For My Brother’s Sins

by For My Brother's Sins (retail) (epub)

  He could still hear her laughter after he had slammed the office door. Damn the woman. He would have her, so he would. The last laugh would be reserved for him.

  In the office Dusty was feeling sorry for the way she had mocked him. But oh! he deserved it. She had heard the labouring girls whispering amongst themselves about this Casanova. It appeared there was not one among them who had escaped his persuasive chatter. Well, he had not got very far with Miss Miller, had he? So much for his infallible Irish charm. Though he was deliciously handsome. No one as handsome had ever paid her so much attention before. If he had not been so ridiculously shallow she might well have found it all very flattering.

  Still, she had to feel sorry for the fellow. He had looked so taken aback, so pathetic when she had laughed at his ludicrous monologue. Was that the type of prattle that moved others to relinquishing their virtue? It certainly hadn’t impressed Dusty. Even so, she had hurt him and having put him in his place could afford to be magnanimous. When next he called she would apologise.

  And one week later apologise she did, though her rectitude did not bring the response she had visioned. She was testing some samples of the tea just delivered by the brokers, liquoring them against those already in stock. Due to ten years of her father’s instruction she had attained a keen palate – the slightest difference and she would be quick to spot it. She rolled the sample round her mouth then discreetly spat it into the waste pot. It was during this action that she saw Dickie arrive with his cart and, setting the tasting spoon upon a saucer she dabbed at her lips and made her way across the warehouse.

  Dickie hardly seemed aware of her presence as he struggled to load his cart, taking scant notice of her rehearsed speech.

  ‘Well, now I’ve passed on my regrets,’ she said lamely at this neutered reception, ‘I’d better get back to my work.’

  ‘Aye, you do that,’ he grunted. ‘I’d hate to keep ye from your precious work.’ It had been his decision to employ different tactics and to match like with like.

  There was a strained silence punctuated only by his gasps as he heaved the boxes and sacks onto his cart. She still hovered, watching him. ‘Look, I have apologised,’ she said captiously.

  ‘An’ I acknowledged it,’ was his equable response. ‘Now, if there’s nothing else?’ He turned his back.

  ‘Would you care to call for tea tomorrow?’ she said unexpectedly, and marvelled at where her words had sprung from; they were the last she had intended.

  He swore as a splinter from one of the crates embedded itself under his nail.

  ‘Well, I’m sure my invitation didn’t warrant such language!’ she retorted, the lynx eyes growing hard.

  He started to explain, trying to shake the pain from his hand. A glob of blood flew onto her turquoise dress and she gave an exclamation. ‘Oh, let me see!’

  ‘’Tis nothing.’

  She grabbed hold of his hand and examined the finger. ‘It’ll have to come out. Come along!’ She dragged him into the office.

  He followed her, unusually meek, and stood dutifully while she fished in her purse for something that might remove the splinter. Laying her hands upon a pair of tweezers she beckoned him over. ‘Rinse off the blood in that bowl.’ After he had complied she wedged the offending hand under her arm to steady her task. ‘This may hurt.’ She applied the tweezers to the protruding tip of the splinter. It was removed in seconds. ‘There!’

  She waited for him to take his arm back and when it adhered to her side she made great show of removing it herself. ‘Rinse it off again then we’ll put on a bandage.’

  Dickie blessed the fragment of wood that had brought about this apparent change of heart and sat on the desk while she bandaged his finger. She could be really quite feminine if she put her mind to it.

  ‘Ye do that expertly, Primrose.’ He watched her snip the ends of the bandage and tie them around his wrist. ‘Healing hands ye have. It feels better already.’ He took a chance and moved his hand in her lap, feeling the heat of her thigh against his knuckles.

  She patted his hand as one might a child’s and said reprovingly, ‘Now we don’t want to start all that again, surely, Mr Feeney?’

  ‘Dickie.’

  ‘Dickie then – and do stop calling me Primrose, I can’t stand it. It makes me sound like a delicate little flower.’

  ‘Ah, that you’re most definitely not!’

  She tucked the remaining bandage and scissors into the first-aid box, replacing it in the cupboard. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘You’ve certainly changed your tune,’ said Dickie, his handsome features flexed in smiles. ‘Ye sure ’tis tea you’re giving me an’ not hemlock?’

  She furrowed her brow but her eyes remained friendly. ‘I don’t think there’s any need for that now that you know your place, do you?’ She filled a kettle and placed it on the gas-ring.

  Bide your time, boy, Dickie told himself. Just chalk up all these insults on the slate and one day she’ll suffer for them.

  Later, when they sat side by side drinking tea, she asked him, ‘Would you care to answer my original question?’

  ‘Which was?’ His startlingly-blue eyes wandered over the boyish figure.

  ‘I asked if you’d care to call to tea tomorrow?’

  ‘You’re sure about that? I should hate to think ye were only asking me out o’ charity.’

  She set down her cup. ‘Mr Feeney …’

  ‘Dickie.’

  ‘… Dickie, I’m sorry if we got off on the wrong footing, but you’ve only yourself to blame, you know. If you weren’t so arrogant …’

  ‘Me, arrogant!’ he laughed astoundedly. ‘Sure, you’re not so hot on humility yourself.’

  ‘All right, I admit I did get a bit officious, but … for God’s sake, man! I can’t keep atoning for my sins, and I don’t see why I should, I shan’t do it any more. We’ll start anew. Forget about all previous encounters. When you come to tea tomorrow it will be as if we are meeting for the first time.’

  ‘Isn’t that taking things for granted?’ mocked Dickie. ‘I mean, I never said I’d come.’

  She knotted her brows, annoyed at being caught practising Dickie’s tricks. ‘No, you didn’t, did you? I’m sorry.’

  ‘Ye said ye weren’t going to say that again,’ he goaded.

  She bristled, then composed herself, realising how silly this was becoming, and answered, ‘You’re testing my patience, which happens to be very fragile. Nevertheless I’m going to ask you very nicely once more, and only once: will you kindly come to tea tomorrow?’

  He rose, bowed and answered, ‘Miss Miller, how could any red-blooded male refuse such a delightful request? I should be honoured.’

  ‘Good, that’s settled then.’ She gathered up the cups and saucers and took them away. He trailed her, standing very close, and began to sing quietly, making up the song as he went along:

  There was a Dusty Miller once lived on the river Dee,

  … Though she might try to hide her flame I know she pines for me,

  … And when I ask her for her hand … she will have one reply-y …

  There is but one place you belong … and that is in a sty!

  ‘There, I made ye laugh.’ Dickie used the opportunity of her laughter to move even closer. Her gaiety reverted to the canny smile and she eyed him.

  ‘Hadn’t you better be loading your cart^5^’

  ‘I should – but I’m loath to tear meself away from your side,’ he told her throatily. ‘I rather hoped ye’d feel the same way.’ He inched his face to hers.

  Unperturbed she placed a hand in front of her face so that he kissed not her lips but her palm. ‘Ah, Dusty! How can ye be so cruel?’

  ‘Oh, I can be a lot more cruel than that, Mr Feeney,’ she answered, her slanting green eyes full of mischief. ‘The invitation was to tea only, not an invitation to help yourself. If you think that you’re going to seduce me like you did all the others …’

  ‘Miss Miller, ye ma
ke me sound like a lecher!’ he objected, hurt.

  But Dusty laughed, neither embarrassed nor outpaced by this exchange. ‘You may think you’re very clever, Richard Feeney but you don’t fool me with your blarney. I’m not like all the others you’ve met. It’ll take more than a few compliments to put me on my back. You’re a fine, handsome lad I’ll grant you that, but I value my chastity too highly to go melting under those beautiful eyes. For I know what would happen if I did. So, if you’ve nothing more on your mind than to take my virtue and run, you’d best be on your way right now, for the answer to that would be a very definite No.’

  He was forced to admire her, however much she irked him with her bossiness. He studied her unblinkingly until her cheeks began to turn pink knowing what was on his mind. But her lynx eyes never wavered. He could walk out now and still retain some of his pride, or he could stay and forget about the slate – there was no way he was going to get around this one without the firm promise of a wedding ring. And not just a hollow promise either – this one would see through subterfuge right away. So, did he want her badly enough to put a ring on her finger? There was nothing much about her that he couldn’t get elsewhere, and more easily. But what was in those strange, feline eyes … he had never seen that before, and that was what he wanted. That intangible thing he could not put a name to. And above everything, she produced in him a feeling that no one else had ever created before. He didn’t know what it was. It worried him.

  ‘You’re a hard woman, Dusty,’ he said at last. ‘Ye know very well I couldn’t walk out of here if I wanted to.’

  ‘And do you want to?’

  ‘No – though God help me I don’t know what sorta spell ye’ve worked on me.’ They were all going to laugh their heads off when the news circulated that someone had cornered the irrepressible Feeney at last.

  ‘And what about all the others?’ she asked.

  ‘What others? There’s only you from now on.’

  ‘I’d like to believe that, Dickie.’

  ‘Believe it. From today I’ll never look at another woman.’

  ‘It’s not the looking I’m worried about.’

  ‘Dusty,’ he reproved, ‘I swear there’ll be no more than that.’

  ‘Come here then.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you deaf? Come here.’ And she raised her face to his, kissing him full and long on the lips. It fell a long way short of the most passionate kiss he had ever tasted, but the fire in her green eyes when she broke away verified its sincerity.

  ‘Heaven help me, I must be mad,’ she breathed wonderingly. What had happened to the convictions she had been spouting before?

  ‘Ye voiced my very thoughts, Dusty,’ he tasted her again. I must be mad. Bloody mad.

  ‘And if you so much as blink at another woman we’re finished. Do you understand?’

  ‘I do,’ he replied contritely, and suffered another twinge of self-mockery at his choice of words.

  Chapter Thirty

  As the leaves turned to crackling ashes in the gutters the buds of romance welled and burst forth into blossom. Dickie was welcomed into the Miller household just as Dusty was enveloped into his. Probyn Miller was a widower and unlike Patrick Feeney remained totally uninvolved when it came to his daughter’s choice of partner. With a realistic shrug he had decreed that Dusty was quite capable of mapping out her own life, and if Dickie was her chosen one then so be it. He was not a well man and it had often worried him that he might expire leaving his only daughter to cope with the wholesale business unaided. Not that he didn’t think her capable, but he would hate to see the business turn her into a hardened spinster. She needed a man to take the edge off her forceful nature. Now it looked as if he would see her safely married before he succumbed to his weak heart.

  Patrick and Thomasin, at first astonished when their wayward son had brought in this rather homely-looking girl, had after half an hour in her company realised what he found so attractive in her, and had immediately taken Dusty to their hearts. This was the sort of wife that Dickie needed to keep him in line. Would that Sonny had been so fortunate. Thomasin’s attempts to dissuade him from marriage until he was older had only served to strengthen his resolve. But, Sonny was happy and that was the main issue. Thomasin for one would be glad if Peggy proved her wrong and made a model wife.

  The thought that all three of her children would soon be settled down did wonders for Thomasin, and not the least important factor in her revitalisation was that Dusty would one day be the owner of a large wholesale business. Allied to her own fast-expanding trade it would make the Feeneys well-nigh self-sufficient. She had coveted a wholesale warehouse of her own for a long time, but as yet had not the temerity nor the experience to move into this sphere.

  She smiled at Dusty and offered a plate of small cakes which the girl refused. ‘Thank you, no. If I eat any more I’ll be like a harvest frog. I think that’d spoil the cut of my wedding gown somewhat.’

  ‘Wedding gown?’ said Thomasin. ‘So it is serious, then?’ The two of them were alone for the present. Dickie had slipped round to the stables with his father to seek Patrick’s advice about a sore on the mare’s flank. Sonny was upstairs getting ready to meet Peggy. ‘You really love my son?’

  Dusty raised a quizzical eyebrow at the disbelief in Thomasin’s voice. ‘You make it sound as if he’s virtually unlovable, Mrs Feeney.’

  The other laughed and poured herself more tea. ‘Well, no I wouldn’t say that – he can be very affectionate. But I must be honest, I never expected to see him married, especially to a nice girl like you.’

  Dusty pulled a face at the description.

  ‘Now I didn’t mean it how it sounded,’ said Thomasin. ‘You’re a bonny lass as well. But our Dickie needs someone with her head screwed on right. He’s a bit of a handful, you know.’ She appraised Dusty meaningfully, wondering if the girl understood.

  Dusty’s wide mouth turned up at the corners. ‘You mean his fatalism for the opposite sex?’

  ‘Well, just as long as you realise what you’re letting yourself in for,’ replied Thomasin seriously. ‘You’re a lovely girl, Dusty. Patrick and me have a great deal of respect for you – rather more, I’m afraid than we have for our son. We love you and welcome you as a daughter. I hope with all my heart that he’s going to make you happy, dear. But I couldn’t in all honesty guarantee it. He’s been such a trial to his parents.’

  Dusty leaned forward and covered Thomasin’s hand with her own. ‘I understand what you’re trying to tell me, and I’m grateful that you seek to protect me.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘I often think it was madness on my part to allow this relationship to develop. It wasn’t as if I was bowled over by your handsome son, however charming he might think himself to be. It’d take someone a great deal less transparent to take me in. No, I know exactly what I’m letting myself into. I accepted his promise of matrimony with open eyes. If things go wrong there’s none to blame but me. You don’t know what a time I’ve had since I consented to the relationship, wondering if I’m going to regret it. But despite his roving eye I’m positive that his feelings for me are genuine. If I didn’t believe that then I wouldn’t be sitting here. So, there’s no call to worry on my behalf, Mrs Feeney. The boy says he loves me and I trust him.’

  ‘Oh, I’m inclined to agree on that,’ Thomasin nodded vigorously. ‘He does love you. I’ve never seen him apply himself to anything with such enthusiasm.’ She clasped her hands delightedly. ‘Oh, won’t it be lovely! Two weddings to look forward to next year.’

  Dusty wholeheartedly agreed. ‘Though I’ve never been to a wedding in my whole life. I’ve no idea of how to conduct myself.’

  Thomasin found this unbelievable. ‘Never been to a wedding?’

  ‘Never! Twenty-three years of age and never a grain of rice has left my fingers. The only rice I’ve ever thrown is the pudding I once emptied over Father’s head when he said it was burnt.’ She winced at the recollection. He had whipped he
r soundly and locked her in her room for a week. ‘So, I’d welcome any advice you could give me on the ceremony and about married life. My mother died when I was small so I’ve never had an example to follow.’ She interpreted Thomasin’s uncomfortable expression and chuckled without embarrassment. ‘Oh, don’t worry. I’m not going to ask about what to do on the wedding night. I’ve not led that sheltered a life. Besides, I’ve picked up enough snippets from our employees to serve me in good stead for that. No, I meant more in the domestic field. I desperately want to be a good wife to your son, Mrs Feeney. If a man doesn’t have a secure background then he’s more likely to stray. I won’t stand for that.’

  Both women looked to the door which had just opened.

  ‘Oh, sorry, Mother. I didn’t realise ye had company.’ Erin lingered on the threshold.

  ‘Hello, love! What’re you doing here through the week?’ Thomasin gestured for her to come in and looked surprised when Erin closed the door after her. ‘Are you on your own?’

  Erin came forward. ‘Sam decided he’d mend the shed when he came in from work, so I thought I’d pop over for a little chat rather than sit on my own. Sorry if I barged in.’

  ‘Rubbish! It’s only our Dusty.’ Thomasin smiled at Dickie’s bride-to-be. ‘You’re not intruding on anything. In fact you might be a bit of a help.’

  ‘Oh?’ Erin perched on the edge of a chair.

  Dusty got the feeling that Erin wasn’t too happy to see her. ‘Perhaps I’ll have a wander down to the stables to see what Dickie’s up to.’

  ‘Nay, they’ll be back any minute,’ said Thomasin. ‘Don’t waste your legs. We were just discussing wedding plans,’ she told Erin, who smiled her congratulations. ‘Dusty’s been picking my brains about how to be a good wife, but I don’t know as I’m the right one to ask.’ A chuckle, then: ‘You should be more useful, still being in the first flush of marriage yourself.’

  ‘I think she’ll need wiser instruction than mine to deal with my brother,’ said Erin, a little unkindly.