Courting Miss Cartwright: A Sweet Western Historical Romance Novella (Rated PG) (Six Brides for Six Gideons Book 2)

by Kristin Holt

  Felicity nodded. She understood. Truly she did.

  “It seems Father spent most of his life in penance for a youthful indiscretion—again, I apologize—and sincerely believed the only way to make amends was to keep his vow to wed my mother, for they’d been affianced a full year at that time. Father also believed, or so he confided in Mr. Stuart, the best he could do by your mother was allow her time and space and freedom to make her own peace with God and her conscience, and eventually wed someone far better than he.”

  What? Pious old goat.

  Had her old man not once considered the possibility of pregnancy?

  Where was the lie? Had Cartwright loved Felicity’s mother…or Temperance’s? Both?

  Did it matter?

  She could comprehend throwing caution to the wind, for she’d done so herself, not an hour and one-quarter ago. But of all the irresponsible, ridiculous, absurd reasons—

  “Felicity?” Temperance leaned in, showing more concern than Felicity could tolerate at the moment. “Are you quite well?”

  No! She wanted to scream, to bolt out the door, to put more space between herself and this changeling who’d hated her yesterday, sicced bullies on her today, and now told tales she didn’t want to hear.

  She assessed the sister she didn’t like and searched her apparently guileless face.

  Had she concocted that absurd reasoning to make their father appear the dolt and wound Felicity?

  Either Temperance was a mighty fine actress or she genuinely believed all that hogwash about God forgiving the repentant and making His sun to shine upon the penitent. Not her words, exactly, but definitely what she’d meant.

  Never, not once in Felicity’s life, had God heard her prayers for relief, though she’d tried for years and years to be the good girl, the obedient girl.

  “Sister?” Temperance’s cool fingertips on Felicity’s chin shocked and provoked a flinch.

  “What do you want from me?” The demand came out a bit too harsh, but Temperance was either quick to forgive or expected the barb.

  Maybe both.

  “All I want is for you to do as our father asked. I want you to move into this house. I want us to become acquainted, to try and be friends.”

  When something seems too good to be true, it usually is. “And?”

  “I want you to meet the requirements of Father’s will. You’ll inherit this house and the money he set aside for you upon my marriage…to, um…Mr. Gideon.”

  All animosity had completely faded from Temperance’s demeanor since these stipulations were read in W.W. Stuart’s office.

  Which girl was the real Miss Temperance Cartwright? The aggravated, frustrated, protective lady who couldn’t bear learning her father hadn’t been a saint…or the woman who welcomed a stranger into her home and offered to share her wealth, simply because Cartwright had loved her mother best?

  “Please,” Temperance whispered, “I have so very much. I knew Father. I’d like to share memories, photographs, stories of him. I want to accept his last gift to me…a surviving sibling. I need family, Felicity. I’ve been so horribly lonely since Mother died, and a tearful wreck since Father passed. I miss my brothers. I’m so alone.”

  Felicity knew the feeling. Mother had been her only family. Loneliness ached, a constant companion. This might not be the wisest thing she’d ever done, but at the moment, she believed Temperance’s sincerity.

  “You know I’ve lost four brothers?”

  Uh, no.

  “You saw the twins’ gravestone?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll tell you all about them all. Please stay. Please give us a chance—Father and me—to make you part of our family.”

  Seconds passed. Felicity squirmed.

  How could she possibly convey the jumble of confusion and uncertainty and hope in her heart?

  Temperance’s sky-blue gaze seemed to brim with hope, mirroring Felicity’s unspoken emotion.

  “O.K. I’ll stay.”

  Chapter Ten

  “Young men, you will do well to seek advice from fathers, uncles, and mentors. Seek counsel from men whose marriages show every sign of happiness and success.”

  ~ The Gentleman’s Guide to Courtship and Marriage

  “You’re in a fix.” Mikkel Herschstein removed his eyeglasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He gazed over the porch railing at the large ranch he owned and operated.

  In the near distance, Mick’s beloved wife Ana weeded the kitchen garden that had shrunk in size since Rocky had lived here as a boy. Those five years had turned his life from hunger and desperation to abundance and hope.

  Mameh, Tateh. Mama, Papa.

  Both had more white in their hair than when last Rocky had visited. He needed to return more often. He owed his Jewish surrogate parents everything.

  Rocky fought the urge to slink off Mick’s spacious back porch, his tail between his legs. Quite a fix all right. He leaned forward, elbows propped on knees, and forced himself to meet Tateh’s eyes.

  Mick had taught Rocky a thing or two, most importantly how to live honorably. Other valuable lessons like hard work, confidence, self-assurance, and book learning. Mick’s marriage was one of the happiest unions Rocky had witnessed, so asking his advice made a world of sense.

  Rocky had confessed kissing Felicity Percival yesterday. And the riot of conflicting emotions keeping him awake at night.

  Compassion in the old man’s gaze piled the guilt in Rocky’s chest higher and deeper.

  He was stronger, better than this. He detested the loss of control, the selfishness he’d manifested in that alleyway and on the Cartwright front porch—why had he told Felicity he’d wanted to kiss her and would do it again?

  Why, when his mother’s selfish nature had destroyed their family?

  Out of selfishness, he’d asked Felicity to stay…and she had.

  She’d moved into Cartwright House with Temperance.

  That was good. Good for Temperance. Good for Felicity.

  Rotten luck for him.

  Mick replaced his eyeglasses and stroked his long beard for thoughtful moments. “You’ve chosen your love, zun.” Son. “Love your choice.”

  Rocky nodded, though not what he wanted to hear. “Yo, Tateh.” Yes, Papa.

  “You chose mighty well in the minister’s daughter.” Mick chuckled a little, easing the tension. “For a skikse, but we won’t hold her Christianity against her.”

  Rocky tried to smile. What a pickle, given the minister’s other daughter lit his fire in a way Temperance never had.

  He’d wondered, a time or two, if Ma had left for another man. He had no memory either way. Could be she’d died. Maybe went home, somewhere back East. He might never know.

  “You’re right. Temperance is a wonderful lady.” Until Felicity, Temperance had seemed the perfect woman for him.

  “Yes.”

  Now he wasn’t so sure. “What if I’ve made a mistake?”

  “Oy vey. Every man wonders that, somewhere along the way.”

  “I’m not married yet. Am I doing the wrong thing by staying with Temperance?”

  “Hak nit in kop.” Don’t try my patience—but Mick had spoken with love. “Courtship is a promise. Courtship leads to marriage, and you two have been keeping company with that end in mind for more than a year, yo? Thirteen months? Fourteen? You came for my advice, I will give it.”

  Rocky nodded. He’d always trusted Mikkel’s judgment, and he’d trust him in this most critical decision.

  “It is time to propose. Put a ring on Temperance’s finger. Fershtay?” Do you understand?

  Bitter advice. Expected advice. “Yo, Tateh.”

  “You’ve known Miss Temperance since age sixteen.” Twelve years. “You watched her grow, knew her parents. You loved her parents.”

  All this was undeniably true.

  “You just met Miss Percival. She’s an unknown, an enigma. I’d hate to see you discard a diamond of the first water to discover you’ve
chosen a lump of coal.”

  Mick was right, of course.

  Temperance was a known quantity, and he felt genuine, abiding affection for her—if tepid.

  He might, one day, love her with all his heart. He might, God willing, develop the kind of deep and immovable love Mr. and Mrs. Herschstein enjoyed.

  It took chutzpah to let his attentions wander like he had—most uncomplimentary.

  To leave Temperance now, with her father so fresh in the grave, was selfish. Far too selfish…which only evoked memories of Ma’s abandonment.

  He wasn’t one to abandon a woman.

  He’d prove himself a man that stuck. He’d make his vows and keep them. Their family would last through the decades, grow stronger with time, ensure safety and protection for their children.

  Security and family were all he’d ever wanted.

  He just had to remind himself that he wanted all that—with Temperance.

  “I’ll do it. I’ll buy a ring and make it official.”

  “Zei mit mazel.” Good luck. “That’s my good boy. You make me proud, zun.”

  On Monday morning, Felicity sat beside her sister on the sofa in the Cartwright family parlor, looking through photographs stored in an old hat box.

  She held a photograph of Cedric Cartwright. Young, handsome and posing with a Bible.

  “This was Father’s ordination day.” The man’s expression radiated joy.

  Felicity had spent three nights under Cedric Cartwright’s roof. She and Temperance had stayed up talking, sharing stories, family heirlooms, books, pictures…and slowly, Felicity felt she’d come to know her father and his wife. She found she genuinely wanted to know everything she could about her heritage and the man she’d begun to think of as Father.

  Sunday services had been canceled as no replacement minister had yet been found. The sisters had stayed in and Temperance had shared tale after tale of Father’s ministries to the people of Mountain Home and surrounding areas.

  One picture at a time, one story at a time, it became harder and harder to believe Cedric Cartwright had been the seducer or evil-hearted man she’d always believed.

  “Ooooh.” Temperance leaning in, her shoulder brushing Felicity’s. “Look at this one. It’s the only photograph we have of my twin brothers and me together.”

  Temperance, blonde and solemn, sat on a bench with one adorable toddler on either side. Both boys wore short pants and frilly blouses, their pale hair severely parted. Identical, chubby cheeks and all.

  She must have slipped into the past, her gaze clouded and distant.

  “You miss them.”

  “Yes. Mother took their loss particularly hard. They were born minutes apart and when eleven years old, died within hours of one another, one late one evening and the other shortly before dawn.” She drew a deep breath, let it out as if regrouping and smiled too brightly to fool Felicity. “It was a dark time. Four sons, and each one lost. I didn’t think Mother would recover.”

  “Tell me about the other two.”

  “Mother’s first was stillborn.” Temperance looked through the photographs. “Here it is.”

  Father, mother, babe in a long white dress. The infant appeared to be sleeping.

  “They named him Adam Dumore Cartwright. Father’s middle name was Adams after his mother’s family and Dunmore was Mother’s maiden name.”

  In the photograph, both Father and Annelise radiated sadness and a vacancy about the eyes. “When was he born?”

  “December 17, 1855.” Almost one year to the day Father had married Annelise. About eighteen months after Felicity’s birth.

  Temperance found another image slightly blurred by the baby’s movement. Another long white dress and bonnet. “This is Neville Dunmore Cartwright. Named for Mother’s father. He died just before his second birthday.”

  The child’s pale eyes were open wide, his zest for life evident.

  “He came third, after me.” Temperance sighed. “Mother took Neville’s death impossibly hard.”

  Comfortable silence filled the space as Temperance seemed lost in her thoughts and Felicity considered what it must have been like to experience siblings.

  “Both of these brothers were born while we lived in Golden. They’re buried there, side by side. Mother and Father took me and the twins to visit their graves once.”

  Felicity had wondered why all four boys weren’t buried in the cemetery in Mountain Home but hadn’t been willing to ask. “You’re a good daughter.”

  “I took the honour thy father and thy mother lessons to heart.”

  Bonding with her sister was both glorious…and uncomfortable. Most of the misery stemmed from guilt. She’d kissed the man her sister loved. Temperance was open, giving, shared selflessly. Felicity, by comparison, had the darker traits. Distrust, doubt, theft. She’d stolen a kiss that should have been her sister’s.

  “I see you as a most obedient daughter.” Felicity put the photographs they’d viewed back in the hatbox and selected two more. “I’m certain you were a good girl.”

  “I tried. My mother didn’t have an easy life. I didn’t want to contribute to her unhappiness.”

  “See? Just what I meant.” Temperance’s expression clouded. Brooding, like a summer thunderstorm over the Rockies.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I feel so guilty,” Temperance offered, her voice small and her emotion obvious. “Father made his wishes known through his will and I—”

  Felicity took her sister’s hand, squeezed.

  “I disobeyed him.” Temperance’s throat closed, strangling her words. “I pray he wasn’t watching from Heaven.”

  Felicity didn’t know how much anybody could see once dead, or if they saw at all. But she understood guilt. “I know Father loved you. I’m certain he knew this would be a difficult time of adjustment. He had to have foreseen that much.”

  “You’re too kind.” She blinked, focused on two more recent cabinet cards, both photographs perhaps three by four inches each. She offered one. “This was taken two years ago.”

  Felicity took the card, peered at the older man, age lines bringing distinction to his features and gray hair pale about his temples. His face had filled out, his shoulders appeared broader. He wore a handsome suit of clothes, dark, with a white clerical collar. He’d been several months shy of his fifty-fifth birthday at his death.

  She’d already asked so many questions over the past few days. What was he like? Did he have a lovely singing voice? What did he do when he wasn’t ministering? Which chair was his? What did your mother call him? Who were his friends? How did he fill leisure time?

  “What happened to him?” She hadn’t thought to ask why Cedric Cartwright had died. Now, she needed to know.

  “The doctor said his heart gave out. He’d been weak, sickly. He fought a lingering cough for years before he died.”

  Temperance choked up, and Felicity let her sister turn attention to the second photograph, taken before the same backdrop. Felicity’s mother, Annelise, in an old-fashioned, bell-skirted woolen dress, buttons marching up the bodice’s center front. Her pale hair showed little gray. Her figure, fuller than in her youth, was still handsome.

  “Your mother was a beautiful woman.”

  “Thank you. Tell me about your mother. What is she like?”

  Not an easy question, but only because Mother had always been reticent to share details or information. “Very private. She didn’t speak of her personal thoughts or feelings. A hard worker. She raised me on a farm near St. Louis that’s been in Mother’s family for generations.”

  “She’s gone?”

  “Yes. Cancer.” Not one photograph of her mother had been taken, not at any time during her life. Poverty hadn’t allowed for luxuries.

  “When?” Temperance’s gentle touch settled on Felicity’s knee.

  “Two years ago.”

  “Thank you for telling me about her.”

  Felicity nodded, at once missing her quiet mother an
d grateful for a new connection with her sister.

  Temperance tucked those last two photographs into the hatbox. She closed the lid and looked up. “You must come with me this afternoon to the planning meeting for the Founders’ Day celebration.”

  “Oh, I don’t think I will.” Mere days ago, she’d been attacked by Temperance’s friends. No way did she want to sit through a planning meeting with them.

  “I insist. It’s a very good idea. They’ll come around when they see you and I are friends.”

  “Maybe.”

  “No maybe about it. Until then, I have just the thing for you.” Temperance reached high on the bookcase built into the parlor wall between windows, and withdrew two leather-bound volumes, then two more. “This whole row of books,” she indicated with a tip of her head, “are Father’s journals. I’d like for you to read them.” She passed the four books to her. “These are the most recent. I read them after the surprises in Mr. Stuart’s office and found them most enlightening.”

  “Thank you.” The trust in Temperance’s actions humbled Felicity…and stoked her guilt. She really ought to tell her sister about the kiss. “I’m honored—and grateful. Thank you.” Reading his words would bring so much more of Father’s personality and innermost thoughts into focus. She imagined coming to know him through his written words. “Are you sure he’d want me to read these? They’re so personal…and we never met.”

  “They’re as much yours as they are mine. The volumes on the far left of that shelf are his earliest journals. Perhaps you’ll find references to your mother.”

  No malice, no hint of spite, no judgment. It seemed this kind-hearted woman was the real Temperance Cartwright.

  And perhaps, in the volume from two summers ago, she’d find an entry or two that shed light on Mother’s letter. Maybe that entry would tell her more than Rocky had known.

  “I hope you find what you need in here,” Temperance told her. “I know all you want is answers. Your comments that night in Stuart’s office told me so, and I just want you to know, dearest sister, if there is anything at all I can help you discover, especially if it brings you peace, I’ll do it.”