JOE RESISTED THE URGE to look Maisie’s way. If she was awake, he didn’t want to know. Because he’d feel compelled to go to her, and right now, it was Mrs. Sweeney who needed and deserved his attention.
“Simone is—was—Maisie’s mother,” he said. “She’s deceased. That’s where I was. Not seeking work. Looking for Simone, to...”
“To what?” She pushed back from him. “Bring her here? I don’t understand. After ten—more than ten—years, you went in search of...George’s fiancée. My heaven.” Her eyes widened. “You did violate his trust. You had an affair with her and got her pregnant. How dare you? You were his friend—”
“She’s not mine.”
“What?” She scowled. “What do you mean, not yours? You just said that Simone is her mother, so how can she not be yours? I mean, who else was there? How many men did this Simone woman have on her card?”
“Only one that I know of,” he said quietly.
“Only one. But it wasn’t you. Which leaves—” Her mouth fell open. “George?” she whispered. “George is...”
“Yes.” He nodded. “Maisie is George and Simone’s child.”
MARGARET GRIPPED THE rail with both hands.
George’s child? Maisie is George’s child? George’s daughter? Almost against her will, her head turned.
Maisie was on her back, arms wide and face angled away from the window. The thick side-braid Margaret had weaved her curls into after her bath coiled along her neck like a diamond-pattern snake. Margaret shivered, recalling the snake encounter at the pond and Mr. Banner’s strong arms around her. The erotic feel of his naked body pressed to her damp chemise as he murmured reassurance in her hair. He’d made her feel safe. Protected. Loved. Something she desperately wished to feel now instead of ghastly confusion and fast-rising anger.
“That’s why he told me that he didn’t care if I was barren and couldn’t bear him a child,” she rasped. “He had one.”
Mr. Banner crouched to retrieve the blanket from the terrace floor and fit it around her. “Inside,” he said gently. “You’re covered in gooseflesh—”
She leaned away. “I can’t go in there and talk about this. What if she hears? My God. Does she know?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I had no plans to tell her, ever. But—”
“Then how do you know?” She stepped out of his reach, holding the blanket around her like a cape. “How do you know George is her father? Did he tell you? And why didn’t he tell me? My God, why didn’t he tell me?”
He grasped the whisky bottle, poured a hefty dose into a glass, then immediately dashed it over the rail. Setting the empty glass on the rail, he said, “Simone left town in October of ’05. In March of ‘06, Cyril died. A few months later, in August, Simone showed up at my cottage. She was visibly pregnant—in her ninth month, as it turned out. George had already handed over operations to me by then and was gone, roving the country, building his company and his name. But I did the math in my head, and asked her if he was the father. She tried to deny it at first, but when I threatened to contact him and tell him that she was back in town and heavy with child, she confessed that, yes, it was his baby, and, no, I could not tell him. She claimed she’d only come back to have the child in Quellentown in case she died during the birth. If she did, she wanted me to make sure she was buried alongside her mother. When I told her she wasn’t going to die and that George would be delighted to know he was going to be a father, she threatened to tell him the baby was mine if I dared contact him. Or ever told him the truth. I’d managed to convince him that there was nothing between Simone and I but my foolish infatuation with her, but I feared when he saw her...”
She bit her lip to keep from blurting questions. Now the whole truth was finally coming out, she didn’t dare stem the tide.
“I reluctantly agreed to keep her secret,” he admitted. “And I convinced her to stay with me until the baby was born. She agreed because she didn’t want her aunt to know she was in town—didn’t want to upset her or shame her. A week later, she went into labour. I wanted to send for Dr. Hugh, but she refused, though she did eventually let me fetch Miss Alma, who delivered Maisie with my help. She even made me cut the cord.”
He glanced at Maisie and inhaled deeply.
“That day was the most terrified I remember ever feeling in my life until today,” he said. “After Miss Alma made sure Simone and the baby were going to be fine, she cleaned up and left. Six days later, I awoke to find Simone gone and a note pinned to Maisie’s blanket asking me to look after her, and to name her for Simone’s mother, Maisie Marie.”
“Heaven,” she whispered.
“It was hell, actually,” he said. “I had no idea what to do with an infant. So I gathered her up and ran to get Miss Alma. She sent for one of the workers, Nora, who had a three-month-old. Nora fed her, and then she and Miss Alma showed me how to change her diaper. Rock her. Carry her around on my shoulder to burp her. I think...I think they believed she was mine. And I couldn’t correct their thinking without betraying Simone.”
“What about George?”
“What about him?” Resentment hardened his voice. “He wasn’t here. I had no way of knowing—even if I could convince him she was his—that he’d do right by her. That he’d find Simone and marry her. Help her raise their daughter. I was afraid he wouldn’t. I was afraid he’d tell me to take her to an orphanage or hand her over to Children’s Aid, and I...” He shook his head. “I couldn’t lose her. I...thought I was in love with Simone. I needed to protect her child. I had to protect...me.” He bowed his head. “I had to protect me, because I’d already fallen in love with that baby, and I couldn’t let her go.”
She cupped his cheek, her eyes filling with tears. “You’re a such good man, Joe Banner.”
He looked at her, his expression bleak. “Not that good. I’ve let Maisie believe a lie all her life.”
“You didn’t lie to her,” she whispered, shaking her head. “You are her father. You’ve been her father from the day she was born. You love her. That is what a father is—a man who’s there. A man who loves you. Not a name on a birth record.”
“There is no father on record except me,” he said. “Simone never registered a father, and she signed adoption papers giving Maisie to me.”
“Well, there you go, then.” She summoned a tremulous smile. “You didn’t lie to her. If Simone didn’t list George, then George had no claim to her—even if he could have proven she was his child.”
He nodded, but his expression sent a cold shiver through her.
“What?” she demanded. “I can tell by your face there’s something else. What are you not telling me now?”
Chapter 39
Mr. and Mrs.
MISS LYONS HAD UNCOVERED more in Atlanta than an empty grave, a corrupt husband, and startling suspicions of murder committed by that husband. She’d discovered something not even Joe would have guessed.
“George didn’t just propose to Simone,” he rasped. “He married her. They took the train to Atlanta, married at the courthouse, and then, to ensure Cyril couldn’t get the marriage annulled, they rented a room at a nearby hotel.”
“What?” She stared. “You mean...I’m not—we’re not— He’s a bigamist?”
“No.” He grasped her hands. “They were divorced. Your marriage to George is legitimate.”
“Divorced?” The hollowness of her voice made his chest ache. “He was married and divorced?”
“Yes. A year and a half after Maisie’s birth, he and Simone divorced. She’d met someone else and wanted to marry him, but she couldn’t without George’s agreement. So she tracked him down through Lyons, who sent him a letter. But instead of writing a response, George showed up in Atlanta and demanded to see her. They met at the office of her intended’s attorney, where George informed her that he’d grant her a divorce on one condition: that she told him the truth about her and me. If she lied, he’d not grant the divorce, and he’d never let her move on w
ith her life.”
“He threatened her?”
“She’d hurt him,” he said. “I suppose he wanted to hurt her back. But it was more than that. He wanted to move forward with his life, too. My adoption of Maisie was final by then, but she’d been born when he and Simone were still married. If he’d bothered to petition a court, he might have had her illegitimate status overturned and the adoption revoked. But he wasn’t interested in that. He only wanted to know—”
“If she was really his,” she murmured. She bit her lip. “All this time, he knew. And you knew. And no one...no one told me. Why? Why all the lies? You. Him. Her. Mr. Lyons, whom I presume knows everything, too.”
Guilt spun a hard knot in his chest.
“I can’t say why George didn’t tell you about Maisie, or why he never mentioned Simone. Lyons...” He inhaled. “He’d never betray a confidence. Especially one steeped in rumour and short on facts. And me—” He swallowed. “Maisie faces enough challenges every day when she wakes up. I had no intention of letting George’s jealous widow make her life harder. I had to protect her. And until yesterday, I had no idea that she might have legal claim to some, or all, of George’s estate. I didn’t know that George and Simone had married. I believed what everyone else in town believed: that they’d been engaged but a few hours when she up and left town for good. Abigail Lyons told me that was how Simone had wanted it. For George’s sake.”
“For George’s sake?” She arched her brows. “And what has Abigail Lyons to do with any of this?”
“She works for her father. As an investigator. I hired her to look for Simone. She found her, and Simone told her that Cyril had been sick and not expected to live long when she and George got married. She convinced George to say nothing to anyone about their having married. She didn’t want his relationship with his father ruined more than it was. But apparently George wasn’t of the same mind. Or maybe he wanted to test Cyril. Defy him while he was still alive. I don’t know. I only know that the next thing Simone knew, Cyril had her cornered and was coercing her into accepting a one-way ticket out of town.”
Margaret poured a glass of whisky and drank it all. Plunking the glass down, she breathed out, her slender shoulders heaving with the effort of withholding strong emotion.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Sorry you had to learn about it like this. George should have told you. You deserved that much. But I’m not sorry for putting Maisie first. She’s been my priority—my life—for ten years—” He broke off when she whirled to throw her arms around his waist and burrow her head against his chest.
“Don’t ever apologise for protecting your child,” she rasped. “Your daughter.” She looked up. “Yours. No matter who sired her, you’ve raised and loved her. You’re her father, Joe. In her heart and soul, and in her everyday life, you’re her father, and I envy her. I envy her your love, your loyalty. Your protection. If my father had had half of your integrity and heart, my sister and I might not have ended up paupers, dependent on others to keep us afloat until we grew wings strong enough to lift ourselves up. So don’t ever apologise for doing what you had to do to protect your child, or anyone that you love.”
He touched a finger to her jaw. “That includes you, you know,” he said. “Someone I love. Someone I’ll do anything to protect. I love you, Margaret Sweeney. I love you in way I never thought I could love a woman, and I—”
“No.” She moved back from him, shaking her head. “I can’t. You can’t. We can’t. You need someone who can— Maisie needs someone who can—”
“Who can what?” He frowned. “Love us more than you? That person doesn’t exist. If she did, I’d have married her already. You’re the one I want. You’re the one I love. You’re the one Maisie loves. We don’t want someone else.” He pulled her in an embrace. “No more lies,” he whispered. “No more half-truths. No more excuses. Tell me why you think I need someone who isn’t you, when I know you love me, and I know I love you.”
She bowed her head. “I’m barren, Joe,” she murmured. “I can’t have children. And you and Maisie need a family. She needs a sister or a brother. You need—”
“You.” He placed a fingertip under her chin and raised her gaze to his. “I need you. We need you. I have a child. Maisie. She’s mine, something I was afraid to fully invest in until I saw Simone’s grave and realised that she was never coming back to make a claim on her. Never coming back to try and take my baby girl from me. She’s mine. All mine. She’ll be yours, too, if you agree to marry me. She doesn’t need a brother or sister as much as she needs a mother. A mother who loves her the way you already love her. So don’t tell us what we need. I know what I need. I’m fairly certain I know what Maisie’s answer will be if I wake her and ask her what she needs. What I want to hear from you is...what do you need? If it’s not us, if it’s not me—”
“It is.” She bit her lip, her eyes awash with tears. “I love you, Joe. I love her. I just want—”
“To marry us,” Maisie cried. “Marry us, Mrs. Sweeney.”
They both turned to find Maisie on the terrace, the angles of her childish silhouette softened by lamplight from inside the room.
“Maisie.” Mrs. Sweeney hastened over to her. “You should be in bed, love. It’s cold out here, and very, very late.”
Reba thumped her tail but made no effort to depart the comfort of the bed as Joe followed Maisie and Mrs. Sweeney inside. Rather than clamber back into the warmth found under the bedcovers, Maisie put her back against the bed and curled her toes in the rug.
“Ask me,” she demanded. “Ask me what I want. Ask me, and I’ll tell you.”
Mrs. Sweeney glanced at Joe.
He raised his eyebrows, indicating it was up to her, but before she could say anything, Maisie blurted, “Because if you ask me, I’ll tell you the same thing as Joe. The same thing as...my daddy told you. I love you, and I want you to be my mama. I want you to be my daddy’s wife. I don’t care if I ever have a brother or sister. I have Chloe. She’s my sister. In my heart. She’s my sister in my heart. But I don’t have a mother. Mrs. Guenther is Chloe’s mother. She’s nice to me. But she doesn’t love me like you love me. I know you love me. Please, please tell me you’ll stay and be my mama. Please say you’ll marry my daddy.”
Joe struggled for breath. His throat and chest felt like they were being crushed, and the pain brought tears to his eyes—tears that multiplied despite his best efforts to blink them away. When Mrs. Sweeney looked at him, he saw her eyes were swimming too.
“Yes,” she rasped, and grasped Maisie’s hand and then Joe’s. “Yes. If you want me—if you both want me—I’ll marry you. Because I want you, too. I want you both.” She sobbed as Joe dragged her and Maisie, crying too, into his arms.
Kissing the tops of their heads in turn, he murmured, “I love you both, and I always will. We’re going to marry each other. We’re going to be a family. You’re mine, and I’m yours, and no matter what, I’ll always love you. Nothing short of death will stop me being here for you. Nothing short of death will ever stop me loving you.”
ALL THE HURT, BETRAYAL, and grief that had buffeted her for days—years—melted away in the warmth of Joe’s embrace. In the warmth of his and Maisie’s loving welcome of her into their lives.
Family. A small word with enormous meaning.
It had been so long since she’d had family of her own. So long since she’d felt like she belonged anywhere, with anyone.
Even with George, she’d felt out of step. Loved, but not permanent. Wanted, but not wholly. He’d always held a little of himself back. More than a little, she realised now. He’d offered lies of omission she’d not known consciously but felt deep inside, and as a result she’d held herself back, too. Gave him only part of her heart as he had left parts of himself in the past. But Joe and Maisie held nothing back. They gave their all to the things and people that meant something to them. Their joy. Disappointment. Anger. Love.
She felt it twining with hers for them
. Three separate bonds weaving together like the way she’d braided Maisie’s hair to reinforce it against the rigours of sleep. Hearts were no different.
Left untethered, they were more vulnerable to knots and breakage. But wrapped in the strength of reciprocal love...
Douglas Ranch had been a temporary stop. As had Florida. But here at Sugar Hill, in Joe and Maisie’s arms and hearts, she finally found a place she could call home. And she’d fallen in love with people she wanted to give all of herself to and hold nothing back. People she wanted to protect. Needed to protect.
“Do you really think it was Mr. Griffiths who had me kidnapped?”
Margaret glanced at Maisie, then at Joe. He returned her wide-eyed stare with a touch of his index finger to his lips.
“Did you hear us talking about Barrister, Maisie?” he asked.
“Yes.” Maisie drew away and climbed to sit on the bed, facing them. “I heard everything. About Uncle George, and my mother.”
Joe tipped his head up and drew a deep breath, but when he spoke his voice was calm, betraying none of the turmoil in his eyes. “How do you feel about what you heard?”
Maisie shrugged. “Uncle George was nice, but not as nice as you.” She reached out a hand. He grasped it, and Margaret covered her mouth, choking back tears when Maisie added, “Can I call you Daddy now?”
“Oh, Maisie, of course.” He hugged her and kissed the top of her head. “I’ve always wanted you to call me that, but...”
“But you were afraid my mother might come and take me away. I know. I heard. But she’s not, because she’s dead, and you get to keep me.”
He bowed his head to Maisie’s and closed his eyes. “Yes, I get to keep you,” he whispered.
Don’t you dare cry, Margaret Sweeney. If an almost ten-year-old child can act with equanimity in a moment like this, you certainly can.
My One True Love Page 36
