If the Prospect Pleases Page 4

  “Hm. I see your point—however unlikely it is. I’ll mention the possible solution to the Widow Thornby when next I call on her.”

  “This opportunity comes straight from God’s hand, Phineas,” Mrs. Baxter murmured. “I truly feel it.”

  “Yes, well, unless the widow and her son are receptive to the suggestion, there’s no point in mentioning it to anyone just yet. Most especially not Annora.”

  “I agree. I’ll not say a word.”

  “Good. Well, I have some calls to make, my dear. I’ll escort you over to the parsonage.”

  Seconds later, the closing of the side door echoed hollowly through the building.

  Annora felt utterly empty, utterly alone. She sank slowly to the floor in silent misery, the tears inside her trapped somewhere between anguish and despair. What had she done to deserve such punishment? Would the Lord truly allow such a fate to befall her?

  Even hours later, the ache remained. The church had once again been set to rights, ready for the next service. Annora had beaten the Persian rug from the parlor free of dust and polished Mrs. Baxter’s silver tea service to a satin sheen. As she replaced her soiled work apron with a fresher one up in her attic room, her wrist brushed against the pocket, bringing a faint crackle of paper. The unposted notice—still awaiting a prominent place on the public board! If it weren’t for her forgetfulness, someone might have seen it and applied for the position by now!

  Annora gave fleeting thought to the possibility of writing to the widower herself, then just as quickly rejected the idea. After all, if a man were desperate enough to advertise for a wife, he must be even worse than Percival Thornby!

  The uncharitable thoughts pricked her conscience. She really must remember to take that bulletin with her next time she went to the church! Tossing it on the stand beside the bed, she hastened downstairs to help with supper.

  “You seem a little off today,” Mrs. Henderson remarked a short while later, quartering the potato Annora had just peeled. She dropped the cut vegetable into the pot of stew bubbling atop the coal range. “Something troubling you, honey?”

  Annora manufactured a smile. “I’m a little tired.” It was by no means a lie, but neither was it the whole truth. She just didn’t trust herself to elaborate on something which—hopefully—might turn out to be of no consequence. Time enough for that if her worst fears were confirmed. Percival Thornby might not accept the Baxters’ proposition.

  “I’m sure you are,” the kind woman crooned. “And sorry I was that you were left with the whole sanctuary to do after that big funeral.”

  “No matter. It’s finished now.” She rinsed another potato in the bowl of water and handed it to the housekeeper, then started on the carrots. But having been reminded of Lucas Brent and his troubles, mere moments before, her mind drifted to the matter several times as she continued supper preparations. Perhaps someone in another church had responded to the widower’s plea, and soon he would have the help he so desperately needed. She prayed so.

  ❧

  “. . .and Mr. Montclair said I’d played a wonderful rendition of the piece,” Mirah boasted proudly, taking a second warm roll from the basket and breaking off a small section. She dipped it in her stew, then popped it into her mouth.

  “Why, that’s splendid, darling,” her mother gushed. “I’m gratified that your talents merit the dear price we pay for the man’s instruction.”

  Only vaguely listening to the chatter over the mealtime tinkle of silverware and china, Annora took a sip of water from her goblet. As she did, she caught a peculiar look pass between the minister and his wife, and a sickening dread erased the limited appetite she had brought to the supper table.

  Mirah, however, seemed blissfully unaware of the underlying current of tension Annora felt as keenly as a toothache. “He has ordered a new collection of minuets and concertos for me to master,” the younger girl went on, her brown eyes sparkling. “If I learn them well enough, he says I might be invited to play in the next recital at the conservatory! And only a select few of his outside students are extended that honor, Mother.” Her long, tapered finger flicked a shining ringlet behind her shoulder.

  “How wonderful, my dear,” her father commented. “However, do rest assured that whether or not an invitation to play at the conservatory ensues, your mother and I are very proud of you.”

  “Indeed.” Giving her daughter’s hand a few loving pats, Mrs. Baxter then rang a tiny silver bell, signaling for dessert.

  Annora stood at once and began collecting dinner plates and bowls. Rounding the head of the table, she reached to remove the pastor’s dishes.

  “Thank you,” he said in customary politeness, but his demeanor appeared troubled. He cleared his throat. “Later this eve, after you’ve finished helping Nellie, Mrs. Baxter and I would like a word with you, Annora. In my study.”

  “Yes, sir,” she managed, purposely refraining from meeting Mirah’s curious expression. And worse, his wife averted her gaze entirely. Annora’s insides began to quiver. Please, Heavenly Father, don’t let it be what I think it is. I could not bear that. But inside, she knew the plea was in vain.

  ❧

  Annora found the older couple waiting for her when she finally succeeded in forcing her legs to carry her to the study. The room, with its rich assortment of books lining the built-in shelves, had grown quite familiar to her since she’d begun dusting and sweeping it regularly. But on this visit the scent of the leather bindings she had once found so pleasant seemed cold and acrid. The very atmosphere was heavy and unwelcoming.

  “Come in, child,” the reverend said calmly. “And close the door, if you will.” His small frame seemed dwarfed behind his massive carved desk.

  Noting Mrs. Baxter’s rigid posture in a Queen Anne side chair, hands folded in the lap of her somber afternoon ensemble, Annora could scarcely will her trembling fingers to make the latch function. But as the click echoed in the room, she drew a ragged breath and straightened her spine, then turned to face her guardians.

  “Sit down, please,” the minister said, gesturing toward a vacant chair near the desk.

  As always, she obeyed.

  “I’ll come right to the point,” he continued. “You are aware, of course, that a prominent member of our congregation has passed away.”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Well, it seems the late Mr. Thornby left his loved ones in somewhat of a quandary. Through an unusual stipulation inserted in his most recent will, it seems his only son and heir, Percival, is prohibited from claiming his rightful inheritance for many years unless he marries before his next birthday. . . which, as it happens, is less than a month away.”

  Only with supreme effort was Annora able to remain dutifully in her seat. The compulsion to flee the room, her guardians, and the house was all she could imagine as a way out of this horrible predicament. Her throat tightened. “I–I fail to see what that has to do with me,” she stammered.

  “On the contrary, my dear,” Mrs. Baxter said evenly, her aloof hazel eyes suddenly focused directly on Annora, “it would quite surprise me if you did not have some inkling regarding the decision my husband and I have made, as well as your personal involvement in the matter.”

  A huge mass of fear clogged Annora’s throat.

  “We have approached Percival Thornby and his mother with what we feel is a solution to a number of problems. Ours and theirs,” the Reverend Baxter announced.

  “Please,” Annora begged, looking from the man to his wife, then back again. “Please, don’t tell me I—”

  “Oh, do not resort to useless entreaties,” his wife piped in. “It has been obvious to us from the very first that you have been anything but grateful we took you into our home.”

  “But that’s not true—”

  Mrs. Baxter raised a hand to silence her. “Regardless of your denials, I fear your actions have spoken far more blatantly than anything you might try to say now. Let me assure you that for some time I have bee
n on the verge of complete and utter despair over your spiteful deeds. For such an opportunity to arise now in order to benefit the lot of us, it can only have come from the Almighty’s own hand.”

  “You do happen to be of marriageable age,” the reverend explained before Annora could respond. “And for us, your legal guardians, to be able to arrange such an advantageous match for you is an answer to prayer. We can rest in knowing you will be comfortably taken care of. The Thornby wealth is considerable. If our Mirah wasn’t so young, we would not hesitate a bit in securing such a splendid match for her.”

  “But. . .but I. . .can’t—”

  The older woman’s obvious impatience began to assert itself. “We did not call you in here to ask your opinion of the matter,” she stated firmly. “Only to inform you that your marriage to young Mr. Thornby has been agreed upon and will proceed as swiftly as we are able to arrange it. Naturally, as our ward, we desire you to have a beautiful wedding not unlike we intend for our dear Mirah one day. These plans, of course, will take some doing, on such short notice. But that is our concern, not yours.”

  “I shall post the banns at once,” her husband went on.

  “And I shall schedule your first fitting for your bridal gown and trousseau on the morrow,” Mrs. Baxter added.

  Annora could only stare in mute defeat. They weren’t interested in her opinion. They didn’t care how she might feel about having her whole future handed to someone she loathed. And their dear sweet Mirah. . .Annora could just imagine the triumphant gloating she’d have to endure from that one!

  “In view of the nearness of your upcoming nuptials, Annora,” Mrs. Baxter said, cutting into her bitter musings, “we shall, of course, relieve you of some of your duties. We wouldn’t want you to appear taxed when the day of your wedding arrives.”

  Stunned and shocked as she was over the fate awaiting her, the pronouncement of less work carried not even the slightest comfort. Annora could not manage any kind of utterance. The older couple regarded her steadily as if she should consider this the happiest news ever delivered.

  “You may go to your room now,” the minister finally said. “I’m sure you need time to thank our blessed Lord for this most fortunate turn of events. And tomorrow evening, we will invite your betrothed to supper. It’s only proper that the two of you become better acquainted in the scant time remaining before you two are united in marriage.”

  “Our Mirah will be so pleased for you,” her mother breathed.

  With that understatement ringing in her ears, Annora rose with as much dignity as she could muster, her quaking legs barely able to support her as she stumbled to the door and mounted the stairs to her sanctuary in the attic.

  And all the way up, she hoped she would die in her sleep.

  Collapsing on her bed, she drew her knees to her chest and lay shivering in her misery, her glance drifting idly about the small quarters. Her gaze came to a dead halt when it fell upon the forgotten notice still awaiting its prominent position on the public board.

  Annora bolted upright and snatched it from her bedside table. Heart pounding, she unfolded the handwritten bulletin and read it over again.

  A housekeeper. She’d had sufficient qualifications there.

  Someone to care for two small children. Well, no actual experience, but Mama had often remarked that a child who was kept clean and fed was a happy child.

  If the prospect pleases, position could lead to matrimony.

  In this case, she would at least be given a choice. And surely, whoever this Lucas Brent was, he couldn’t be any worse than that mama’s boy, Percival Thornby. Could he?

  Annora rooted through a discarded lap desk she’d discovered some weeks ago and removed paper and a quill, praying that her letter and Mr. Brent’s returning answer would reach their destinations before the dreaded day.

  five

  In her newest, most fashionable jade taffeta gown, her red-gold tresses a mass of ringlets intertwined with ribbons, Annora grudgingly answered the summons to join the Baxters and her intended in the parsonage’s luxurious parlor.

  Percival Thornby rose and met her in the doorway as she approached. “Ah. Miss Nolan,” he wheezed. “I’ve been anticipating the opportunity to dine with you this evening.”

  “Mr. Thornby,” she managed, with a slight dip of her head as she smothered her displeasure.

  He reached for her hand and bowed ceremoniously over it. Thankfully, however, he did not kiss it but escorted her to the indigo brocade settee and seated her. He took the opposite side.

  A brief uncomfortable period followed, during which no one looked at anyone for more than a split second. Finally the Reverend Baxter resumed the polite conversation Annora’s arrival had obviously interrupted.

  Tongue-tied amid the drone of voices, she disregarded them completely, maintaining her composure by sheer determination. She could not help noticing how the waistcoat of Percival’s black silk suit strained across the broad expanse of his belly as he leaned back against the cushions. And the collar of his shirt had been starched so crisply he appeared to have no neck at all.

  Annora shifted her position and tried to focus on the contrast between the heavy furnishings and some of the exquisite porcelain figurines adorning the room. Anything to keep her mind and eyes elsewhere. From time to time she would become aware of Percival Thornby’s admiring glances, and her color heightened along with her discomfort. This evening was destined to last forever.

  But she could not dismiss the expression on her intended’s flushed face. . .a mixture of incredulity and satisfaction at having been granted a hitherto unattainable prize. And something about the way he looked at Annora made her feel undressed. She studied her hands, tightly clasped in her lap to keep them still.

  “I’m ready to serve supper, madam,” Mrs. Henderson finally announced from the doorway.

  Everyone rose. But before Annora could take a step, Percival tipped his head politely and offered his arm. She forced a smile and placed her fingers lightly atop his smooth sleeve. At least in the dining room, eating would consume part of the time, and she would have a valid excuse not to join the inane chatter.

  “And what are your future goals, Percival?” the Reverend Baxter asked, after everyone had been seated and the blessing pronounced. He handed the platter of roast pork to their guest.

  The fleshy young man altered his position self-consciously on the chair. “Goals. Ahem.” He helped himself to several generous slices of meat. “I suppose,” he announced in his high-pitched lisp, “I’ll be doing my utmost to look after the two women in my life. I haven’t thought beyond that.”

  Two women. Annora cringed inwardly at having been thrown upon the Thornby household merely as a means to save the inheritance. She could only surmise how the recently widowed matriarch would view the presence of a usurper to her son’s attention.

  Detecting Mirah’s barely visible smirk as the dark-haired girl took a sip of water from her goblet, Annora felt the last remnants of hunger vanish. Normally she would have devoured the sumptuous fare, but tonight the sight and smell of serving dishes heaped high with the housekeeper’s fine cooking only made her stomach churn. She accepted the platter Percy was passing to her and took the smallest slice possible. He, however, scooped a veritable mountain of mashed potatoes onto his plate and sampled a forkful.

  “Are you planning a wedding trip?” Mirah asked him, her lips twitching with restrained mirth.

  “Trip. Ah.” Percy swallowed and blotted his mouth on his napkin. “Actually, Miss Nolan and I have not yet discussed her wishes along that line. Mother and I are making arrangements to set aside a six-week period for travel. Naturally, we will be only too happy to escort my new bride anywhere she desires.”

  Annora’s heart plummeted as everyone turned to her, awaiting a response. All she could think of was how very little effort it would take to be sick, right here, in front of them all.

  ❧

  Lucas listened idly to the jingle of the h
arness as Jethro and Rex, his workhorses, plodded homeward from town in the growing dusk.

  “How much farther, Papa?” Melinda asked, standing up in the bed of the wagon and clutching the seat back. “I have to go.”

  “Me, too,” Amy piped in at her side.

  “Didn’t you go with Miss Rosemary to the outhouse, like I told you, while I was getting the supplies?” he chided his older daughter gently.

  “Yes, Pa, but then she took us to the well and let us turn the crank. She let us have a big drink of cold water from the bucket. Now we have to go again.”

  “Okay, okay.” Rolling his eyes, Lucas released a long, slow breath and drew in on the reins. “There are some bushes over there,” he indicated with his head. “Be quick about it.”

  “Yes, Papa,” the youngsters chorused. Hopping down from the wagon, they bolted happily out of sight.

  Waiting for the girls to return, Lucas reached for the mail he’d picked up in town and sifted through it one more time, carefully, just in case there had been a letter from back East that he hadn’t noticed. But no such luck. Maybe there’d never be an answer.

  He set aside the items from the post office and let his thoughts drift to Rosemary Evans, the comely milliner whose small bonnet shop was becoming more and more a lucrative enterprise with the growth of Cheyenne. Though fetching enough to turn any number of heads, the hatmaker showed no inclination to marry at the moment. . .at least, not a widower who’d been “saddled,” as she’d termed it, with two children.

  Lucas suspected that if he’d been left completely alone, however, flaxen-haired Rosemary would have been first in line to pick up the pieces of his life. She’d all but come right out and said it over refreshments she’d served when he’d gone by her place to pick up the badly needed mending she’d been kind enough to do for him. No, best not to entertain fantasies about a lady who was more interested in making her fortune than she was in being mama to a pair of little girls that weren’t hers.