My One True Love

by Deborah Small

  How Miss Chloe, who’d been less than a year old when the rumour first ignited and maybe three years old when it had mercifully faded to obscurity, had caught wind of it, he couldn’t imagine.

  He checked the short hallway again, and, seeing only floor and walls, he took Maisie’s cold hand in his and offered a reassuring squeeze.

  “I promise you, Maisie,” he murmured. “I loved your mama, and I did not, and never would have done, anything to hurt her. Now, let’s go home, and—”

  “You’ll tell me?” she rasped. “You’ll tell me about my mama, Joe? Please promise you’ll tell me everything.”

  He fisted his free hand, resisting the urge to grasp her up off the sofa, drag her home, and spoon-feed her a placating story. But he couldn’t do that. The anguish in her face and in her voice...He was fourteen again, full of similar grief-ridden defiance as he struggled to reconcile the man he loved and trusted as his father with the one he’d found cuddling a strange woman in a corner booth of the beachside tavern Daniel Banner taken to frequenting.

  He had wanted so desperately to charge across the tavern and punch his father square on his cheating mouth. His brother Micheal, seven years older and wiser and sixty pounds heavier, held him back. But Micheal hadn’t been able to contain Joe’s howl of outrage, which had prompted their father to tear his lips from the woman’s and look over.

  The shock, then shame, on his face...The only thing that eased the sting of that memory was his father’s instant remorse. He’d had practically thrown the woman off his lap to chase after him and Micheal when they slammed out into the street, Joe leading owing to Micheal’s hand on his back shoving him along. On the boardwalk out front, in the glare of the hot Floridian sun and curious onlookers, Daniel Banner had begged their forgiveness, pleading with them not to tell their mother. Micheal, the family peacemaker, had capitulated immediately.

  Antonia Kyprianou was as renowned for her fiery temper as she was for her dark Grecian beauty. And she’d met her tempestuous match in Irishman Tomás Daniel Banner. Micheal adored them both and would have swum with man-eating sharks before he’d have risked inciting a row that might end their then twenty-three-year marriage.

  Not Joe. Adoration and extortion weren’t factors he let sway his decision-making. Not in the face of injustice. Even when that face belonged to the man with power to turn him out on his ear at fourteen with empty pockets.

  Many times Papou had murmured, in reference to Joe, “The wildest colts make the best horses.” Joe had thought it a compliment—until he was eighteen and read Plutarch’s Themistocles. He’d discovered that his grandfather hadn’t been encouraging his combative nature but warning his father to tame it and to train him. But on that day, his father’s guilt overrode any desire to resort to his usual tactic of threats and force when intimidation failed to induce the desired compliance. Which, with Joe, was often.

  Not that Daniel would have succeeded in coercing Joe’s cooperation even if he had beaten him bloody. Joe’s two middle brothers had routinely left him with a cut lip or blackened eyes after minor disagreements escalated into fisticuffs, and he’d never let the prospect of another bruise or split lip make him turn tail. No, what had finally earned his reluctant and grudging silence with regard to his father’s sin was the vow he’d extorted from him: that he’d never repeat his adulterous mistake. That he would always be faithful to Joe’s mother for as long as he was married to her.

  Now, seventeen years later, they would soon celebrate their thirty-ninth wedding anniversary, and so far as Joe knew, they were happy. From that, he trusted his father had kept his word. So he kept his.

  If his mother knew of, or had ever suspected, her husband’s infidelity, she never let on. Not to Joe, anyway. But that didn’t exonerate his father. Joe had never fully trusted him again, and the thought of earning similar broken-hearted cynicism from Maisie by evading a truth he’d hoped to protect her from until the day he died...

  Easing out a slow and painful breath, he sagged as the weight of what he’d carried for so long threatened to rip the heart out of his chest.

  “Come home with me now, Maisie,” he murmured hoarsely as he took her hand gently in his, “and I’ll tell you everything I can about your mother and what happened to her.”

  Chapter 8

  Complicated Family

  MARGARET’S PULSE QUICKENED.

  She’d come in the rear of the house rather than the front in hopes of making it upstairs and to her bedchamber to change and tame her hair—and apply a cool cloth to her raw eyes—before anyone saw her. But the sound of Mr. Banner and Maisie’s voices coming from the study had stalled her. The snippet of conversation she’d overheard of Maisie begging him to tell her about her mother—“You’ll tell me? You’ll tell me about my mama, Joe? Please.”—as she wiped damp detritus off the soles of her boots on the mat by the door, and his agonisingly lengthy silence before he had finally answered, had almost broken her.

  How many times had she crept into her father’s study and stood before his desk, hoping he’d lift his head out of his hands or his drink and notice her, answer her whispered pleas to know where Mama was and when she was coming back?

  Any time past one had been too many in her mind, and in Papa’s case, it had been far more than that.

  The aggrieved child in her, who’d never had her loss consoled by the one person who should have understood her heartache the most, wanted to stomp into the study and say as much to Mr. Banner. But the adult woman in her, who’d survived far more losses than just her mother, understood the many and varied reasons someone might decline to discuss a past love, even with the child of that loving union: regret, shame, humiliation, or, like her and her Papa, simple grief, to name but a few.

  Whatever his past reasons, it seemed Mr. Banner was prepared to set them aside in the interest of assuaging his daughter’s broken heart. Which meant she needed to get to her bedchamber, and swiftly.

  Peeking down the short hallway to ensure neither father nor daughter was yet on their way or looking out, she tiptoed past and flinched when her brain belatedly ascribed the slim white object with a black tip tapping the floor near the sofa as the tail belonging to Maisie’s pet dog.

  She could only pray it hadn’t heard her or picked up her scent. The last thing she needed was for it to yip or draw attention to her presence. Mr. Banner might think she was eavesdropping.

  Which she had been, but not purposefully.

  Gripping the handrail, she turned up the stairs.

  “Mrs. Sweeney.”

  She faltered as she reached the top landing but managed not to fall and make a complete fool of herself.

  Cloaking her guilt behind a smile, she turned around.

  “Maisie,” she said without having to fake her surprise.

  How the child had known it was her trotting up the steps? Then again, who else would be? Hers was the only occupied bedchamber on the first floor, and she doubted Miss Alma or Mr. Rufus, both of whom were well past middle age and far too circumspect, would make a habit of dashing anywhere, let alone up a flight of stairs.

  “How lovely to see you.” She offered Mr. Banner a polite smile. “Mr. Banner. Reba.”

  If Mr. Banner knew or suspected she’d overheard his conversation with his daughter, he didn’t reveal it but returned her greeting with smile with a staid nod. Reba lolled her tongue and nudged Maisie’s hand.

  Resting her hand on the dog’s head, Maisie said, “Joe and I are going home for lunch. He’s going to tell me about my mama. Her name was Simone, and she died when I was born. All I know about her is that she had red hair and green eyes like me, and she loved to dance.” She tilted her face up to Mr. Banner, perhaps sensing a change in his posture, because she couldn’t see the sudden tic in his jaw that Margaret could. “Lisette told me about her loving to dance,” she told him. “And you mustn’t be cross with her, Joe, because I made her tell me. At Christmas. I told her the only thing I wanted from her was to know one thing that
she knew about my mother.”

  As though conjured by the words, Miss Lisette appeared in the foyer, clutching a pair of white bonnets and light coats, her dark eyes wide and wary.

  “I think that’s wonderful, Maisie, that you learned something specific about your mother,” Margaret said. “My mother died when I was young too, and I appreciated hearing every little thing I could about her, especially as I got older. It made me feel less...alone when my father was busy.”

  Miss Lisette cast Margaret a shy look of gratitude, and Maisie brightened, but before she could utter a word, Mr. Banner touched her shoulder.

  “Time to go,” he said. “We’ve kept Mrs. Sweeney from her own meal long enough.”

  Margaret’s throat closed on an impulse to invite them all to stay for lunch.

  She dreaded the prospect of another torturous meal alone. But it would be unfair to delay Maisie’s learning what she so desperately wanted—and deserved—to know just so Margaret could distract herself from the cavernous social void in her life.

  And heart.

  Willing a smile, she nodded. “Yes, I really need to change, and attend to my work. It was a pleasure seeing you again, Maisie. And you, Mr. Banner. Miss Lisette. Good day.” She swung around and started for her chamber before she could change her mind.

  She was halfway along the carpeted hallway, silently admonishing herself for inserting herself into a private family affair by speaking up in Miss Lisette’s defence—revealing a painful truth she hadn’t shared with anyone, not even William or George—when a loud commotion and an angry voice echoed up the stairs from the foyer:

  “Where’s the scheming bitch who stole my inheritance?”

  “DO YOU HEAR ME? WHERE is she? I want to look that trollop in the eye—”

  Margaret arrived at the top of the stairs in time to witness the man’s words choked off as Mr. Banner’s sun-bronzed hand closed around his throat as he threw the man up against a wall.

  She hastened down the steps, frantically scanning the foyer for Maisie and Miss Lisette, grateful to discover them near the hall to the study, Maisie clutching Reba’s collar tightly with both hands behind Miss Lisette, who’d positioned herself between child and dog, and the scuffling men. Reba’s hackles were up, her head low and her amber-eyed gaze fixed on the men, but she didn’t bark or leave Maisie’s side. Releasing a sigh of relief, Margaret composed herself and turned towards the fracas.

  “Mr. Banner. Please stop...Oh, my.” She stared, stunned by the sight of the small silver pistol Mr. Banner had wrested from the stranger’s hand and aimed towards the ceiling. Her gut clenched, instinct telling her the pistol—or rather, the bullets in it—had been intended for her. Willing strength to her abruptly loose joints, she transferred her disbelieving gaze to the stranger’s face.

  He was about her age, maybe a year or two older, slight and pale, and not what she considered even mildly attractive, though his purplish countenance and bulging eyes had more to do with the pressure of Mr. Banner’s hand on his larynx than with biology. One thing was for certain: she didn’t know him. Yet...she did.

  She shivered as a creeping familiarity stole over her.

  The high forehead, receding hairline, muddy blond hair, and dark brown eyes did not reveal his specific identity, but the combination did expose his association to Sugar Hill. To George.

  Swallowing a rise of nausea induced by an irrational fear that was associated less with the man’s actions—Mr. Banner had him well in hand—but with his potential paternity, she met the man’s accusatory glare with one of cool expectation.

  “Well, you got your wish,” she said. “You’re looking me in the eye. How can I help you, Mr....?”

  JOE DIDN’T LET HIS surprise—his admiration—crack the rigid glare he had fixed on the intruder.

  She had gumption, he’d give her that. Brave the cold and rain to bury a child in the morning, face a homicidal gunman in the afternoon, and still sound like a battle-hardened general addressing troops when she spoke.

  If he hadn’t seen the tears in her eyes, graveside, or witnessed the tenderness in her gaze each time she looked at Maisie, he’d think ice water ran through her veins instead of blood. She wasn’t a woman he’d welcome to a poker game. But to his bed...

  “Answer her,” Joe growled, forcing the inappropriate thought, and the image that accompanied it, away as he increased the pressure of his hip and shoulder on the man to keep him pinned to the wall while relaxing his hold on the man’s throat enough to enable him to speak.

  “Get your filthy common hands off me—” the man squawked as Joe squeezed and immediately relaxed his hand, marginally. “Barrister—” the man croaked out, and angled his chin down as far as Joe’s grasp permitted to glower at Mrs. Sweeney. “Barrister Cyril Winston Griffiths,” he continued in a pained rasp. “George Sweeney’s nephew, and rightful heir of Sugar Hill.”

  Joe resisted the urge to crush Barrister’s windpipe.

  He knew who this man was, and more importantly, what he was like. And he’d never liked him. Not from the first time they’d been introduced fifteen years ago outside on the front lawn, Barrister all done up in a suit and tie and shiny heeled boots, and Joe in a dirty shirt and overalls and bare feet, fresh from helping in the fields.

  George, also in work clothes and fresh from the fields, urged them to shake hands, while the whole Griffiths clan—father, mother, and two younger sisters turned out in their Sunday best, though it was a Saturday—looked on, expecting, Joe surmised, that as boys of similar age, they’d hare off and become fast friends. But Joe had seen, in Barrister’s black-eyed stare, what George either didn’t recognise or didn’t want to: contempt. Cruelty. Desire to dominate.

  Being the youngest of four sons, he’d seen that look before, and had discovered that the swiftest way to deter his elder brothers’ torment of him was not to show pain—ever. To never cry out, and to never give in, no matter how much he hurt. So he’d found it easy that day on the lawn not to give Barrister the satisfaction of seeing his hurt when Barrister stomped his bare toes as they exchanged grips. And he took no satisfaction now in seeing the fear and pain in Barrister’s opaque glower as he choked out his name and false claim to Sugar Hill.

  “Mr. Banner.” Exasperation, not fear, piqued Mrs. Sweeney’s voice. “Mr. Banner, please release Mr. Griffiths. It seems he’s here on family business, business better suited to civil discussion at a table, with refreshment.” She waved a small hand in the direction of the hallway that led to the rear of the house, and Miss Alma materialised from the shadows at the far end of the hall, her expression carefully blank, a survival mechanism honed during a lifetime of exposure to the Barrister Griffiths of the world.

  “I’d like lunch served in the conservatory,” Mrs. Sweeney said. “Settings for three—”

  “Barrister?” A feminine voice ventured timidly into the foyer through the open front door, followed a second later by a shadow and then its fully realised owner. Esther Griffiths’s eyes widened in her horse-like face as she raised a black-gloved hand to her mouth. “My heaven, what are you doing to my son?”

  “Your son just barged into my home waving a pistol. Mr. Banner relieved him of it and is now ensuring that there are no other guns—or knives—to worry about.” Mrs. Sweeney raised her eyebrows at Joe, who commenced a quick, one-handed pat-down of Barrister Griffiths.

  When Joe looked at her and nodded, Mrs. Sweeney turned her expectant look on Esther Griffiths, evoking a startled flinch. Joe maintained his hold on Barrister.

  He’d trained a few dogs. When forced to grab them by the throat to quell a violent reaction and establish the pecking order, he’d learned to not let go until the dog went limp and averted its gaze, acknowledging Joe as the alpha. Ease up on the dog while even a minor thread of resistance thrummed through its skeleton, and one risked an even more vicious attack the moment the dog was free. Barrister Griffiths wasn’t a dog. But he was a predator. Joe needed to ensure he understood that Sugar Hill
was not going to be his hunting ground.

  “You’re Mrs. Griffiths?” Mrs. Sweeney’s tone was pleasantly curious, which was undeservedly polite of her, in Joe’s opinion. But then, she didn’t know Barrister, or Esther, the way he did.

  “Yes. Esther Imelda Sweeney-Griffiths. George Sweeney’s sister.” Joe didn’t see Esther lift her chin and stiffen her spine, but he sensed the change in her demeanour through her icy tone. “And this is my familial home.”

  Joe, watching Barrister’s eyes for any signal he was prepared to acquiesce and accept Mrs. Sweeney’s offer of hospitality, noted instead a flash of gratification. And malevolent pride.

  Like mother, like son.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Mrs. Sweeney said. “Setting for four, Miss Alma, please. Do you like your tea hot or cold?” she asked Esther Griffiths.

  Joe enjoyed his own morsel of gratification when the frown line between Barrister’s thin, mouse-brown eyebrows deepened to a bewildered cleft. Behind him, he could also sense Esther Griffiths’s consternation.

  They’d come in with the intent to scare their target away, with force if necessary. Instead, she was welcoming them with an offer of tea and sandwiches. Hospitable conversation.

  Joe’s appreciation for George’s widow ratcheted up another notch. She packed a lot of courage in her tiny frame.

  After what seemed an eternity, given that Joe’s bicep and forearm muscles were beginning to seize from prolonged exertion in one immovable position, Esther Griffiths huffed out a resigned sigh.

  “If your man will let go of my son,” she said with strained civility, “we will accept your offer of luncheon. And tea. Cold, please, with lemon.” Her voice was strained, as if she were gagging on the pleasantry.