An Unwilling Husband

by Tera Shanley

  That stupid, gaudy trash bin. How much food and supplies would such a fine piece be bargained for in Rockdale? She snorted. Probably not much. Who in their right mind would trade for such a useless trinket there?

  She sighed and began again.

  Dearest Garret,

  I’ve arrived safely and am writing as promised. I hope this letter finds you well. I’ll be home soon.

  Yours,

  Maggie

  There was simply too much to convey on a piece of paper. And with any luck, she would return around the same time as her letter arrived in Rockdale.

  She jumped when the door swung open and a massive woman barreled toward her.

  “Miss Margaret!”

  Laughing, she braced herself for Berta’s hug. Then Berta’s arms came around her and squeezed her. She’d thought never to see her dear friend again in her lifetime. “Berta! Oh, it’s so good to see a friendly face.”

  “When have you arrived, then, Miss Margaret?”

  “Only an hour ago, and I’m convinced Jacques has become ever more stern in the short time I’ve been away. He let me in without even the slightest hint of recognition or pleasure.”

  “Oh, you’d be right, for sure, mum. He’s been a horrible oaf since you’ve been gone. Things are so solemn around here, what with everything that has happened.”

  Berta had come to work for the Hall family before Mother passed. She was older, and roughly polished at times, but had become a friend. Or as much a friend as one could secretly be, away from the ever-judging eyes of Aunt Margaret. Berta had been the one to encourage her to find her happiness and seek out Roy.

  “Well, so tell me what has happened, then, Berta.” She motioned for the woman to take a seat in the cushioned chair near her writing desk. Berta took off her cloak and draped it over the back of a chair in haste, glanced at the door and sat down. The chair creaked under the strain.

  “I’ll tell you, it was the saddest day when Mr. Hall passed. He had been sick for a time. We all knew it was bad, and your aunt stayed by his side until she caught the fever too and was ordered to bed.” Berta sniffled.

  Immense sadness washed over her. Until this moment, his death hadn’t been real. She’d done a job of keeping her thoughts from the loss. First Mother then Roy, and now Uncle William? It was too much to process. “I didn’t get to say goodbye,” she whispered.

  “Well now, girl, does anybody really get to say goodbye? Death works on his own clock now, doesn’t he? Don’t fret, dear,” Berta said, glanced at the door and leaned toward her. “Mrs. Hall,” she said in a whisper, “went to hiding your letters as soon as they came, but I grabbed up the last two and read them to Mr. Hall when he was so ill. And Mrs. Hall couldn’t stop me, on account of being ill herself. I tell you, it brightened his last days to hear from you, to hear of your happiness and your marriage, and everything. I like to think it gave him peace.”

  “Aunt Margaret hid my letters from him? Why would she do such a thing?”

  “Of course she hid them. Have you met her?” Berta snorted to cover a giggle. “She don’t like you none too much, I’m afraid. Never has, if it wasn’t obvious.”

  “Yes, well the feeling is mutual.”

  Berta became serious again. “She wants to see you, you know? Been asking for you.”

  “But why would she want to see me?”

  Berta shrugged. “Who knows why that woman does anything? I’d better get back to work. I’ll send for you when she is ready enough to receive you.”

  “Oh, could you be a dear and give this letter to Jacques?” Maggie sealed her message to Garret quickly and handed it over. “I need it sent out with the post.”

  “Of course, mum.” Berta took the letter and curtsied, gave her a wink and bustled out the door with the same fervor with which she had arrived.

  The small luggage case stood in the corner. She really should unpack it but would not, on principle. Ambling around her old room, she touched pictures and trinkets. At the exquisite full length mirror framed in polished dark wood, she stopped. In the simple dress with her hair pulled neatly back, she looked gaunt from her recent recovery, and her freckles stood out in contrast against her blanched skin. Her hair color, which so offended Aunt Margaret, hadn’t changed.

  She’d always wished her mother had stood up for her, even if only one time. Aunt Margaret’s sharp tongue had whipped her, made her uncomfortably aware she never did anything right. Not after having the audacity of her first unforgivable mistake, which was to be born, naturally.

  This place had crossed her mind so blissfully little since she’d started her new life. Never in a hundred years would she have imagined being back in her prison after so short a time. She’d fancied she’d be dead before that happened. She hadn’t planned, however, on the death of Uncle William. How could one ever fathom losing the one light in life? The only person in all those years to give her kind words without apology. A sweet word from Mother had always come with a disclaimer she was never to tell Aunt Margaret of it. That it would be their little secret.

  Her silver brush set lay where she’d left it on a small table. Uncle William had given it to her when she was young. He even had her initials engraved in the handles, but she’d never thought to bring them to Rockdale with the rest of her belongings. Her mother had tainted the gift by sighing in misery every time she brushed Maggie’s fiery colored hair with it. Not that her mother might have hated her hair color. Mother had likely been upset about the color simply because Aunt Margaret was.

  Oh, if only once, her mother had one day had enough and told her aunt how beautiful she really thought it to be. One day of courage to change a life. Maybe that failure had been the reason for the wafting sadness in her mother’s face whenever she’d brushed her hair.

  A slight knock on the door announced the arrival of refreshments, and once she’d nibbled on enough to calm her small appetite, Berta brought her to Aunt Margaret’s room. Deep sympathy in her expression, Berta left her there and closed the door softly behind herself.

  Waiting, to be invited closer, she stood near the door. Aunt Margaret breathed deeply and had likely fallen asleep. Her aunt had never been a slender woman, though she hadn’t been an overly large woman either. Now her skin sagged as though she’d lost a lot of weight too quickly. Her hair was much grayer now too and her wrinkles had deepened. She smelled of sickness. Aunt Margaret was dying.

  “You just going to stand there gawking at me like a common woman, or are you going to come sit beside me like a proper lady?”

  Aunt Margaret’s raspy voice made her cringe. Illness hadn’t done anything to curb the woman’s wicked tongue. Unfortunately.

  “Yes, my lady.” She sat in the chair near the bed, hands clasped, which had started to sweat with her nervousness.

  “It won’t be this damned fever that kills me. It’ll be your lack of manners, girl. Something I haven’t missed in the least.”

  “Then why have you called me back here to you, Aunt?”

  The woman seemed to think on her answer, then said, “As you know, I was never able to bear children. Though it wasn’t for lack of trying. But when you came to stay here, I thought, thank goodness I didn’t have a child, for what if it had been like you? No, thank you. I would not risk being responsible for unleashing something like you into Society.”

  Her trip to the Hall’s estate had been a mistake. She rose to leave.

  “William, however, wanted a child badly,” Aunt Margaret continued, which stopped her in her tracks. “And when you came along, I guess I should have let him dote on you as he wished. Not for you, you undeserving little trollop, but for him.”

  Though she waited for more, that was the apology. She sat in the chair. “He was a good man,” she said. “The best, and the world is darker for having lost him.”

  Aunt Margaret sniffed primly. “Yes, well, what William thought he lacked giving you in life, he has now bestowed upon you in death.”

  When would the damn woman
stop talking in riddles? She waited tiredly until her aunt decided to continue.

  “That stubborn and clearly bewitched man has left you a large sum and piece of his estate, due you upon your marriage. Which apparently is now, since you hooked the first beggar you could find and latched onto him for life.”

  Neither she, nor her mother were supposed to receive money upon the unfortunate circumstance of her uncle’s death. It had been discussed and thrown at her constantly in her years growing up at the Hall’s estate. The fact she’d be forever impoverished had helped Aunt Margaret sleep at night.

  “He isn’t a beggar,” she said, regaining her composure somewhat. “He is a rancher, and a great man. Uncle William would have approved and given his blessing if he’d ever had the chance to meet my husband in person. What do you want from me, Aunt Margaret?”

  Her aunt wheezed and gave a great coughing fit. Once recovered enough to go on, she said, “He has left you the house. Money also, but he has provided new living arrangements for myself so this place would be in your name.” She smiled slyly. “Now, obviously I won’t live long enough to enjoy the luxury of this place much longer, but I can’t die knowing you are lady here. I intend to buy it from you.”

  “Why on earth would he leave this place to me? I don’t want any part of it. Not one day spent here was a happy one for me. Take it and be done with this.”

  “Oh, but you see, your uncle was a clever man. He thought you would say something similar, so he put a clause in his will that will keep you from giving the house to me. I have to buy it, and at a rate he has given. Our lawyer has drawn up the paperwork. William made extensive changes to his will in his final days, though I cannot fathom the reasoning, and our lawyer is well acquainted with the fine print already.”

  “That, and you undoubtedly had him try to find loopholes in the fine print.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Margaret conceded with a grim set to her mouth. “There is another condition to my parting with more of my money.”

  “I don’t want your money. I never did.”

  “Be that as it may, if you want to get rid of this place, you’ll have to give me what I want in return.”

  Good Lord, she’d had about enough of this. “And what is that?”

  “Stay with me until I leave this world. Care for me as you cared for your mother. Give me your word and we’ll sign the paperwork without delay. Refuse me, and I’ll have you tied up in legal matters to do with me for years to come.”

  “Why would you want me, of all people on this earth, to stay with you?”

  Aunt Margaret shrugged weakly. “I’m all the family you have left. And as it happens, you’re all the family I have left as well. Now, stop blocking the candlelight with your ridiculous silhouette and fetch me a glass of water. My throat is parched.” Aunt Margaret nestled deeper into the pillows and closed her eyes, a cruel smile on her dry lips. Her tongue flicked out to moisten them like a snake tested the air for a meal.

  She was Aunt Margaret’s prey. Sadness made her heart seem as if it closed in on it itself. Indeed, returning to Boston had been a mistake. She was destined to forfeit herself in this new and hideous circumstance. For, after knowing freedom, how could she ever go back into her cage and expect to emerge whole again?

  Chapter 23

  Aunt Margaret was bound and determined to go belligerently to death’s door. In fact, Death likely avoided collecting her so he wouldn’t have to deal with her unforgiving mouth while he escorted the woman to where she was going.

  Uncharitable, but Maggie couldn’t help a slight chuckle at the idea. Of course, she would never wish death on anyone, but Aunt Margaret had pushed her to such an acquisitive point.

  Now picking her way through the bustling streets of Boston to Tremont Row, a length of shops and boutiques for the wealthy, she couldn’t help but smile. Never before had she possessed a penny to spend, but today her coin purse was full.

  Maggie Shaw, Independently Wealthy Woman. A lovely title, but such an odd sensation. Relief, mixed with a twinge of disappointment, perhaps. She had been proud she’d never asked Aunt Margaret for anything, but with this money, she’d accepted something extravagant from the harsh woman.

  To be sure, Aunt Margaret’s insistence she take the money in exchange for the estate harbored cruel intent. To keep her from sullying the Hall name and house in Society. But still...

  The money, to her limited knowledge, had always been promised and intended for one Margaret Hall. Not the red-headed, smart-mouthed, bastard child formerly named Maggie Flemming, now Shaw, as Aunt Margaret had pointed out just this morning. Where most women tended to grow wiser with age, Margaret Hall had taken those years to broaden the pitiless creativity of her vocabulary.

  The wind picked up and the sky darkened. Garret would have warned her of an imminent storm. Had he been here, of course. Having relied on her poor weather judgment, she was ill-dressed for rain, and had unfortunately refused a carriage in light of a long walk to cool down after her most recent bitter argument with Aunt Margaret.

  Picking up her pace, she dodged into the nearest shop as the first drop of water splattered on her lightly freckled forearm.

  The store she’d chosen for her escape was a fine hat shop. It also boasted silk ribbons and intricate hair pins and brooches, but the main staple, most definitely hats. A monumental difference, between this store and the general store in Rockdale. No spit cans or assortments of rifles and animal pelts for sale. Nor did a stuffed deer backside hang on the back wall with an arrow pointing in the direction of the outhouse.

  She smiled at the dissimilarity. No one in the Boston store talked cordially, as if they had known their neighbor all of their lives either. No one asked about harvests, sick animals or new babies and actually cared about the answer.

  Some of the hats in the grandiose store were small, and of an attractive nature, but most were large, gaudy, and flowing with feathers, lace, and other such expensive delicacies. The hat in the window was atrocious, only remarkable because it displayed a rather large stuffed bird, complete with nest and three small blue eggs. A fat ribbon matching the color of the eggs with trailing tails adorned it, and an impressive assortment of plumage exploded out of the top. It probably cost more than it took to run the Lazy S for a year.

  The thought pricked her. How could she pretend to be interested in such functionless fashions, much less spend money in such a gaudy place?

  A glance out the window showed the rain coming down in hard fat drops, and she sighed with disappointment. Rain didn’t bother her overmuch anymore. Not since her stay in Rockdale, where crops, livestock and livelihood revered storm clouds. However, Aunt Margaret would have a heyday if she heard she’d ruined her dress, thus making a fool of herself in a public place. She’d have to wait out the weather, and hope the storm was a short one.

  Two other ladies and a gentleman must have had the same idea, for they rushed into the shop, seeking escape.

  The man tipped his hat as he brushed by her, and she nodded politely. Uninterested in conversation or niceties, she turned and feigned interest in the display of hair barettes behind her.

  “That one would look ravishing on you,” a man said in a low voice behind her.

  She almost moaned, she fought the urge to tell him to go away so hard. Instead she turned and smiled, if a little stiffly, at a handsome, sandy-haired man with deep brown eyes. “Not my style, I’m afraid.”

  “I thought I knew you,” the man said. “You are Margaret Flemming. William Hall’s Ward. I’d never forget your accent, if ever I was able to forget your lovely face.”

  In confusion, she looked at the man directly for the first time. Recognition made her remember his face, though his name remained in the deep recesses she was yet unable to reach.

  “Robert Faraday?” he offered. “We met at Charles Harris’s party. Last season?”

  He’d jogged her memory. “Oh yes! Quite sorry, I hadn’t expected to see a familiar face. You must think me quite r
ude.”

  Robert laughed. “Not rude. Forgetful, perhaps, but never rude.”

  He had an easy confidence that was infectious. “Where have you been?” he asked. “I saw you the one time and then never again. I know because I looked for you at parties for the rest of the season.”

  She had only danced with Robert one time as her dance card had been full for the first and only time of her life. The night she’d worn the daring red dress in a bold move to defy Aunt Margaret, who only let her attend the party because some rather pushy younger members of Society had insisted and heckled until at long last, Margaret Hall gave in and let her go.

  Though heavily escorted, she’d been given enough space by her guards to enjoy herself for what had been the first time in years. They must have pitied her treatment. That, or they were simply terrible chaperones. Either way, they allowed her to dance and socialize, as if she were a normal girl who lived in normal circumstances. Robert had seemed particularly charmed by her, and had watched her much of the night.

  “I didn’t go to many social events,” she said, unwilling to go into detail. “And I left town soon after.”

  “You do realize your veiled answers only add to your mystery, don’t you?”

  “My apologies. That is not my intention. I left for my father’s home in Texas. I was married there, and have only recently come back for a short stay.”

  She’d thought the mention of her marriage would deter him. It didn’t. Robert seemed disappointed, to be sure, but in no time was talking amicably once again.

  “Why has your husband not escorted you here?” he asked.

  The direct way in which he spoke to her made her uncomfortable, but it was the way with American men, she conceded. The rules of conversation between the sexes were never as her mother described they should be. “He didn’t come with me to Boston. He’s terribly busy and couldn’t be spared from his duties for any length of time.”