Fate's Intervention

by Barbara Woster

  “I will try to keep that in mind.”

  “It will serve you well if you do,” her father said, slapped his thighs, and stood up. “Now, I need to get some rest before supper and you have some telegrams to see to.”

  “It will have to be left up to Nancy to prepare the evening’s fare since I have to take a ride into town. Where do you suppose Matthew is about now?”

  “Well, he’s been gone a week, so he should be nearing Shashoni before too much longer,” her father said, ambling toward the foyer. “What you need to do is send an emergency wire to Matthew care of Frank Darrows over in Shashoni. I’d also send one to Lou Cartridge over in Thermopolis. That way if he misses the one, he’s bound to get the other.”

  “That’s mighty costly, sending off two telegrams,” Marcelle said, walking quickly past her father, and pulling open the parlor door. “Maybe we should let Mark Daragh cover the cost. He should have offered to pay for them or even to send the telegrams himself.”

  “Yeah, well he didn’t, and I’m willing to fork out the cost if it’ll get Matthew here fast and get rid of Mark Daragh faster. The man makes my skin crawl.”

  “You and me both,” Marcelle said, rubbing her arms to ward of the imaginary chill. “Well, I’m going to head on, or I won’t make it back before dark.”

  “You be careful.”

  “I will. You just get some rest while I’m gone and I’ll see you at supper – or not. Maybe I’ll come down with a serious illness between now and then so I can avoid having to eat with the man.”

  “I have a serious illness and I have to entertain the buffoon, so if I have to, then no imaginary illness is going to prevent you having to do so as well – understand, girl?”

  “I understand that you don’t want to keep company with him on your own.”

  “Then we understand each other perfectly. I will see you this evening. Have a safe trip, dearest.” With that, her father headed to his room. Marcelle watched him go, but her mind wasn’t on him. She was wondering just what sort of parent could spawn an alluring mesmeric man like Matthew, and a few years later produce a dandy with a monstrous character like Mark.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “The telegram has arrived,” Marcelle shouted, barreling into the study. They had been waiting news from Matthew for a week to no avail, their guest growing more tiresome with his boorish behavior. To make matters worse, he’d started making none-too-subtle overtures toward Marcelle who was going out of her way to avoid him as if he had leprosy.

  “Well, what’s it say, girl? When is he returning?” Her father questioned, eagerly. Obviously, he’d grown weary of their visitor as well, and the strain was showing on his face.

  Marcelle ripped open the seal and read the telegram aloud, “‘Brother is a nuisance. Stop. Sorry for trouble. Stop. Back soon. Stop.’“ Marcelle flipped the page over looking for anything more. “That’s it?”

  Her father leaned back in his chair and sighed heavily, “That could be as little as a day or two more weeks for all we know.”

  A knock on the door sounded and they tensed instinctively.

  “Come!” Peter shouted and shrugged at his daughter. They were hoping that it would be Nancy, since neither cared to see Mark, but when the door opened, Mark sauntered in, impeccably dressed as usual.

  Marcelle instantly stiffened which made Peter stiffen. He didn’t like seeing his daughter put on guard. Peter rubbed his temple at the headache that began to form and prayed that Matthew’s telegram ensured a quick return – despite its vagueness.

  Marcelle also felt a headache coming on, which she did each time she found herself in Mark’s company. His manners were usually impeccable, as they were now as he formally bowed to Marcelle, but it was his eyes that made her insides quiver violently. They always seemed to hold a look that said, ‘I know you want me’, which, of course she didn’t and never would; and his mouth would form a lopsided grin that he probably thought made her heart flutter, which it didn’t. She just wished he wouldn’t look at her and grin at her as if he knew something that she didn’t.

  “I heard Marcelle’s enthusiastic exclamation and came about my brother’s telegram,” he announced, moving further into the room, his attention now focused on Marcelle’s father.

  “Are you pursuing my daughter’s hand, sir?” Peter said suddenly, surprising them both with the heated question.

  “Father?” Marcelle gasped, sitting up straighter in her chair.

  “Sir?” Mark exclaimed at the same moment and came to a dead halt in the middle of the room.

  “You take liberties addressing my daughter by her given name, sir, so are you declaring yourself to her?” Peter had tolerated Mark’s snobbery and exaggerated tales over dinner, but he would not allow him to treat his daughter with anything less than the respect she deserved. Addressing her informally without permission or without intent to court her told Peter that Mark considered his daughter less than a lady. Well, she was a lady, and he’d not have this snot-faced kid treating her otherwise.

  “Father!” Marcelle protested again. Mark’s use of her given name put her out as well, but she certainly didn’t want to provoke a courtship over it.

  Mark’s face reddened, but otherwise he gave no further indication that Peter’s anger flustered him.

  “Your daughter is a beautiful woman, indeed” he answered with his usual emotionless reserve, “and if it was my intent to remain in Wisconsin, I would be honored to call upon her, but as that is not likely to occur, I will offer my humblest apologies to both you and your daughter for any offense given.” He bowed formally to her father and then turned his attention to Marcelle. The look in his hazel eyes caused a shiver to run down her spine. Peter’s dressing down did not outwardly appear to affect him, but his eyes belied the calm demeanor. If she had been made of wood, his gaze would have seared her to ashes. “My sincerest apologies to you as well, Miss Weatherman,” he said tightly. “I would never intentionally do anything to cause you distress.”

  Marcelle smiled tightly, but didn’t reply. The continued look in his eyes said that he would indeed cause her harm if she crossed him and that he’d enjoy the infliction of said harm. She wondered if he’d given her father that same look as well. Probably not, she thought, or her father would have kicked him out on his tail end before he’d finished speaking. Perhaps she should inform her father of her concerns. Maybe her father would rid them of Mark Daragh sooner if she did.

  “Very well,” her father said, turning to address his daughter, “Give him Matthew’s telegram, dear.”

  “But, father . . .”

  “Now, Marcelle,” her father said firmly.

  Nothing seemed to upset the perfectly-reared-for-society, Mark Daragh, but she had a feeling that if he read Matthew’s telegram, his flawlessly crafted veneer would crack. Was her father aware of that? Is that why he insisted on giving Mark the telegram? The gleam in his eye as Mark scanned the contents, confirmed her suspicions. He was trying to provoke the peacock, and it worked.

  “Why that . . . a nuisance, am I?” He muttered, glaring at the telegram. “Just who does that peasant-excuse for a brother think he is, anyway?” He closed his eyes and drew in deep breaths that Marcelle assumed was a means for calming down. It apparently didn’t work, for he viciously crumbled the paper in his fist, turned and tossed the wadded mess into the fireplace, then without so much as a by your leave, he stormed from the study. Faster than either had seen him move, he took the stairs two at a time and vanished into his room, the door slamming behind him.

  “So the man has a temper. I was beginning to think God created him using a block of ice,” Marcelle grinned thinly, although she’d already had a glimpse of the hot-tempered fire beneath that icy facade. “Maybe he’ll be too distraught to join us for the evening meal,” Marcelle said hopefully. Her father smiled, but it held no humor.

  “Not likely,” he muttered. “He’s probably standing before the mirror, composing his features even as we speak.” He r
ubbed his temples again and groaned. “Although I do so hope he comes down with a temporary bout of something that will make him unavailable this evening.”

  “Well, composed outwardly or not, I’m still going to hold out hope that he’ll be too upset inwardly to make an appearance this evening. Are you all right, Father?”

  “I’ll be just fine, once our pain-in-the-rear visitor departs. How long do you think it’ll be before Matthew returns?”

  “I don’t know,” Marcelle sighed, leaning back in her chair. “His telegram was so vague.”

  “Well, let’s hope it’s soon,” Peter sighed. “Come!” He yelled, as a knock sounded at the door.

  Nancy’s head popped in the door, “Sir. Miss. You have more visitors.”

  “What in blue blazes is going on here this week. We haven’t had this many callers at once – ever! Did someone place an ad in the local paper announcing ‘dying man seek visitors to humor him and his unwed daughter’?”

  “Well, if you think about it, it has added an element of excitement to our boring lives,” Marcelle said, then turned to address Nancy before her father could comment further. “Who is it, Nancy?”

  “You may not believe this, Miss, but it just so happens to be Mr. Clifford Stanharbor and his daughter Elizabeth. . . ,” Nancy said, and Marcelle’s gasped.

  “You’re right. I don’t believe it!”

  “Uh, Miss?” Nancy said softly.

  “What is it, Nancy?”

  “Well, um, Charles Blackwarth is here also, accompanied by his daughter, Carol Ann.”

  Marcelle groaned audibly and her father wiped a frustrated hand across his face, “I’ll wager ten dollars that I know why they’re here.”

  “Since I’m pretty certain that you’re right in your assumption,” Marcelle said with a sigh, “it’s not a wager I’ll accept, because I’d lose.”

  “What would you like me to do with them, Miss?”

  “I’d like you to toss them all out on their ear, but since that wouldn’t be appropriate behavior, simply tuck them all in the parlor and I’ll join them presently.” Marcelle glanced at the mantle clock and sighed heavily. “Also, set the table for extra guests this evening, as it would appear their timing was on the mark for an invitation.”

  “Yes, Miss,” Nancy said, and ducked her head back out the door, closing it softly behind her.

  “So, what’s your theory on why they’re here, Father?”

  “Thought you already guessed it,” her father smiled thinly.

  “I thought I did too, but then it registered that they are here simultaneously. That’s too much of a coincidence for what I’m thinking.”

  “That they’ve come for Matthew.”

  “Right. If Carol Ann has persuaded her father that Matthew would make a better match than Stanharbor, and if Stanharbor is here to persuade Matthew to reconsider his offer of marrying Elizabeth, but . . . ,

  “If so, they would hardly have come together,” Peter finished. “Since gossip doesn’t take too long to travel about this countryside, they should have known that Matthew isn’t here right now.”

  “Then if they aren’t here for the reasons we think they’re here – which is Matthew – then what reason could there be for a social call from two families who normally treat us like we’re scum of the earth? Especially since I only recently created a situation in which Mr. Clifford Stanharbor shouldn’t care to darken our doorstep again during his lifetime.”

  “It is a mystery, for sure,” Peter sighed. “One that I’m certain we’ll discover the answers to when we go and greet them. Although, despite our doubts, I’m still certain that their visit concerns Matthew.”

  “It would appear that the man is indirectly creating havoc and he’s not even here to attend to it,” Marcelle muttered angrily.

  “You know what’s really annoying?”

  “What, father?”

  “That every eligible female in or around Riverton seems to think that Matthew is the only marriageable male available.”

  “Yes, well, he is a fine example of . . . well, you know,” Marcelle smiled, a blush tinting her cheeks.

  “Yes, well, even so, I’m beginning to wonder at the wisdom of hiring the man since he is causing such a disruption.”

  “We could always offer them an alternative,” Marcelle grinned mischievously.

  “You forget, dear, that I tried to find eligible men for you and not one suited your fancy as did Matthew. So what alternative could you offer these ladies when they’ve obviously come to the same conclusion, which is that only Matthew will suffice?”

  “How about a brother?”

  “Oh! I don’t know if I could do that to those poor girls.”

  “I could.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  “Clifford, Charles, how are you gentlemen this evening?” Peter greeted graciously, then turned toward their daughters, seated on the sofa. “You ladies look stunning, I must say,” he bowed formally.

  “How are you, Peter?” Clifford asked stiffly. “The news of your illness has only just come to my attention. I am truly sorry you are not well. Had I been aware of it, I would not have lit into you the way I did after your daughter . . . well, let’s let bygones be bygones, shall we? Where is that delightfully witty child of yours?”

  “The hour is late, and she needed to prepare for supper. You will join us, won’t you?” Peter asked, receiving a nod from both men. “Good,” he said, although he’d hoped they would decline. He settled in his chair, motioning for them to take a seat as well. “So, what brings you calling this evening. You caught my daughter and me quite unprepared, especially since we’re currently entertaining another guest.” Peter was aware of the rudeness of the statement, but he wanted them to know that their unexpected visit was not necessarily a welcome one.

  “Oh, is he here?” Elizabeth blurted out. Her father sent her a warning glance and she blushed, lowering her gaze to her lap.

  Peter’s eyes narrowed. How does she know our guest is a he? He wondered.

  “Yes, well, your guest is, um, why we’ve come,” Charles piped up, a slight twinge of embarrassment coloring his normally pasty complexion. Peter arched an eyebrow in question.

  “We’ll get right to the point,” Stanharbor said.

  “Oh, by all means,” Peter interrupted.

  Stanharbor cleared his throat and continued, “Are you aware that the Daragh brothers are the Daragh brothers?”

  “I guess, judging from that statement, that I don’t have to ask if you are aware of whom our guest is,” Peter said sarcastically, only now realizing that it wasn’t for Matthew they’d come for, but his brother. They couldn’t persuade the one, so they were hoping to snare the other. This news will surprise Marcelle, he thought.

  “News of import travels quickly around these parts,” Charles interjected. “You know that, Peter?”

  “So it does, but why should our guest be of concern to any of you, is my question. Besides being a Daragh, that is.”

  “We’d like an introduction. After all, Daragh Steel is a very important enterprise and as wealthy businessmen in this area, we should be entitled to commingle with those of our status . . . ,”

  “Oh, do get off your high horse, Clifford,” Peter interrupted. “I’ve had to deal with that haughty attitude all week, and since I’m the last person you need to impress with your societal status, I’d simply prefer to stay with plain speak, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “As you wish, Peter,” Stanharbor said stiffly. “Is he about, then?”

  “He’s in his room resting before supper, and since supper is in a short while, you should be receiving your introduction soon enough.”

  “Will Matthew be at dinner, Mr. Weatherman?” Carol Ann asked shyly.

  Peter smiled at the young girl, “I’m sorry, my dear, but Matthew is away on business. We’re not certain when he’ll be returning.” He saw the disappointment in her eyes and felt sorry for her. She really was smitten with the man
, poor dear.

  “Yet his brother is here?” Charles asked.

  “Yes, his brother showed up on our doorstep this past Sunday, unaware that his brother hadn’t yet received the notice of his arrival,” Peter said, only just realizing the letter in question still hadn’t arrived, making him wonder if the younger Daragh had actually sent one.

  “Well, I can see now why Matthew turned down the rather handsome incentive I offered for my daughter’s hand. I do apologize for bringing up the subject, dear,” Stanharbor said, turning to his daughter with an unconvincing apologetic smile, “but at least we know now that his refusal stemmed from lack of need in your substantial dowry.”

  Elizabeth blanched and Peter cursed under his breath. The insensitive clod, he thought. Didn’t he realize that he just insulted his own daughter with that statement. After all, if Matthew didn’t need the dowry, then he could have accepted her hand without it. The fact that he didn’t spoke volumes, and Elizabeth knew it, even if her father didn’t. Matthew didn’t want her.

  Peter caught her eye and smile encouragingly, but Elizabeth tilted her chin higher and dismissed him with a cold glance, making Peter wonder if he’d misplaced his pity for the young girl.

  “You know, when I hired the boy,” Stanharbor continued, “I had absolutely no idea who he was. It simply didn’t register.”

  You have to have a brain for things to register, Peter thought angrily, but said instead, “Didn’t the name ‘Daragh’ ring a bell?”

  “Absolutely, but I took it as mere coincidence. After all, Matthew hardly carries himself as one born from the upper crust of society.”

  The door opened and Marcelle glided in, preventing Peter’s retort. There was a huge smile on Marcelle’s face, and although she’d readied quickly, she had ensured that they would notice her appearance. After a quick glance at the guests, she was pleased to note that she’d succeeded in unsettling the men and annoying the girls.