier at his head.

Duncan sidestepped and it sailed into a glass-fronted cabinet, shattering the door. Marching to her, he took her shoulders in his big hands and gave her a small shake.

Tempest felt her heart swell with hope. Maybe her big Scotsman did love her. For the first time in their married lives he appeared ready to step in when she was out of control. It frightened her when she got like this, spinning wildly and unable to stop. Always, always he let her be until she felt like she was going to suffocate. It was lonely in this barren state. Once her temper finally exhausted itself, she would cry for hours. Duncan gave her space, the last thing she needed.

His hands tightened and he fought the urge to shake some sense into her, maybe more, but common sense won out and he released her, his mouth set in a grim line, his eyes sad.

Tears rolled down her cheeks. There, she'd done it again. Made her husband angry, but worse than that, disappointed, defeated. Would she never learn to curb her tongue, her temper?

Standing stiffly she looked at him.

"Is this my house?"

"Yes," he sighed.

"Then leave. Go and stay with your precious Hugh, who created this mess. I will find these girls respectable husbands. When I am done, you may come home. I will return to France, maybe for good this time." Her throat was tight with suppressed tears and her head pounded painfully. She could not make him happy, had never made him happy. Duncan had tried, but he could never tame her restless spirit, not with appeasement, which was his way.

He left, closing the door quietly behind him. Every woman in the house cried herself to sleep that night.

It was after midnight and still the three men sat in Hugh's study drinking whiskey.

"It has to be Clarence," Sam insisted. "He was the only one who had access to those letters, and he's been acting strangely for weeks now. Today while you were trying to get near your wife, I saw Clarence greeting a blonde woman with a small child. I'm sure I've seen her photograph somewhere before."

"Why would Clarence set me up?" Hugh demanded, rising from his chair and walking to the massive fireplace. "I've known him for a long time and he's always been a trusted employee."

"For one thing, maybe he wanted one of the women you rejected," Duncan suggested. "He was on the wharf, obviously expecting her. And she didn't accept your mother's protection, so she had other plans. Maybe those plans included marrying Clarence?"

Hugh nodded, leaning against the mantle, his arms crossed. "So Clarence decided to pull the letter of a woman he was attracted too. Alice Baker, I believe her name is. That at least makes sense. Jane Watson also looked familiar to me on the ship. I couldn't be sure of course, and she did go with Mother, but she's been sort of a mother hen to the others. From what I was able to overhear, Jane is here to work with Dr. Martin."

"Did Tom advertise for a bride?" Duncan asked.

"Not that I know of, but it's been two years since his wife died. He could have."

"Even if both those things are true, that still doesn't explain all the other women," Sam pointed out. "Who would propose to all those women using your name and how did they get the letters?"

"I guess Clarence will be the one to ask about that. First thing in the morning, I'll go see Dr. Martin." Hugh set his drink down and rubbed his face with both hands.

"Oh, I almost forgot. A letter came for you from back east while you were in San Francisco and I took the liberty of opening it. It turns out your wife has some very dangerous friends," Sam said with a smile as he took the letter from his pocket and handed it to his brother.

Hugh turned toward the fire, letting the light illuminate the fragile paper. He was quiet for several moments before he laughed and handed it back to his brother.

"Wonderful. Now I am despised on both coasts. What did you do about this?"

"I wrote back to her, in my own name of course, and informed Miss Effie Lane she was most welcome to visit her dear friend and my new sister-in-law to check on her welfare. However, it would be wise of her to leave her pistol at home, as I would more than likely remove it from her possession upon her arrival before she hurt herself. I may have also mentioned that little girls who issue threats may be in danger of getting their bottoms spanked."

"So you threatened her?"

"I prefer to think of it as more of a promise," Sam drawled. "In any case, I doubt we'll be seeing Miss Lane."

"What are you going to do about getting your bride back?" Duncan asked, draining his glass.

"I plan to wait a few days and let the dust settle while I get to the bottom of this. Then I will present her with the evidence of my innocence. Hopefully, she will realize it's all been a horrible mistake and come home with her loving husband," he said, placing his hand on his chest and giving a small bow. Picking up his glass, he drained it and slammed it down on the mantle.

"When we get home, I will teach her a very valuable lesson regarding marriage, commitment and trusting one's husband."

"And if she refuses?"

"Oh, she can refuse at the top of her lungs; she'll come home under her own steam or over my shoulder getting her ass swatted every step of the way. If it comes to that, I plan to take the long way home, right through the center of town."

Duncan scoffed. "You'll never get her out of the house that way. Not unless you plan to do battle with your mother."

"I was hoping you would take care of that part," Hugh said. "It's time you stood up to her, Father, and you know in your heart I'm right. She's taunted you for years; it's almost like watching someone poking a sleeping bear. She flits here and there doing lord knows what. Now she's tossed you out of your own damn home. Where does it end? Divorce?"

"Never," Duncan roared. "I'll no give her a divorce under any circumstances!"

"Then do something about her! She's out of control, has been for years. If you won't do it for yourself, do it for us, or for any grandchildren we may give you. Hell, do it because you love her and it's for her own good. She's not getting any younger, you know, and neither are you. What are you waiting for? Isn't nearly thirty years of her tantrums and spending frenzies enough? Think of the example she's setting for Amelia, and if I ever get married, I certainly don't want my wife behaving like that. How will I argue against it when my own father tolerates it?"

"Ach, it's a sad day when a man has to take his hand to his wife." Duncan sighed, his shoulders slumping. "I'll think on it."

"Maybe it won't come to that," Sam said encouragingly. "Maybe the mere threat will be enough to have her rethinking her behavior. If she sees you don't mean to put up with it any longer."

Duncan and Hugh both looked at him and rolled their eyes.

"When has your mother ever been reasonable?" Duncan asked. "She takes everything to the absolute limit and frequently beyond."

"So you'll help me, if it comes to that?" Hugh asked.

"Let me get to know your little Amelia a wee bit, son. I just want to make sure it's the right thing to do before I act. There's a chance if I take your mother to task, she will leave and never return, as she's threatened many times."

Hugh nodded in understanding. He hadn't considered that. While his mother tried his patience on a daily basis and he thought her the most aggravating women on the face of the earth, never seeing her again was deeply troubling.

"Take your time, Father. As far as I know, there's no hurry other than my own selfish need to have my wife back, in my life and in my bed," he admitted. "Speaking of bed, Sam, are you spending the night?"

"Yes, no sense in going home now when we have to be up in a few hours."

"Good night then," Hugh replied, refilling his glass. "I'll see you both in the morning."

Taking his drink, he climbed the stairs to his empty room.

* * *

Tempest had been up, bustling around for hours when Amelia made her way downstairs.

"Oh ma petit," she cooed. "You look so sad, like an angel with a broken wing." She sighed as she cupped Amelia's cheek. "And still she wears the black," she scolded to nobody in particular. "Go upstairs, my angel, and put on something light and gay. You look like you're in mourning. It's too depressing."

Amelia watched her mother-in-law set the table with very fine china. Her dark hair was pulled back in a jeweled clip, spilling down her back. The fine linen skirt she wore was cream and trimmed with rose flowers to match her rose shirtwaist. Overall, she looked younger than Amelia felt.

"I am in mourning, Ma Ma," Amelia sighed dramatically as she sank onto a chair.

Tempest smiled. "Perhaps you have fallen in love with my wicked son?" she suggested.

"Perhaps," Amelia replied, quietly putting her elbow on the table and resting her chin on her hand. "It's absurd, of course. How can I love a man who would treat me this way?"

"Has he been so cruel to you, ma petit?" Tempest asked. "Tell Ma Ma what he has done to you?"

"He has proposed to other women," Amelia snapped in indignation. "Isn't that enough?"

"Yes, yes, I know about that, but that is obviously an erreur, a mix-up," she stated, waving her hand as though it were of no consequence. "I know you may not think so at the moment, but my son is an honorable man. How else has he hurt you, my angel, hmm? He is a good lover, yes?"

Amelia's head popped up as her faced flushed with color.

"Ah, yes. Americans are not so open about such things." She sighed, patting Amelia's shoulder. "We do not have to discuss it, if it causes you pain."

"It's not that," Amelia stammered. "It's just that I…"

"What is it?" Tempest said, taking a seat next to her and patting her hand. Her dark eyes were full of worry.

"I don't know if he is a good lover," Amelia whispered. "I've never had another."

"Ah, but this is good." She smiled. "Men like to be the first at everything," she said with a shrug. "It is their nature. Was he gentle with you?"

"Yes."

"Did your heart race wildly? Were there a million papillons, ah…butterflies in your tummy?"

Amelia nodded.

"And at some point did you fear you might die of pleasure?"

"Yes," Amelia whispered.

"Oui, then my son is manifique," Tempest cried. "La petit mort, the little death. Is it not wonderful?" She sighed. "He is half French, so it comes naturally. No wonder you love him," she crooned, stroking Amelia's hair before getting up. "Not all men are so, you understand. Oui, you are a parfait match."

"Yes, me and nine others. I have no more right to him than they do."

"But this is not true, my angel," Tempest insisted. "You are his true choice. Do not worry about the others. I will find them all husbands," she promised, tugging Amelia up and enfolding her in her arms. "You, ma douce, must worry only about producing beautiful petits enfants for me and your pa pa, yes? I will take care of everything else."

Amelia stared at her in doubt, but Tempest turned her around and swatted her bottom.

"No frowns," she ordered. "Now go upstairs and put on something pretty and some perfume. I am sure your husband will be paying us a visit today. Go on, shoo," she continued, giving Amelia a push toward the stairs.

When she returned wearing a lavender day dress, Tempest beamed in approval. Amelia went to the sideboard taking a croissant and a cup of hot chocolate before seating herself on her mother-in-law's right. The sudden pounding at the door startled her and most of the other women, who looked to Tempest in alarm.

"Nothing to concern yourselves with, mademoiselles," she said, smiling. "I believe we have our first gentleman caller of the day. Yvette, answer the door and show our guest into the dining room."

"Oui, Madam," the maid said with a bob.

The man who returned with her was tall and muscular. His red hair and beard accentuated his blue eyes. He wore a blue flannel shirt, denim pants and heavy boots.

"Ah, Mr. McGuire, what brings you off the mountain today? Would you like to join us?" Tempest asked with a smile.

"No, thank you, Mrs. Jordon. I've just come to fetch my bride," he stated while turning his hat in his hands.

"I see, and you think she is here?" Tempest asked, folding her hands under her chin.

"I know she is, ma'am," he replied, looking at Molly who kept her head down.

"Well tell us, which bride do you think belongs to you?"

"Molly Muldoon. I paid for her passage and was supposed to meet her yesterday, but there was an accident at the camp and by the time I got to town all the ladies were gone."

"Oh? I hope it was nothing serious?" Tempest asked anxiously.

"No, Ma'am, just some stitches," he replied.

"Molly, why did you not tell us it was Angus McGuire you'd come all this way to marry?" she asked kindly, looking at Molly.

"I don't know, Mrs. Jordon. When Mr. McGuire didn't show up to meet the ship, it seemed a lot more appealing to come here with you than to try to find a place to stay. I guess I was pretty nervous at the thought of going off with a man I don't know anyway."

"I see, and would you like to go with Mr. McGuire now?"

Molly looked at Angus McGuire. He was certainly attractive in a lumberjack sort of way, but what else had she expected? At the moment he looked a bit impatient and it made her pause. His next words made up her mind.

"Now see here, Molly girl. You go and get your things. I've come a long way to fetch you and the preacher is waiting. I need to get back up the mountain and get dinner started and I don't have time for a lot of hemming and hawing."

Molly stood and he smiled in satisfaction, until she tossed her napkin down and turned to face him.

"Oh, so you think you can start bossing me before there's even a ring on my finger, do you?" she sassed, holding out her naked hand. "If you want me to marry you, you're going to have to court me," she insisted giving her head a shake, and setting her red curls bobbing.

"Court you? I don't have time to court you," he shouted. "If that's the kind of man you wanted, you should have married some duded up pup back east."

"That's not the kind of man I wanted, but I don't want a bully either," she snapped, folding her arms across her chest.

"I'm not a bully. I'm the man who paid for you to come three thousand miles to be his bride. We had a deal, Molly Muldoon. You said you'd marry me and you also said you were a good cook. I've been counting on you to work alongside me so we'd have some free time for other things."

"Aye, and I'm not so green I don't know what kind of 'other things' you had in mind," she shot back.

Angus's face nearly glowed with anger.