Viola, with Lionel and Alma, and dolly Amelie. Emmett and Penny were still valued enough to be in the picture but nevertheless on the fringe.
Emmett smiled. “Remember when we met?”
“I’ll never forget it.”
“Me neither, but do you recall when we studied that painting and you confessed you didn’t know the artist? I said it’s sometimes of benefit to approach a piece of artwork without prejudice, do you remember?”
“It was a kind comment to cover my ignorance.”
“It was nothing of the sort. Although what I said isn’t always true. Sometimes knowing the artist can enrich a viewer’s experience. Like with this picture.”
She studied it and gasped. “Viola wants Alma to be her mother. Not me.”
“Alma and Lionel want it, too. Are you sad?”
Penny should feel sad, maybe, but she didn’t. Instead, warmth suffused her from her heart to her limbs. Lionel was a different man with Alma. Kinder, and more available to Viola. His friendship had been good for Alma, too—Penny saw that now. Alma was happy, blossoming with love for Lionel and Viola, the family she long had craved.
So Penny shook her head. “I’m not sad in the least. I wanted Viola to be loved. For everyone to be happy.”
“Viola loves you, too. She’d enjoy having you as an aunt.”
After he’d said he wouldn’t marry her, not two hours ago? She hopped to her feet. “I beg your pardon?”
“I thought I was clear.” His lips twitched.
So he thought this amusing, did he? “That is the worst proposal I’ve ever heard.”
“You’ve heard many, then?”
“Not a one, and you know it.” She let him take her hands, but she wasn’t about to let him get away with such a weak declaration. “A proposal should be sweet, and also explain how a marriage might be achieved without giving my father a heart attack.”
“First of all, I showed him Viola’s picture.”
“That was all it took?”
“For him, yes, but for the sake of your mother’s need to see you married to someone more suitable than an earl’s youngest brother, I told him about my new position.”
“You shouldn’t stop being a professor for my sake.” She didn’t want him to change a thing. She’d argue it if she must, but it was becoming harder to concentrate with him holding her hands to his chest.
“I’ll teach here and there.” His heart pounded under her fingers. “But tonight I received word from London. The Prince of Wales is so grateful for my efforts with the Dunwood map that he’s asked me to serve in a capacity that is somewhat diplomatic, somewhat academic, with a dash of espionage thrown in. I’ll assist Britain and America with sensitive cases that include art—and there are more than one would believe. Forgeries, stolen pieces, historical disputes.”
“Or maps to lost treasure?”
“Especially maps to lost treasure.” He grinned, his lips so close she could stand on tiptoe and kiss them. “I should still have time for my newest passion, sharing art with children in need so they can express their emotions.”
Like her girls at the home. “I am so pleased for you.” And the children he’d help. And that he’d be in America. Close enough, perhaps, to court until Mother accepted that appearances weren’t as important as things like love.
“I can afford a larger house, as well as a flat in Mayfair. And I won’t be in shabby lodgings in New York. Or Philadelphia. But it won’t be this.” He glanced at the rich furnishings. “No title. No grand estate. If you want more, I’ll go and not say a word, for I’m still the fourth son. Not the heir to anything.”
“Except my heart.” There was no one else she’d ever want to give it to.
“I’ll spend every day treasuring the masterpiece you are. Precious.” His lips grazed her forehead. “Unique.” Then her cheek, just under her eye. “Beautiful, without and within.”
She swayed, expecting his lips to touch hers. Instead, still holding her hands, he dropped to his knee.
“I’m in for a penny, in for a pound now. I started something and will see it through to its end.” His eyes twinkled. “And yes, it’s my favorite pun, Penny of mine. Will you marry me?” He gazed up at her with such devotion in his eyes that she tugged him to his feet.
“That is a suitable proposal.” When she smiled, their noses touched.
He bent forward, his lips a mere inch from hers. “Is that a yes?”
“Yes, Emmett, I will marry you.”
And then he kissed her as properly as he’d proposed.
Sometime later she opened her eyes to see Lionel slip from Viola’s room. He didn’t seem at all unhappy to spy her kissing his brother, but she still gasped.
Emmett turned and slipped his arm about her shoulder.
Lionel held up his hands in a gesture of peace. “Congratulations.”
“You aren’t angry?” About her, or the two million?
“Emmett helped me see that God will provide, but in the meantime I shouldn’t ignore the gifts He’s placed into my hands, like Viola and Alma. I wish you both happiness.”
“Thank you, Lionel.”
After he descended the stair, Penny curled back into Emmett’s arms. “So Lionel turned down two million dollars.”
“So did I.”
Her head snapped back. “Father offered it to you?”
“Yes, but I suggested it go into a fund for you. And your children.”
“Our children.”
He kissed her again. “Now what do you say we give your parents the good news?”
Mother wouldn’t find it good at all. But Penny took Emmett’s hand and prayed that in God’s good time, Mother would come around.
God hadn’t let her down yet.
Three weeks later
Penny spun from her looking glass as Alma, a vision in a bridal gown of white satin, entered the bedchamber.
Alma gasped. “You look beautiful, Penny! Your wedding gown is perfect.”
“As is yours, Alma.” Penny hugged her dearest friend, even as she recalled her mother’s order not to embrace anyone, lest she wrinkle her Worth gown.
“We are in the society pages today.” Alma hopped on her toes. “Mama sent for extra copies, so I brought one for you.”
“I’ll paste it in my memory book.” Although she already knew the words by heart:
Lionel Retford, Earl of Hawton, of Nottinghamshire, England, and his brother the Honourable Mr. Emmett Retford, have chosen Philadelphia brides. Today the church in Rittenhouse Square will be the scene of a double wedding ….
Hand in hand, Penny and Alma made their way downstairs where Mother, Mrs. Shore, and Viola waited.
“I hear church bells.” Viola twirled in her buttercup frock.
“That means it’s time.” Mrs. Shore, who weeks ago had found it so difficult to part from Alma, had quickly taken to the idea of moving to England—and having a step-granddaughter to love.
Mother fluffed a portion of Penny’s veil. “Your father wants to dance at the reception. He knows full well he could faint or worse.”
Penny patted Mother’s shoulder. “I’ll allow him a few bars of music but no more.”
At least Father was healthy. And as she’d prayed, Mother’s opinion of Emmett had changed dramatically. His relationship with the Prince of Wales helped matters immensely, as far as appearances were concerned to Mother. Maybe someday she’d come to faith. Penny wouldn’t stop praying.
“Are you packed for New York?” Mother took her arm.
There, Emmett was to examine paintings and, God willing, break a ring of international art forgers in the process. Meanwhile, the search for King John’s treasure had begun back in England, and this summer Emmett and Penny would visit the area.
“I’m ready.” Penny nodded. “My one regret is leaving the girls’ home. They still lack a patroness.”
“Didn’t I tell you? I volunteered.” Mother laughed. “While you had your final dress fitting yesterday, I visite
d to see what the fuss was about. What charming girls.”
Despite the muss it would cause their gowns, Penny embraced her. “You’ve given me the best wedding present I could have hoped for.”
But it wasn’t the best one, after all. That came when she entered the church on Father’s arm, Alma on his other side, Viola ahead scattering flower petals on the aisle. At the aisle’s end, the grooms waited, grinning like children. Emmett was resplendent—there was no other word for it. He was the best wedding present, one for her to keep forever.
When she reached the front of the church, before Emmett could take her hands, Lionel stepped forward and kissed her cheek. For the first time, his nearness didn’t make her chest tighten or her stomach clench.
“Welcome to the family, Sister.”
Beside her, Emmett offered the same gesture to Alma.
“Now me!” Viola hopped for kisses before sitting with Mrs. Shore.
“Now me,” Emmett murmured when he took Penny’s hands at last.
“Not yet,” Penny whispered. “You have to marry me first.”
And so he did, and when they were pronounced husband and wife, he gave her a kiss she’d not soon forget.
Historical Note:
Lady Dunwood, her painting, and the map to King John’s lost treasure are pure fiction, but the treasure itself is quite real. King John’s crown, scepter, and other valuables were lost between King’s Lynn and Lincoln just days before King John’s death in 1216. Over the past eight hundred years, despite numerous searches by historians, archaeologists, and amateurs in those fields, the treasure has yet to be found.
Susanne Dietze began writing love stories in high school, casting her friends in the starring roles. Today, she’s the award-winning author of a dozen new and upcoming historical romances who’s seen her work on the ECPA and Publisher’s Weekly Bestseller Lists for Inspirational Fiction. Married to a pastor and the mom of two, Susanne lives in California and enjoys fancy-schmancy tea parties, the beach, and curling up on the couch with a costume drama and a plate of nachos. You can visit her online at www.susannedietze.com and subscribe to her newsletters at http://eepurl.com/bieza5.
Sweet Love Grows
by Anita Mae Draper
Dedication
To Susanne Dietze and Gina Welborn for their laughter, encouragement, and candor, and especially to Gina for inviting me to be a part of this exciting project. And to my Barbour editor, Jessie Fioritto, for raising my novella to a higher level.
I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.
PHILIPPIANS 4:13
Chapter 1
1890
McLeod County, Minnesota
Jeremy placed his well-fingered Bible on the corner of his wide oak desk as a reminder that laws allowed the correct dispensation of property and valuables during times of grief when people acted from their hearts instead of their heads. He believed he could perform any task assigned to him in the course of his duties without allowing emotions to cloud the facts, regardless of who was on the losing end.
Yet as he prepared to meet Robertson’s daughter, a bitter taste coated his tongue. Due to past grievances, common sense and generosity were missing in this case, and there was nothing he could do but carry out the law and then leave with his emotions intact.
From his paisley-patterned vest he took out his favorite pen, a graceful, well-balanced instrument made of fine silver with a smooth gold nib. He’d received it upon completing his legal apprenticeship under Winston, along with the implication that he might be offered a partnership in his law firm if he could take care of one troublesome legal matter. A week of isolation in return for a future of security? Jeremy had practically run to the train.
He set his pen down beside the small stack of legal documents made out to Robertson’s daughter.
The bitter taste flooded back.
Reaching for the pitcher of water and one of the glasses he’d set out in case she needed refreshment after hearing his news, he poured one for himself.
If only the taste of pure water could wash down the filth of his task.
Amelia tightened the black shawl around her shoulders more for the familiar security it provided than from the breeze that rocked the attorney’s shingle under the eave.
Hesitantly, she knocked on the door.
Footsteps on the other side advanced in her direction. The door opened to show an impeccably dressed man with trouser creases as straight as those of her butler.
After a quick appraisal he leaned against the doorframe with a wry, appreciative smile. “Another member of the Glencoe welcoming committee? I appreciate all the attention, but I do have work to tend to, Miss …?”
“Miss Robertson.”
“Oh?” Straightening, he wiped his hand across his mouth. “You’re not what I expected.”
He was younger and more attractive than she’d expected as well, yet she wasn’t going to admit it. At least not while standing on the street where all of Glencoe could hear.
“Come in.” He swept his hand toward a chair facing his desk before turning to close the door. “I’m sorry about your father.”
She bit her bottom lip. Perhaps it was distress and strain that made her feel as she did, but he didn’t sound a bit sorry that Father had passed away.
“Did you know him?”
“No, not personally.” Curt and to the point, he splayed his hands on the documents as if to keep the words from jumping off the pages. “I’m sure you are aware that your father died intestate? That is to say, without having left a will?”
She remembered a long-ago conversation when Father had said that one day she would receive everything he owned, but he had never mentioned a written paper proving it, and someday had come sooner than either of them expected. “It appears that is the case, Mr. Moore. Is that a problem?”
Steepling his fingers, he tapped his fingertips together. “Yes, in your case it is.” His voice held a quality she tried to define—not remorse or sorrow. Perhaps resignation.
She fiddled with the black crepe trim of her bodice. “Mr. Moore, my father left me everything he owned—the house, the estate, and the mill. All that is required is for me to sign the official papers so that the bank recognizes me as his heir and I can continue the work he began.” She eyed the pen on his desk.
As if following her line of sight, he picked it up and rolled it between his fingers. “Your state of finances wasn’t included in your father’s financial report, so am I to assume you have your own means of support separate from the estate?”
“What do you mean? Why would I need my own funds?” She stared at him. “I have everything I need at home.”
His eyes darkened. “The question of who owns the Robertson estate is what we are discussing here.”
“What do you mean, who? I told you, Father left it to me.”
“And yet after two days of searching, no one has produced the will that proves it.”
“Mr. Moore, I have a mill to run.” She rose from the chair, her hands clenched around her handbag to keep her from shaking them at him.
He rose as she did. “Please sit down and I’ll attempt to explain further.”
Amelia had no wish to stay. Moore was playing games with her, pulling her along like a toy horse on wheels. And yet the bank required completed paperwork to prove ownership. She sat back down.
“This is a delicate situation.” He tapped his mouth with the fingertips of his right hand. “Your mother was Angela Cord. Correct?”
“Yes. She was a Cord before she married Father, and then she died on the day I was born. Really, Mr. Moore, what has that to do with Father’s will?”
“Everything. Henry Robertson never married Angela Cord.”
Although he seemed to be relaying logical information, she couldn’t quite grasp the meaning behind his words. And then, as a rushing sound filled her ears, the room blackened, sucking her down into darkness as thick as pitch.
“Miss Cord?” Jeremy dipp
ed his fingers into the pitcher of water and then dabbed his fingertips on her face. He had known his news would be a shock, but he hadn’t thought she would fall out of her chair. He slid his left arm under her neck and raised her head. “Miss Cord? Can you hear me?”
Long silky lashes opened over sky-blue eyes. She stared up at him with a puzzled expression. “What happened? Why did you call me Miss Cord?”
No sooner had she spoken than she cried out in alarm and then covered her eyes with her forearm.
He grimaced at the awful taste in his mouth, knowing he could have broken the brutal news with more compassion instead of the harshness that had erupted. But that meant he was responding to her with his heart and not his head, and if he allowed that, he might as well walk away and call himself a failure right now.
A few minutes later she faced him from the chair across his desk. Except for some mussed hair and a hat that was tilted slightly more than when she’d entered his office, she appeared composed. “Mr. Moore, what does my father’s state of matrimony have to do with all of this?”
“You can’t be his legal heir if he hasn’t claimed you as his daughter.”
“Hasn’t claimed me? Of course he’s claimed me. The whole county knows I’m his daughter.”
He steepled his fingers. “He didn’t claim you legally on paper. These are all the pertinent documents concerning Henry Robertson’s estate.” He motioned to the papers on his desk. “There is proof that he owned the house and the land it sits on, the estate, and the mill. Your name doesn’t appear anywhere.”
She stared at the documents as if she could read them upside down and through all the layers of the pile. “How can you be sure my parents never married?”
“Because there is no record of it in the county courthouse records or in any county church.”
“They could have gone to another county, or to Minneapolis or Chicago.”
“Yes, they could have.” She was wrong, but he liked that she was presenting possibilities. It showed an intelligence that she would need in the months to come. He slid the top document across the desk. “This is a copy of your birth record, signed and dated by the midwife who delivered you.”
The American Heiress Brides Collection Page 21
