Table of Contents
Excerpt
Praise for Heidi Wessman Kneale
Marry Me
Copyright
Dedication
Story
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
A giggle rose up inside Millie. “Do you always carry around candy?”
“A g-g-ood uncle is a-a-a-always p-prepared.”
Raymond patted down his pockets. His hand rested over his heart for a moment. A coy little smile played his lips. Then he reached into another pocket and brought out a rumpled white bag from Smith’s. He pulled out a heart.
“I—I been s-s-aving th-th-these in c-c-ase I f-found you ag-g-gain.” From the inside of his jacket he produced a pencil.
He wrote a tiny message on the heart before he gave it to her.
“Eat me!” it squeaked.
How adorable.
Her laughter bubbled up unrestrained. “Is it safe?”
He nodded.
She looked at the heart, hesitated, and then held it up to his lips. “You first.”
He opened his mouth and accepted the heart from her delicate fingers. He sucked on it and closed his eyes in delight. “Mmmm…” He leaned back against the iron railing and gave himself over to the joys of a little conversation heart.
Millie let out a breath. “Are you teasing me?”
He lifted a single eyelid. “Yep.”
Extracting another heart, he wrote, “Sweet Lips.” He held it up for her. “Y-your t-turn.”
Praise for Heidi Wessman Kneale
“What I like about Kneale’s writing is that she executes it well.”
~Paul Mannering, author of Asif!
~*~
“…Kneale succeeds in reversing reader expectations in more ways than one.”
~Chris Butler, The Fix: Short Fiction Review
~*~
“Heidi Kneale has so much imagination. She’s one of the best I’ve seen.”
~Anne Wingate, author, Deb Ralston series
~*~
“…the world introduced [in AS GOOD AS GOLD] was intriguing and there seem to be more possibilities to be explored, always a sign of a strong tale.”
~Margaret Fisk, author,
Uncommon Lords and Ladies series
Marry Me
by
Heidi Wessman Kneale
A Candy Hearts Romance
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Marry Me
COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Heidi Wessman Kneale
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by RJ Morris
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Fantasy Rose Edition, 2016
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0628-5
A Candy Hearts Romance
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To Their Ladyships,
Lady Sarah and Lady Amy,
who have discovered the joys of a good book.
Raymond Wilson had enchanted the little bag of candy hearts before he’d stepped out of Smith’s Sweet Shop. He pulled out one little pink heart, exposing it to the light.
“Sweet talk!” it squeaked, a little louder than he expected. In surprise, he dropped it back in the bag. Oh, his nieces would love these! The nephews, maybe not so much. He suspected they preferred his previous gift: little circus animal crackers that danced and pranced about. Their nursemaid wasn’t as enamoured, for several of the little beasties had escaped and hidden under the dresser drawers, evading all efforts of capture.
Raymond checked his pocket watch. Plenty of time left that afternoon for a pleasant stroll through the park before visiting his sister and her numerous offspring. The traffic on East 59th Street had slowed. Two delivery wagons and four empty carriages had all but halted. He slipped between them, skipping over the plentiful horse manure the sweepers had yet to scoop up.
Once on the other side, he saw what had caused the traffic to slow. A large, noisy group of women on the corner of Madison Avenue waved placards. As they were facing away from him, he had no idea what they were protesting. They did that a lot—women—often to the inconvenience of those around them. If only they were given the vote, or had their liquor taken away, or whatever it was that they wanted, then the streets of New York would no longer be plagued with traffic-stopping demonstrations. Normally such demonstrations were held much higher up. What were they doing in a fashionable neighborhood like this?
That’s when he saw her.
Her. A beautiful young woman, standing no more than five yards away from him. It was as if the rest of the world fell away, leaving only him and her.
She hid behind a lamp post, her back to him, and watched the female protesters with great interest. How old was she? Under her straw hat, her hair was up in the fashionable bouffant that Gibson Girls favoured, but her hemline hung scandalously above her ankles. A girl just out of the schoolroom? Surely no more than nineteen.
Maybe she was a working girl? But no. The slim-fingered hand that rested on the lamp post was lily-white. A beaded bag hung from her elbow. No shopgirl owned such finery.
She turned. Raymond immediately averted his eyes. It would not do to be caught staring. Still, he couldn’t help but peer at her from under the brim of his hat. Her very presence drew his gaze.
What a face to behold. She caught her ruby lips between her teeth. Soft brown eyes glanced about, nervous. Raymond’s heart thumped. She was lovely. Could any young woman have such beauty and such innocent delight? Such a combination was rare in his experience.
A yearning tightened in his stomach. Had he been any other man, he would have strolled up to her, presented his card, and said “Good day”. But he was Raymond, and the words to come out of his mouth would have been, “G-g-g-g-ood d-d-day.” What fair maiden would want to hear that?
Damn stutter.
Not that they could have much of a conversation on the noisy street. The protesters shouted their slogans, their voices competing with the loud ringing of iron horseshoes on the pavement. In disappointment, he turned away and shoved his hands into his pockets.
His right hand encountered the bag of conversation hearts.
Of course!
Out it came. Raymond retrieved a few hearts to see what he had.
“Marry me!” cried out one loud little heart.
The young lady turned and Raymond jumped. Did she hear that? He turned and blushed, shielding the candy in his hand from the sunlight. He sorted through the hearts, dropping the rather bold “Marry Me” heart into his top pocket. That was too bold to give to a young woman of new acquaintance.
But by all that was bright and beautiful, he wanted to give it to her above everything else.
So, what else was there? He sorted through the rest, enduring their excited declarations until he found just the right one.
Perfect.
****
Millie Moore had a secret. She wanted to be loud. Not the screaming childish loudness, the noise mothers pinched the bridges of their noses over, before sending the children back upstairs with their nursemaid—out of sight, out of
mind.
No. She liked the loudness of protest, of rebellion, of women who wanted their voice to be heard. Why didn’t anyone listen? Their opinions made just as much sense as any man’s, possibly more sense. That’s it. She wanted to be heard. She didn’t want to be shoved aside, as happened too often.
Her parents did that, even though she’d been Out for three years now, and her hair up for four.
“No, dear,” her mother would say. “I think the blue dress would be better,” when Millie wanted to wear the green dress to dinner.
Or her father, when she asked him about the upcoming election: “Politics aren’t for young ladies.”
By gum, they were! Just look at all the women who insisted on having a voice in public. Women weren’t stupid. Imagine what good they could do for the world, if only they were permitted.
Since this morning, she’d been following the Education for Women march up Madison Avenue. She’d joined them about 46th Street and had been with them ever since.
Well, not exactly with them, but tagging along like a puppy.
They were bold, these New Women, unafraid to speak out, unafraid to right the wrongs that plagued the good citizens of the city, no matter who mocked them.
Last week Millie had watched a Temperance rally in the park, but didn’t stay for long. Teetotalers could be really dull sometimes.
But this? This was exciting! The women would march along a block, stand on a corner and shout their message before moving along. A few things had been thrown at them—fruit, clumps of manure, insults—but they kept going.
Millie wished she could be so brave.
If her father knew she was there, he would shout at her so. Millie hated being shouted at when she couldn’t shout back.
Her gaze caught something dark blue. Policemen. Only two congregating on the opposite corner, but they were leaning in and talking low, their eyes never leaving the women.
And then another policeman on the other side of the street. This did not bode well. Perhaps this was the time to move on. It would not do to get caught up in a riot and hauled off to the station. Her presence was guilt enough for any police officer.
As she turned to go, she stumbled over a small crossing sweeper. He couldn’t have been any older than eight or nine. Goodness, his broom was taller than he was. “I am so sorry,” she replied, more from habit than anything.
Then she got a good look at him. The dirt on his face was streaked with dried tears. He held up a grubby hand. If you paid them a penny, they’d sweep away the manure so one could cross without stepping in the leavings of a horse.
Oh dear. Millie hadn’t thought to bring money.
“Please, miss. I’m so hungry.”
Ah. Hunger. Now that was something Millie understood. Her own tummy grumbled. So excited she had been at following the Women’s March, she’d forgotten the sandwich she’d brought.
She pulled it out of her bag, the paper wrapping still intact. Surely she could give him half—
The moment she’d unwrapped it, the little beggar snatched the whole thing out of her hands and dashed away!
Millie could only stand there and blink. Her whole sandwich! What would she eat?
The shouts of the women rolled over her, loud and angry. She felt, rather than heard her stomach growl. What would she do without lunch?
One could not go without lunch. One got all cranky.
She looked down the street, but the sweeper was long gone, as was her sandwich.
So that was that. Millie had no choice. She couldn’t follow a march without any lunch. She’d have to go home, just as the march was getting exciting. Some of the women had abandoned their chants and were shouting their anger. Surely this would erupt in a riot soon.
And she would miss it.
As she turned to go, she came face to face with a rather handsome man. Their eyes met. His were gentle and green. He wasn’t much taller than she, but his shoulders were broad enough to make anyone look manly. His jacket sat nicely on his physique, even though it was unbuttoned at the waist.
He removed his hat and gave her a nervous little smile. Imagine. What did he have to be nervous about?
He opened his mouth to speak, but a glance to the noisy protesters made him change his mind.
Instead, he beckoned for her hand.
After a moment’s hesitation, Millie held it out.
On her palm he placed a little candy heart. “U R Sweet!” it shouted, startling Millie. She nearly dropped the heart. Her hand fumbled at it, rescuing it just in time.
The man’s eyes crinkled in humour before he doffed his hat and turned from her, to disappear in the gathering crowd.
“Wait,” she called out as a couple of youths jostled by her.
A policeman’s whistle blew, startling her even more than the heart had. Millie looked about in panic. Where had all these policemen come from? The protesters had closed ranks, their angry shouts turned to the uniformed police.
Millie turned back, but the man was gone. No trace remained.
The whistle blew again, joined by several others.
Here was the riot she was expecting. Alas, Millie no longer desired to watch. She had found someone else far more fascinating.
****
By the time Millie reached home, her sides heaved with effort and her shoes pinched her feet. She slowed.
It was quieter here on this residential street, with its leafy trees and neatly manicured garden boxes outside the smart brownstone buildings. The only traffic was a horse-drawn delivery van outside her family’s home. “Morton’s Florist”, it said. Its back doors were open.
Oh no. Millie’s heart sank. Not again. Guy Elliott. When would he realise she wasn’t interested in him?
Two delivery men in smart white coats carried another lavish floral arrangement up the steps and into the house. How many more arrangements were inside? When it came to showing off, Mr. Elliott never did anything by halves.
As she passed the delivery van, she could feel it, the air of greasy desperation that emanated off all of Mr. Elliott’s gifts.
Slowly, she trudged through the open doors. The greasy feeling got worse.
The parlor was a riot of blossoms and bloom. Six flower arrangements filled every surface of the room, each one more ridiculous than the last. Two were squeezed in on the table, while another reposed on the sofa. Both chairs were taken. Their miasma cloyed about her. What has Mr. Elliott done to these flowers? Millie could not think straight.
“No, no,” cried the familiar voice of her mother, Mrs. Moore. “Over here.”
Morton’s men studied the overcrowded parlour. “The sofa, ma’am?”
Mrs. Moore, still dressed in her peach morning gown, flapped her hands in frustration, her lace sleeves wavering at her elbows. “Yes—No. Oh, I don’t know.”
Millie sighed. “Just put it down in front of the fireplace.”
Mrs. Moore’s countenance brightened. “Ah, there you are, my dear girl.” Her mother had her social face on. Her frustration at the unexpected bounty of flowers had been hidden away. “Look at how thoughtful Mr. Elliott has been—Oh, no!” she cried at the florists, her mask slipping. “Not by the fire. They’ll wilt there.”
Morton’s men paused, half-crouched.
Millie had had enough. “There will be fine. We can move them later.”
Down went the heavy vase with a chink on the fireplace tiles. They couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Millie couldn’t blame them. The flowers gave a decidedly unpleasant aura about the room.
Once they were gone, her mother relaxed her facade. “Have you seen so many flowers?” Her soft hand reached out to an iris, but stopped shy of touching its delicate petals. “Here he is paying you a compliment. And here,” Mrs. Moore’s hand hovered over a red tulip. “He loves you.”
Millie sighed. “Mother, I don’t think he knows what he’s sent.” She glanced over the multitudinous flowers. It was as if he’d waltzed into the florist and ordered one of ever
ything. Look, there was a geranium—disappointment. And another vase sported a few marigolds among the rest—grief. What a maroon. Didn’t he know every flower had meaning?
But Mrs. Moore only saw what she wanted to see. “How lucky to have someone pay you court, after all this time. I was beginning to worry.”
This irked Millie. “I’m not on the shelf yet.”
Mrs. Moore paused in her sniffing of a hortensia to give her daughter a cold eye. “And how many more weeks will that be?”
Millie wanted to push a vase of flowers into the fire. “Really, mother. I’m only twenty-one.”
“And out for three years. Your sister was married at nineteen.” She fluffed up the flowers as if they were a cushion on the sofa.
“You were married at twenty-one.” She didn’t mean it to sound as snarky as she did.
Morton’s men were back, between them, a vase of nothing but roses. “And where should this one go?”
Her mother pursed her lips.
Millie waved her hand negligently at the florists. “Oh, just leave them in the hallway.”
But her mother was having none of that. “You can’t leave them there.” She pushed her way through the parlor to the door. As she passed Millie, she hissed, “I was engaged at eighteen.”
So there.
Mrs. Moore pushed out into the hallway to direct the florists. No doubt her mother wanted to display the flowers for all comers. Was Millie’s spinsterhood such a shame that Mrs. Moore had to flaunt this unwanted courtship? Was her value only in her marriageability? Given that, was a bad marriage better than no marriage at all?
A very sad thing to contemplate.
A knock rang out on the door. Millie slunk to it, expecting yet more flowers.
When she opened the door, she came face to face with the author of all this misery, Guy Elliott.
At first impression, Mr. Elliott struck one as a man-about-town. His pale sack coat had been finely tailored. Its padded shoulders lent him a little more broadness than nature had given him. His high-buttoned single-breasted waistcoat of red-striped satin seemed a little too gaudy for daytime calling, yet it matched admirably with the red band on his straw boater.
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