by Rachel Hauck
Alfonse rubbed the back of his neck, glancing over his shoulder, toward the apse.
“Alfonse?” the reverend said. “Do you understand the question?”
“Yes, sir.” Then came a movement from the apse side door, and a smile split his august face.
“Sir, I am not prepared to take the vows of marriage today.” He moved aside. “But this fine chap will take my place.”
Elijah Percy, Lord Montague, dressed in tails and tie, stepped around the flickering candles toward the reverend and the altar, taking Alfonse’s place. Birdie gripped Papa’s arm, swaying in weakness.
“I am prepared to take the marriage vows this day.” Elijah held a steady gaze on her. “If Miss Shehorn will consent.”
A photographer and his assistant ran in front of her, pausing long enough to snap a photo. Papa’s arm muscle tightened under Birdie’s hand.
“Birdie?” Eli said, hat in hand, a pleading in his eyes.
“Someone explain this to me?” The reverend eyed Papa. “This is highly unorthodox.”
Alfonse moved in close to Birdie. “I know you don’t want to marry me. The closer we came to this day, the more I realized I couldn’t ask you to go against your heart. Then Rose Gottlieb came to me with an idea . . .”
“Why didn’t you speak to me?”
He leaned toward her ear. “This was the only way. Like in war. The element of surprise.”
Red-faced and bothered, the reverend demanded Alfonse’s attention. “Explain yourself.”
“Pardon me, but I believe this is between the bride and me.” Eli shoved the men aside as he knelt before Birdie. “Elizabeth Candler Shehorn, I love you. With all my heart. If you feel the same, please, do me the honor of becoming my wife.”
“Pardon me.” Papa released Birdie to confront Eli, tapping him in the chest. “You will not see a penny of my money.”
“Have I asked you for money, sir? Keep your accounts. I want your daughter’s hand.”
“Eli, yes, of course I’ll marry you. Yes, oh yes.” Her tears flowed—this time with relief, joy, and happiness.
Around the church, guests murmured and hummed, speculating in hoarse whispers.
“I mean what I say. No dowry—”
“Papa,” Birdie said, “must you be so hard and bitter? He loves me and I love him.”
Eli’s blue eyes gazed with confidence at Papa. “Sir, if you think your greatest fortune is the size of your bank account, you’ve miscalculated. This beauty here before you is your greatest asset, and I’ll devote my life to see her happy.”
“Eli, are you sure?” Birdie whispered.
“My love, need you ask?”
Papa cleared his throat. “Birdie, is this what you want?”
“With everything in me, Papa.”
He stepped away, nodding to the reverend. “Miss Shehorn will be marrying Lord Montague this afternoon.”
“Psst, Geoffrey.” Mama, her voice a tone above a growl, teetered on the verge of making a scene in front of her friends. “Might I speak with you?”
Birdie giggled, leaning into Eli as he took her hand and led her up the altar steps, following the reverend.
“Shall we begin?” The reverend cleared his throat, giving them a stern gaze. “Again. Are you prepared to take your marriage vows—”
“Yes, sir. Yes, indeed I am.”
The Great Wedding Caper! Van Cliff Steps Aside for Lord Montague! Guests Aghast.
—New York Herald
Miss Birdie Shehorn Ditches Fiancé for British Aristocrat.
—New York Times
Do You Take This Man, No This Man? Shehorn Wedding Switcharoo.
—New York World
Bride Ditched by Groom, Her Mother Revived with Smelling Salts
—Evening Post
THIRTY-THREE
TENLEY
The house was quiet. Asleep. Ten o’clock and Tenley had work to do.
Upstairs in the library, she sat at the desk with her laptop open, staring at the blank page. Next to her computer? Gordon’s manuscript.
If she just typed a few pages, got the juices going, she could take off with her own story. Lots of writers did free writing to get going. She’d just be free writing with someone else’s words—her great-great-grandfather’s words. She was sure he wouldn’t mind.
Of course she’d not done a lick of research on the Gilded Age, but she knew a good bit from living on Fifth Avenue. She could research as she wrote. Or just lift a few sections from Gordon’s book. He definitely had the Gilded Age feel.
She glanced at the door to make sure she was alone, nervous Blanche might wake up and surprise her. What are you doing?
Yes, what was she doing? Stealing?
Tenley shoved away from the desk and walked over to the bookshelf, staring at her setup.
It didn’t help that she had stalked Rena Roberts for a couple of days, watching her interaction with fans on social media, feeling like a big hairy heel for her lack of engagement.
Rena was all smiles with a picture of her latest manuscript on the computer with the words The End.
Charlie texted to see how she was doing, adding a note that his youngest was getting braces.
If he had to choose between Tenley and Barclay, she knew his choice. Shoot, she’d make the same one.
This morning she had posted a picture of the beach on her Facebook page with a corny, “I am here. Where are you?”
The likes and comments piled up, most of her fans begging for her new book.
“All right, Ten, you’re stalling. Look, copy Gordon’s book until you take off on your own and then go back and edit. Make it all yours.”
Back at the desk, she eased the middle drawer all but closed—she didn’t trust it—set the dove figurine in the corner on top of the Bible, and arranged the picture of the marquess and marchioness on the other side.
So she began. Chapter One. For the legacy of her father, her great-great-grandfather, for Charlie, for Brené and Barclay Publishing. For herself.
If she survived this, she’d hang up her computer and seek another career. She saw a sign in a local McDonald’s—Accepting Applications.
BIRDIE
Light broke through the slit between the draperies and Birdie, cradled in her husband’s arms, traced her finger along his jaw, then over his soft, full lips, his breathing sweet and even.
“I love you, Eli Percy,” she whispered.
He grinned, rolling over to kiss her, nestling down next to her, his body melded with hers. “I can’t believe you’re mine.”
“Nor I you.”
Yesterday was a blur—the ceremony and reception, their honeymoon ride to the Waldorf-Astoria.
Images of Mama’s furious face surfaced. Of Papa hosting the reception with his chin held high. Of his tender kiss, his eyes glistening, as he bid her good-bye. Of the well wishes and exclamations of their friends.
“A wedding we’ll never forget.”
The Van Cliffs left the church in a quiet rage, demanding Alfonse explain himself.
Birdie overheard one guest say, “I came to see a wedding. So I stayed.”
But she kept her gaze on Eli. She wanted to remember him above all else.
When the porter let them into their room and at last they were alone, Eli kissed her.
“I prayed for this,” she whispered into his chest as he held her in the morning light.
“For me to make love to you?”
She blushed with a soft giggle. “To be rescued. Walking down the aisle, I begged the Lord to deliver me.”
Hadn’t He been singing to her all along?
Do not be dismayed. Do not worry or be afraid.
“Do you fear waking one day only to find it all was a dream?” he asked.
“That would be a living nightmare.” She rose up on her elbow, not ashamed when the sheet fell away.
He’d been so patient and kind, tender on their wedding night. Mama had prepared her for everything but being with a man.<
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Anxious and shy, Eli ordered dinner for the room. Dining on roasted duck and vegetables, hot buttered bread and chocolate cake, they talked nonstop as Eli detailed every juicy tidbit of his trip to her altar.
“It was Rose, Birdie. She felt so grateful to be released from our agreement, she pledged to repay me. She suspected all along we had affection for one another. She approached Alfonse. When and where is still a mystery, but they devised a plan. When Alfonse wrote to me, I wondered if I’d not stepped into another world where dreams come true.”
“But what about your family? What about saving Hapsworth?”
“I will find a way, love. I will.”
His family was not happy over losing the Gottlieb fortune but agreed, in light of recent changes, Eli must follow his heart.
Oh, there was so much to talk about, and they had their entire lives to say everything on their hearts, but at last it was time to sleep.
Eli took her hand, walking her to their bedroom, kissing her, removing the pins from her hair, running his hands through her long tresses.
“My heart is bursting.” His kisses slipped along her cheek and down her neck.
With a sigh, she clung to him, passions she’d never felt with Alfonse rising. Eli was not a cup of tepid tea.
“We sail home in three days,” he said, working the buttons of her leaving dress. “I suggest we not leave this room until they come for our bags.”
She raised up on her toes to kiss him, a sensual grin on her lips. “I’m all yours, Lord Montague.” With a shiver, her dress fell at her feet. “But before we go, I must say good-bye to Mama.”
Eli raised his head and gently brushed her hair from her eyes. “Let’s not speak of your mama at this moment.” With that he scooped her into his arms, carrying her away.
Birdie laughed. She was a free bird.
Did she feel the same in the power of daylight? More than ever. There was so much to explore about this man, from the joys of their wedding bed to her new home in Hapsworth to her role as a countess.
“I love you, Eli, so very much. Kiss me, darling, please kiss me.”
He gathered her in his arms, bringing his lips to hers, his palm skimming the bare curve of her hip. She gave herself to him and to the joys of being a woman, and to the sheer happiness of being his wife.
TENLEY
“You’re quiet.”
“Thinking.” Tenley slowed the Mercedes at the red light, the silhouette of Cape Canaveral Hospital behind them, doused in noonday sun. “But hey, this is a banner day. You got your cast off and have just one more chemo treatment to go!” She mashed the horn and rolled down the windows, leaning out. “Blanche Albright is almost done with cancer!”
“What are you? A boor? Roll up the windows, it’s blazes outside.”
Blanche was right about the heat. July temperatures had settled over Cocoa Beach with intensity.
“How do you feel? You’re done.”
“I feel like I’ve been run over.” Blanche wore a bold blue turban on her head, the dark circles under her blue eyes telling of her ordeal. Her cheeks were gaunt and her skin pale.
“You’ll heal.”
“Pray to God the cancer doesn’t return.”
“It won’t. It won’t.” Ever since the afternoon in New York when she invited God in, Tenley noticed a change. She talked to Him more. Loved Blanche a little bit more easily. Hoped more in Him, less in herself.
“How’s the book?”
“Coming along.”
Actually, it was done. She’d typed every blasted word of Gordon’s. Once she started she couldn’t stop. The story was beautiful and perfect. She changed nothing.
She’d stuffed the manuscript into the middle desk drawer and worked to make the story “her own.” But it wasn’t her own. It was his with updated language and more textured kissing scenes.
The light turned green and Tenley turned for home.
Four weeks of messing with the book and she had to be done. Turn it in. But did it sound like her voice? Would they recognize Gordon’s?
The questions fed the tension in her gut. But if she backed off this book, her career was over. She’d have failed Charlie, Brené, and everyone who believed in her. Even Dad and Great-Great-Grandpa Gordon.
Either this was her book or not. If not, she’d wasted the last month. If it was, she needed to send it.
“Hey, Blanche, want to celebrate getting your cast off? Go out to eat or just drive up the coast to Daytona? Or go south to Miami?”
But Blanche rested against the car door, her mouth slightly open as she slept.
Tears watered Tenley’s eyes. “You sleep, Blanche. You sleep.”
Reaching for the radio, Tenley finished the ride home with oldies from Ocean FM, musing over the last month.
Jonas came over on the weekends to watch Newhart or play three-handed euchre with Blanche or walk on the beach with Tenley, talking. They ate pizza, buckets of chicken, sandwiches, or Mrs. Sullivan’s leftovers, Tenley’s favorite.
He was working on furniture designs for a new restaurant, and every time he talked about it his countenance changed. He was born to do this.
There were no more kisses after the graduation party, and they settled into the routine of friends.
“I’m going back to New York, Jonas. I can’t leave part of my heart here.”
“Funny, ’cause you’re taking part of my heart there.”
But she ached to taste him some nights. Their good-byes at the door often stretched from a minute to two, to five, then ten, neither one of them wanting to say good-bye. If only someone would say, “Kiss me!” But neither one braved the barrier.
Just thinking of it now stirred her emotions. But she was cautious. She was wary. Both of them were keen with the reality Tenley was going home at the end of the month. Back to her life on Fifth Avenue.
Turning into Grove Manor, Tenley helped Blanche inside, tucked her into bed, and drew the shades to cut the afternoon light.
“I’ll be back to check on you.”
Meandering out the back door and toward the beach, she glanced back at the house. She hadn’t wanted to come, and now she knew she didn’t want to leave.
This place had changed her. Blanche had changed her. But Jonas, oh, Jonas. She would never be the same.
“You let me sleep.” Blanche shuffled across the library without her blue turban. She carried a wooden tray of cut apples and oranges, a bowl of cherries, and a side of cheese and crackers.
“You usually do after chemo.” For the last hour, Tenley had pored over an e-mail to Brené, ready to send the story.
Blanche dropped into the chair next to the desk, thin wisps of hair bouncing with dust beams in the three o’clock light, reached for an orange slice, and leaned to see the computer screen.
“So, you’re all finished?”
“I think so.” Tenley winced, pressing her fist to her lips. “I’m nervous.”
“Said no author ever.”
Tenley laughed with an exhale, running her hands through her hair. “I just don’t want to disappoint them.”
Lie. They’d love this story. No questions. It’s a wonder Gordon never turned it in. Why didn’t he? She might never know, and for now, she was grateful.
You did me a solid, Great-Great-Grandpa.
“Didn’t you say your editor was fine with a rough draft? Doubt is just another color of fear, Tenley.” Blanche layered a piece of cheese over a cracker. “So the book is good?”
“I think so. Different from Someone to Love.”
“Cheese and crackers, so good.” Blanche dusted cracker bits from her top to the floor. “Are you ready to hit Send? Gotta tell you, I’m impressed you wrote a book so quickly.”
“Yeah, it was a lot of . . .” Copying. “Late nights.”
Tenley blew out a long breath. Here’s where the whole plan blew up. From here on out, the book would become a living lie. One she’d have to tell for the rest of her life.
“Ho
w’d you come up with the characters? They were so real.”
“How much research did you do? It’s like you lived in the Gilded Age.”
Shaking out her arms and legs, tipping her head from side to side, she stretched like an athlete about to run a race. Anticipation buzzed her nerves. One last time . . .
Are you sure?
Once she hit Send, the saga began. No turning back.
“Hit Send.” Blanche shoved an apple slice with a cut of cheese into her mouth. “Am I usually this hungry after chemo?”
“No.”
“I suppose there’s always a chance they won’t like it, Tenley.” Blanche’s cloaked confession eased the tip of Tenley’s trepidation. Great, if they didn’t like it, she had an out. She’d not publish the book but she met her deadline, fulfilling her part of the deal.
Blanche reached for another cracker, peeking over Tenley’s shoulder. “Good to go?”
“Yeah, just thinking about—”
“Stop thinking. Just do it.” Blanche reached around, tapped Tenley’s mouse, and launched the e-mail through cyber space.
“Blanche!” Tenley panicked and fumbled with the mouse, trying to undo the e-mail. “I wasn’t ready.”
Her mother sat back in her chair. “You’re welcome.”
“I’m not thanking you! You had no right, Blanche.” Where was the undo option? “That was mine to send. You think because I gave up Paris to help you that you can walk into my life and do what you want? Well, you can’t.” She rose from her chair, circling the library, aiming her self-loathing at her mother.
“Tenley, I’m—I’m sorry.” She held an orange slice between her fingers. “I only meant to help.”
“You want to help? Leave me alone.” Tenley slammed her laptop shut and dropped to the chair, burying her face in her hands.
“Tenley?”
“What?”
“I think you were right. I shouldn’t have eaten so much.”
She glanced up as Blanche disappeared from the library, the sound effects of cancer and chemo spilling down the stairs.
THIRTY-FOUR
