While her sister inventoried the damage, Meg glanced out the parlor window and froze. There rode Mr. Garrison on his fine black horse. Her breath caught, and she quickly stepped behind the draperies so as not to be seen gaping. Did she only imagine him staring at the house? If I had someone like you…
Josie’s insistent voice brought her out of her reverie. “I’m sorry?”
“I said I’ll wash and press the garments, and they’ll be as good as new.” Josie studied her a moment, and her expression softened. “Are you okay?”
Meg moistened her dry lips. “I’m fine.”
Josie lowered the hope chest’s lid and stood. “It’s been nearly a month. You can’t keep hiding. Papa misses you at the shop. You know what a terrible bookkeeper he is, and with Christmas just around the corner…”
Guilt surged through Meg like molten steel. How selfish of her. Staying hidden like a common criminal had done nothing but place an extra burden on Papa’s shoulders. It was her job to keep the shop records, order supplies, and serve the customers, thus freeing her father to spend his time repairing watches and clocks. And yet…
“I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to show my face in public again.”
“Meg, that’s ridiculous. No one blames you.”
Taking the blame wasn’t what bothered Meg; it was the feeling that she had let everyone down. Papa had promised to make peace with Mr. Farrell as a wedding present. Now that the wedding had been called off, the feud between the two men had resumed. If anything, their animosity toward each other had grown worse, each blaming the other for the disastrous affair.
“Go and clean up while I fix us something to eat.”
Meg nodded and started down the hall, but not before taking another quick glance out the window. The deserted road looked as forlorn and lonely as she felt.
* * *
Moments later, Meg joined her sister in the sun-filled kitchen, her skirt still damp where she’d washed off the mud.
Josie’s kitchen table had become the sisters’ sounding board. Everything that happened—good, bad, or otherwise; every crisis, every problem—was hashed out, analyzed, resolved, or left to die upon that maple table.
Meg pulled out a chair, plopped down, and rested her elbows on the smooth-polished surface. “I don’t understand why Papa and Mr. Farrell continue to fight.” For as long as she could remember, bad blood had existed between the two men. Mama blamed it on professional differences, but Meg was almost certain their warfare had more personal roots.
Josie filled the kettle and placed it on the cookstove. “Sometimes I wonder if even they remember what started it. It happened so many years ago.” She wiped her hands on her spotless white apron and pulled a bread knife out of a drawer.
Through the open window over the sink came the sound of bells pealing out the noon hour for the residents living and working north of Main. The rest of the town, including her father, had stopped for the noontime meal a good forty minutes earlier.
“Josie…how did you know you were in love with Ralph?”
Josie gave her an odd look. “What a strange question.”
“I’m serious. How did you know?”
Josie thought a moment, cheeks tinged a pretty pink. “It was the way he made me feel. The way my heart leaped whenever he came into sight.”
Meg chewed on a fingernail. She had known Tommy nearly all her life. Next to her two sisters, he was the best friend she’d ever had.
In school, he’d dipped her braids in ink and helped her with geography and science. In turn, she’d teased him about his red hair, drilled him on his numbers, and made him read aloud until he became proficient.
Knowing how their fathers disapproved of their friendship only strengthened the bond between them and forced them to meet in secret. It had been Romeo and Juliet all over again. Still, during all those years she’d spent in Tommy’s company, never once had her heart leaped at the sight of him.
Josie dumped a loaf of bread out of a baking tin and proceeded to slice it. “I know you’re still hurting, Meg, but I never did think you and Tommy belonged together.”
A month ago, Meg would have argued with her sister, but now she only nodded. “I guess there’re worse things than being jilted for the Pacific Islands.”
Josie laughed. “I hope we never find out what those things are.”
Meg laughed too, and for the first time in weeks, her spirits lifted.
3
The bells on the door of Grant Garrison’s office danced merrily. Grant slid the last of his legal books onto the newly arrived bookshelves and stood to greet his visitor.
The welcoming smile died on his face the moment he turned. He knew the man at once—the gangly fellow with the pasty skin was Miss Lockwood’s wayward bridegroom. He’d recognize those flyaway ears and that carrot-colored hair anywhere. Although today, the former groom’s hair was neatly combed and parted down the middle.
“Mr. Garrison, is it? I’m Thomas Farrell.” He offered his hand.
Swallowing his dislike, Grant shook the man’s hand before walking around his desk. He sat, and the new leather chair squeaked beneath his weight.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Farrell?” Grant asked, his manner as cool and abrupt as his voice. A man so heartless as to leave a woman at the altar didn’t deserve the time of day, let alone civility.
If Farrell noticed anything odd about Grant’s demeanor, he didn’t show it. Instead, he lowered himself onto the ladder-back chair in front of the desk. He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief and crossed and uncrossed his legs. He looked like a man about to be hanged.
Grant waited. One minute passed, then two. The clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the rumble of a wagon floated through the open window. The clock on top of the bookshelf clucked like a hen on a nest. It was exactly two—or two forty, depending on which time zone one favored. According to railroad time it was probably closer to three, but few people paid attention to train schedules unless they were leaving town.
“Mr. Farrell?” Grant prodded at length, if only to save what remained of the hat clutched in the young man’s hands.
The man gulped, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down like a rubber ball. “I’m bein’ sued,” he said.
Grant’s eyebrows shot up. For the love of Pete, what other dastardly deed was Mr. Farrell guilty of ? “Do you owe someone money?” he asked.
“No, no, nothin’ like that.”
“Did you cause injury?”
The question seemed to perplex the man, or at least render him momentarily silent.
“No…not really.”
“Then why are you being sued?”
Setting his misshapen felt hat on the desk, Farrell reached into his trouser pocket and drew out what looked like an official document. He carefully unfolded the sheet of paper and smoothed out the wrinkles before sliding it across the desk.
It was a legal document. Grant scanned it quickly until he came to Meg Lockwood’s name. A vision of a pretty, round face seemed to float up from the page. He remembered everything about her: her pretty pink cheeks, small dainty frame, and large, expressive eyes. He also remembered how she had struggled to smile the day they met on the street, even though her heart had been so recently broken by this very man.
Grant sucked in his breath and forced his gaze down the rest of the document. “It says here you’re being sued for breach of promise.” Miss Lockwood was asking for damages amounting to ten grand. That was a lot of money, even by Boston standards.
Farrell rubbed his chin. “Can she do that?”
“’Fraid so. It says you broke a promise to marry her and left her at the altar.” The memory of Miss Lockwood standing alone in the cemetery in her wedding gown tugged at Grant’s insides, and his hands clenched. It took every bit of professionalism he possessed not to toss Farrell out on his ear.
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Farrell grimaced. “I don’t deny any of that, but there were extinguishin’ circumstances.”
Garrison tossed the document on the desk. “I believe you mean extenuating circumstances.”
“Yeah, that too.” Farrell leaned forward. “I need a lawyer, and no other lawyer in town will touch my case.”
Elbows on the desk, Grant tented his fingers. “What makes you think I will?”
“You’re new in town. You can take sides, and no one will think the worse of you.”
Grant opened his mouth to say something, but Farrell quickly stopped him.
“Before you go sayin’ no, let me explain what happened.”
Rubbing his neck, Grant considered Farrell’s request. Personally, he disliked the law that allowed a woman to sue a man for promises that were so often only implied, or even imagined. The Boston courts were filled with such cases. Recently, one unfortunate man had been forced to pay twenty thousand dollars to a woman he hadn’t set eyes on in eighteen years. His one mistake had been peering into her baby carriage and declaring her a beauty. Based on that one innocent gesture, he was accused of backing out of a promise of marriage when she came of age, and he was financially ruined.
Of course, in Miss Lockwood’s case, no question existed about the nature of the promise. As much as he found such lawsuits distasteful, Grant didn’t blame the lady for taking revenge.
He tapped his fingers together. “I don’t handle these kinds of cases.”
A lawyer could hang a reputation on a single sensational case. In that regard, a heart-balm tort was made to order—alienation of affection, seduction, breach of promise; they were all sensational. But fame didn’t pay the bills and was often more of a hindrance than an asset. A lawyer’s real bread and butter came from land disputes and routine legal chores, and that’s what Grant had intended to concentrate on when he’d moved here.
“Please, there’s no one else. At least listen to my side.”
“I don’t have much time.” He had all the time in the world.
Farrell’s gaze traveled over Grant’s desk, empty save for the blotter and inkwell. “It’ll only take a few minutes.”
Grant blew out his breath. “Very well.”
Farrell sat back. “I guess you could say it started at last year’s winter dance.” His skinny red mustache twitched. “Everyone kept askin’ when Meg and I would set the date. Meg said she wouldn’t marry me unless her pa and mine stopped bickerin’ and agreed to a single time zone.”
Farrell pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed his forehead. “Then my pa surprised us all by sayin’ he would agree to such a thing if Mr. Lockwood did the same.” His twang grew more distinct as he continued. “Everyone badgered Meg’s pa until he finally agreed to end the feud and”—he snapped his fingers—“just like that, Meg and I were betrothed.”
Grant narrowed his eyes. He didn’t want to sympathize with the man, but he could see how small-town peer pressure might have put Mr. Farrell in a difficult position.
“How could you have gone along with this if you didn’t love her?” A promise to marry was considered a legally binding contract. A man would be foolish to pledge such a thing unless he was serious.
“Oh, I love her all right. I’ve loved her ever since I was five and she was three, and I saw her runnin’ down the street stark naked.”
Grant blinked and cleared his throat. Erasing the memory of her intimate garments from his memory took considerable effort. “Did…did Miss Lockwood feel the same about you?”
“I-I think so.”
“You think so?” Grant frowned. “Did…Miss Lockwood have no other suitors?” he asked.
“Oh, plenty,” Farrell said with a nod. “But old man Lockwood chased them all off. He tried to get rid of me too, but I refused to go away.” Farrell rubbed his chin. “Meg was the best friend I ever had, and I miss her somethin’ awful, but we’re as different as night and day. She’s perfectly content to stay in Two-Time, and I want to see the world. Her idea of a good time is to curl up with a book.” He wrinkled his nose. “I want to sail an ocean, and she wants to read about it.”
Farrell looked so distraught and sounded so sincere that Grant felt sorry for him despite all his efforts to the contrary. At least Farrell had been man enough to own up to his feelings before ruining Miss Lockwood’s life. His instincts were sound, even if his methods left much to be desired.
“Please, I need a lawyer. You’re the only one in town who didn’t turn me down before hearin’ my side.”
Grant hesitated. His office had been open for a month, and to date, Farrell was the only one soliciting his services. He’d had no idea it would be so difficult for a big-city lawyer to earn a small town’s trust.
He mentally ran through his options. If he could talk the two feuding families into accepting a compromise, perhaps people would view him more favorably. Eighty percent of the breach-of-promise cases in Boston were settled out of court. Still, he didn’t want to take sides against the lady.
“By way of disclosure, you should know that I happen to be acquainted with Miss Lockwood and my sympathies lie with her.”
Farrell nodded. “She has my sympathies too, but not ten thousand dollars’ worth.”
Grant folded his hands on the desk. “Hell has no fury like a woman scorned.”
Farrell leaned forward. “It’s not Meg’s fury that worries me. It’s her pa’s. He’s using this as an excuse to ruin my pa and run him out of business. Please say you’ll help me.”
Left at the Altar
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About the Author
New York Times bestselling author Margaret Brownley has penned more than forty-eight novels and novellas. She’s a two-time Romance Writers of America RITA finalist and has written for a TV soap. She is also a recipient of the Romantic Times Pioneer Award. Not bad for someone who flunked eighth-grade English. Just don’t ask her to diagram a sentence.
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