The Bride Raffle (13 page)

Before he could conceive of a way, Daisy spoke up.

“Thank you, Thomas. I’m happy you think so. But if you only knew—” She broke off, traded a puzzlingly enigmatic glance with Owen, then resumed. “If you only knew the challenges I’m faced with, you might not feel quite so confident about my abilities.”

“To the contrary. There’s nothing you can’t do, Daisy!” Thomas offered her a brotherly grin. He gestured at the inviting home she’d created for the Coopers. “Why, if Mother and Father could see you now, just imagine how proud they’d be!”

To his horror, Daisy’s eyes filled with tears.

She sniffled, patted her skirts, then turned away.

“I—I’m so sorry!” Daisy cried. “I seem to have…something in my eye. Everyone, please continue enjoying the cookies!”

Futilely, she went on searching for something. Seated at her side, again divining what she needed, Owen Cooper pulled out a handkerchief. He glowered ferociously at Thomas—who couldn’t help shrinking back in response—then moved nearer to Daisy.

With his back to his assembled guests, Owen gave Daisy his handkerchief. He muttered a few kind-sounding words. Élodie moved, too. Hurriedly and fiercely, she hugged Daisy’s middle.

“Don’t worry!” the little girl said. “This will pass before you know it, just like all the other crying jags you’ve had.”

There’d been others?
Thomas wondered. Concerned, he scowled at Owen Cooper. If the stableman had dared to hurt his sister…

Well, he’d earn himself a piece of Thomas’s mind, at least. And maybe a bout of fisticuffs, too, just to set the lesson.

Filled with indignation and protectiveness, Thomas rose. He balled his fists, then marched over to confront Cooper.

“Have you been making my sister cry?” he demanded. “Because I heard Élodie just then, and if you have, I’ll have you know—”

“No, you fool.
You
made your sister cry.” Owen’s formidable visage loomed into view, a head taller than Thomas’s and twice as daunting. “And now you’re making it worse.”

As corroboration, he nodded toward Daisy. She sniffled again, her face a piteous, scrunched-up, blotchy ball of misery.

“I don’t know how and I don’t know why,” Cooper intoned
in a scary voice, “but if you don’t make it stop, I swear to God I will make you regret ever opening your mouth.”

Thomas quavered. Owen
did
care about his sister, he realized in a burst of awestruck realization. He cared enough to threaten Thomas with bodily injury if he accidentally hurt her.

“See there? You two
do
have something in common after all!” Brightly, Miss Reardon bustled over. Bravely, she inserted herself between the two men, arms outstretched. Efficiently, she wormed Daisy away from Owen’s protective presence and Thomas’s anxious hovering. “You both care about Daisy, and you’re both willing to threaten bloody murder if you don’t get your way.” She put one arm around Daisy. “Isn’t that
dear,
Abbey?”

Miss O’Neill harrumphed. “It must be awful having
two
men fighting over you. Poor, poor Miss Walsh. How
do
you bear up?”

“Pettiness isn’t becoming, Abbey,” Miss Reardon said in a brisk tone. She guided Daisy away. “Come along, now. Let’s see if we can fix you up. How about a good washup and a chat?”

Streaky-cheeked, Daisy nodded. “That sounds nice.”

“Yes, it does.” A turn. “Are you coming, Abbey?”

“No, I think I’ll put away all this apple butter for Owen.”

“I truly think we could use your help,” Miss Reardon said.

“You’ll be fine,” Miss O’Neill insisted breezily. “And after all, Miss Walsh
did
seem downright befuddled at the notion of making room in the pantry. So I’ll help in that way. Go on!”

Appearing left with no choice, Miss Reardon gallantly whisked Daisy away to the bedroom. Thomas felt simply bedazzled.

“Isn’t Miss Reardon
breathtaking?
” he asked. “Did you
see the way she swept to the rescue just then? So graciously? So munificently? So
beautifully?
My word, Cooper! I’m just—”

Still searching for an apt word, Thomas turned to Owen. Upon seeing his undoubtedly silly grin, the stableman scowled.

“There’s something you need to know about your sister,” Cooper said. He turned to Miss O’Neill. “Can you mind Élodie for a few minutes? Walsh and I need to visit the stable together.”

“Certainly, Owen!” she trilled. “Anything for you!”

Acknowledging her helpfulness with a nod, Cooper gave his curious-looking daughter a pat on the head. Then he addressed Thomas again. In a dark voice, he said, “Come with me.”

“But I—” Feebly, Thomas gestured. “The stable isn’t my—”

“I’m talking. You’re listening,” Cooper said. “Come on.”

B
y the time Miss Walsh and Miss Reardon had been in Papa’s bedroom for ten minutes, Élodie was nearly out of her skull with boredom. At first, she tried to entertain herself by helping Miss O’Neill put away all those jars of spiced apple butter. Élodie liked apple butter; she wanted to make sure it was within her easy reach the next time Papa made toast for breakfast.

But quickly enough, that task grew dull. Partly because it was a chore—Élodie was no fool; she recognized labor when she saw it—and partly because Miss O’Neill, as friendly as she might be, was one of those grown people who did not know how to speak with children. Not even with Élodie, whom she’d known for years.

“Well, Élodie!” Miss O’Neill said gaily, the moment Papa and Mr. Walsh headed downstairs. “It looks as though it’s just you and me now. Er, how are things at the schoolhouse?”

“Fine. It’s summertime now, so we’re not having lessons.”

“Oh. But you’ll have them soon, I hope? Shortly after the Independence Day town picnic is over with, I suppose?”

“Yes, I suppose so. Mrs. McCabe did lend me a book to read until school starts up again. It’s a very good story, about rabbits who lose their warren. In the illustrations, they’re all wearing trousers and little jackets, which is absolutely—”

“Mmm. That sounds excellent.” Skirts swaying, Miss O’Neill strode to the cupboard. Hands on hips, she examined its contents. Within plain view, row upon row of apple butter could be seen. There was apple butter sufficient to feed an army of grizzly bears, should any come calling. Or to feed a contingent of trouser-wearing rabbits, Élodie mused, which reminded her… “—
so
funny to see,” she continued, “and they learn—”

“
How
can there be so much apple butter left over?” Miss O’Neill demanded to know, her tone deeply dismayed. “Surely your father enjoys my apple butter a little bit…doesn’t he?”

Miss O’Neill’s plaintiveness roused Élodie’s sense of sympathy. Although she felt disappointed that Miss O’Neill was obviously not listening to her story about the hilarious rabbits, she didn’t want to be rude. Or see Miss O’Neill sad.

“We eat as much apple butter as we can,” Élodie explained. “I even put it on griddle cakes, but Papa prefers maple syrup.”

Miss O’Neill narrowed her gaze. “Oh, he
does,
does he?”

“Um. Only some of the time, he does!” Élodie blurted. Then, feeling unaccountably uncomfortable, she skedaddled for the relative safety of her bedroom. “I’ll be back in a minute!”

“Take your time,” Miss O’Neill muttered, not caring.

And that’s how Élodie came to be—very accidentally—within earshot when, about four games of jacks later, Miss Reardon slipped out of Papa’s bedroom and came to speak in the kitchen with Miss O’Neill. Voices low, they’d conversed hurriedly.

“Abbey, we have to abandon the plan,” Miss Reardon insisted, coming straight to the point. “You don’t have to
worry—I’ll tell Matilda and Viola myself. I know these aren’t the results we’d hoped for. Not exactly. But wasn’t the goal all along to make sure that Owen Cooper didn’t wind up a lonely old man, without any hope—or help with Élodie?”

Hearing her name, Élodie perked up. Carefully, she sidled to the very edge of her bedroom doorway, still listening. She was interested in the plan—the raffle-drawing plan to find Papa a wife. Especially now that it might gain him a baby, too.

“Of course it was!” Miss O’Neill hissed. “Of course that was the plan. I helped devise it, remember?” The apple-butter jars scraped across the cupboard shelf, clanging against each other. “But he wasn’t
supposed
to find happiness with her.”

At that venomous tone, Élodie cringed. Cautiously she glanced toward the closed door of Papa’s room. She hoped that, whatever Miss Walsh was doing in there, she couldn’t hear this.

“What difference does it make whom he’s found happiness with, as long as he’s found it?” Miss Reardon coaxed in that soothing voice of hers. Élodie liked the sound of it. “As long as he’s happy? We were all worried about how reclusive Mr. Cooper had become—how lonely. And truly, Abbey—when was the last time you heard him laugh that way? Joyfully? Out loud?”

Élodie knew the answer to that one.
Never.

The apple butter jars clanged again. A sigh was heard.

“Never,” Miss O’Neill admitted, echoing what Élodie knew to be true. There was a pause. Another sigh. “But…why
her?
”

“If you’d give her a fair chance, you might learn that for yourself,” Miss Reardon said. “Daisy is a very lovely person.”

“No. This only means that we’re on the right course,” Miss
O’Neill disagreed. “This only means that Owen is properly softened up, all the better to appreciate the
right
woman.”

“Abbey…” Quiet fell on the kitchen. Then, in an even gentler tone, Miss Reardon said, “You might have to admit it—”

She kept talking, but her voice suddenly faded too low for Élodie to hear. Frowning in concentration, she stepped into the hall. Her foot touched a loose floorboard, making it creak.

The door to Papa’s bedroom opened. Miss Walsh stepped out, as though drawn by that creaky floorboard. Her hair was freshly dressed, her forehead fringe was beautifully golden and her face was all scrubbed and pink. She glanced at Élodie, then gave her a kind and inquisitive smile as though wanting to help.

That was Miss Walsh, Élodie reckoned just then. She wanted to help and she wanted to
love.
And Miss O’Neill, no matter what else she said, only wanted to
win
—to win Papa for her very own.

Miss O’Neill looked at Papa the way Élodie looked at her apple butter, hungrily and greedily. But Miss Walsh only looked at Papa the way Élodie herself did…with care and admiration and a whole passel of love. That made all the difference.

“The right woman might not be you,” Miss Reardon went on, her voice clearer now. “We’ve given this a fair try, and—”

“And we’re not done trying yet!” Miss O’Neill insisted. “I know I can make Owen fall in love with me. I just need time!”

That was it. Élodie couldn’t stand it. She rushed into the kitchen, sticking out her chest fearlessly, the way Papa did.

“He won’t ever love you!” Élodie declared fiercely. “He won’t.” Triumphantly she eyed the surprised women. “So you might as well give up. Because Papa already told me—he
won’t
ever
love anybody ever again! Not the way he loved my
maman!
”

Élodie could tell by their expressions that they were astounded. They couldn’t even argue. They didn’t so much as try.

That’s how Élodie knew she’d won.

Well, she’d told off Miss O’Neill but good. And maybe it wasn’t proper or polite to do so, but it was truthful, and that mattered more. That’s what Papa always told her. Proudly Élodie glanced over her shoulder, wanting to share her victory with Miss Walsh. After all, it was partly her victory too. Because it didn’t take a summer of book learning or a grown woman’s bustled gown to realize that Miss Walsh was head over feet for Papa.

But then Élodie caught sight of Miss Walsh’s stricken face, and she realized something she
hadn’t
reckoned on until now. As she looked at Miss Walsh, Élodie recalled that, no, Papa could not love Miss O’Neill because he’d already sworn not to.

The trouble with that was, it meant Papa couldn’t love Miss Walsh, either, no matter how much she might love him herself.

And now, thanks to Élodie’s big mouth, Miss Walsh knew it.

Everyone
knew it.

Feeling in a true pickle, Élodie scrambled. “I didn’t mean
you,
Miss Walsh!” she cried. “You’re different! You know—”

“I think I’ll go see if I can find Mr. Winston downstairs,” Miss Walsh said quietly, “and find out if he’s delivered the message I gave him.” She offered Élodie a smile. “I’ll be right back.”

“You know how to talk to little girls!” Élodie wound up saying, her voice small and meek, as Miss Walsh slipped by
her…then disappeared down to the stable without a single glance backward. “That’s got to count for something!”

But all it counted for right now, it seemed, were two compassionate looks from the ladies left behind, as Misses Reardon and O’Neill both came forward to comfort Élodie.

Élodie didn’t know what to do next. But she did know one thing: if she wanted a baby brother of her own—and if she wanted a wife for Papa—she’d better act quickly. She’d better make Papa forget his vow about Maman…and come to love Miss Walsh just as ardently as she seemed, at least to Élodie’s eyes, to love him already.

But how? And would she have enough time to act?

“You never told us about your father’s vow,” Miss Reardon said, her gaze kind and concerned. “You should have mentioned that, Élodie. It might have made a difference in our plans.”

“It might have
ended
our plans, you mean!” Miss O’Neill shook her head, seeming thoroughly put out. “A man who’s still in love with his departed wife is no man at all. Leastwise, he’s no good to a woman who’s living and wants to go on enjoying it.”

“Papa is
too
good!” Élodie vowed. “You take that back.”

But all the ladies did was give Élodie a little hug and go on staring at the stairway. “I wish she hadn’t had to hear it that way,” Miss Reardon said. “That must have been difficult.”

Miss O’Neill harrumphed. “She’s only known him a few days!”

“Sometimes it doesn’t matter how long you’ve known someone. Sometimes all that matters is how you feel about them. And that can come clear in an instant.” Miss Reardon gave Miss O’Neill a sad smile. “I’m sorry, Abbey, but it’s true.”

Miss O’Neill sniffed in disagreement, but Élodie brightened.

All that mattered
was
how people felt. And these days, her papa felt like smiling and laughing. Élodie had to make sure these happy days continued. No matter what it took!