Regina Jennings Page 13

  Yes, he’d been there all night with her. Vaguely she remembered a man holding her as she tossed fitfully. What else had happened?

  “We have to get married,” she rasped as soon as the water freed her voice.

  She didn’t hear any words for a moment. Edward withdrew.

  “The delirium has been quite intense at times,” he said.

  “This isn’t your wife?”

  Where silence should’ve fallen, a strange ringing filled her head. After what seemed an eternity she barely heard Edward’s answer.

  “No, sir, she’s not.”

  “You’re mistaken if you think I’ll transport a lady for illicit purposes. We will uncouple your car, and you can sit here in Marion.”

  “That wouldn’t be helpful. She needs a doctor.”

  “Sounds like she wants a parson,” the conductor said.

  Molly tried to sit up. “A parson. We need a parson, Edward. You’ve already stayed here one night with me.”

  “I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding,” he said.

  But the conductor interrupted. “Forget the parson. I’m sending for the sheriff. I don’t like the sound of this.”

  “No sheriff, please. Surely we can come to some manner of agreement.”

  Molly fell into the pillows, curious about the fear in Edward’s voice. He’d said that a big wedding was impossible, so why did he care if they got hitched at some little way station? She lost focus as another current of exhaustion pulled her under.

  When she floated to consciousness again, she found that she and Edward were alone.

  “Where’d the man go?”

  “To get a parson, as you requested.” He ran his fingers through his hair as he paced the narrow room. “It’s not that I don’t want to marry you, but a marriage will be complicated. There are certain legal implications I wish to avoid.”

  She ran her tongue over dry lips. “Your family will object?”

  His laugh was not pleasant. “Very much. You have no idea what this could cost me.”

  Molly felt like a wet noodle. A hungry noodle, if that were possible. Had she any strength she would’ve pointed out the absurdness of the situation.

  Of course, his parents wouldn’t be happy that he’d married a nobody from tiny Prairie Lea, Texas, but it was a little late now. Why worry about his folks back East when the conductor was threatening to send him to jail and haul her tainted petticoats back to Caldwell County?

  Surely his parents wouldn’t cut him off. She motioned for another drink of water. What if she’d forsaken Bailey to marry a penniless Edward? What would Carrie call it? Divine irony?

  “I’m hungry.”

  “Forgive me. The current dilemma has caused me to be unmindful of you. I’ll have Freida bring you some breakfast.”

  “Freida?”

  “Your lady’s maid. The one who helped you to bed. You don’t remember?”

  Molly fiddled with the lace on her nightgown’s sleeve as he left the paneled room to find the maid, her thoughts clearing. A lady’s maid? She should trust Edward. He wouldn’t have taken advantage of her, but didn’t he understand that his presence was enough to compromise her? True, they were getting married, so it wasn’t unforgivable, but she wouldn’t go another mile before they set it aright.

  By the time Molly had blinked again, a grisly-headed woman was arranging a tray of food next to her on the bed.

  “There’s some pretty eyes. Began to wonder if you had any. Here, eat some toast. It’ll be a good start. Pity getting married when you’re feeling sick as a dog.” She tore off a piece of toast and climbed right up on the bed beside Molly.

  Molly grimaced as she tried to swallow. “You must believe that I’d never have allowed Mr. Pierrepont to stay in my room had I been cognitive of the situation.”

  Freida laughed. “Don’t you worry, missy. I ain’t one to tell tales. Besides, I thought it was so romantic. He crouched by your bedside, giving you sips of water, changing out your cool cloths. And you clung to him, holding on to his shirt, begging him not to leave. It was sweet as syrup.”

  If Molly’s face hadn’t already been beet red, she would’ve blushed, but Freida didn’t seem to mind. She hummed a happy tune as she fed her another bite of toast, followed by a sip of tea.

  “You two will make a lovely couple, but it is a pity you won’t get to walk down the aisle.”

  Molly attempted gratitude but only managed a grunt. When she felt better she’d be sure and tell the woman what a comfort she was. Having a lady’s maid suited her. Maybe Edward would let her keep Freida.

  “It can’t be helped. I won’t pass another night without being legally wed, even if it means giving up on a fine wedding.” Molly ran her tongue over her teeth. Ugh. She must do something with her sour breath before he returned with the preacher.

  “Impatient, are we?” Freida laughed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Don’t you worry. By the time we pull out of the station, you’ll be man and wife—Mr. and Mrs. Bailey Pierrepont.”

  12

  “Bailey Pierrepont?” Molly mustered every ounce of strength and sat up to stare in amazement at the maid. “Did you say ‘Bailey’?”

  The woman smiled slyly, revealing a mouth with half the teeth God intended. “I told you, I’m not one to tell tales. Mr. Morgan has a different Mrs. Morgan every time he travels this stretch of track, but do I say anything? No. I’ll keep your secrets to the grave.”

  “Who said anything about Bailey?” Molly persisted.

  “You did. Last night you wouldn’t quiet down until Mr. Pierrepont held you—brought a tear to my eye, no less—and you were crying, ‘Hold me, Bailey. Please don’t leave me.’”

  Molly could feel the chill start at the base of her spine and work its way up. She groaned and clutched the blankets. Why hadn’t Edward thrown her out this morning? Instead he’d gone for a preacher. No wonder he was reluctant.

  She gritted her teeth together. She’d make it up to him. She couldn’t school her dreams, but she could discipline her behavior. Her actions would never cause him to question her loyalty. She owed him too much.

  “Like I said, I’m not a tale teller. Mrs. Carver has pads sewn into her corset cover and Mrs. Treadwell is practically bald, but do I say anything? Never. Couldn’t pry my mouth open with a crow bar.”

  The idea of having a lady’s maid had lost its appeal.

  A knock at her door sent Freida scurrying to gather the dishes.

  “Come in,” Molly croaked and smoothed the duvet over the sheets. She still hadn’t brushed her teeth.

  Edward stuck his head into the room and, seeing nothing amiss, allowed a red-faced clergyman and the conductor to cross the threshold.

  “Miss Lovelace.” The man doffed his hat to reveal a shiny dome atop a tomato-colored face. “Reverend Snow at your service. Mr. Postmont has informed me of your tragic condition. I was taken aback by his suggestion, but I understand your circumstances are most unusual.”

  “Reverend Snow, may we start the ceremony before her strength fades?” Edward dropped his hat on the dresser and pulled a chair next to the bed. Keeping a respectable distance between them, he reached for her hand.

  Her eyes blurred as the parson flipped through his prayer book and began the words she’d longed to hear. Never would she have thought to have them spoken over her while lying in bed aboard a train. Through her fever-weakened eyes she saw Edward, as pale as dry bones, rub his bare ring finger. Obviously, he hadn’t prepared for this ceremony, either.

  He allowed a wan smile in her direction. Molly squeezed his hand. He was holding up his end of the bargain. She would do no less. Looking up at the parson, she tried to assume the countenance of a bride blissfully happy to marry the man of her dreams.

  Under normal circumstances Bailey would’ve loved to chew the fat with Rico, but he was on a mission. Regardless, the horseman had spotted him and wasn’t letting him go without a greeting.

  “We’ve been looking
for you, Bailey. Where have you been hiding?”

  Bailey gestured over his shoulder. “I was feeling puny. Stoker let me ride it out at the parsonage, but I should have sent word to Ma. Kinda lonely getting sick solo.”

  Rico wagged his dramatic eyebrows. “Unless you’re more foolish than I thought, you won’t be alone much longer.” He pulled a note from inside his leather vest and handed it to Bailey. “From your señorita bonita.”

  Bailey’s boots didn’t move another inch. He unfolded the note with lightning speed, flipped the paper over, and caught his breath.

  Rico laughed at him. “It’s good tidings, no? Sorry they did not reach you sooner. Miss Lovelace was searching for you desperately. Even your madre was concerned.”

  “Just under the weather. Tell Ma I’m all right. I’ll tell Molly in person, right after I have a little chat with her pa.”

  Bailey almost ran before he caught himself. His uncertain mission now looked brighter than new spurs. With remarkable self-control he strode down Mill Street until he reached the Lovelaces’ fine abode on the river.

  Nicholas opened the massive oak door. “Didn’t expect to see you until the weekend.”

  Always more of a city boy growing up, Nicholas had truly become a man of sophistication since winning his own business contract with the railroad. Bailey wished he’d been as successful, but if Nick continued to connect Thomas Lovelace with railroad barons, he’d be helping them all.

  “I came to check on your pa. How’s he faring?”

  Nicholas stepped aside to allow him entrance. “He’s doing well. Itching to get back to the mill, but Dr. Trench is adamant. I don’t know that Mother will be able to handle him.”

  “That’s what I came to talk to him about.”

  Nicholas waved Bailey on toward the parlor, but not before Bailey caught a cinnamony whiff of snickerdoodles. He followed Nicholas and found Mr. Lovelace sitting morosely before a checkerboard, and it looked like he was winning. His canvas pants and sturdy shirt spoke of a man heading to work, but his stockinged feet said otherwise.

  “What they’re doing to me is unconscionable. I’m in the prime of my life, and they’re coddling me like I’m in my dotage.”

  “Nice to see you up and around, Mr. Lovelace.” Bailey offered one hand and removed his hat with the other, but Thomas waved it off as Nicholas made himself comfortable on the sofa.

  “It can’t be nice to see me. Not in this temper. Either I die happy at work, or I’m going to make everyone wish I would.”

  Lola entered with a tray of mugs. Ah, warm cider. Even better than snickerdoodles. Bailey had to force a few swallows down his sandpaper throat before he went on.

  “That’s what I came to talk to you about. I wanted to offer my services.”

  Thomas Lovelace narrowed his sunken eyes. “I heard you’ve been blacksmithing, shoemaking, and ministering. Have you taken up doctoring, as well?”

  “No, but I’d like to try my hand at working a saw.”

  Nicholas’s face lit up. He bounded to his feet. “That’s a capital idea. I’ve spent more time here than I should. If you could take over—”

  But the elder Lovelace wasn’t convinced. “What do you know about managing a sawmill?”

  “Managing? Is that what you need? A manager? I thought Russell James would take your place.”

  Thomas huffed. “Can’t trust a man with a scalawag son.”

  “Russell James is honest,” Bailey said. “You can’t hold him responsible for Michael. He did the best he could.”

  “Then he failed, and it’ll only be a matter of time before he sinks to the level of the boy.”

  “Father, I agree with Bailey. Russell has been a loyal employee for years. Each morning and evening he comes by and gives a full account of every cent that crosses the till. Why don’t you promote him?”

  “He does the billing, and that’s bad enough. I have to verify the numbers every night. If Bailey was any good at figuring, I’d give him that responsibility, but what I need worse is someone to sell to the customers and settle disputes. Russell fawns and simpers like they’re doing him a favor. I need someone with more confidence to chew the fat with my regulars.”

  “Chew the fat?” A slow smile spread across Bailey’s face. His thumbs slid under his vest and stretched it as he rocked on his heels. “There’s two things I’m good at, and talking up people is one of them.” At the black scowl from Mr. Lovelace he quickly added, “Playing the guitar is the other.”

  “What do you say, Father? Wouldn’t you rest easier if Bailey was your front man?”

  Mr. Lovelace crossed his arms and looked Bailey up and down. Bailey expelled a tension-filled breath but couldn’t draw another one through his chapped lips. How he wished he hadn’t aired his dirty laundry in front of the church and Molly’s parents. What a dimwit.

  “I’d like to have someone I could trust if Michael James starts poking around. I reckon it’d beat selling the whole kit and caboodle to that Pierrepont fella.”

  “Pierrepont?” Bailey’s jaw set. “What’s Pierrepont got to do with it?”

  “He sent an offer. Adele won’t let me know the terms until I can consider it calmly, but if it was a decent bid, I think she’d have shown it to me by now.” He grunted. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not selling to the likes of him. If he had funds to invest, then we’d have a deal, but I’m not going to let him run my life’s work into the ground on a whim.”

  “Absolutely not.” It was Bailey’s turn to pace. “He’s merely passing through. Why would he want to be tied to Prairie Lea?”

  The ticking of the grandfather clock grew deafening. Thomas swept all the checker pieces off the board and onto the table. “I’m done playing.” He moved the card table and got to his feet.

  “Wait, Father.” Nicholas stepped into his path. “Don’t you have something to tell Bailey?”

  The man blinked and rubbed his recently distressed chest. His eyes darted to Bailey, and then to the floor.

  “He deserves to hear it here and not in the papers,” Nicholas said.

  But that was enough. Bailey knew.

  Carefully Bailey balanced his hat on the mantel over the fireplace between a candlestick and a tintype picture of the family. There sat a younger Molly with her golden curls proudly cascading down her shoulders, nearly to her elbows.

  “He’s going to propose.” Fear rose in his throat before he could remind himself of her letter.

  “Yes, and I didn’t get nearly what I wanted. If Adele’s afraid of my reaction when I see the offer, then it’s not promising. Evidently he’s the black sheep in a family of golden fleeces. He’ll probably sell out at the first opportunity, maybe even to my competitor Merriweather in Luling.”

  Bailey whirled. “So the mill won’t profit from Molly’s marriage?”

  “Not unless he can throw some business this way. He might have contacts, but none around these parts. She would’ve been better off to have stuck it out with Fenton’s son.”

  Bailey stepped forward. “Mr. Lovelace, I’d like permission to marry Molly.”

  He could feel Mr. Lovelace’s eyes burning through his hide. Bailey hoped he saw a man who loved his daughter. For all his failures, he hoped Mr. Lovelace at least credited him that.

  Mr. Lovelace harrumphed and the floor creaked beneath him. “If you could convince her to marry you on a manager’s wages, then you’re a better salesman than I thought.”

  “Does that mean I have your blessing?” Bailey snatched his hat from the mantel and moved toward the door.

  “To be honest, I need a manager more than I need a son-in-law. You aren’t going to let that simpleminded daughter of mine interfere with our arrangement, are you?”

  Bailey was on his toes, raring to go. “Tomorrow I’ll start working for you, engaged or not. I’m anxious to get started.”

  Mr. Lovelace’s face eased. Before answering he stomped and shook out the deep creases in britches that hadn’t been straightened all day.r />
  “In that case, I won’t tell you no, although I wish you no luck. We’ve raised that girl for finer society, but if she can’t discern between you and Mr. Pierrepont, there never was any hope for her.”

  Bailey would waste no more time. He saw Lola preparing supper as he passed by on his way out the door. “Keep two plates warm,” he called to Mr. Lovelace, “and I’ll be back, but not without your daughter.”

  13

  LOCKHART, TEXAS

  “She wouldn’t leave town with him!” Bailey shoved himself away from Reverend Stoker’s simple oak table and scrambled to his feet.

  The reverend grasped his arm. “Steady, son. There’s no way around it. Those are the facts.”

  “But it’s not true. It can’t be. She told me to come get her. She promised to marry me.” Bailey laid his hand across the vest pocket that held her folded note.

  “If I hadn’t verified it myself, I wouldn’t have gone looking for you,” Stoker said. “I spent the morning hunting down all the information I could.”

  If it weren’t for Mrs. Stoker, sitting at the table with bowed head and folded hands, he’d have stomped out. Her lips were moving silently, talking to God about him, no doubt. Praying for what? That it was a mistake? That Molly would return unharmed?

  As if reading his mind, her voice rose. “Please, Father, tend to your injured child. Help him find your will in this. Help him to forgive those who’ve betrayed him.”

  Bailey shook off Stoker’s hand and moved to the solitary window. Her voice continued, softly interceding for him, but he wasn’t listening. She might as well pray for manna to fall from the sky as pray that he’d find acceptance.

  The weak winter sun threw gray shadows over the yard, delineating every blemish in the bark of the oak tree. The dead grass waved listlessly under the pale scrutiny with no growth, no life. Just waiting until boots treaded across it and wore it down. Waiting until it was free of the roots that held it to the ground and it could blow away. Disappear.