Shrugging, Philomena smiled and nodded at Davina. “To her, I appeared cowardly.”
He raised their joined hands, kissing the back of hers again. “You are the furthest from a coward, my love.” He leaned forward, kissing her forehead. He chuckled when she sighed with disappointment. “Soon enough, we will have time for kisses.”
“Tomorrow,” she said, with a broad smile, her eyes alit with the promise of all that would come.
“Tomorrow,” he agreed. “Nothing can separate us now.”
Chapter 11
On a bright Saturday in mid-August, Philomena fingered the lace on the edge of a refashioned gown, marveling at the fine needlework and craftsmanship shared by both Sorcha and Fidelia. Soon Philomena would slip into this dress, but she feared tempting fate by readying too early. Memories of her first wedding ceremony flashed through her mind, and she recalled putting on her dress early and then twirling in it, like a girl, delighted to see how beautiful she appeared that day.
Now she knew she would throw it on right before the ceremony, without a glance in the mirror. There was no need for such vanity. She closed her eyes and bowed her head. As long as Peter was there, nothing else mattered.
“Oh, I dinna mean to interrupt yer prayers,” Sorcha said, as she stilled her entry into the room, after a perfunctory knock.
Her eyes flew open, and Philomena flushed. “You weren’t. I was just …”
Sorcha chortled. “Ye were imaginin’ yer weddin’ night.” She winked at her future sister-in-law. “I ken what that’s like.” She sighed. “Ach, Frederick an’ I fought an’ enjoyed our verbal warfare, aye? But the kissin’ an’ all that came afterward was much sweeter for it.” She blushed and smiled at the older woman with unabashed joy. “Ye’ll ken what I mean soon enough.”
“Sorcha, stop pestering her,” Fidelia said, as she entered the room, wrapping an arm around the Scotswoman and hugging her close. “Oh, how I miss you.”
“Aye, I ken. Because I miss ye just as much,” Sorcha said.
Philomena watched the women in wonder, her battle lost against an overwhelming envy that she’d never known such kinship. Such friendship.
“An’ now we have a new sister, aye?” Sorcha said, as she beamed at Philomena. “I could no’ be happier.”
“You don’t know me. I could be a horrible person,” Philomena protested, her hands gripping her arms over her waist.
“Are ye?” Sorcha asked, with a tilt of her head. “Nae, I dinna believe ye are. For Ewan likes ye and says ye are a good person. An’ if Ewan likes ye …” She shrugged.
Fidelia smiled compassionately at Philomena. “Ewan’s rarely wrong in his judgments of people. God help you if he dislikes you. It would take you some time to overcome his initial opinion and to earn his trust.”
Sorcha giggled. “Aye, like Jessamine. Although ’twas fun to watch them court, aye?” She motioned for Philomena to strip off her dress. “Now I need to see my dress on ye, so I can make any adjustments as needed.”
Philomena stumbled back a step and held up a hand in protest. “Oh, I’m certain that’s not necessary,” she stammered. “It’ll look good enough.”
Holding a hand on her hip, Sorcha glowered at her. “Good enough? Good enough? What woman wants to only look good enough on her weddin’ day?” She made her motion again, her gaze daring Philomena to contradict her. “Ye ken I only have a few hours to make alterations.”
Throwing a pleading glance in Fidelia’s direction, Philomena shrugged out of her dress and then turned her back to pull on the beautiful cream-colored wedding dress, with lace on the cuffs.
“Yer lace is as beautiful as ever, Dee,” Sorcha said. She frowned as she looked at Philomena when she turned to face her. “’Tis strange. I never expected the dress to be so tight in the middle.” She froze and then gaped at Philomena in dawning horror.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Philomena cried, her hands over her belly.
“Ye’re with child,” Sorcha hissed, taking a step toward her. “Were ye plannin’ to tell him afore or after the weddin’ that ye were havin’ another man’s bastard?” She shook her head in confusion. “How could Ewan have been so wrong?”
Philomena, shaking and distraught, her eyes filled with tears that did not fall, stood speechless in front of the two women.
“He wasn’t wrong, Sorcha,” Fidelia said in a soft voice. “Calm down and think.”
Sorcha looked at Philomena, paling as she gasped, a hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear God. Ye anticipated yer vows in April, an’ then he abandoned ye?” At the pain in Philomena’s gaze, Sorcha cried out in distress and launched herself into her arms. “Oh, ye poor wee creature.” She rocked her side to side. “If I’d kent, I’d have bashed his head.”
A laugh sputtered out, and Philomena swiped at her cheeks, after losing her battle with her tears. “Are you always so mercurial?”
“Aye,” Sorcha said, with a shrug. “Especially when I’m worried about someone I love. I dinna ken Peter well, but Frederick loves an’ adores him.” She shrugged, as though to say that meant she loved and adored him too. “I couldna allow someone to deceive my family.”
“Peter knows,” she whispered. “We plan on making an announcement after the wedding. There’s no way to say this baby is an eight month surprise.” She flushed.
Sorcha gripped her shoulders, looking deeply into her eyes. “Ye love him?”
“More than I knew it was possible to love.” Philomena flushed at her admission.
Beaming at her, Sorcha squeezed her shoulders and then released her. “’Tis as it should be then.” She cast an assessing eye over her dress. “Now ye’ve given me a challenge, but I ken I can improve on this dress. I’ll need all the time we have remainin’ afore the weddin’.”
Philomena looked from Sorcha to Fidelia, thankful for the friendship and the realization that soon these women would be her family too.
On his wedding day, Peter paced the kitchen in his grandparents’ house, thankful that Frederick had barred the MacKinnon men. Peter liked them but didn’t have the energy to banter with the likes of Ewan today. On a chair near the window, his grandfather sat, with his ankle propped up, and he scrutinized Peter’s movements. Peter attempted to feign a sense of calm, but he knew he failed to hide his anxiety from the men closest to him.
“It’s all right, boy,” Harold said, as he rested his hands over his belly, his head against the back of the chair. “If you ain’t nervous on your weddin’ day, then you ain’t marryin’ the right woman.”
“Were you nervous about marrying Grandma?” Frederick asked, after sharing a surprised look with his brother.
“Of course I was,” Harold said, with an indignant huff. “I feared she’d come to her senses and realize she could do better.” He smiled. “But she showed.”
“And you’ve had a good life,” Frederick said.
“Bah, good life?” Harold said, with a glower. “A glorious life. Just like you and your Sorcha will have. And you and Philomena will have. Now we just have to find good women for Tobias and Cole.”
“Tobias?” Peter and Frederick sputtered at the same time, as they stared at each other in a mixture of horror and amusement.
“You think he doesn’t need love?” Harold shook his head in disappointment. “He’s just like you boys. Always wanting love but never believin’ he deserved it. Show compassion to the man.”
Peter ducked his head, as he always did upon receiving a dressing down from his grandfather. It didn’t matter that he was thirty-six and would soon be a father himself. He closed his eyes at the wondrous thought. A husband and a father.
“What’s made you smile like that?” Harold asked, as he studied Peter.
“I can’t believe today I am to marry Mena,” he murmured, his eyes glowing at the marvelous thought. “Nothing could keep me from marrying her.” He paced the small space. “I hope she feels the same.”
Frederick stepped in front of him. “You know she does. At
supper last night, she couldn’t keep her eyes off you. She looks at you the way Sorcha does me.” He smiled at his brother. “For that alone, I love her and will call her sister.”
Peter’s pleased grin froze at the warning in Frederick’s gaze. “What’s the matter, Fred?”
“Slims is worried about Mother. He believes she will do something to harm you.” Frederick was somber, as he stared at his brother.
“There is little she can do. We are holding the wedding inside, so there won’t be unwanted guests, and we will be happy today.” Peter rolled his shoulders. “I only wish Mena’s brother would come. We don’t need him for the ceremony, but I know it would mean a lot to Mena to have his blessing.”
Harold harrumphed his displeasure. “I thought we got a good pastor with this Fitch, but I fear he’ll be like another Cruikshanks.” He shook his head in disgust. “As for your mother, never discount what she would be willin’ to do, Peter.”
Staring from his grandfather to his brother, he held his hands on his hips. “I don’t understand. Is there something you aren’t telling me about her?”
Frederick shrugged, but Harold clamped his mouth shut, before he sighed. “She always resented you the most. Thought that if she hadn’t become with child with you that she’d have had her freedom. Hated being tied down because of you in this provincial backwater.”
“She wished I hadn’t been born?” Peter whispered.
“Aye,” Harold said, his gaze momentarily mournful, “which is a damn shame because you are and always have been such a blessing.”
Harold smiled at his eldest grandson. “What’s important is you’ve found happiness, Peter. And a good woman you know wants you for you.”
Peter forced a smile before turning away, his stomach in knots, as he looked blindly out the window. An unfounded fear filled him that he was repeating his father’s mistake and consigning himself to a life of misery.
Philomena stood outside the crowded room, her chest tight, feeling as though her corset were so constricting that she’d never take another breath. Although she knew she needed to take two steps to enter the room and to begin the walk down the makeshift aisle, she was frozen in place, unable to face seeing no one waiting for her again.
“Come,” Bears said in his low melodious voice. His dark gaze looked into hers, and he spoke in a soothing tone, as though he were easing one of his young daughter’s aches. “Take a deep breath. In and out.” He breathed with her a few times, smiling when color returned to her cheeks. “Better?”
“Is he there?” she asked, wincing at the plaintive tone in her voice.
Bears shook his head, his hold on her arm tightening. “Be brave. Trust in him.” He waited until she had calmed again and winged out his arm to her. “I’d be honored to walk you down the aisle.”
“You would?” she whispered, her eyes rounded in surprise. “I … I always thought I’d have to walk alone.”
“Only if you want to.” He waited, his eyes glowing with a brotherly pride as she slipped her arm through his. “Come. Your future awaits.”
She took another deep breath and moved into step beside Bears. The quiet chatter abruptly ceased as she entered the room. Although a few sat, it was mainly standing room only, so that everyone in the family could be present in the crowded MacKinnon living room. Philomena closed her eyes a moment, before firming her shoulders and glancing up the aisle, a brilliant smile bursting forth at seeing Peter waiting for her. Frederick stood beside him, but she focused on her Peter.
Peter, with those beautiful blue eyes, shining with love for her. He wore a formal gray suit with a burgundy waistcoat, and his hair had been trimmed by the barber this morning. He rocked from foot to foot, as though he had been as nervous about her arrival as she had been at determining his presence. As she walked the short distance toward him, it seemed as though they were the only two in the room, and, while no music played, she imagined she heard harp music. Nothing would mar today. For Peter was here, and they would marry. Finally they would be husband and wife.
“I object!” the strident female proclaimed from the back of the room. A collective gasp echoed through the otherwise quiet room, with everyone peering to the rear to see who had the audacity to speak up.
“No,” Peter growled, as he faced his mother. “You will not ruin this day.”
Warren held the Bible open, watching as Katrina Tompkins approached the front of the room, with swishing black skirts and fiery determination in her gaze. “Say your piece and then leave.”
“Is that any way to speak to a respectable woman, attempting to save her son from a lifetime of heartache?” she asked. Katrina had dressed as though for a funeral rather than a wedding, and the black dress made her complexion appear sallow, even though she had flushed with indignation. She turned to face the room, with an imploring expression, her gaze hardening when none were swayed by her performance. “I refuse to allow my son to marry a harlot. I have it on good authority that this woman is not chaste.”
“How dare you?” Frederick said, from his place beside his eldest brother. “How dare you believe you can come in here as though you were welcome? As though anyone would believe anything you had to say?”
“I am your mother,” she snapped, her cheeks reddened, as she stood ramrod straight. “As such, I have earned the right to speak.”
“You lost that right when you left all those years ago,” Frederick growled. “It would have been better for all of us if you’d remained dead.” He ignored her gasp of horror at his words, standing slightly in front of his brother to try to protect him from their mother’s spite, although he could do nothing to protect Peter from her vile words.
“You let that man be present,” Katrina said, as she pointed to Tobias, standing beside Jane. “I have every right to be here.”
Warren cleared his throat. “Speak and then leave. You are on private property, not church grounds, and we can throw you out, if we so choose.” At her horrified gasp, he nodded and waited with feigned patience.
“This so-called woman of virtue is not chaste. I have it on good authority that she is trying to pawn off another’s bastard onto my son.”
Philomena gasped and paled. Warren grabbed her as she stumbled, placing an arm under her shoulder and keeping her upright. “Lies,” she whispered.
“No woman retches every morning like clockwork, unless she is pregnant,” Katrina said, a triumphant gleam in her gaze. “You may thank me, Peter.”
“You witch,” he hissed. “Get out! Out!” He reached for his soon-to-be wife. “Mena, my love,” he whispered, as he pulled her into his arms. “Ignore her, my darling. Ignore her and marry me.”
“I’m so ashamed,” she whispered into his neck. “I’ve embarrassed you in front of everyone you love and admire. How can you still want to marry me?”
He chuckled, kissing her head, although his gaze was filled with impotent rage. He spun to stare at Frederick, who now stood in front of their mother to prevent her from approaching Peter and Philomena. He focused again on his bride, ignoring his mother’s yowls of protest at her mistreatment. “I want to marry you. I want the life I described in the meadow.” His hand dropped to her belly. “I want this baby and to watch our child grow together.” He gazed deeply into her stormy gaze. “I refuse to run from you again. Please, be brave and believe in me. In us. Marry me.”
Her eyes glowed with love as she nodded, before whispering, “Yes.”
He brushed away a tear, pressing his forehead against hers. “I want to kiss you, but I want to wait until we are declared husband and wife.”
She giggled, her fingers stroking his smoothly shaved cheek. “Patience, my darling.”
He beamed at her, raising her hand to kiss, as he faced the room. “My mother was precipitous in her declaration, but Mena and I are to have a baby together. Sometime at the end of January. We are very blessed.” He let out a sigh of relief, as everyone clapped and cheered, while the women sighed. A few swiped away tears.
Slims snaked an arm around her middle, hefted her up, and bodily carried her from the room, as she continued to proclaim her distress as she was ejected from the house. He shut and locked the front door, standing sentry before it. He nodded to Warren to continue the ceremony, ignoring the weak pounding on the outside door.
Warren cleared his throat and smiled apologetically to the couple and then to the gathered group. “Forgive me a moment while I find where I was. Ah yes, the objections have been heard.” At the rumble of laughter, he continued the ceremony and soon instructed Peter, “You may kiss the bride.”
Peter cupped her cheeks, looking deeply into her eyes. “Finally you are my bride. My wife.” He lowered his head, kissing her reverently. He eased away, the soft pad of his finger brushing over her cheek. “Later, my love. For now, let’s celebrate with our friends and family.”
They turned to face the beaming crowd and walked down the makeshift aisle, ending in the kitchen. He smiled as he heard her gasp beside him.
“Oh, look at that cake,” she whispered, burying her face against his chest. “Why would they go to such trouble?”
He kissed her head, holding her close, as he breathed in her intoxicating scent and relished holding her. “We’re family. And I’m learning they never refuse a chance to celebrate.”
“Why would we?” Jessamine asked, as she approached them, her daughter, Aileana, in her arms. “Too much sorrow is always in our lives, so we should grab on to whatever happiness we can.” Her red hair was tied back in a loose bun, and her eyes glowed with contentment. “I wish you both every happiness. I promise I’ll stop writing about you now.”
Peter held his wife close. “I don’t know if I care about you writing about us. You sway public opinion with your newspaper, and you’ve managed to keep speculation about my mother’s reappearance to a minimum.”
Runaway Montana Groom: Bear Grass Springs Book 12 Page 15
