Bride Blunder (12 page)

Flummoxed. Midge could find only that single word to describe what Amos had done. She couldn't quite manage to get past it. And he knew it, too. The knowledge danced in his eyes and the slightly lopsided tilt to his smile.

He flummoxed me.
She waited for a tart reply to spring to mind, but none did. Midge blinked.
Why? What is it about this man that he unsettles me?
She fixed on that lopsided tilt, refusing to look away but unable to meet his expectant stare.
Is it simply because he wants to?

“Have you gone mad?” The very idea that Amos Geer succeeded in making sport of her brought Midge to her senses.

“Not at all.”

She waited for an explanation, but it seemed she'd wait in vain. Meanwhile, his smile didn't diminish one bit.
He can't be serious. A man like Amos Geer, adoring a girl like me?
She didn't have to fake the snort of laughter that erupted from the very thought.

“What's so funny?”

“You.” She took a savage satisfaction in watching his smile slip a notch. “You almost sounded serious.”

“I am.” Nothing in his face indicated otherwise. No laughter, no anger at hers—just an intensity that made her mirth dry up in an instant.

“You can't be.”
Not me. Not the real Midge Collins.
She stared him down right back.
If you knew even a hint of the truth, you'd see why I laughed.
She took in a gulp of air.
And why I'm not laughing now.

Truth be told, Midge knew as deep down as a body could that she wasn't a good woman. Oh, she tried to be. Four years with Saul and Clara taught her a lot about the way people should live and love, and she'd come a long way from the bitter child Dr. Reed plucked from a back alleyway. But lessons learned late in life only sank so deep. No one could wash away the sort of filth that seeped into a person's core early on.

Lucky thing of it was most folks didn't look that deep. Didn't care to and didn't know how. So Midge got by on being friendly and clever and following the rules. Well, most of them, anyway. Someday she'd marry a man who didn't look too closely and would never realize the taint she carried—and she'd make sure he was happy.

“Ask me what I spoke with your family about, Midge.” The deep timbre of his voice caressed her name, luring her closer.

“What did you speak with my family about?” It didn't count as obeying orders, since she'd planned on asking him long before her feet brought her here.

“I wanted permission to court you.” With that, he closed the door on any doubts about his sincerity.

But Amos Geer was a rare one. Before her stood a man who wouldn't just look into the heart of the woman he chose, he'd demand she give it to him entirely. If he glanced her way much longer, he'd see what she hid. Which, come to think of it, might be the easiest way to convince him he didn't want her.

Midge ignored a pang at the thought. Fact of the matter was she'd fought too hard to make it this long and still be Midge. She didn't plan to make a lot of changes or give up everything she'd built for the sake of a man—no matter how clever or handsome he may be.

“They approved.” It wasn't a question. They both knew he wouldn't mention the matter if he hadn't received permission.

He nodded anyway.

“Well then”—she indulged in a sigh—“I suppose you'd best walk me home.”

“I'd be delighted.” His smile returned as he offered his arm, not in the least bit put off by her easy capitulation.

So he's not solely interested in a challenge.
She watched him from the corner of her eye as they walked along in silence.
No matter. All I have to do is be myself and I'll chase him off in no time. It's for his own good—because spending time with Amos Geer doesn't appeal in the slightest.

She kept walking, ignoring the silence. Ignoring the stares of the townspeople as they passed by. But most of all, ignoring the tiny voice in her head that got louder with every step.

Liar.

If she heard it again, Daisy very much feared she'd scream right there in the middle of the soiree. As things stood, she scarcely kept a hold on her temper. But truly, even the most well-bred of women had her limits.

“Daisy!” She didn't even see the woman's face before she found herself swept into a matronly hug. “I'm so sorry....” Mrs. Such-and-Such, whose name escaped Daisy at the moment, blathered on about broken hearts and their more horrifying counterpart—broken engagements.

She didn't really listen. The vibrations of her teeth grinding genteelly behind a grateful nod blocked out most of the speech. Not that it mattered—she'd already said
it.
The phrase Daisy now loathed with every fiber of her being. She'd heard people say often enough that no one wished to be pitied, but she'd never experienced the humbling nature of it before.

Outings used to be marked with smiles and laughter, chitchat and flattery, admiring glances and merriment. Now, that single, awful phrase eclipsed it all.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm
so
sorry. I'm so
sorry.
” Even the overblown “I'm
so sorry.
” All winged their way in an attack to make Grecian Harpies proud. No matter if and where the speaker placed the emphasis, the syllables remained the same. And so did their effect.

“I must go.” With a cursory nod, she abandoned the mouthy matron in the midst of her monologue and took a turn about the room.
To Buttonwood, to be exact.

She'd looked into taking the train, but as she should have remembered from earlier conversations with Marge, the train didn't go through that area. The stage wouldn't leave for a couple days and would take a frightfully long time—if Daisy were so foolish as to think she could manage traveling alone.

Marge handled such things with aplomb, but Daisy didn't.
Just look what happened the last time I was unchaperoned for any length of time.
She shoved the thought back to the dark recesses of her memory, back where she could almost convince herself it was forgotten.

Mama would stop her if she knew her plans—though Daisy fully intended to leave a reassuring note behind if her new scheme worked. She'd hatched it up upon arriving with Mama this evening and spotted Miss Lindner and her brother exiting their conveyance at almost the same time.

Mama insisted on following fashion, so the Chandlers rode about in a sprightly landau—only good for light town driving. The Lindners didn't seem to have time for fashion. To be honest, everyone seemed surprised when Trouston began calling on the quiet, bookish Elizabeth. Their very differences made them a striking couple, or so everyone exclaimed. She was pretty enough, with that black hair and pale skin—similarities Daisy ignored when Trouston came calling on her—but they shared no interests.

Daisy wished she'd paid more attention—now that she knew her ex-intended's dastardly game, she noticed Miss Lindner more. Tonight, she noticed the Lindner coach. A private coach—well sprung, expensively made, designed to stand the test of time and use. The sort of conveyance one could take long distances, if need be.

Well, I have need, and Miss Lindner should have understanding.
Daisy remembered how Elizabeth disappeared for almost the entire winter after she dropped Trouston. Of course she'd feel natural empathy with Daisy's need for solitude and escape.

Which was why Daisy watched the other woman like a veritable hawk the entire evening, waiting for just the right moment to snag her elbow and draw her into an abandoned sitting room. It worked beautifully, save the complete dismay painting her new friend's features as they faced each other.

“My apologies.” Daisy refused, absolutely refused, to ever say “sorry” again unless forced to do so. “We don't know each other very well, but I've a desperate need to speak with you.”

Miss Lindner didn't nod or say anything encouraging but neither did she sidle toward the door. Surely that meant something good?

“I believe we have something in common, you and I.” Daisy walked over to a sofa and took a seat, patting the cushion beside her in an invitation Miss Lindner could choose to refuse.

“It is my fervent hope you refer only to our good sense in not marrying Mr. Dillard.” She walked to the door, and Daisy's heart sank at the thought she'd lost her chance. Instead, Elizabeth closed the door and joined her on the sofa.

“Mostly.” Now that the moment arrived, Daisy found she couldn't mention her disgrace. Their disgrace. It was all just too ... disgraceful.

“I see.” Her companion's eyes went soft but somehow angry. “Though I hope our reasons differ somewhat?”

“I—” She couldn't hold back a telltale sniffle as the enormity of the situation crashed over her once again. “I'm afraid not, Miss Lindner.”

The other woman didn't say a word, simply passed a perfectly pressed handkerchief and took one of Daisy's gloved hands in her own. This show of sisterhood, after being without Marge during such a confusing and important time, proved Daisy's undoing. Tears ran down her cheeks and dripped from her nose.

“I need to leave.” She barely got the words out between sobs. “My cousin went out west—I miss Marge. I thought, of all people, you'd understand.” Daisy dissolved into tears once more.

“You've no idea just how well I understand. I went to Vicksburg to visit my grandmother for a few months after...” A fluttery hand gesture finished a sentence neither of them could speak aloud.

“Will you help me, Miss Lindner?”

“It's Elizabeth, and of course. Any way I can.”

Swiftly, Daisy outlined her plan—Marge's home out west, Elizabeth's carriage to take her there safely. When she finished, silence stretched between them.

“It belongs to my brother—you'll have to convince him. I'll do my best to help.” Her new friend rose to her feet. “Take a moment to compose yourself while I find him,” she advised as she slipped through the door.

Daisy wasted no time blowing her nose and drawing a few deep breaths to restore her color. To gain an extra moment between tears and facing Shane Lindner—an imposingly clever man who never failed to make her tongue-tied—she kept her back to the door. She heard it open and closed her eyes for a quick prayer that things would go well.

“What have we here?” Trouston's voice oozed across the room. “A pretty little flower—already plucked but still fresh enough to enjoy.”

She sprang from the sofa and faced him.
I won't let it happen again. I won't. I can't let him drag me further away from the person I'm supposed to be—the Daisy people think they see when they look at me.
Remorse somehow lent her strength. “Leave.”

“No.” He unbuttoned his coat, revealing the waistcoat beneath. The motion made Daisy's stomach churn in remembrance. “You've disappointed me, holding private conversations with my other forgotten fiancée.” A cold gleam lit his gaze as it traveled over her. “And I'm of a mind to teach you how to behave.”

“I'm not yours to teach.” She all but spat the words as he advanced. Torn between fleeing and launching herself at him, nails digging into his face, Daisy stood her ground.
My gloves would make it useless anyway.

“You're mine, all right.” Instead of respecting her newfound courage, he advanced. “Mine to teach. Mine to touch.”

“No!” She backed away a second too late as his arms caught and drew her to him in a heavy clasp.

“Yes.” Trouston seemed amused by her determination to keep him at bay as she straightened her arms and leaned as far back as possible to avoid him. He snagged both her wrists in one hand and jerked her close. “Mine to take, whenever I choose.”

Pulling back one foot, regrettably clad only in a satin evening slipper rather than a pair of sturdy half boots, she delivered a vicious kick to his shin. A cry of pain broke from her lips as her toes took the brunt of the assault meant to cripple
him,
but, incredibly, he was letting her go....

Daisy took advantage of his distraction to scamper toward the door, realizing the moment she got underway that it hadn't been her kick that stopped Trouston. Shane Lindner held him by the scruff of the neck. Odd, she'd never realized that his remarkable height lent him enough strength to lift a grown man off his feet.

But that's exactly what Shane did to Trouston now—if only for a moment. Abruptly, he released her attacker, letting Trouston fall heavily on his feet. Not that he stayed there. Shane's swift right hook sent him sprawling across the carpet. Trouston didn't get back up.

“I always thought he had a weak chin,” she marveled, looking at Mr. Lindner with new respect. “Thank you for putting it to good use.”

“My pleasure, Miss Chandler.” A reluctant smile lifted his lips, though he tried to repress it. His efforts only brought out a well-hidden dimple Daisy never noticed before. “Now, I hear you need some transportation?”

Marge stared at the drop front desk in the guest room—a luxury this far west. Gavin ordered, transported, and implanted beautiful things. He surrounded himself with only the best.

I need to remember that.
She stayed seated on the bed, fisting her hands in her lap, riveted by that desk.
I don't belong with the fine things he brought to Buttonwood. He made a home to showcase his finest prize: Daisy.

It would be so easy to pretend it all away and act as though Gavin wanted her. If she chose, Marge could walk down the aisle with her head held high, her future assured, and no one the wiser. One of her favorite verses came to mind.
“When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child....”

She'd grown up long ago, surpassing the point of make-believe and happily-ever-afters. Deep down, she'd known Gavin's letter for what it was—a tantalizing glimpse into a life not meant for her. Only, she'd wanted it so badly, she seized hold and rode out to meet it. Reality won.

Mostly.

Marge couldn't take it any longer. She rose from the bed, crossed the room, and laid one hand atop the desk front. Sliding one finger along the groove, she unlatched the hinged compartment, cradling it so it wouldn't stress the chain meant to hold it up as a writing surface. It opened to reveal the secret within.

Purple daisies, once crushed, wilted within a crystal vase. Deprived of sunlight and fresh air, they faltered far faster than they would if Marge bore the courage to display them on her night table. Instead, she hid them away.
“For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.”

Perhaps she hadn't outgrown childish games entirely. Marge reached out to finger the soft, fragile petals of one blossom. After Gavin stalked out, she'd seen him hurl the flowers in the dirt, and something inside her howled at the sight. She'd resisted the urge to run out and gather them all up, instead biding her time until Gavin stayed at the mill and Ermintrude rested her eyes for a while.

Then she'd ventured outside, carefully selected just enough of the flowers to fill the crystal vase she'd brought from home, and snuck back inside. Unearthing the vase took longer than she expected, and once she had them properly placed, Marge realized what she'd done—what it would look like to Gavin or Ermintrude if they saw her keepsake. She'd seem a lackwit.

So she kept them closed away in her desk, companions to the words Gavin sent burrowing into her heart after she'd challenged his choice of daisies.
“Purple is your favorite.... You said so.”

Yes, she said so. Gavin thought it important enough to remember though. That meant something. It didn't mean a passionate, undying love. It didn't mean he'd been expecting Marge to step off that stage. But it still ... counted.

“You're a flower every bit as much as your cousin.”
This is what made her sneak out to save some of those daisies. The sound of his voice, so earnest as he said sweet words. Not flattery or compliments or a calculated bid to earn her favor. No, these were sweet words uttered in exasperation.
True words.
She turned the vase slightly as she deconstructed that lovely sentence for the hundredth time.

The teacher in her couldn't resist diagramming it—pulling out the root sentence.
You're a flower. You are a flower.
Without bothering with grammar, she replayed the meaning of it. Flowers were known for color, scent, texture—sensory appeal. It took time for them to blossom, time for them to be appreciated.

I am a flower.
No wonder she couldn't stop smiling whenever she opened her desk. Even better, he'd compared her to her cousin and found her equal.
Every bit.
He hadn't said, “just like.” Otherwise, Marge would have discounted the entire comment. She and Daisy weren't alike. Flowers were unique—no two the same—but they could be equally attractive.
If only I knew how to thank him and apologize for how I interpreted things....

“That's a big sigh.”

Marge slammed the desk shut at the sound of Ermintrude's voice. She turned to see, and sure enough, the older woman stood in her doorway. Who knew how long she'd been watching Marge moon over a stray sentence? Her only hope lay in the idea that her body blocked the flowers from view. Surely Ermintrude hadn't seen the vase.

Lord, this is the type of thing I pray about without thinking—asking
Your protection and strength. This time, I can't. My treasure and my heart aren't supposed to be of this earth, much less locked away in a drop front desk, hoping for the love of a man who wants someone else. Please help me control myself and follow the way You set out.

“Big sigh then holding your breath?” Ermintrude made her way into the room, apparently finding an invitation unnecessary. “Thinking about how much luggage you brought, wishing you'd shown a little restraint?”

“It won't do me any good cluttering the place and waiting to be repacked. I tried to hope for the best and pack for the worst.” Marge eyed the mountain piled against the far wall, sprawling out into the surprisingly large room, and started to wonder where she'd put everything once she took up her official post as teacher.

Settling herself on the bed—and managing to look exceedingly comfortable—Ermintrude fixed her attention on Marge. “It's not doing you any good all boxed up.”

“Yes, but it doesn't make any difference.” Marge couldn't keep herself from admitting the sad truth. “Nothing I brought will help with the contingency of my groom expecting another woman.”

“There's much to be said for versatility. You've been debating for days about the uselessness of hiding from disappointments.”

“I'm not hiding from my luggage.”
Though there are some things I don't want to unearth.
The very notion of seeing her wedding gown proved enough to make her sit down. Honesty compelled her to add, “Most of it, anyway.”

For an uncharacteristic moment, Ermintrude held her peace. Stillness reigned for an endless moment the likes of which teachers dream about often. How many times had she faced a classroom of students, or her overly enthusiastic cousin, and longed for silence only to be given none? Now she had quiet so fresh it crept through the room—a crisp, intoxicating delicacy.

One Marge suddenly lost her taste for.
Why did I never realize silence simply offers an invitation to be filled? If not with sound, with the thoughts one wouldn't care to speak aloud. The sort that plague a person, preying on dreams and surfacing doubts until one realizes just how lonely quiet can be.
She blinked suddenly stinging eyes.
I miss Daisy.

“You don't like it either.” Ermintrude ended the episode. “Let me tell you something, Marge. It gets worse as you grow older. The hopes filling the silence now slowly fade into memories and regrets.”

A shiver ran down her spine at the truth she sensed in the warning.
Lord, don't let me become bitter.
Immediately she felt better—good enough to challenge a prickly old woman whom she'd come to think of as a friend. “If you don't like silence, why do you shut yourself up in it? You don't attend town functions, invite people into your home, or accept invitations when they're offered. Why punish yourself?”

“I don't. I don't have to. Life's done enough of that.” A pause told Marge Ermintrude realized how snappish she sounded. “No, I keep to myself because the contrast of company makes things worse when the silence returns. This way, things stay on an even keel. But on to the matter at hand.” She gestured to Marge's trunks. “‘Waste not, want not.'”

Inspiration struck, and she offered a bargain. “If I accept your version of the homily, will you accept mine?”

“You'll unpack a bit and settle in if I do?” A shrewd light lit the old woman's gaze, her capitulation too easy. At Marge's nod, she didn't hesitate. “Agreed.”

Marge wondered for a moment if Ermintrude was so set on her unpacking because she thought it would be another step toward making Marge stay.
She's lonely....
“You're going to start attending functions then.”

“How does that have anything to do with my adage? ‘Waste not, want not' refers to using what's at hand.”

“Town events are close at hand, and I said you'd abide by
my
version.” She bent to open the first trunk, drawing out a beautifully worked starburst quilt. “Too late to change your mind now.”

“What is your version?” Curiosity overpowered the irritation in her friend's question, and Marge knew she'd won.

She eyed the small trunk in the corner, knowing she wouldn't open that one but still wishing she'd have reason to someday. “Want nothing, waste away.”