by Various
‘I love you, too,’ she admitted, when he broke off to draw breath.
‘Then, do you think you could possibly start calling me Jack?’
‘Is that your name? Your real name?’
He grimaced as though it was flashing through his mind that he hadn’t told her who he really was at the outset.
‘I’m glad,’ she explained, ‘that when I met you, you didn’t tell me you were the Earl of Lowton, because I’d become sick of hearing that name on Ruth’s and Naomi’s lips. It left me free to fall in love with Captain Grayling. And now I’m happy to be marrying Jack. Do you see?’
‘I see.’ He nodded. Then he sighed with contentment.
And then, just to convince her he saw exactly what she meant, he kissed her again.
Epilogue
‘I now pronounce you man and wife.’
Alice had never been so happy. Not even the sour expressions on Ruth’s and Naomi’s faces could dim the glow of pure joy that filled her. Because Captain Grayling, the Earl of Lowton—that was Jack—had loved her enough to marry her, even when he’d thought she was a maid. Even though her nose was red. He’d seen something in her that had made him ready to defy convention and return to Blackthorne Hall, and beg her to forgive him for ever wavering.
And they were going to live happily ever after. It was just as Jack had said. Once they heard she was about to become a countess, everyone started treating her differently.
At this very moment, Aunt Minnie was sitting in the front pew with a sickly smile on her face, occasionally digging Ruth or Naomi in the sides with her elbow to remind them they were supposed to be rejoicing in her good fortune. Which could be theirs, too, because, after all, Alice now had the ability to introduce them into echelons of society they could never have aspired to before.
And far from giving her a thundering scold for encouraging Billy and Susan to desert their posts, Uncle Walter had shrugged his shoulders and made a tasteless joke about the inexhaustible supply of orphans to be had from Mexworth workhouse.
Jack stooped to kiss her, then, and someone began to clap their hands. The applause spread throughout the congregation, formed from all the guests who’d been stranded at Caldicott Abbey since Christmas. Even Ruth and Naomi joined in. What else could they do? They knew which side their bread was buttered.
Not that she cared any longer what made them behave the way they did. Or what they thought of her. For Jack had his arms round her and Harry was grinning, and Izzy was laughing and clapping her chubby little hands, too. Alice had a new family. Made up of people who loved her.
Which was the most perfect gift she could ever have wished for. At Christmas, or any other time.
* * * * *
If you enjoyed this story,
you won’t want to miss these great full-length
Historical reads from Annie Burrows:
PORTRAIT OF A SCANDAL
LORD HAVELOCK’S LIST
THE CAPTAIN’S CHRISTMAS BRIDE
IN BED WITH THE DUKE
Keep reading for an excerpt from UNWRAPPING THE RANCHER’S SECRET by Lauri Robinson.
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Unwrapping the Rancher’s Secret
by Lauri Robinson
Chapter One
Royalton, Colorado, 1885
There were several ways to play the hand that had been dealt to him. All of them would benefit him. That, of course, was the main object—benefitting him—and he would play it right. Not could. Would. Just as he always did.
Crofton Parks lit the cigarette he’d been twirling between his thumb and forefinger and leaned against the side of the building to ponder his options. Smoking wasn’t a habit he partook of regularly, but a man with a smoldering stick between his lips could stand around doing nothing but dragging in smoke and no one would give him a second look. While a stranger staring at the mortuary across the street would catch attention. He wasn’t ready for that yet. Attention. It would come later. At the moment, anonymity would benefit him the most.
White with a black door and shutters framing the windows, the mortuary was new, as were most of the buildings in town. Not surprising. Becoming a railroad hub, the town had doubled in size the past couple of years, and would keep growing. The lumber mill would continue to prosper, supplying all the houses and businesses the newcomers would build.
Crofton flicked off the ashes and lifted the cigarette to his lips for another draw. Through the smoke that swirled in the crisp air, he witnessed a woman open the door of the building she’d entered a short time ago. Leave it to Winston Parks—his good old flesh-and-blood father—to throw yet another boulder in his pathway. Another loop around the ankle. As if all the others hadn’t been enough. At least this one wasn’t an eyesore, or not from a distance anyway.
Disgusted by his own thoughts, Crofton dropped the cigarette to the ground and smashed the smoldering end deep into the dirt with the toe of his boot.
A man twice the woman’s age, which Crofton knew to be twenty as of October, climbed down from a buggy to meet her as she walked down the steps of the mortuary. Once he arrived at her side, she leaned her head against the man’s shoulder for a brief moment, and then straightened. With a shake of her head, as if that gave her fortitude, she squared her shoulders and marched forward. The man lagged behind momentarily, but then quickly caught up with her.
With the sole of one boot braced against the wall behind him and head down, fiddling with the tobacco pouch as if preparing to roll another cigarette, Crofton peered from beneath the brim of his hat to watch the man help the woman into the buggy.
The man climbed in, but Crofton remained still, waiting until the buggy turned the corner and disappeared. Then he glanced both ways, tucked the tobacco pouch into his pocket and crossed the street. It was time he said goodbye to his father. This time it would be for good.
* * *
“There will come a time, child, when you’ll remember this day, not with pain and sorrow, but with peace.”
The aching inside her was so profound that every movement hurt, yet Sara managed to nod in response to the bittersweet words Reverend Borman whispered in her ear. She understood that life went on, despite death and hardships. She’d lived throu
gh it before. Perhaps if she’d been older when her father had died she’d be able to remember how long the numbness lasted. For how many days tears would burst forward without warning, or how long the emptiness inside would remain.
She squeezed her eyes shut against the burning sting and bit her lips together. There were no memories to assure her the pain would ease. No memories of her real father. All that came forward were the things her mother had told her about that time in their lives. How little they’d had, and how far they’d come—all because of Winston Parks.
Older now, and in many ways wiser, Sara knew that no matter how long the pain, how deep the loss or how the numbness lingered, there was no time for her to mourn. A child born in a dirt dugout on the Kansas prairie, who hadn’t owned a pair of shoes until she was five, was now the richest woman in town. Along with the wealth bequeathed upon her by the deaths of her mother and stepfather came responsibilities. Ones she couldn’t ignore even long enough to grieve their passing.
That’s what her mother would have wanted. For her to continue to pay homage to Winston for the life he’d provided them, and so many others.
She knelt down and laid the bouquet of yellow mums, that despite the cooler weather, were still blooming in her mother’s garden, on top of the large mound of dirt. Beneath were two coffins, side by side, in one grave. As soon as the stone arrived from Denver, there would be one granite marker, bearing the names of Winston and Suzanne Parks, describing them as loving husband and wife.
Years from now, looking upon the headstone, people wouldn’t know both Winston and Suzanne had been married before. No one would know the anguish and loss they’d each suffered prior to finding one another. Or the strength of the love they’d shared.
Fresh tears formed. Winston had not only loved her mother, he’d loved her, too. He’d treated her as a daughter from the day she’d moved into his home, and in many ways, he’d transformed her from a pauper to a princess. That’s how her mother had described the changes that had happened because of Winston, and why they needed to behave properly—to be women he could be proud of—and the importance of remaining grateful for everything he’d done at all times. The only way she could return his love now was to assure his dream came true.
After adjusting the white ribbon tying the flower stems together, Sara rose, and with a nod in Reverend Borman’s direction, stepped back to stand amongst the few townsfolk who’d traveled up the steep mountainside from the church in town to the grave site on the homestead Winston had settled upon years ago. The service had been beautiful, and the pews packed with people, but Bugsley had suggested this part of the service should be private, that the last thing Sara needed was a house full of mourners. She’d agreed with him, even though it had left a knot in her stomach. The townsfolk had loved her mother and Winston as deeply as she.
Once the final prayer was recited, Sara turned and started walking down the hill toward the house, pausing now and again to accept a hug or word of comfort as people meandered toward their buggies and saddled mounts.
Hilda Austin’s heavy sobbing forced her to remain in the woman’s embrace a bit longer than most, and offer comforting words of her own.
“Hush, now,” Sara whispered, recalling how her mother had responded to such situations over the years. “They are at peace, and together.”
“I’m just going to miss her so much,” Hilda sobbed. “I’ll never have another friend like her.”
“We’ve both suffered great losses.” Sara’s gaze went to the three-story brick house that still had the ability to awe her as it had the first day she’d seen it. From that day onward, she’d never wanted for anything. Her throat threatened to close up, and she had to swallow in order to say, “Keeping happy memories close these next few weeks is what we must do. It’ll help.”
Hilda sniffled and stepped back to wipe her nose with an embroidered hanky. “Look at me. I’m blubbering away when you’re the one’s who’s lost her momma. You poor child—you’re all alone now.”
Sara’s throat swelled shut. Blinking back tears, she nodded and started for the house again. Bugsley was right. She didn’t need a house full of people. There wasn’t time to dwell on the fact that she was completely alone. She wasn’t. Mrs. Long wouldn’t leave. Amelia Long had been managing Winston’s house for decades and this morning promised to continue working here until she was too old to knead bread. Bugsley was here, too. He’d worked for Winston for years, and promised he’d help her with everything. She’d forever be grateful to him for being at her side the past few days. He’d kept her strong, and she’d needed that.
It was Bugsley who appeared at her elbow before she was all the way down the hill. Sara didn’t have to offer him a smile. He wouldn’t expect it, and that felt good.
“Come,” he said softly while tucking her arm through his. “You’ve had a rough day.”
His wool suit was as black as her gabardine dress and his boots recently shined. Something that probably hadn’t happened since the last funeral he’d attended.
Sara took a deep breath, drawing strength and resolve in understanding that she wasn’t the only person who’d experienced such devastating pain. The Williams children had lost their father just last week. Bugsley hadn’t gone to the funeral, but she and her mother had, and Winston, who had slipped into the recent widow’s hand an envelope containing a sum of money to help the family through their hard time. Sara was grateful that part wasn’t an issue for her. Just the opposite in fact. She had more money than she knew how to handle. That would soon change. She’d learn how to handle the money, and invest it for the future of Royalton.
Not entirely sure how she’d complete that daunting task, she said, “It was a lovely service.”
“Yes, it was,” Bugsley said. “I’ll have a donation sent to the church tomorrow.”
“I already made a donation for the services,” she said. “Yesterday, when I gave Reverend Borman the selection of songs for today.”
“I told you I’d take care of things for you,” Bugsley said.
“I know,” she answered. “And I appreciate your help, but there were some things I wanted to do myself. Needed to do.”
“All right,” he said, patting her arm. “But I’m here to handle everything else.”
There was no doubt she’d need his help. She didn’t have the knowledge it would take to run the lumber mill and negotiate the contracts with the railroad, but she was astute and a fast learner, and wasn’t going to shy away from any part of her duties. She’d stayed up late the last two nights, studying maps and contracts, and a plethora of other paperwork in Winston’s office, but she now felt she knew less about what to do rather than more. She wasn’t about to give up, though, or ask for help. Not yet. One couldn’t ask for help until one knew what help was needed. “You’ll be the first person I seek when I need assistance,” she said. “I promise.”
He stiffened slightly but held his silence until they arrived at the house and she looked up. His cheeks were ruddy from shaving off his scruffy whiskers for the day. He’d gotten a haircut, too. White skin showed where his brown hair had been snipped short around his ears. He wasn’t what most would call handsome, but he was dedicated and that was what she needed above all else.
“You need some rest,” he said with a gentle smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Unless you want me to stay—maybe you don’t want to be alone?”
Her gaze roamed to the house. To the flower bushes beside the steps, the set of white wicker furniture situated in the corner of the massive front porch and the wide front door complete with a screen door to let the air in on warm days. It could be warm today. She couldn’t tell. The chill that had settled inside her, clear to her bones, was too encompassing, even wearing the heavy black dress and cape. Fighting off a shiver, Sara answered, “I won’t be alone. Mrs. Long is here.”
“She’s still up the hill,�
� he said. “Talking.”
“But will be along shortly.” Pulling her hand out of the crook of his elbow, Sara drew a fortifying breath. Mrs. Long had been upset about not hosting a gathering after the funeral, giving people the opportunity to mourn and share memories. Looking at the empty house, Sara had to wonder if she should have sided with Amelia rather than Bugsley. Perhaps entering the front door would be easier with others nearby. The decision had been made, though, and she had no choice but to abide by it. To go forward. Alone. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she told Bugsley.
She entered the house without looking back. It would be easy to ask him to step in and see to everything. Too easy. Turning, she closed the inside door, thankful it provided a barrier, making it harder to change her mind. Winston had never let her or her mother down, and now she couldn’t let him down. There was no law that said he had to be her father, that he had to feed and clothe her. But he had. Along with so many other things. Therefore, she would do what no law said she had to do. Take up where he had left off. Make sure the railroad had enough timber to build the line from the pass to the border. Farther even, all the way across the Utah Territory and into Nevada.
The ache in her chest became all-consuming. Winston had been so proud of this project. He’d been committed to it, too. Needing to diminish the pain, center her attention on something other than her loss, Sara focused on walking past the sweeping staircase that led to the second floor. The very steps she’d loved to run down and jump into Winston’s arms when she’d been younger. He’d laugh and twirl her about before hugging her tight and then setting her down to run off, giggling and dizzy.
Removing the black gloves that matched her funeral dress and cape as she walked, she held them both in one hand when she arrived at Winston’s office door. The contracts were in there, and maps and statements and correspondence with railroad men. Reading through them would take her mind off other things as well as prepare her for her next steps. She’d make sure of it this time. Really focus. Living with Winston all these years had left her with considerable knowledge already. Just a few years ago the railroad had been at a standstill in Colorado. The two largest companies attempting to build a line through the southern part of the state had taken each other to court. The Santa Fe had won out, being a standard gauge. Winston had said, and many others had agreed, that the narrow-gauge rails of the Denver & Rio Grande were far better when it came to laying track through the Rocky Mountains, but not beyond, and he’d said that was the important piece. Running tracks beyond the mountains, clear to the ocean.
