Six Little Sunflowers: Historical Romance Novella (American State Flower)

by Gina Welborn

  Carpenter’s serious gaze shifted from Félicie to Rena. “Aspirin,” he answered with none of the earlier merriment in his tone. “Maybe morphine.” His look seemed to ask do you know what’s wrong with her?

  “You two should probably have some time alone to talk.” Rena gave his arm a little squeeze. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  He nodded.

  She smiled at Félicie. “Don’t forget the final fitting for your gown is in the morning.”

  Félicie nodded. She watched as Rena spoke to Dr. Trumble then walked out of the ward without a single glance in Joe McDermott’s direction. Félicie shifted her attention to Joe. He was tracing one of the nurse’s palms. She didn’t realize she was frowning until Carpenter said—

  “I take it you finally noticed.”

  She turned to him. “You knew?”

  Carpenter dropped the ice pack next to his thigh. His hand curved around hers. “Let them work it out, or let them do nothing. It’s not our place to meddle.”

  Félicie nodded. Whatever there was (or wasn’t) between Rena and Joe was their business. Their mistakes to make. Their mistakes to fix. Their mistakes to ignore.

  I’m not dead yet. Not dead yet. Not dead…

  As his words echoed in her mind, she gave his hand a squeeze. “I should go. You need a clean shirt.”

  “You’ll come back?”

  She stood, gave a non-committal smile, and slid the ice pack into his palm, curling his fingers around it. After placing a soft kiss on his cheek, she paused to give him opportunity to pull her to sit beside him on the bed and hold her. To tell her he loved her. To say he was never leaving. Never dying. Never breaking her heart. Never casting her away unwanted.

  He did nothing of the kind. Instead, he raised the ice pack to his face.

  And so she left the ward without a backward glance.

  Chapter 11

  What a man most needs is that he should find in his wife a pillow whereon to rest his heart. He longs to find a moment’s rest from the outer whirl of life, to win a ready listener that sympathizes where others wound.

  ~Social Life; or The Manners and Customs of Polite Society

  Friday evening – June 19th

  First Baptist Church

  NW corner 2nd Street and Lawrence Avenue

  AS THE ORGANIST PLAYED, Carp followed the Reverend Cassidy into the sanctuary. He took his place at the altar rail, with Joe standing by his side. Despite what anyone claimed, his splinted wrist and bruised face and Joe’s bandaged head would never become standard “full-dress attire” for evening weddings. At least the swelling around his left eye had abated. He didn’t want anything obstructing his view of his bride. In less than ten minutes, the center back doors to the church would open and there his bride would be. Arrayed in white. Holding the bouquet with flowers he’d dutifully chosen to declare to her his feelings. They’d practiced. They’d rehearsed. All eight sets of “parents” were seated. The Buckwalters, Dillingfords, Grbics, Joneses on the bride’s side, with Mama Helaine in the row behind. The Klegs, Lesters, O’Brians, and Toppings sat on the groom’s side. Every seat in the room was filled.

  “Follow the plan,” he murmured.

  Joe leaned close. “You nervous?”

  Carp gave his head a little shake. “I’m anxious for this to be over.”

  Joe’s brows rose.

  Carp then gave Joe a smug grin and handed him his hat. He wasn’t nervous. He’d spent the day thinking of very little except tonight. While Félicie had the rest of the month to spend for their honeymoon, he had eight full weeks to rest and recover, and to perfect his husbandly skills. He couldn’t think of a better reason to appreciate a broken nose and fractured wrist.

  The music morphed into the wedding march.

  Carp clasped his gloved hand to the splinted one. This was it. He breathed deep.

  The center doors opened.

  All in attendance shifted on their pews, turning their attention to the back of the church.

  As rehearsed, twelve little white-clad flower girls with their matching grandiose hats marched up the aisle, scattering blossoms. Each curtsied before him before taking their place in the front pews.

  Carp looked to the dark entrance.

  His pulse danced in rhythm with the organist. Any moment Rena would step into the light. She would walk the aisle and take her place at the altar. Then his bride would appear.

  Any moment.

  Seconds passed.

  The organist began the wedding march over.

  It had to be a minute—had it been a minute already? Or two?

  Carp resisted the urge to check his watch. Mr. Kleg looked at his pocket watch. So did Mr. Buckwalter, who immediately earned a glare from his wife.

  The organist continued to play.

  A few murmurs sounded above the pounding between Carp’s ears.

  Joe’s shoulder bumped Carp’s. “Where is she?” he whispered.

  “Give her a moment.”

  Carp focused his attention on the entrance, doing his best not to look tense or panicked or afraid. The carriage must have been delayed. Or maybe her dress got caught as she was alighting. Or her heel snapped when she was climbing the church’s front steps. There was a good reason why they weren’t on time.

  Follow the plan, he murmured under his breath.

  ~***~

  Félicie stopped, one foot on the first step, the other on the sidewalk. She gripped the front of her skirt and eyed Rena, who was halfway up the stairs, looking exquisite in her aqua-blue Grecian dress and white feathered hat even while holding two extravagant bouquets. The setting sun gave a golden glow to her skin. No clouds, mild temperature—the day had been perfectly made for a wedding. For this wedding.

  Félicie glanced over her shoulder at the white horse-drawn carriage. The driver gave her a confused look, yet said nothing. Hundreds of Wichitans lined the street, gawking at her white silk wedding gown and the French point de gaz veil Madame insisted she wear because she needed something old and borrowed. For good luck.

  She didn’t need luck.

  She needed courage.

  She needed fortitude to do what she should have done four months ago in the park.

  “I can’t do this.” She lowered her foot to the sidewalk. “I can’t.”

  “What do you mean?” Rena hurried back down the steps.

  “I can’t marry Carpenter.”

  Rena laid her bridesmaid bouquet on the steps, then carefully set Félicie’s down. Gloved hands against gloved hands, she gripped Félicie. “What’s wrong?”

  “I proposed,” she said, because it was the easy answer. Also truthful. Mostly truthful. “I proposed, not him. I should have told everyone it wasn’t real. I should have ended it before it became the circus it did. I can’t—I won’t obligate him into a marriage he doesn’t want. It’s not right. I have to do this for him. I have to give him back his life.”

  “I saw how he kissed you at the ball.” Rena’s voice lowered. “Trust me, I know when a man wants a woman, and Carpenter Yeary wants you in all the ways a man can want a woman.”

  Félicie shook her head. “Lust is not a solid foundation on which to build a marriage. Feelings change. People change.”

  Rena raised a skeptical brow. “Why do I feel like this is only an excuse?”

  “I can’t—” Her voice broke. “One day he will fall in love—he will, I know it—and then I will be standing in the way of someone he wants more. I can’t go through that again. It is better to end this now before—”

  “You’re in love with him. Are you sure this is what you want?”

  Félicie didn’t speak. She could see understanding slowly dawn in Rena’s lovely eyes. She knew what it was like to be cast away by a parent who was supposed to love her unconditionally and forever. She knew what it was like to lose the only man who had ever been a father to her. She knew what it was like to not have love reciprocated. She knew desertion. She knew death. She knew it was better no
t to love than to love and lose.

  Félicie wanted to cry. She breathed deep to still her pounding heart and blinked rapidly to dry her eyes before the tears fell.

  “Are you absolutely sure this is what you want?” Rena asked again.

  Of course it wasn’t what she wanted. It was, however, the right thing to do. It was what she had to do.

  “I am.”

  “Oh, Fay, I’m so sorry I pushed you into proposing to him.” Rena smoothed the sides of Félicie’s head, framing it with the lace veil. “I’ll let him know.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You owe me.”

  Félicie’s chin trembled, yet she managed a smile.

  ~***~

  The organist continued to play.

  Carp watched the entrance, willing the two women he wanted most to see to step out of the shadows. His pulse raced. If you do this, there’s no undoing it. She knew he’d made his choice. She knew he’d chosen the future he wanted. She knew he loved her. She had to know even though he hadn’t said the words yet. He was waiting for tonight. Even without his speaking the words, he’d put his feelings in the flowers he’d chosen for her bouquet, in the kisses they’d shared, in the looks he gave her and only her.

  She had to know he loved her.

  Then why wasn’t she here?

  The crowd stirred.

  A lone figure appeared in the entrance.

  Carp’s heart stopped.

  Without her bouquet, Rena strolled up the aisle, ignoring those whispering as she passed, her blue-eyed gaze focused on him. Even when she passed her mother, her gaze didn’t falter. She came to a stop in front of Carp. Her eyes glistened, and he could see she was struggling to maintain her composure.

  “Uggh,”she groaned. “I thought I could do this.” Eyes closed, she breathed steadily, slowly. She raised her gaze to his, and he’d never seen her look more brokenhearted. “Félicie objects to the marriage.”

  The audience gasped.

  Carp stiffened. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, as the realization of Rena’s words set in.

  “Where is she?” Joe blurted.

  Her gaze stayed on Carp. “She says she’s doing this for you.”

  “But?” he managed to say.

  “She’s afraid you’ll find someone else you want more.”

  “I will never want anyone else more.”

  She doesn’t know that.” She rested her hand on his splint. “Has she ever told you about her mother?”

  He shook his head.

  “You should ask her.”

  He stole a glance at Mama Helaine, who gave him a small, sad smile. Then she nodded. “Where is she?” he asked Rena.

  “She got back into the carriage. I’ll come with—”

  “Joe.” Carp didn’t look back to see if Joe had grabbed Rena as he ran down the aisle.

  “Where are you going?” someone called out.

  “To get my bride.” He stopped at the entrance. Looked over his shoulder. “All of you wait here. I’ll—we’ll be back shortly.”

  As the audience applauded, Carp dashed down the church steps. He stopped, turned around, and plucked six little sunflowers from Félicie’s bouquet.

  ~***~

  The door to the carriage jerked open.

  Félicie gasped.

  Carpenter looked like a madman, his chest rising and falling with each rapid breath. “Can I hitch a ride?” He climbed in before she could answer. He sat across from her, and the carriage continued down the street.

  Her breath choked in her throat. Tears burned her eyes. “What are you doing?”

  “We need to talk.”

  Félicie felt her eyes widen as he stared at her, his gaze never leaving her face. The man had run two blocks to talk to her. He was fortunate the traffic on Lawrence Avenue was as heavy as it was, or more fortunate that the driver had the horses pulling the carriage at a snail’s pace, likely in expectation Carpenter would come running.

  The carriage turned right, which was strange because that was not the direction back to Hotel Carey.

  “About?” was all she could ask.

  He leaned forward, elbows on knees, gaze on the sunflowers he held. “You never told me about your mother. How old were you when she left?”

  “Twelve. What did Rena tell you?”

  “Just that I should ask you about her.”

  Félicie nodded, even though he was looking at the flowers and not her. She should have told him months ago. She’d had opportunity. She could have told him about the weeks she’d spent in the orphanage before Rena arrived. She could have told him about how the Laurents wanted to adopt her, too, but she’d refused because she feared if she changed her name, then her mother would never find her. She could have told him about the advertisements she’d placed twice a year in all the St. Louis newspapers in the hope that her mother would see.

  If she had told him, things would have changed.

  She would have changed.

  She would have given him a reason to cast her away.

  “I have no idea who my father is.” Félicie hugged her arms to her body. “My mother deserted me for a man she barely knew, but was convinced he was her true love. I lived in an orphanage for nineteen months.”

  He lifted his face, and his eyes flared with something—understanding? No. He could not possibly understand. She’d heard wonderful things about his uncle and aunt and about how they welcomed him into their home following the death of his parents. He wasn’t thrown away by the person who was supposed to love and protect him. He wasn’t rejected.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he said softly.

  Tears trickled down her cheeks. “I didn’t want you to think badly of me.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought badly of you.”

  “Other people would, and you know it.” She could see in his expression that he knew she was right. She gave him a tentative smile. “I have a reputation to maintain as an employee of the Carey Hotel. Well, did. I shall tender my resignation tomorrow.”

  “I killed my father.”

  Félicie felt her jaw drop.

  He brushed his thumb against the petals of a sunflower, his brow furrowing. “I was eleven. We lived on a ranch in western Kansas, north of Dodge City. My father owned 10,000 acres and triple that in sheep. During blizzard of ’87, he lost eighty percent of his stock. One night he’d had too much to drink. He stabbed my mother, and then I shot him.” He brought his eyes to hers. “If anyone knew that, they’d think badly of me.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You wouldn’t. It’s not in your nature to,” he said. “I’ve tried to be the hero everyone thinks I am. You made me wonder what life would be like if I quit trying to be perfect in order to get the love I needed.”

  Félicie just stared out the window.

  Pedestrians were watching them pass.

  She should say something. What was she supposed to say? Thank you? I’m glad I made you wonder that?

  She turned to him.

  He was watching her. She could tell he was thinking.

  “I want you to be happy.” She swallowed to ease the tightness in her throat. “I want you to find a girl who loves you, and never let her get away.”

  “I found her—no, that’s not right. She found—” His voice caught. “She found me and then she left me standing at the altar. I love you, Félicie. I am not letting you get away. And I know you love me, too, or else you wouldn’t have jilted me.”

  Her heart slammed in her chest, and she let out a little gasp in pain. She dare not say that she didn’t love him. She’d been lying to herself long enough.

  Carpenter knelt in front of her. “Félicie Richmond, will you marry me?

  She opened her mouth and tried to speak. She wanted to believe his words and the love shining in his eyes. She wanted to, but…but…but why was she fighting so hard? Why was she allowing her fears to hold her back from love and from being loved? He could die tomorrow. She could. She refused to go to h
er grave with her feelings still inside of her. She refused to die with regrets.

  “I love you,” he repeated.

  “I heard.” And she felt the smile taking root in her heart. “I love you, too.”

  He took her hand, their fingers entwining. “If you are so inclined, I’ve booked a church, secured a license, and hired a preacher.”

  “I am so inclined, but first…” She flicked her gaze to the empty spot next to her. She took the little bouquet he offered. Before she could say any more, he swept her into his arms and kissed her properly…and a little improperly.

  Carpenter drew back. He grinned. “I say a wedding is in order.”

  Félicie rolled her eyes, yet couldn’t help but smile. “All because you made me succumb to your flirtation.”

  “I hope so.” And then he leaned out of the carriage window. “To the church…and make haste!”

  Author’s Note

  A leap year is a year with 366 days, instead of the usual 365. Because seasons and astronomical events do not repeat in a whole number of days, calendars with the same number of days in each year, over time, drift with respect to the event that the year is supposed to track. By inserting an additional day or month into the year, the drift can be corrected. One exception to the leap year rule involved century years, like the year 1900. Since the year is slightly less than 365.25 days long, adding an extra day every four years results in about three extra days being added over a period of 400 years. For this reason, only one out of every four century years is considered as a leap year.

  Leap Year Day used to be recognized in everyday things, in advertising and games and books. People were aware of it. Almanacs would mark it, tell people to prepare for the extra day. As recently as the early 1900s, concerts and balls were held throughout the leap years. According to tradition, in fifth-century Ireland, Bridget of Kildare convinced St. Patrick that since Leap Year Day existed to fix a problem in the calendar, it could also be used to fix an old and unjust custom that only let men propose marriage. A law in 1288 by Queen Margaret of Scotland required fines be levied if a marriage proposal was refused by the man; compensation was deemed to be a pair of leather gloves, a single , £1, and a kiss. Women looking to take advantage of the opportunity to propose were expected to wear a scarlet petticoat—to give men the opportunity to run the other way. Queen Victoria sanctioned the “right” of women to propose marriage to a man, or at least ask him to dance. If the man declined to marry, there was at least a consolation prize—he was supposed to provide a silk dress and a kiss on the cheek. In Finland, if a man refuses a woman's Leap Year Day proposal, he should buy her the fabrics for a skirt.