Grace (The Marriage Market Book 2) (8 page)

Amelia laughed and kissed Tempest's palm.

              "But a girl first, oui? We will make them wait for a boy. Come now," she continued, taking her hand and pulling her to the carriage.

"I'll do my best," Amelia promised with a giggle. "Why are you giving a party?"

Tempest climbed into the barouche and settled herself before answering.

              "I wanted to have a grand ball, but your Pa Pa forbade it. He says we must have a party instead so the lumberjacks can attend. I do not understand the change in him. I think your husband is a bad influence."

              "Yes, Ma Ma, that may be, but you are happy. I too can see it in your eyes," Amelia said, climbing in beside her and tucking her arm through Tempest's.

              "Oui, it is true," Tempest admitted as they bumped along. "I am most happy. Now if we could find a bride for Samuel I would be content to wait for the bebes to come along."

              "Sam doesn't appear to be in any hurry to marry," Amelia observed. "Many of the brides are very pretty and accomplished, yet he shows no interest."

              "I know, ma petit. I am hoping when he sees how happy you and Hugh are, he will reconsider. My younger son can be dour, like his Pa Pa. I remember I spent many days trying to entice him. I knew he wanted me, yet he did nothing about it. A Frenchman makes his intentions known, even when they are less than honorable," she said with a look of confusion on her face.

"Maybe he just hasn't met the right girl?" Amelia suggested.

"That may be true. We must find her for him, oui? But she must have fire and spirit or he will crush her like a flower under his boot. This I am certain of."

              Arriving at the house, Amelia was soon surrounded by women wanting to know many more details than she was willing to share. Yes, she was happy she told them. Yes, Hugh had forgiven her for doubting him but other than that she would say no more. Their new and fragile marriage was too precious to her to risk jinxing. Soon they were gathered around the table discussing the party.

              Many of the women were disappointed the plans for a grand ball had been scrapped, but others were relieved they didn't have to put on airs they weren't sure they were capable of pulling off. Lucy, Lydia and Sara were upset when Amelia told them Hugh was not in favor of them going into the camps to become washer women. She took the sting out of his words by mentioning they were much too young and pretty to work that hard and they should concentrate on finding a husband of their own to care for.

              It was decided the dance would be much better held in one of the big barns where there was a nice wooden floor for dancing and the lumberjacks would be more at ease. When the topic of food was brought up, Molly surprised everyone with the suggestion that she would prepare most of the side dishes while one or two of the men tended to the meat.

              Ever since Molly admitted to Martha that she couldn't cook, it seemed each of the women were suddenly interested in showing her how they made their special dishes. Instead of Molly cooking once or twice, she was now in the kitchen daily and learning rapidly.

              Even Angus, who stopped in now and then when he was going into town for supplies, was impressed when she offered him a glass of sweet tea and some homemade sugar cookies. While she wasn't ready to go up the mountain and cook for hordes of men, she was making progress. Angus had been particularly sweet, telling her about the headway being made on the cabin and how anxious he was for her to move in so he could start courting her properly. Each time he mentioned it, she got a sick feeling in her stomach. He was attractive enough that her heart skipped a beat when he pulled up to the back door in his wagon, but she knew he also had a temper. Sooner or later he was going to find out the truth.

              Molly wasn't foolish enough to think that just because she could make a peach cobbler or enough scalloped potatoes and ham to feed the women, it made her a cook. Most of the recipes she was accumulating would have to be adjusted in quantity. Recently she tried to make a batch of baking powder biscuits that would feed fifty and they turned out hard as rocks and so salty they choked her. Embarrassed, she took them out to the chickens and the next day three were dead. Molly cried the entire time she cleaned the rest of the biscuits out of the coop and prayed no more expired due to her incompetence.

              Offering to make the food for the party would either make or break her. If she made a success of it, she would pack her bags and move into the cabin. If she made a huge mess of things, she would still pack her bags but she would high-tail it out of town. In any case, the stress of the unknown was killing her. The more attached she became to Angus, the harder it would be to leave. It was time to 'shit or get off the pot' as her grandmother used to say.

As soon as Tempest and Amelia departed, Martha cornered her in the kitchen.

"We'll all help you, Molly."

              "No, Martha. I'll ask for advice, but I need to do most of it on my own. I'll give it my best, but if things go wrong, I need to move on. There are plenty of taverns in town. I'm sure one of them will hire me to serve drinks and the like."

              "I don't like this at all, Molly, not at all. Why won't you tell Mr. McGuire the truth? He's a reasonable man and look at all he's done for you, building the cabin and waiting until you were ready. You're doing him a great disservice. After all, you promised to wed him," Martha scolded, watching as the other women filed quietly into the kitchen.

              "He wanted a cook first and a wife second. Any of you would suit him and you wouldn't have the lie hanging between you," Molly insisted, planting her hands on her hips.

              "Don't look at me," Suzanna said. "I've been thinking a lot about Jonathon's letter and how sweet it was, even if he did sign Mr. Jordon's name. My Mama didn't raise no fools and while I don't mind sharing my Grandma Celeste's Pecan Pie recipe, that's about as far as I want to go. I want my own home and one man to worry about."

              "I feel the same way, Molly," Ellie said. "I know Charles did wrong, but he's really awfully handsome and strong. I think I could do a lot worse. Nearly every morning there's a bunch of wild flowers on the porch and I just know they're from Charles."

              "I beg your pardon, but those flowers are from my Joseph," Charlotte, insisted with a challenging glare. "I particularly mentioned in my letter that I just adored Daisies."

              "Well I think you're both wrong. Obviously they are from my Herman," Clara said kindly. "He's really a dear, dear man. I can't wait till the dance when he takes me in his arms for a waltz," she sighed.

              "They could be from my William," Mary suggested with a blush. "In his letter he promised me flowers every day."

"He also said he was rich and owned a vast timber empire," Lydia shot back.

              "No, he didn't. He simply failed to mention he was not H. Jordon. The rest of his letter came from his heart."

"Well it came from somewhere on his person," Sara added with a snort.

              "Girls! That's enough," Jane cried, entering the kitchen and taking off her gloves and bonnet. "Can't I leave you alone for an hour or two without someone starting a brawl? What's going on in here?"

              "Mrs. Jordon and Amelia were here," Martha explained. "They've changed the grand ball to a barn party and Molly offered to cook all the food except the meat."

              "Oh my," she replied with a worried frown. "Are you sure that's wise, Molly dear? Ellie, I saw that and if you pinch Charlotte again, I swear I'll take a wooden spoon to you. Gracious, coming into this uproar has given me a headache. Martha, be a dear and put the kettle on, will you?

              "Now, Molly, why don't you explain yourself. Offering to prepare the food is a little bit like cooking your own goose."

              "Or killing your own chicken," Lucy added, stepping behind Sara when Molly sent her a warning scowl.

              "I can't take the strain of this pretense anymore," Molly said quietly, her shoulders sagging. "You all know I'm not really a cook, not in the sense that Angus thinks I am. I appreciate all the help you've given to me, even if it was given grudgingly in some cases."

              "It's not that, Molly. We just felt like you were trying to pawn your Angus off on one of us, sort of use us to get out of the mess you created," Suzanna drawled. "He's a nice enough man, sugar, but we have our own fish to fry if you know what I mean. We don't mind helping you; we just don't want your Mr. McGuire."

              Jane sat at the table and watched the women scurrying around, getting out tea cups and fixing the teapots.

              "I'll take him off your hands," Lydia offered quietly. "I've spent a good deal of my life, hungry, all of us have," she said including Sara and Lucy in her comment. "It would be nice to have a man who knows how to make a good meal."

"Speak for yourself," Sara snapped. "I come from a fine home in the east."

              "Oh Sara, do be quiet," Lucy sighed. "We were all poor as church mice. It's different for us. Sara answered the advertisement and when she received the money for the fare, we bought the cheapest passage west we could get. It was not a pleasant journey for the most part, but we made it hoping Mr. Jordon would marry her and she would be in a position to provide for us until such time as we could find husbands of our own. We figured where there was one man needing a wife, there would be others."

              "You must have been in dire need to take such a risk," Martha observed, pouring the boiling water into the teapots.

              "Yes, we were," Sara finally admitted. "We worked long hours in the knitting mill, yet nearly all our wages went to a boarding house the mill owner owned. It was little better than slavery."

              "I think we've all had our struggles," Jane said kindly. "The important thing is too move forward together and help one another when we can. All this fighting and arguing isn't accomplishing anything. For the time being, each and every one of you is safe and well-cared for with plenty to eat and a stout roof over your heads. Can't you at least be grateful for that and stop this other nonsense?"

              "I am grateful," Molly replied, as most of the girls nodded in agreement. "I need to make good is all and if I can't, I need to move on. I know there's a place for me out there."

              "That place is with me, Molly girl," Angus said gently, standing in the back doorway of the kitchen. "I knocked, but nobody answered," he explained.

              "Oh God, Angus," Molly gasped, a hand flying to her throat. "How long have you been standing there?"

              "Long enough, lassie," he replied, a touch of sternness creeping into his voice. "I think it's time you and I had a wee talk… privately," he continued eyeing the women who made to gather around Molly. Reaching her side, he pulled the strings on her white apron and helped her slip it over her head. Taking her arm in a strong, yet gentle grip, he guided her out the back door while she smoothed her sweaty hands down her blue and white gingham dress.

Pulling her toward the barn, he paused as they passed the chicken coop.

"Why is there a dead chicken in the coop?" he asked as he resumed his stride.

              "Oh God, don't ask," Molly pleaded, looking over her shoulder and counting out loud as her eyes scanned the wire pen.

              Arriving at the barn, Angus opened the door, allowing Molly to precede him before closing the heavy door behind him. He watched her twist her hands in the fabric of her skirts for a moment before escorting her to a bale of hay and making her sit with a big hand on her shoulder.

              "Explain to me why you were trying to pass me off like a worn dress to one of those other lasses," he demanded, fighting to keep his tone even.

"No, Angus, I wasn't," Molly cried, standing quickly. "I…"

"Sit down, Molly."

"But I want to tell you…"

"I said, sit down," he repeated.

              "No," she snapped back angrily. "You're being a bully. You just want me to feel small so you can be bigger than me."

              "You are small and I am much bigger than you," he said, with a grin, "whether you're standing or not. I want you to sit so
I
won't be tempted to."

Seeing the confusion in her eyes, he continued.

"Molly, if I sit, I'll likely pull you over my knees and redden that pretty backside of yours, so enjoy it while you still can," he warned.

Molly nearly fell off the bale she sat so quickly and Angus hid his smile of satisfaction.

"Now, I want to know what that was all about in there," he said, pointing in the direction of the house.

"What part?" she hedged.

"All of it."

              "I know, but what part exactly did you hear?" she asked, biting her nail and avoiding eye contact.

              "Molly Muldoon, you have about thirty seconds to tell me what I want to know, or the cries coming from you sweet lips as I spank your bottom will be heard all the way to the camps."

              "Oh all right," she shouted, bounding to her feet. "But I can't sit. I talk better when I'm moving about."

Angus nodded.

              "All right, I'll sit," he replied, picking up another bale of hay and setting it atop the first one.

"No," she squealed. "I don't think you should sit either, I mean not after what you said."

              "Too late" he replied, as he got comfortable. His long legs were planted firmly on the floor of the barn and he crossed his arms over his chest as he waited.

Molly paced for several minutes before she began to speak.

"I want you to understand, it was never my intention to deceive you."

              "Oh, it wasn't your intention to deceive. Then would you care to explain why you said you were a cook when you answered that advertisement?"

"I was desperate," she replied, "and I never, not one time, told
you
I could cook, did I?"

"Not me, but you did write it in your letter to Mr. Jordon," he insisted.

"Yes, so I deceived Mr. Jordon, but I didn't deceive you, did I?" she asked smugly.

              "A technicality, lass, and one I'm not prepared to overlook. Lying is lying, no matter how you defend it."

              "I have no reason to defend myself," she snapped back, her eyes flashing. "I did what I had to do to survive. If you don't want to marry me because of it, so be it."

              "I never said that, lass. Look, dinna try to turn this on me. I made an offer in good faith and despite your trying to turn me over to one of your friends; I mean to carry it through. You're still going to be my wife."