For Love and Honor

by Cathy Maxwell

  “Perhaps,” Sir James echoed. He stood behind his desk now, his fingers resting on its polished surface. “Will you sit down and discuss the matter with her, Lyon? Or shall I toss her out?” He said this last with the familiarity of one who knew his customer.

  Lord Lyon shifted his weight as if in indecision, and then he shrugged. “Very well, she may try. I suppose it doesn’t matter who I use as long as she is effective.”

  “I believe you will be pleased,” Sir James said. He smiled. “Perhaps someday I shall use her myself. Like you, I must marry sooner or later. Will you sit, Mrs. Martin?”

  Thea had the urge to run from the room, but then she thought of her sons, of her looming plans for Jonathan’s education. Lyon was rich. “I shall stay, but it will cost you a pretty penny, my lord,” she said, wanting to give him a bit of his own arrogance back. “My services are not inexpensive.”

  “I can’t imagine they would be,” Lord Lyon replied. “In fact, if you find the wife I am looking for, I’ll triple whatever your commission is.”

  Thea sat.

  Lord Lyon took his seat.

  “Now isn’t this better?” Sir James said brightly, taking his own chair.

  Thea forced a smile. Neal remained stony-faced.

  She decided to really tweak Lyon’s nose and take charge. “Sir James said you have particular qualities you are looking for in a wife. Please tell me what they are?”

  He shifted in his chair, crossed his arms and his legs, not looking at her.

  “Do you wish her to have blonde hair?” Thea queried in a pert, businesslike voice—one that she knew would needle him. “Or a brunette? Do you like voluptuous women? Or perhaps a more slender version?”

  Lord Lyon looked to Sir James. “This is uncomfortable.”

  “They are reasonable questions, Lyon,” Sir James said. “If she is to search for a wife for you, then she must know.”

  “Or,” Thea said, “you could head out on the Marriage Mart and look for yourself.” The “Marriage Mart” was the name given to the round of social parties and engagements during the season when Parliament was in session. Many a match had been made at these events.

  “I don’t want to do that,” he said, still not making eye contact with her.

  A memory came to her of the two of them sitting on the same rock beside a running stream, their secret place. She’d been what? Fourteen? He must have been sixteen. She saw them, their heads together, laughing, drawing courage from each other. Their friendship had helped make her world sane, and then the next day, she’d escaped to meet him again as they had done every morning for the past month or more, and he hadn’t been there. She’d visited the site every day for the rest of her summer, and he’d never showed again.

  No warning, no explanation… and then, in the fall, she’d heard that he’d left for school and she’d stopped searching for him. She’d not seen him again until this moment.

  “Then I shall need to know what you are looking for if I am to sift through the large number of women who would be very pleased to marry a wealthy, well-respected nobleman.” She heard herself sounding like a society matron planning a party. She liked the tone. It was distant and didn’t convey the turbulence of her own emotions.

  His jaw hardened.

  When he didn’t speak, Sir James prompted him once again. “Lyon, what are you looking for in a wife?”

  His lordship stirred himself then to sit up. He answered, still addressing himself to Sir James, his voice low, almost inaudible. “Good family.”

  How original, Thea wanted to say. Instead, she said, “Absolutely. And other qualities?”

  There was a beat of silence. Thea felt her disdain for this man growing. After the confidences they had shared, how could he sit beside her as if they were strangers? How could he be so bloody cold?

  “I don’t want a cold woman,” he said, as if he’d divined her thoughts. “My mother was cold. Some say I am as well.”

  But he didn’t used to be. A wave of sadness swept away her disdain.

  “Good with children,” he continued. “Our children must be her priority.”

  Something that hadn’t been true about his mother.

  Thea resisted the urge to place a comforting hand upon his arm. If Neal hadn’t valued their friendship, he certainly wouldn’t want her pity now.

  “And she must be someone I cannot like,” he said. “Admired by others… but I must not like her.”

  Warm thoughts of him vanished from Thea’s mind. “You don’t want to ‘like’ the woman who will be your wife?”

  At last he faced her, his features set. “No.”

  “My lord, that is a ludicrous, irresponsible position.” The words had just burst out of her, carried by her previous disappointments in him.

  Apparently, few talked to Lord Lyon in such a direct manner. Sir James’s mouth dropped open.

  His lordship sat up even taller. “I find it very responsible.”

  “Then you are deceiving yourself,” Thea said. She’d gone this far, she might as well go further. “Not all marriages can be built on love, but those are the best. At the very least there should be the compatibility of admiration and respect. Of liking the person you take a vow before God to cherish and honor.”

  “That is your opinion. It is not mine.”

  Thea looked into his eyes and saw a stranger. “Whatever happened to that boy I once knew who believed in friendship?” she said. “That lad whose confidences I valued and whose opinion I trusted?”

  “Let us take a moment to consider our words,” Sir James advised, as if wishing to avert a disaster.

  “I can’t help you arrange such a marriage as this,” Thea went on, ignoring the lawyer. “Knowing what I do of you, it would not be right.”

  “You know nothing of me,” Lord Lyon countered.

  “I beg to differ, my lord. I may know more of you than you know of yourself.”

  “And what would that be?” he challenged.

  Thea sat back, realizing she was now on very sensitive ground. How well did she know him? How much had he changed?

  Certainly she wasn’t the same person she’d been during those long-ago summer days.

  But one thing was still clear in her mind—she believed in love.

  The acknowledgement startled her. After all that Boyd, her father, her family had put her through, she still believed.

  It isn’t often one is struck with self-knowledge, and every time it is surprising. Suddenly, she realized why she’d set herself up as a matchmaker. She wanted to right wrongs, to guide others away from the disastrous decisions she’d made in her own life.

  She softened her voice. “My lord, marriage is a difficult endeavor. I’m not saying you must love your wife, but you must like her. Otherwise you will be saddling yourself to a cold, uncompromising life.” The sort of life his parents had had all those years ago.

  The sort of life she remembered him vowing never to live.

  Her change in tone worked. The fury in his eyes died, replaced by hopelessness. “You don’t understand.”

  “Then explain to me,” she said.

  “I’m cursed.”

  Thea blinked. Uncertain if he was being dramatic or factual. “Cursed?”

  “Yes,” he said with complete seriousness. “And my only hope of survival is to marry someone I don’t like, that I will never be able to abide. It will call for a very special woman. I don’t want someone I would detest. There is a difference between not liking and detesting.”

  Thea glanced at Sir James to see if he thought his lordship was spouting nonsense. He nodded his head as if agreeing with Lord Lyon.

  “You believe him cursed as well?” Thea challenged the solicitor.

  Sir James shrugged. “There is evidence to suggest it.”

  For a second, Thea wondered if she had wandered into a world of nonsense—and then her mind seized upon another possibility. A sinister one.

  “Is my brother behind this?” she demanded.r />
  Both Lord Lyon and Sir James acted perplexed at her accusation, but she was on to the game now. This was the only explanation that made sense. She stood. “Oh, this was very clever of him. I know Horace is not happy that I remain independent and even dare to go so far as to work for my living. But this?” She shook her head. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Sir James. And you, Lord Lyon. What a faithless friend you are. Apparently your title has destroyed whatever was good inside of you.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Lord Lyon said. He’d risen when she had and now pretended to be clueless in the face of her accusation.

  She moved toward the door. Her excitement over a healthy commission had turned to disappointment.

  Sir James came around the desk toward her. “Mrs. Martin, please, I don’t know what we said to upset you—”

  She cut him off by whirling around, her outstretched hand a warning that she did not want him to come closer. “Enough. I can’t believe I wasted a half shilling on the two of you. Here you are giving in to my brother’s schemes, and for what? A payment, Sir James? Some sort of cloakroom political deal in the House of Lords, Lord Lyon? Oh, yes, I know how the duke works. He’s always hatching new alliances for his own benefit. But I once thought you the closest of friends, and to my great dismay, you have grown into a man much like your parents—cold, distant, everything you said you wouldn’t be. Curses,” she said, biting out the word as if it had been an epithet. “Did you really believe I would be so gullible. Well, return to my brother and tell him no one believes in curses in this day and age. Not even his sister, the one he refuses to acknowledge.” With that pronouncement, she opened the door and sailed out of the room.

  “Thea, come back here,” Neal ordered.

  Her response was to keep walking.

  And don’t miss the second book in

  THE CHATTAN CURSE series,

  THE SCOTTISH WITCH,

  Coming in November 2012!

  Letters from Pie Town

  LYNNE HINTON

  POSTED ANNOUNCEMENT

  To All Citizens of Pie Town, New Mexico!

  Raymond Twinhorse, son of Frank Twinhorse, is a native son of Catron County, born of the Navajo Nation, a lifetime citizen of Pie Town, and now a soldier in need of our attention. Raymond was recently injured in Afghanistan, where he serves as a soldier in the US Army. He has been taken to the military hospital in Germany, where he is receiving the care he needs for his injuries. As a means of encouragement and good wishes, his friends are putting together a “Get Well Parcel” to include letters, small tokens of appreciation, and pictures to send to him. Please take this opportunity to write Raymond and let him know how much we love him!

  Oris Whitsett and his daughter, Malene, are in charge of gathering the letters. Father George at Holy Family Church will be accepting any gifts you want to send. Francine Mueller, chief baker at Fred and Bea’s diner, will be collecting the money to help pay the shipping costs for this Hometown Hero Goodie Box. Trina Lockhart is in charge of this Pie Town Project so all questions and concerns can be handled by her. Stop by Frank’s Garage to find her!

  Even though we are a small town, a little place, mostly unknown to others across the state and across the country, let’s show our hero that we are big in pride! Just as we have rallied together in the past to take care of each other, let us rally together now and come to the aid of our dearly beloved, Raymond Twinhorse. We are a beautiful village of settlers descended from homesteaders, conquistadors, and Native Americans. We are the hometown of heroes! We are the village of generous hearts! We are the community of those who care! Let us not forget, let us not allow Raymond to forget… We are his family! We are Pie Town!

  Dear Raymond,

  I hereby certify that this letter is written by my own hand without coercion or unsolicited counsel. My name is Oris Whitsett, and I am of sound mind and fair judgment.

  I apologize, Raymond, this was first started as a new draft of my will which I never completed but I don’t have much paper for letter writing so I’ve just got to use what’s on hand.

  Trina said you liked getting letters. She told us to write you and that she would put all the greetings together and send a big package to the hospital. I even heard that Francine was looking to bake you something special, although I think shipping a pie to Europe might be a bit more messy than she figures. Unless she sends you a pecan pie. Francine’s pecan pies get hard as a rock when they’ve been sitting for more than a day. I suppose if that’s what comes with the letters, you could use it as a weapon, seeing how you’re still in a military hospital and could possibly be an enemy target.

  Trina gave us instructions about what we should say in our letters, asked us to be upbeat and encouraging, give some news about Pie Town and what is going on here since you left. She even has some notion that the mail arrives at your hospital in the afternoon and hopes that upon receiving our package you’ll be able to enjoy all these missives, cards, and desserts, when the sun is bright and you’re finished with all your doctor’s visits and the daily therapy; and as you are left with a lonesome hour or so before dinner you will be heartened by all the well-wishes from your hometown.

  Personally, I like to read my mail in the morning along with the newspaper, but of course, our mail doesn’t run any more until after lunch since Thelma Gilbert started delivering for all of the residents of Quemado, Datil, and Pie Town. She claims there were budget cuts and they fired the other county carriers. I tried complaining to the Post Office General that the village of Pie Town needed its own post office and letter carrier but like most of the complaints I lodge against our government, I didn’t hear no reply.

  Frank told us at the diner yesterday that you were sent from Afghanistan over to Germany where you’re facing a few operations and that you’ll be back stateside in a few weeks or so. He said he hears from your doctors every couple of days and that you’re coming along real good. He was informed that your leg is pretty banged up but that your vital organs are strong and your head is clear. He was mighty worried about you when we first found out about the accident over there, closed the garage and everything. It was the middle of the week when he got the call and he told Trina that he was going out to walk the trails and that he’d return soon enough. A few hours after he left we had a real bad snow storm and everybody got some kind of worried about him. I told them all that Navajos know a whole lot more about surviving the elements than us settlers but they were still worried, sent out a few men to try and find him. Then three days later, he just showed up at the garage working on Christine’s brakes without a word of where he had been or how he was. You know your dad has his ways.

  Before I go on I need to say that I’m not much for writing down things to other folks. I make grocery lists, pay my bills by check, keep a diary of money spent, money earned, a good record of my mileage on the Buick, revise my will every couple of months or so; but I can’t recall writing a letter to anyone except for maybe some school project in English class. Miss Dubois was a French lady, came over to the states with her sister who married a soldier during the last world war. She moved out here to Catron County in the late forties, was hard on our little band of students but I learned more from her than anybody else in my eight years of schooling. I believe she had us write letters once or twice, to the President of the United States, the governor over in Santa Fe, and seems like we had to write a letter to someone we admired. I can’t recall who I chose for that assignment, but now that I think about it, it was probably Miss Dubois because I do remember she was easy on the eyes and I was a little taken with her accent. But anyway, all I’m saying is that I not completely sure how this will fare since I don’t have much experience in this kind of thing. Usually, if I’m writing a letter, I’m complaining about something, however, since I know you’re trying to think on more pleasant matters, I’ll try to think of some news to write to you other than how I miss getting my mail and paper at the same time and how the Forest Ranger over at the El Malpais Rec
reation Area keeps hard liquor in his truck. I saw the bottle for myself when it rolled out from under the driver’s seat when he came into town for lunch.

  Things in Pie Town haven’t changed much since you left for the army. My daughter, Malene, remarried her first husband, Roger, which doesn’t make a bit of sense to me. I never understood why they divorced in the first place and then why they would ever bother to go back through the trouble of marrying up again. But that’s their concern.

  The church was rebuilt after the fire and though I’m still mad about changing the time of Saturday Mass, I did help put up a few walls, filled in the sidewalk with cement, and helped Bernie King level the parking lot. It was, after all, what Alex wanted for the town and Lord knows, I did anything for that great-grandson of mine when he was living and wasn’t about to stop after he died. He wanted that church rebuilt more than anything and no matter what I thought about the church and that new priest I couldn’t see his pleasures denied. I still miss him as much as I miss my beloved Alice, but that’s not anything to write to you about.

  My Buick’s running good. Got it a few months ago and I think the trunk is even bigger than last year’s model. Frank just tuned it up and rotated the tires and I don’t mean to talk bad about your father but he charged me way more than they would have at the dealer in Albuquerque. I try to be neighborly and give him my business but you wouldn’t even know he notices my generosity by the amounts he charges. Maybe when you get home you can man the office and talk him into coming down on his pricing.

  Trina does well at the garage. In the little bit of time she’s been working there, she’s learned a lot about engines and such. She can change a timing belt, flush out a radiator, switch out the brakes and replace the muffler without any help from Frank. You’ve picked a fine mate in her, I tell you. I don’t know if she can cook but I guarantee you this much, you’ll never have to pay for another oil change. She’s swift and hardworking and I think she’s quite sweet on you, talks about you every time I see you, seems to care a great deal about what happens to you. That counts for a lot, let me tell you. I miss Alice, my wife, more than anything because I always knew she loved me, cared for me. It’s the most tender part of life, having a companion, so I’m happy you and Trina found each other.