Books by
Cathy Marie Hake
FROM BETHANY HOUSE PUBLISHERS
___________________________
Letter Perfect
Bittersweet
Fancy Pants
Forevermore
That Certain Spark
Whirlwind
Fancy Pants
Copyright © 2007
Cathy Marie Hake
Cover design by Jennifer Parker
Cover photograph scene courtesy of Pipeline Supply, Inc., Hopkins, Minnesota
Cover photography: Linda’s Photography, Linda Motzko
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-0-7642-0317-6
* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hake, Cathy Marie.
Fancy Pants / Cathy Marie Hake.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7642-0317-6 (pbk.)
ISBN-10: 0-7642-0317-7 (pbk.)
1. British—Texas—Fiction. 2. Ranchers—Texas—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3608.A5454F26 2007
813'.6—dc22 2007023564
* * *
To Deb Boone,
a cherished friend whose love, encouragement, and
insights make all the difference.
The Bible tells us to seek wise counsel—
and more times than I can count,
your words have been filled with God’s truth.
Of the innumerable blessings our Heavenly Father
has bestowed upon me, I count
you among the dearest.
CATHY MARIE HAKE is a nurse who specializes in teaching Lamaze, breastfeeding, and baby care. She loves reading, scrapbooking, and writing, and is the author or coauthor of more than twenty books. Cathy makes her home in Anaheim, California, with her husband, daughter, and son.
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter One
New York, 1890
Rexall Hume planted his hands on the desk and leaned forward, his scowl rivaling a gargoyle’s. “You’ve tested my patience far too long, Lady Hathwell. A year and a day—that’s how long I’ve waited.”
Sydney Hathwell met his gaze unflinchingly. “Surely you’re not intimating my father was unworthy of a proper period of mourning.”
“Which ended ten days ago.” Hume paced across the intricate carpeting to the far side of the study and wheeled back around. Eyes narrowed, he studied her as if encountering her for the first time.
Sydney stood in silence and returned his gaze with equal frankness. In the week since she’d arrived, they’d shared only three stilted meals. He’d left orders for the staff to assist Sydney and her aunt whenever they required, then spent the balance of his time away from the residence. No small wonder he now stared at her as if she were a stranger.
What did they know of each other? Nothing. Over the past year, he’d not bothered to correspond with her. Oh, he’d sent condolences in the form of a telegram. She’d responded, as was proper, with a small card of acknowledgment. Silence then yawned across the Atlantic. She couldn’t break it; a woman didn’t pursue a man. It simply was not done.
A full year of no contact—then he’d telegraphed for her to come. She’d been more than a little surprised, but she understood she was obliged to allow him to court her. Sydney struggled to find anything more to write than the particulars regarding her arrival. She’d never seen his picture, heard his voice, or even read a single word written by his hand—yet she’d come to fulfill her obligation. Now that she’d traversed a wide ocean and been beneath his roof, he’d made no attempt to woo her. None whatsoever. How could he possibly think they’d pledge their hearts and lives to each other tomorrow?
Hume stalked toward her, a stiff smile plastered across his face. His hands were every bit as cold as hers when he grasped them. “You don’t need to be upset, Cindy dear.”
Cindy! He expects me to marry him, and he doesn’t even know my name!
“There, there. I can see you’re . . . distraught.” He squeezed her hands. “Things come up at inconvenient times. It’s an unfortunate fact in business. I had hoped you’d come along and consider this a wedding trip.”
Maybe I’ve been wrong. Father respected and appreciated Mama’s opinion. “Are you requesting that I assist in negotiations?”
“You?” A crack of laughter erupted from him. “Of course not. We can stop by the church on the way to the train station tomorrow. Since you don’t know anyone here and you are just coming out of mourning, a quiet wedding will do. Then, while I tend to business in Boston and Philadelphia, you can visit museums and the like. Wouldn’t you enjoy that?”
She pulled free from his grasp. “Mr. Hume, as I said earlier, I fear we do not suit.”
He heaved a longsuffering sigh. “Perhaps this business trip is best done away with.”
Is he putting me above his business?
“Once I return, we’ll marry. That will allow you sufficient time to settle in and see to whatever little matters you women consider to be so vital.” He looked inordinately pleased with himself.
Sydney couldn’t help thinking Hume still resembled a gargoyle— cold and stonehearted. “Mr. Hume, I’m so very sorry—”
“No, no.” He held up his hand. “No need to thank me, Cindy dear.”
The butler appeared in the open doorway. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, sir. Mr. Borland is here.”
“Ah, yes.” Hume sketched a perfunctory bow in her direction. “You’ll excuse me. I must see to this.”
Dismissed as though she were a cranky child in wont of a nap, Sydney managed a chilly nod and headed upstairs. She’d tried twice now to tell Mr. Hume that she couldn’t marry him. He’d ignored her concerns on both occasions and brushed her aside so he could conduct further business. She’d tried to be honorable; now she’d do what she must.
Five nights later a light, pattering knock barely gave warning before Serena Hathwell let herself in. Sydney whirled around. “Aunt Serena! What are you doing up at this hour?”
Serena stared at the hatboxes, trunk, and portmanteau scattered across the bedchamber. “That telegram you got yesterday! Just as your father swep
t your mother off her feet, Hume’s coming to claim you! How very romantic! I never imagined he’d be the type to ask you to elope—but you know what they say. Still waters run deep.”
“Romantic and Hume scarcely belong in the same breath. I cannot marry him.” Sydney took what should have been her wedding gown from the ornately carved wardrobe and shoved it into her steamer trunk.
“You’re acting in haste.” Aunt Serena pulled the yards of satin and lace from the trunk.
“I tried. Marriage between us simply will not work.”
Censure puckered Serena’s features. “Even if you feel no obligation to Mr. Hume, you made a promise. A deathbed promise. Your father—God rest his soul—must be spinning in his grave.”
“I promised Father I’d come to America and meet Mr. Hume. I didn’t vow I’d marry him. Reflect for a moment, and you’ll know I’m right.”
Aunt Serena’s eyes widened. “Oh my. That’s right.”
A small measure of hope sparked in Sydney’s heart. Her aunt might help her. “Father loved Mama. He wouldn’t want me to marry someone for whom I hold no affection.”
“These things work out. Hume has every right to believe you’ll wed him after honoring your mourning period.”
“It makes no sense that I’d cross an ocean to wind up with the same aloof, unfeeling marriage others proposed back in England. I came seeking what Mama and Father had, and I won’t settle for anything less.”
Sliding a hanger back into the gown, Serena tutted. “Their marriage was unique. The time’s come for you to put away childish dreams and settle down.”
“Since we’ve been in America, Hume’s never once shown the slightest interest in me. I didn’t expect him to quote sonnets or attend to my every whim, but you must admit his neglect has been legendary.”
“He’s a busy man. You wouldn’t want to marry a sluggard.”
“So busy he couldn’t be bothered to meet our ship? He ignored me most of the first week, then went off and left me alone the second. If this is his concept of courtship, marriage will be desolate!” And I’m already so lonely. . . .
“Mr. Hume leaves a little to be desired, but what man doesn’t?” Serena hung the gown back inside the wardrobe and patted Sydney’s cheek. “Bridal jitters. That’s all this is.”
“No!” Sydney grabbed her hand. “Monday evening I went downstairs to make one last attempt to explain matters. I didn’t realize Mr. Borlan was still here. I inadvertently heard—”
“You stooped to eavesdropping! Sydney.” The censure in Serena’s tone then transformed into conspiracy. “What did you hear?”
Heat filled her cheeks. “Hume told his friend I’d serve his purposes well enough. Access to the peerage and a legitimate heir are all he wants.”
“Of course he wants sons. All men do.” Serena turned the same shade as her frilly, shell pink dressing gown. “Oh, dear. Is that what’s worrying you? Your wifely duty?”
Still sickened and shocked by what she’d overheard him say, Sydney whispered, “Mr. Hume has a paramour and plans to keep her.”
“He’s a man, dear. They all stray. It won’t matter. You’ll have his name, his children, and generous funds to fritter away however you please. Do what other wives do: Turn a blind eye to his indiscretions.”
Sydney shook her head so adamantly, her hair escaped the pins and tumbled to her waist. “I refuse to marry a man who won’t honor his wedding vows. I can’t.”
“Madame du Marnier warned me that this trip was ill-fated. How many times did I tell you she warned me no good would come of it?” Rubbing her temples, Aunt Serena sighed. “I’ve chaperoned several young ladies and seen them wed by the end of their Season. You”—Serena shot her a meaningful look— “are the thirteenth.”
“Well, this trip has been an unmitigated disaster.”
“I know you don’t put any store in such things, but Madame du Marnier gave me dire warnings about bringing you here upon hearing you were to be my thirteenth charge. ‘Bad things come in threes and thirteens,’ she said. Now that I think of it, someone stole your diamond earbobs, the ship practically sank, and . . .” Serena frowned.
Desperately grasping for anything to add, Sydney blurted, “The heel broke off my boot. My left boot. Do you know the Latin word for left? Sinister.”
Serena shuddered.
“I knew you’d understand. Once given the facts, you’ve always proven to be sensible.” Sydney grabbed a whole armful of dresses and tossed them on the bed. “We’ll have to hurry. I have everything planned.”
“The prudent thing would be to wait and discuss the matter with Mr. Hume.”
Sydney fingered the lacy bodice of the wedding gown. “He’s unsuitable, Serena. Completely unsuitable.” Though Sydney could cite far more important and troublesome issues, she chose the one that would matter most to her aunt—trivial as it was. “The last evening Mr. Hume spoke to me, he had the gall to suggest we stop by the church on the way to the train station and marry. His business trip would be our honeymoon.”
“The rotter!” Ever-so-proper Aunt Serena spewed a line of words worthy of a guttersnipe. “That horrid man would deny you a proper wedding? Every last one of my charges has boasted the grandest wedding of the year! What kind of man would cheat his wife out of the most important day of her life? You poor child! No wonder you put that exquisite wedding gown in the trunk first. I’m getting you out of here!” A mere second later, she’d relegated the elegant creation to the depths of the trunk.
Relief washed over Sydney.
“Whatever were you thinking, keeping something so vile all to yourself these past days?”
“I didn’t say anything until I could make arrangements and keep us both safe.” The sweet fragrance of freesia swirled in the air as Sydney pulled a dress of heliotrope foulard from the bed and shoved it into the trunk. “You’ll recall Mama had a much older brother. I’ve contacted him. Uncle Fuller is expecting me.”
Aunt Serena snatched the gown from the trunk, tucked it back in after fussing with the skirts, and grabbed the next garment. “Americans. You can’t trust them.”
“Mama was American.”
“And she’s the exception that proves the rule.” Serena set aside the gown, took out the wedding gown, and positioned it between the other two.
Sydney chafed at how methodically her aunt disciplined the yards of satin to fold and lie in such perfect order. I have to get us out of here, and she’s fussing over a gown I’ll never wear.
“Distressed as you are over that cad destroying your wedding, something vital escaped your notice.” Aunt Serena handed her a lilac gown and attacked the mauve one with enough force to scare it into obedience.
Under other circumstances, it would be comical to see a stout spinster in a dressing gown do midnight battle with an entire trousseau. Yet Sydney couldn’t afford to be amused. Serena didn’t know the full extent of her plans—hopefully, she never would.
“Your uncle is an American, too.” Serena scooped up a stack of small clothes, modestly stuffed them into a pillowslip, then wedged it into the trunk. “He’s not to be trusted. You’ll simply come back to England.”
“I can’t.” Sydney added her glove box, a stack of dainty handkerchiefs, and a slender, lacquered case that held her fans. “Home isn’t . . . home any longer.” Her second cousin twice removed had inherited the title and property. He and his wife had changed everything. Ultimately, Sydney had become an intruder in her own home.
“Harold and Beatrice have their peculiarities, I grant you that. But you needn’t fret. Now that you’re out of deepest mourning, we can arrange a match with another young gentleman.”
Sydney rested her hand on her aunt’s. “I know you mean well, but all my life, I heard Mama tell stories of her childhood. This is my opportunity to—”
“Run wild? Absolutely not.” Serena disappeared behind a froth of petticoats she flicked into the air, only to reappear and have them completely bundled into an astonishingly small
block.
“You’re to prepare the Ashton twins for their Season. You gave your word, and their grandfather is counting on you. I can depend on Uncle Fuller until I find a suitable situation.”
Serena sighed. “You never did cooperate. I’m firm, though:
You’re coming home. It’s the proper thing to do.”
“Doing all of the proper things put me into this predicament. It seems logical that something improper is the only solution.”
“You and your logic.” Serena managed to tuck a smaller hat into a larger one and pop them into a single hatbox. “Why your mother insisted upon your being educated like a boy is beyond me. It would have been far better if you’d taken voice and music lessons.”
“I’m tone deaf. That would have been a waste of time and money.” As fast as Sydney took something out, her aunt found a spot for it.
“Learning logic, Latin, and the like was just as much a waste.” Aunt Serena took three pairs of gloves and burrowed into the trunk. Her head half buried in the clothes, she kept on nattering. “What man wants a wife who is smarter than he is? Men marry for money, property, and title. It helps if the girl is pretty, of course.”
“Hume has the money. As for property—Harold and Beatrice inherited it.”
“But you’ll always be a lady. A fine lady. And a beautiful one. While I’m arranging prospective suitors, you simply must remember to let the men feel they’re intellectually superior.”
“Women have brains and shouldn’t be ashamed to use them.”
Aunt Serena half emerged and gave her a baleful glare. “Those brains are to help you employ your wiles.” Her glare darkened. “No, Sydney. Keep out that traveling dress. You’ll wear it on the ship.”
“I’ll keep it out, but I won’t be on the ship.” Sydney glanced at the prune-colored cheviot dress and didn’t regret for a moment that she’d leave the ugly creation behind. “Uncle Fuller is expecting me.”
“Expecting you? He ought to come claim you.”
“That will take too long. I’m going to join my uncle.”
Serena stopped everything and squinted. “I know that look. It matches your mother’s whenever she concocted one of her hair-raising schemes. Just what do you think you’re going to do?”
Fancy Pants (Only In Gooding Book #1) Page 1
