Left at the Altar

by Margaret Brownley

  Grant sucked in his breath and forced his gaze down the rest of the document. “It says here you’re being sued for breach of promise.” Miss Lockwood was asking for damages amounting to ten grand. That was a lot of money, even by Boston standards.

  Farrell rubbed his chin. “Can she do that?”

  “’Fraid so. It says you broke a promise to marry her and left her at the altar.” The memory of Miss Lockwood standing alone in the cemetery in her wedding gown tugged at Grant’s insides, and his hands clenched. It took every bit of professionalism he possessed not to toss Farrell out on his ear.

  Farrell grimaced. “I don’t deny any of that, but there were extinguishin’ circumstances.”

  Garrison tossed the document on the desk. “I believe you mean extenuating circumstances.”

  “Yeah, that too.” Farrell leaned forward. “I need a lawyer, and no other lawyer in town will touch my case.”

  Elbows on the desk, Grant tented his fingers. “What makes you think I will?”

  “You’re new in town. You can take sides, and no one will think the worse of you.”

  Grant opened his mouth to say something, but Farrell quickly stopped him.

  “Before you go sayin’ no, let me explain what happened.”

  Rubbing his neck, Grant considered Farrell’s request. Personally, he disliked the law that allowed a woman to sue a man for promises that were so often only implied, or even imagined. The Boston courts were filled with such cases. Recently, one unfortunate man had been forced to pay twenty thousand dollars to a woman he hadn’t set eyes on in eighteen years. His one mistake had been peering into her baby carriage and declaring her a beauty. Based on that one innocent gesture, he was accused of backing out of a promise of marriage when she came of age, and he was financially ruined.

  Of course, in Miss Lockwood’s case, no question existed about the nature of the promise. As much as he found such lawsuits distasteful, Grant didn’t blame the lady for taking revenge.

  He tapped his fingers together. “I don’t handle these kinds of cases.”

  A lawyer could hang a reputation on a single sensational case. In that regard, a heart-balm tort was made to order—alienation of affection, seduction, breach of promise; they were all sensational. But fame didn’t pay the bills and was often more of a hindrance than an asset. A lawyer’s real bread and butter came from land disputes and routine legal chores, and that’s what Grant had intended to concentrate on when he’d moved here.

  “Please, there’s no one else. At least listen to my side.”

  “I don’t have much time.” He had all the time in the world.

  Farrell’s gaze traveled over Grant’s desk, empty save for the blotter and inkwell. “It’ll only take a few minutes.”

  Grant blew out his breath. “Very well.”

  Farrell sat back. “I guess you could say it started at last year’s winter dance.” His skinny red mustache twitched. “Everyone kept askin’ when Meg and I would set the date. Meg said she wouldn’t marry me unless her pa and mine stopped bickerin’ and agreed to a single time zone.”

  Farrell pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed his forehead. “Then my pa surprised us all by sayin’ he would agree to such a thing if Mr. Lockwood did the same.” His twang grew more distinct as he continued. “Everyone badgered Meg’s pa until he finally agreed to end the feud and”—he snapped his fingers—“just like that, Meg and I were betrothed.”

  Grant narrowed his eyes. He didn’t want to sympathize with the man, but he could see how small-town peer pressure might have put Mr. Farrell in a difficult position.

  “How could you have gone along with this if you didn’t love her?” A promise to marry was considered a legally binding contract. A man would be foolish to pledge such a thing unless he was serious.

  “Oh, I love her all right. I’ve loved her ever since I was five and she was three, and I saw her runnin’ down the street stark naked.”

  Grant blinked and cleared his throat. Erasing the memory of her intimate garments from his memory took considerable effort. “Did…did Miss Lockwood feel the same about you?”

  “I-I think so.”

  “You think so?” Grant frowned. “Did…Miss Lockwood have no other suitors?” he asked.

  “Oh, plenty,” Farrell said with a nod. “But old man Lockwood chased them all off. He tried to get rid of me too, but I refused to go away.” Farrell rubbed his chin. “Meg was the best friend I ever had, and I miss her somethin’ awful, but we’re as different as night and day. She’s perfectly content to stay in Two-Time, and I want to see the world. Her idea of a good time is to curl up with a book.” He wrinkled his nose. “I want to sail an ocean, and she wants to read about it.”

  Farrell looked so distraught and sounded so sincere that Grant felt sorry for him despite all his efforts to the contrary. At least Farrell had been man enough to own up to his feelings before ruining Miss Lockwood’s life. His instincts were sound, even if his methods left much to be desired.

  “Please, I need a lawyer. You’re the only one in town who didn’t turn me down before hearin’ my side.”

  Grant hesitated. His office had been open for a month, and to date, Farrell was the only one soliciting his services. He’d had no idea it would be so difficult for a big-city lawyer to earn a small town’s trust.

  He mentally ran through his options. If he could talk the two feuding families into accepting a compromise, perhaps people would view him more favorably. Eighty percent of the breach-of-promise cases in Boston were settled out of court. Still, he didn’t want to take sides against the lady.

  “By way of disclosure, you should know that I happen to be acquainted with Miss Lockwood and my sympathies lie with her.”

  Farrell nodded. “She has my sympathies too, but not ten thousand dollars’ worth.”

  Grant folded his hands on the desk. “Hell has no fury like a woman scorned.”

  Farrell leaned forward. “It’s not Meg’s fury that worries me. It’s her pa’s. He’s using this as an excuse to ruin my pa and run him out of business. Please say you’ll help me.”

  *

  No sooner had Meg sat down to supper with her family than she sensed something afoot. Mama, seated at one end of the polished dining room table, must have sensed something too, because her gaze kept darting in Papa’s direction. Seemingly oblivious to his family’s questioning glances, Papa stood at the head of the table, carving the roast beef and whistling.

  The whistling was what worried Meg. Papa was seldom in such good spirits before he ate. She met her younger sister’s gaze. As if to confirm Meg’s suspicion, Amanda rolled her eyes.

  Unlike Meg or Josie, who had taken after either Mama or Papa in appearance, Amanda had inherited a little from each parent. She had Mama’s turquoise eyes and Papa’s brown hair, but her personality was strictly her own.

  Though only nineteen, she had already made a name for herself designing hats. Having inherited her father’s flair for the dramatic and her mother’s eye for design, she was determined to open her own hat shop, an enterprise her parents bitterly opposed. Making hats as a pastime was one thing, but doing so professionally was quite another.

  Papa finished cutting the roast beef and set the carving knife aside, but waited until halfway through the meal before addressing their unspoken questions. He dabbed his mustache with his napkin and cleared his throat.

  “I have an announcement to make.”

  Meg’s heart stilled. Papa’s announcements were always met with skepticism and more than a little dismay. That’s because they usually involved some harebrained scheme to outsell his competitor and bitter enemy, Mr. Farrell.

  “What is it, dear?” her mother asked, her pinched face belying the calmness of her voice.

  Papa glanced at the wall. Twenty-two clocks in all shapes and sizes graced the dining room. The shiny faces stared back like an eager audience waiting for the next act in a stage play. Pendulums swung back and forth like a trainman’s lantern
. The constant rhythm of ticktocks marked each passing second with the precision of a military cadence.

  “I have filed a breach-of-promise suit against Tommy on Meg’s behalf.”

  As usual, his timing was impeccable. No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a cacophony of chimes, bells, cuckoos, and gongs announced the hour of seven. He had planned his announcement precisely so that the clocks would effectively drown out any protests his family might feel obliged to offer.

  Stiffening in shock, Meg took a quick swallow of water and forced herself to breathe. Her mother looked no less alarmed. Amanda just stared and for once looked tongue-tied.

  Meg didn’t even wait for the last of the chimes to fade away. “Papa, you didn’t!”

  “Henry, how could you?” her mother gasped.

  “How could I?” His mustache twitched in righteous indignation, and the fork in his hand stilled. “A grave injustice was done to my family, and you expect me to do nothing? It’s time to abandon the handkerchief and pursue the matter legally.”

  Meg’s throat threatened to close, and she could barely get the words out. “I don’t want my name dragged through the court.” It was embarrassing enough to be left at the altar without having to relive her horrible wedding day all over again.

  “No one’s dragging you anywhere. All you’ll have to do is sit and look appropriately heartbroken.” Papa calmly helped himself to the sliced meat and handed the platter to Amanda. “Barnes has agreed to represent us. I asked Miller, but he plays faro with Farrell and said it would be a conflict of interest.” Papa cut a small piece of his meat with his knife and stabbed it with his fork.

  “Breach of promise. Conflict of interest.” Papa waved his fork. “Don’t you just love all those legal terms?”

  “Yes,” Amanda said. “And deciphering them is what keeps lawyers in fancy suits and thoroughbred horses.”

  Ignoring his youngest daughter’s comment, Papa’s gaze traveled the length of the table. “Why do you all look so surprised? It’s the proper thing to do. Barnes assured me it’s done all the time.”

  Meg felt sick. “But I don’t want to sue Tommy. I just want to put this whole thing behind me and forget it ever happened.”

  “And forget we shall,” Papa said with a magnanimous nod. “Just as soon as he hands over a check for ten thousand dollars.”

  “Ten—” Meg jumped to her feet. “That’s…that’s outrageous!” Tommy didn’t have that kind of money, and even if he did, she would never accept it.

  “Henry, I beg you to reconsider,” Mama said.

  Even Amanda, who seldom took sides in family arguments, nodded vigorously, the platter of meat bobbing up and down in her hands.

  “What is the matter with you all?” Papa looked genuinely perplexed. “The Lockwoods have never backed down from a fight, and we’re not about to start now.”

  “This is between Tommy and me, no one else!” Meg cried.

  “Nonsense. I’m your father, and it’s my responsibility to see that you’re taken care of. Now that you’re damaged goods—”

  “Henry!”

  “You know what I mean, Elizabeth. A woman left at the altar is often regarded with less-than-customary respect. Every man will look at her with a more critical eye and naturally assume she’s lacking in some way. Who would take a chance on marrying her now?”

  Meg stared at her father in shock. Did he really think she was damaged goods? “I don’t need a man,” she cried, “and I certainly don’t want Tommy’s money!” Jumping to her feet, she slammed her chair against the table and stormed from the room in tears.

  *

  The following morning Meg decided to walk to town rather than wait for Papa to rig the horse and buggy and ride with him. She was still upset over the lawsuit and had hardly slept a wink. Maybe a walk would be the thing to help clear her head.

  It was still early and few shops would be open, but already the widow Rockwell was hauling a box of belongings across the street.

  Normally, Meg would stop to help her move, but not today. Nor did she pay any heed to Mr. Crawford raising Cain with Mr. McGinnis, his bagpipe-playing neighbor. She hardly even noticed when the Johnson boy almost ran her down while escaping the clutches of Mr. Sloan.

  Nor did the big yellow hound running down the street with his tail between his legs earn more than a cursory glance. This time it wasn’t the dogcatcher giving chase. Today the hound’s tormentor was Cowboy, Mrs. Rockwell’s black-and-white cat.

  Something had to be done about that annoying tom, but not today. Today Meg had other things on her mind.

  As if her father’s latest plan wasn’t bad enough, the editorial in the morning paper denounced breach-of-promise suits as a whole and referred to her by name as a manipulating gold digger!

  Oooooooooh, her father made her so mad, and this ridiculous lawsuit was the least of it. Papa was the most stubborn, mule-headed man to ever inhabit the face of the earth. He never spoke when he could shout or walked when he could run.

  Reaching the edge of town, Meg stomped onto the boardwalk. The heels of her boots hammered the wooden boards like two angry woodpeckers. Halfway down the block, someone called her name.

  She spun her head in the direction of the male voice. Seeing her former fiancé waving to her, she quickened her steps. She was in no mood to see anyone, and she certainly had nothing to say to Tommy Farrell.

  Yanking the hem of her skirt up to her ankles, she stepped onto the muddy street and sidestepped a pile of horse manure, hoping to reach the sanctity of her father’s shop before Tommy caught up to her.

  No such luck. With unprecedented speed, he grabbed her by the arm and spun her around.

  They were standing in the middle of Main Street. A horse and wagon swerved around them, causing the driver to rend the air with curses.

  Meg pulled her arm away. “I have nothing to say to you, Tommy Farrell. Go to your precious islands and leave me alone!” She whirled about in a circle of skirts and stormed across the street to the other side.

  “I can’t go now,” he called after her. “I can’t leave town until this lawsuit is settled.”

  “That’s all you care about. Leaving—”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Oh, I think I understand just—”

  “Meg, listen—”

  “No, you listen—”

  She stopped to tell him that there would be no lawsuit, but Tommy wouldn’t let her get a word in edgewise. He joined her on the boardwalk, his mouth flapping up and down like a broken cellar door. Never had she seen him so riled.

  “Your pa’s a stubborn old fool and…”

  On and on he went like an indignant jaybird. In the process he called her father every name under the sun, managing to insult not only him, but also a good number of God’s creatures.

  Knuckles planted firmly at her waist, Meg glared at Tommy. “How dare you talk about my father like that!” Much as she hated to admit it, everything he said was, to some extent, true. But that didn’t give him any right to say it.

  “Come on, Meg. You know I’m right. Now thanks to his money-grubbin’ ways, I’m under orders not to leave town.”

  “My father is not money-grubbing. Nor is he a scoundrel or—”

  “So what do you call suin’ me? For ten thousand bucks, no less!”

  “Honor,” she said. “Which is something you know nothing about.” If he did, he would never have waited until their wedding day to break off with her.

  “Honor?” Tommy reared back. “Great Scott, you call that honor? It feels more like betrayal to me.”

  “You should know!” She turned and stormed away.

  “If you go through with this lawsuit, then you’re just as bad as your old man,” he called after her.

  Seething through gritted teeth, Meg let herself into her father’s shop. Pocketing the key, she slammed the door shut with her foot. After the way Tommy had talked about her father, it would serve him right if she did go through wi
th it. Yes, indeed it would.

  Four

  Grant sat that Monday morning in the dining room of Mrs. Abbott’s boardinghouse. A former bordello, the house now had sturdy, prim furniture and muted colors that made it look as respectable as a preacher’s wife. The same was true for its owner, whose demure countenance belied her less-than-virtuous past.

  For inside Mrs. Abbott’s full-rounded body beat the heart of a woman who had once answered to the name of Good Time Sal. All that remained of the red-haired beauty of yesteryear was the painting on the parlor wall. Her once-glorious red hair was now snowy white, her lively blue eyes were faded, and her ivory-pink skin had long lost its luster. Thankfully, the gown in the portrait, with its eye-popping neckline, had been discarded along with the woman’s youth.

  Grant helped himself to a second cup of coffee and lingered over the morning headlines, the front page all that was left of the newspaper. His landlady had confiscated the rest of the Two-Time Gazette and sat opposite him at the table, clucking at the town’s latest gossip. The other four tenants had already gone for the day, leaving just the two of them alone.

  The breach-of-promise suit had made the front page, and the editor had made no effort to mince words. Grant frowned. Was Miss Lockwood really a gold digger? Or was she just lashing out from hurt? If it was the latter, she might be willing to settle out of court for less money. But if she really was a gold digger…

  “Oh my!” Mrs. Abbott exclaimed. “You won’t believe the letter someone wrote to Miss Lonely Hearts.”

  Grant never read that particular column and had no interest in it, but that didn’t keep his landlady from reading it aloud to him each morning. Today’s letter had been written by a wife with a philandering husband.

  “I bet Mrs. Trollope wrote that letter,” Mrs. Abbott said. “It sounds like her. Or maybe it was Mrs. Garner. Her husband is as trustworthy as a wolf in a henhouse.” She wasn’t alone in playing the Miss Lonely Hearts guessing game. The column’s daily letters were the subject of much speculation in town and a topic of conversation everywhere Grant went.