by Carla Kelly
“No. I know it’s late, but Mama saw your arrival. I must speak first, because I have a terrible confession.”
Can’t be worse than mine, he told himself, curious now. “Very well, Maddy, speak,” he told her and had to almost forcibly suppress an image of his old springer spaniel.
“I have been untrue to you.”
He was surprised, but still aware of his caddery. I doubt you’ve climbed into bed with such a willing partner as I have, he thought. “Oh?”
She drew herself up to the extent of her modest height. “I. Love. Another.” It came out punctuated and in capital letters.
He could have melted with gratitude. “Well, my dear, perhaps you’d better explain.”
She did, pacing in front of the fireplace with all the drama she usually reserved for hangnails and ripped hems and wrinkled collars. “It is Dale Turnbull.”
Will had to turn away and cough, to suppress a fountain of mirth. Dale, he of the not-too-bright demeanor, jug ears and thinning hair? Never mind. The Turnbulls were even wealthier than the Whartons and Dale knew how to dress. He would always smell good, too, never like a regimental surgeon after a six-week detail in the hot sun.
“Dale.” She had reduced him to monosyllables, which was just as well. That way he wouldn’t laugh.
“It came on us so suddenly, Willie. I agreed to marry him, but not before I had confessed all to you.”
She said it so sweetly and obviously meant every word. Will hoped she had not been tormenting herself for long. Madeline Radnor had given him the perfect out. He could assume a wounded appearance and sulk, then marry Francie in peace and quiet, after the newly married Turnbulls were on their way to some watering hole or other to celebrate their nuptials. Maddy would find out eventually, but not from him. Or he could be honest.
It was his turn to hold up both hands. He took Maddy’s cold fingers in his, noticing for the first time that she was not wearing his engagement ring. “Hold on, my dear. You really should have let me speak first. I, too, have fallen in love with someone else. Her name is Mary Frances Coughlin and she is the daughter of my hospital steward at Fort Laramie. It wasn’t until this train trip that I realized how much I loved her.” Introducing Olympia could wait, he decided.
After a long pause, Maddy did a strange thing, one that endeared her to him forever. She kissed his cheek, rubbing her own against his for a brief, perfumed moment.
“Willie, you always were a little slow to realize when women were in love with you. So we’re both jilting each other?”
“It appears that way. I’d like to marry Francie tomorrow. She’s upstairs now. When, uh, are you and—” goodness, he almost called him Jugs, an old childhood name “—and Dale getting married?”
She rosied up. “On the day I was to marry you! Why waste a good caterer and flowers? We’ll leave for St Augustine right after.” She touched his hand. “You’re certainly welcome to bring your wife to the wedding.”
“I think Francie and I will have to hurry back to Fort Laramie, instead,” he told her, walking her to the parlor door. “I have some work that won’t wait at Camp Robinson.”
She let him help her into her wrap. “You are such a brave soldier!” she exclaimed. “The Inquirer even called you a hero.”
Poor, dear Maddy. She was destined to be beautiful, but slow of wit. Francie would never have believed one word of the Inquirer’s yellow journalism. Good thing Maddy was marrying Jugs Turnbull. His name would never appear in any newspaper except on the financial page, which no lady ever read.
He walked her across the snowy street, shook her hand at her own front door and wished her a Merry Christmas. When he turned around to look at the Wharton mansion, he saw that the front door was open. Francie stood there: red-haired, Catholic as he was, generous, smart and destined to be his best Christmas gift ever.
As he crossed the street to her, he stepped aside for a group of Christmas carolers intent on reaching his parents’ front door before he did. Will stood back to watch them. He listened as one little boy in an overcoat much too large jingled a bell to announce their arrival and the others spoke to each other in a variety of languages.
He grinned, thinking this must be a choir assembled at the immigrants’ center where his mother held forth. He gestured over their heads to Francie, who joined him on the walk beside the choir. He cuddled her close.
“Is everything all right with your former fiancée?” she asked.
“Quite all right. I’ll tell you later. I’d rather kiss you now.”
And he did, as the choir sang “Away in a Manger.” The little boy with the bell giggled to see them, but Captain Wilkie Wharton paid him no mind. When he was just holding Francie, Will allowed himself a momentary worry: there was an Irish butcher certain to be disappointed when Mary Francis Coughlin didn’t show up in Brooklyn. As he stood there with his arms around his true love, Will decided that a man can only worry about so much on the eve of his wedding.
Epilogue
Fort Laramie—March 15, 1878
Dear Mama and Father,
I’d have written much sooner, but a lot has happened since we returned to the garrison. First, Olympia Wharton is thriving. Second, Father, you have my deepest gratitude for your prompt intervention in the matter of Nora Powell and her two children. In the past I have sometimes resented your ability to arrange matters to grease my youthful path, but as Mama would probably remind me, you are skilled in administering, be it hospitals or politicians.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I would almost give a year’s salary—it’s not much—to have seen the expression on the face of the Indian agent at Camp Robinson when he received those letters from both of Pennsylvania’s senators, demanding that Nora Powell’s two Indian children be taken immediately to me at Fort Laramie. The additional note from VicePresident William Wheeler was a nice touch. Captain Hunsaker delivered the children into my darling Francie’s care and there they remained for all of February while the wheels of government ground on.
The result, as those senators may have told you by now, was the arrival last week of Aunt Nellie Follensbee and Nora Powell in Cheyenne, where Francie, Olympia and I returned two lonesome children to their mother. Such a reunion! Under the stipulated terms, more properly they are in the custody of the redoubtable Miss Follensbee, who was accompanied to Cheyenne by an equally formidable attorney from Utley, Iowa. I’ve never been so happy to see the right thing done. Believe me, that doesn’t always happen out here.
Mother, this will amuse you: Francie is in the family way. She hasn’t worked up her nerve to tell me yet, but I studied medicine at Harvard, know how to read a calendar as well as the next physician, and have considerable experience in identifying the cause of a slightly green look, early in the morning. Should I just let her surprise me?
With love from your son,
Wilkie
ISBN: 978-1-4592-8214-8
COMING HOME FOR CHRISTMAS
Copyright © 2011 by Carla Kelly
The publisher acknowledges the copyright holder of the individual works as follows:
A CHRISTMAS IN PARADISE
Copyright © 2011 by Carla Kelly
O CHRISTMAS TREE
Copyright © 2011 by Carla Kelly
NO CRIB FOR A BED
Copyright © 2011 by Carla Kelly
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