PIPER JAMES
Copyright © 2021 by Piper James
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover by Molly Phipps at We Got You Covered Book Design
Created with Vellum
Foreveryonewhohasroyallymessedup…don’tletyourmistakes defineyou.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
Untitled It Started With A Bang About the Author
Also by Piper James
Check out the other books in the Milestone Mischief series!
Acknowledgments
Felicia
Have you ever made a decision you thought was for the best, then later, you realized it really wasn’t? Like, maybe it was the worst decision you’ve ever made, and now you’re stuck having to clean up the mess you made?
Yeah. That was what my life looked like less than a year after picking up and moving to Atlanta.
Oh, I’d done some things right—excelled at my new job as a paralegal at a big law firm, studied my ass off, aced the bar exam, and got my license to practice law in the great state of Georgia—but the things I’d done wrong far outweighed the things I’d done right.
I’d lied. To everyone I knew. Everyone I loved. My co-workers. My family. My best friends.
My baby-daddy.
That’s right. I, Felicia Stone, woman who feared nothing and no one, had run from my hometown of Milestone with my tail between my legs and a bun in the oven without telling a soul I’d gotten myself knocked up during a one night stand.
Maybe it was the hormones that made me do it. I’d felt trapped, and my fight-or-flight instinct had screamed at me to flee. I needed time. I needed space to think. I’d just lost my job. How was I
supposed to have a happy, healthy pregnancy with no income? No insurance?
So I convinced myself leaving Milestone and getting a job in Atlanta was my only choice. It was the only way to physically and emotionally survive what I’d been about to go through. But I was wrong. I’d had other choices, but I’d just been too fucked in the head to consider them.
But I was better now. I was home. I would tell everyone the truth. I’d make things right.
And I’d agreed to work side-by-side with said unsuspecting babydaddy, who had no clue I was about to introduce him to his threemonth-old son.
After M.J. was born, I’d started having second thoughts about my choices. I loved him more than my own life, and I didn’t want him to be mommy’s little secret anymore. I wanted him to know his grandparents. His actual andhonorary aunties and uncles. His father, who could’ve very well hated me once the truth came out.
But that was a chance I’d have to take.
There was a knock on the door, and I took a deep breath before swinging it open. It was time for M.J. to meet his aunties.
“Hey,” Karly squealed, wrapping me in her arms before pushing past me into the house. “Where is he?”
“In the living room,” I called out to her retreating back before hugging my other friends—Jessa, Ivy, and Lola.
I closed the door and followed behind them to find Karly holding M.J., her eyes flooded with tears. He was gurgling up at her happily, his tiny fingers tangling in her red hair. The others crowded around her, cooing and proclaiming him the cutest boy in the world.
He really was the cutest baby. With my black hair and his father’s bright blue eyes, he couldn’t get much more adorable. I knew I was biased, as were my friends, but still. He was pretty fucking gorgeous.
Karly passed the baby to Jessa before turning toward me with her arms crossed over her chest. My muscles tensed, preparing for battle.
“I can’t believe you kept him a secret from us.”
“Karly, leave her alone,” Jessa chastised. “She explained everything at Ivy and Nate’s wedding.”
“After lying to us for months!” Karly spat, shooting me an accusing glare.
Karly Brooks had been my best friend since elementary school, and we never kept secrets from each other. I broke her trust. I’d kept the pregnancy to myself, skipped town and refused to see her or any of the others until I came home for Ivy’s wedding—two months after M.J. was born. I didn’t blame her for being angry.
But I came clean at the reception. I’d told them everything, baring my soul and begging forgiveness. I’d also begged them to keep the news to themselves until I had a chance to tell everyone myself. Especially Karly.
Because M.J.’s father was none other than Marshall Parker— billionaire, lawyer, and my new boss. And he was also Karly’s future brother-in-law.
Her fiancé Max was Marshall’s twin brother, and if Max caught wind that I’d had Marshall’s baby, nothing would stop him from going straight to his brother and telling him everything. And as scary as it was, I wanted to be the one to tell him.
It was the right thing to do.
“I said I was sorry,” I replied to Karly’s outburst. “I wasn’t thinking straight, and then, after I moved, it was just easier to pretend. I wasn’t ready. Now, I am.” Ithink.
“We understand,” Ivy said, shooting Karly a pointed look.
Seeing it, Karly tossed her hands into the air and darted forward to hug me again.
“I love you, you big lying asshole,” she whispered, and I felt the tension drain out of me.
“I love you, too,” I replied, tightening my grip on her.
“He’s such a happy baby,” Lola said, taking her turn holding M.J.
“He really is,” I said, my lips curving upward. “I never knew I could love someone so much.”
Jessa nodded, and Ivy got all teary-eyed, rubbing a palm over her flat belly. She’d just announced her pregnancy to everyone,
including her new husband, during their wedding ceremony last month.
My eyes roamed over them, and a sadness crept over me. Things were so different now. Jessa and Rafe were married with a sevenmonth-old daughter. Ivy was newly married and expecting, and Karly and Lola were both engaged.
And I was a single mom, getting ready to admit to my new boss that he and I had created this miracle the night we’d slept together —before he snuck out while I was sleeping and never mentioned it to me again.
So, when I’d found out that night had resulted in a pregnancy, I’d made a series of bad decisions all sparked by Marshall’s distant behavior. That night had been a mistake. He didn’t want me. He wouldn’t want this baby.
And he’d think I got pregnant on purpose. To trap him. To get his money.
The Parker brothers’ father was a giant douche canoe, and he’d spent a lot of energy trying to persuade Max to break things off with Karly. He’d gotten into Max’s head, arguing that a relationship with Karly was inappropriate and dangerous. And while Jaxson Parker couldn’t convince his son Karly was after his money, he had convinced him their relationship could ruin his new business venture with Marshall—the law firm they’d worked so hard to make a success.
I was watching my best friend fall apart when I found out I was pregnant, and I just knew Jaxson would convince Marshall I’d gotten pregnant on purpose to get my hands on a piece of the family fortune. I didn’t know exactly what I wanted, but I didknow I didn’t want the precious life growing inside me to become a weapon in their feud.
I also didn’t want Marshall to be stuck with me when it was so obviously notwhat he wanted.
I’d done a lot of soul searching over the last few months, and realized I’d been doing nothing but reacting. Reacting to Marshall’s behavior. Reacting to the unexpected, life-changing results of our night together.
And those knee-jerk reactions had taken me down a road I didn’t want to be on. I needed to fix things, and this was the first step. Coming home. Telling the truth. Taking my life back.
I needed to let Marshall have the opportunity to be a father to his son. It was the right thing to do. Even if he hated me, I knew he would love M.J. It was impossible not to.
And even if Marshall shocked me and rejected him, I’d be able to sleep at night knowing I’d tried to do right by my son.
“He looks like Max,” Karly said, her expression turning dreamy. I assumed she was thinking about her own future children. With Max and Marshall being identical, there was a decent chance her own children would have the same features as M.J. Minus the black hair, of course.
The twins were blond, and Karly had bright red hair. Her children with Max would have lighter coloring, but their features would be similar.
I smiled, imagining M.J. running around with his future cousins. Following Jessa’s daughter Frankie around with Ivy’s baby tagging along at their heels. They’d all be close, growing up together and navigating their lives as best friends.
Yes. Coming home had been the right decision.
I just hoped Marshall was as enamored with our son as my friends and I were.
FMarshall elicia Stone was back. Even though I’d put out word with her friends that I’d give her a job in my office when the law firm she worked for shut down, she ignored the offer and left town months ago. Guilt had wracked me, knowing my cowardice had been the root of her refusal. And the reason she’d felt she had no choice but to leave everyone she knew and loved.
I sat on the couch in my new house, staring at the ceiling as I let the memories flow through my mind.
It had started with a dare. My employee-turned-future-sister-inlaw had started a silly game of Truthor Dare that led to me kissing Felicia…a kiss I would never forget. Soft lips that were surprisingly yielding. Smooth skin. Her pulse fluttering beneath my fingers as I moved my hand up the column of her throat to tug open her mouth with my thumb.
She tasted like heaven.
I’d played the whole thing off like my entire world hadn’t just been rocked, but it had. To its core. I’d wanted to spend hours exploring that luscious mouth, but we’d been at a bar, surrounded by our friends. It hadn’t been the time or place.
That kiss had plagued me, making me want more. Every time I saw Felicia, I wanted to push her against the nearest wall and taste
her again to see if I’d imagined how delicious she was. I wanted to touch her everywhere to see if her skin was as smooth and soft as I’d remembered. I wanted all of her, but she held a tight rein on her emotions, never giving me a clue if the obsession I’d formed for her was one-sided or not.
Then one night, Max and I had gone out and ran into the girls at the bar. We’d joined them, and at first, Felicia had been completely standoffish. Max and Karly had cut out on us, leaving Felicia with the task of giving me a ride home.
And I’d taken full advantage of the situation.
The more Felicia drank, the more her walls came down. She was funny and smart. She was gorgeous, and her perfume did things to me I couldn’t describe in polite company. Every time she leaned toward me, her scent in my nose and her laughter in my ears, my dick stood up to attention.
I’d ended up driving her home, and when she invited me up, I couldn’t say no.
The sex had been even more amazing than I’d imagined it would be. Felicia was magnificent.
But when I’d woken at dawn, doubt and guilt had consumed me. She was drunk. I wasn’t. I’d let my desire for her take over, and I’d completely ignored the little voice in my head warning me against doing something I couldn’t take back.
I lay there for a while, listening to her soft, even breaths while I debated what to do. In the end, I’d taken the coward’s way out. Rather than face her possible anger or worse, regret, I’d snuck out while she was still sleeping.
And I’d regretted it ever since.
But the damage had been done. Felicia made no attempt to speak to me again before she left town. I didn’t see or speak to her again until she came back to town for Ivy and Nate’s wedding last month.
I’d cornered her at the church, making uncomfortable small talk before blurting out an offer I was sure she’d refuse. My brother was retiring, and I needed help at the firm. She had earned her license to practice law, and working for me would give her the opportunity
to come home. I’d sold it as a win-win, then waited on bated breath while she mulled it over.
To my surprise, she’d accepted my offer. We shook hands and went our separate ways, and I spent the rest of the ceremony and reception covertly watching her, waiting for some sign that she’d forgiven me for my behavior. That maybe she wasn’t angry anymore. But she didn’t look at me again.
I’d been on pins and needles ever since, waiting for her to call and tell me she’d changed her mind. But that call never came. I’d heard from Max that she was officially back, living at her parents’ house for the time being until she could find a new place to live.
And today, I got a text from her asking if we could meet in private. She was on her way over now, and my heart rate accelerated with each minute that passed as I waited.
Would she berate me for my mistakes? Would she set hard boundaries, keeping our relationship strictly professional? Or would she climb onto my lap and tell me she missed me?
“Stop it, asshole,” I muttered.
I neither expected nor deserved anything like that from her. I’d fucked up any chance we had, and I needed to deal with it. Whatever might’ve been was long gone. Because of me.
A knock sounded on the door, and I leapt to my feet. Smoothing a hand down my white button-down shirt and adjusting the cuffed sleeves, I walked over and swung it open. My breath caught in my throat at the sight of her in a fluffy red sweater and tight jeans. Her lips were painted to match her top, and her long black hair hung like a silk curtain around her shoulders.
“Hi,” she said, quietly. “Can we come in?”
My eyes widened at her words, and I looked behind her, seeing no one. I looked back at her in question, and her eyes dropped. Following her gaze, I stumbled back a step. On the porch at her feet was a black and blue baby carrier holding a sleeping infant.
At her pained expression, I smoothed out my features. Stepping to the side, I held out an arm and invited her in. She gave me a tight smile, then grabbed the carrier by its handle and shuffled inside.
“Nice place,” she said quietly as I closed the door behind her.
“Thanks,” I said, leading the way into the living room. “I just moved in a few weeks ago, so I’m still getting used to all this space.”
I’d been living in a small apartment when she left town, a place I’d rented when Max and I weren’t sure if our life in Milestone was going to work out. It was touch and go at first, but once Felicia’s exboss Bobby Sumner retired and closed his law firm, business had taken off.
Max had hounded me into finding a permanent residence, and when this place went on the market, I fell in love with it. With four bedrooms, a large, open floor plan, and a gourmet kitchen, the house itself was gorgeous. But it was the property that cinched the deal for me.
Twelve wooded acres surrounded the dwelling. A small pond out back was brimming with largemouth bass and bluegill. The thick forest teemed with life, including herds of whitetail deer. I wouldn’t have to leave my own property to hunt in the fall.
I’d offered the full asking price on the spot, and the sellers had been eager to sign the paperwork. I was over the moon. It didn’t matter that I rattled around in the big house all by myself. Max and Karly would visit, and their future kids would be able to romp around the property in wild abandon.
And hopefully, I’d have a few kids of my own, someday.
“Thanks for seeing me,” Felicia said, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Of course,” I said, fighting to keep myself from staring at the baby. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“I’m good,” she said, smiling.
I pointed toward the couch, and she took a seat, setting the carrier near her feet. I perched on an adjacent chair, and a stilted silence hovered between us. I opened and closed my mouth several times, but no sound came out. And I couldn’t stop my eyes from returning to the sleeping infant at her feet.
“This is M.J.,” she said quietly. “My son.”
“Your son?” I asked stupidly.
It was obviously her son. Why else would she have him with her? But hearing it out loud still shocked me. But….Felicia had a baby? Since when? He was tiny, which meant he couldn’t be that old. I knew fuck-all about babies, so I had no clue. He could be a few weeks or a few months.
Before I could come up with an appropriate response, she said the two words that changed my life forever. “Ourson.”
Felicia
Fuck.Why did I just blurt it out like that?
“Marshall? Are you okay?” When he just stared at M.J. with wide eyes, I added, “Say something.”
“What do you mean, our son?” he asked, his rounded eyes moving up to meet mine.
“He’s your son, Marshall,” I reiterated. “But…how?”
I struggled to hold in a smart-assed remark about his not knowing how babies were made. Now was not the time. He was in shock, and I needed to treat him with kid gloves. This was too important.
“I found out I was pregnant before I left town,” I admitted quietly. “I freaked out and didn’t handle things well. But there’s no question—he’s yours. You’re the only man I slept with last year.”
“And you just left? Without telling me?”
His face was turning red, and I could practically see his anger gathering steam. I knew this would happen, but I still wasn’t prepared for it. My guilt multiplied as his body began to vibrate with fury.
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled.
“You’re sorry?” he gritted out between clenched teeth. Then louder, “You’re sorry?”
“I didn’t know what to do,” I said, keeping my own voice calm as M.J. stirred in his sleep.
“Or maybe you thought you’d gain something by springing this on me,” he growled.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he spat. “A lot of rich people would pay a shitload of money to cover up a mistake like this.”
Anger surged through me as I leaned toward him, staring at him through narrowed eyes.
“Do not call my son a mistake.”
His face paled, and he seemed to fold into himself. Fury raged through me at his words, but not surprise. No, this was what I’d been afraid of all along. Expected it, even.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did,” I said, cutting him off. “But here are the facts. We fucked. You snuck out and never called. I ended up pregnant. Then, I lost my job. I had nothing, and Atlanta offered me an escape, so I took it. But I realized it was a mistake, and now I’m back, trying to make things right. If you don’t want to be a part of our son’s life, so be it. But do not accuse me of using him as some kind of payday. I don’t want your fucking money. I don’t want anything from you.”
“Felicia, I’m…” His words trailed off as he scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t think you’re after my money.”
He was trying to backpedal, but I knew the truth. His first reaction had been raw and unfiltered, and it proved I was right. He thought I was using M.J. for my own gain. I looked down at the sleeping angel by my feet, and my eyes burned with emotion.
I wasn’t here for myself. My feelings didn’t matter. All that mattered was my son.
I reached down and gently unbuckled him from his seat before lifting him into my arms. His little lips pursed as he snuggled into my embrace. His tiny hands curled into fists, and a quiet sigh slipped out of him. Tearing my eyes away from him, I met Marshall’s gaze.
“I came back not only because Milestone is my home, but because I wanted to give you the chance to get to know your son. For him to get to know you. To grow up knowing his father. If you don’t want that, tell me now. I’ll find another job. I can live with my parents as long as I need to. We’ll be fine. With or without you in our lives.”
Marshall was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling violently as he perched on the edge of his chair. I almost felt sorry for him, having all this information dumped on him like this. But I’d gone through the whole pregnancy alone—my flighty cousin I’d lived with in Atlanta hadn’t been much help—and I was strong enough to raise M.J. on my own. This wasn’t for me. This was for Marshall. And M.J. He needed to make his choice, but I didn’t intend to be so demanding when I made the decision to come here and tell him everything. Of course, he needed some time to think. The thought ramped up my own guilt.
“I can go,” I said quietly. “Take as much time as you need to decide.”
“No!” he shouted, reaching out a hand when I moved to put M.J. back into his car seat.
I startled, and the movement woke the baby. He started to cry, and I hugged him to me as I cooed softly. Marshall remained perfectly still, and I looked up to catch him staring at M.J., his expression filled with wonder.
Once the baby settled down and dozed back off, Marshall eased off his chair and onto the couch beside me.
“Can I…hold him?” he asked, lifting his arms toward me.
I nodded, emotion clogging my throat as I gently passed M.J. to him, cautioning him to support his neck. He was stiff, his movements awkward as he situated the baby in his arms and leaned back against the couch cushions.
My tears spilled over at the look of wonder on Marshall’s face as he held our child, brushing a fingertip over his forehead, down his nose, and across his cheek. He touched M.J.’s hand, and his tiny fist curled tightly around Marshall’s finger.
His gaze shot up to meet mine, and tears glistened on his lashes. “What does M.J. stand for?”
I sniffed loudly and cleared my throat. “His name is Marshall Lucas Parker, Jr. I hope you don’t mind. I named him after you.”
I’d had no intention of naming him after Marshall. I’d picked out several names, deciding to wait until I saw him to choose. But I had taken one look at his sweet little face, and I’d known who he was. He was his father’s son. When the time came to fill out the birth certificate, I’d ran an internet search on Marshall to find his middle name. In a fog of scattered emotions, I’d neatly written it out, giving my son the legacy he deserved.
If nothing else, he would have his father’s name.
Marshall was staring at me with wide, teary eyes. He shook his head slowly, his eyes blinking away the moisture that had gathered there.
“I don’t mind at all,” he whispered before looking back down at his son.
As if he felt the enormity of the moment, M.J. stretched, yawning widely before blinking open his eyes.
Marshall
The tiny creature in my arms wriggled, yawned, and opened his eyes. My heart stopped, dying in my chest as I met his stare. His grip on my finger tightened as if he knew who I was. His dad.
“He has my eyes,” I choked out past the lump that had formed in my throat.
I couldn’t tear my gaze away from him, but I saw Felicia nod in my peripheral vision. Her eyes were almost as dark as her hair, and the bright blue orbs studying my face were the exact same shade as mine. My gaze took in the rest of his little face.
“And my nose and chin,” I said, my voice filled with all the wonder I was feeling.
“Yeah,” Felicia agreed softly. “He looks exactly like you, but with my black hair.”
M.J.’s mouth opened, and a sweet little cooing sound came out with a fair amount of saliva. My heart pounded back to life, threatening to beat right out of my chest.
This was my child. My son.
And just like that, I was in love. I’d never felt such a strong emotion, and I wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. If I let it out, it might blow this house apart.
I finally tore my eyes away from him and looked at Felicia.
“Thank you,” I breathed.
She was crying, and her entire body shuddered as she nodded in response. She seemed to deflate, as if she’d expected me to cast them both out. To reject them.
M.J. let out a little mewl, and Felicia held out her hands to me.
“He’s probably hungry,” she said softly. “I should feed him.”
“Can I do it?” I asked, feeling an overwhelming need to nourish my son, despite having no idea how no go about it.
I looked back at his now-grumpy little face. My son. I couldn’t get over it.
“You don’t exactly have the right equipment for that,” she said, her voice filled with humor.
My gaze shot back up in confusion to see her draping a small blanket over her chest. Her hand dove underneath, and she grabbed her breast. Wait. I shook my head and blinked a few times. She wasn’t fondling herself, she was baring her breast underneath the covering, preparing to feed M.J.
“Oh. Right,” I said, chuckling.
I passed the baby to her, and she lifted the blanket to tuck him against her breast. Little sucking noises filled the room, and something inside me cracked. I leapt to my feet, turning this way and that before striding into the kitchen. Yanking open the refrigerator door, I pulled out a beer and twisted off the cap.
I leaned against the island, my eyes unfocused as I tried to come to terms with my new reality. I was somebody’s father. A dad.
What the fuck did I know about being a dad? I didn’t have the best example. My own father was a manipulative douchebag whose only goal was growing his empire. At least I knew what notto do.
But that didn’t mean I would be good at it. What if I fucked him up?
“You okay in there?”
Felicia’s voice rang in my ears, and I took a deep breath. Setting the untouched beer on the counter, I walked back into the living room. She stared at me with wary eyes, and I felt a sudden urge to wipe the expression from her face.
She was too important. She was my child’s mother.
“Yeah,” I breathed. “It’s just…a lot.”
“I know,” she said softly.
I plopped down into a chair. “So, what now?”
It seemed like a dumb question, but I really had no idea what would come next. The lawyer in me knew on some level that there would be legal ramifications—visitation, child support, parental rights —but I wasn’t thinking like a lawyer just then.
I was thinking like a man whose life had just been turned on its head.
“I know it’s going to be complicated,” she said slowly, “but I want to make this as easy on you as possible. I want you to be a part of his life. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here. But if you’d feel more comfortable with a legal document stating our rights and responsibilities, I’m not opposed to hiring a mediator.”
I nodded absently as she pulled M.J. from beneath the blanket and held him against her shoulder. She patted his back in firm little taps. He belched quietly, making me smile.
“He should be good for a while. Do you want to hold him again?”
Nodding, I slid out of the chair and onto the couch beside her. She gently passed him over, and I cradled him in my arms. I stared at him in awe as he dozed, then looked back at Felicia.
“Does anyone else know about him? And me?”
“My parents, of course. And I told the girls at Nate and Ivy’s wedding. Don’t be mad, but I made them promise not to tell anyone, especially Max. I knew he’d tell you, and I wanted it to be me.”
“So…no one knew you were pregnant?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head sadly.
“You were all alone?”
Sadness tinged with guilt washed over me at the thought. If I hadn’t been such an asshole, sneaking out before she woke up that morning, things would have been so different. Maybe she would’ve felt safe enough with me to tell me the truth. We could’ve weathered the storm together. A team.
“I had my cousin,” she offered.
“It’s not the same,” I said. “I really am sorry for how I treated you after that night.”
“What’s done is done,” she said firmly. “I’m only looking to the future these days.”
Her eyes dropped to the baby snuggled in my arms, and she smiled. I looked down at him, and my own lips curved up. He was beautiful. He was perfect.
He was mine.
Felicia
The gathering at Rafe and Jessa’s started out as a joyous affair. Ivy, Nate, Karly, Max, and I were invited over for dinner so the guys could meet M.J. Rafe and Nate’s sister Lola and her new fiancé, Dane, had left the day before for a quick trip to the coast to celebrate their engagement. I’d asked Jessa not to invite Marshall. I just thought it would be easier on everyone without the weird energy between Marshall and me making things awkward.
She’d agreed, and I’d made a mental note to text Marshall and set aside some time for him and M.J. to see each other.
Ivy and Nate were equally gaga over the baby, and I could see the anticipation in his eyes as he stared at M.J. over Ivy’s shoulder. Soon enough, he’d have his own child, and I could feel the joy emanating from him as his arm snaked around her, his fingers splaying over her belly.
Karly was her usual effervescent self, but Max wore a stubborn expression as he glared at me.
“Just say it,” I sighed when Ivy handed me the baby, and she and Nate wandered into the kitchen to help Rafe and Jessa with dinner.
“How could you just leave without telling anyone—without telling Marshall?”
“Max,” Karly chided.
“No, he’s right,” I sighed. “I already apologized to your brother, but I owe you an apology, too. I’m sorry, Max. I was scared and confused. I didn’t have a job, and Marshall was avoiding me. I panicked. I made some bad choices. I’m trying to fix it.”
“He’s my nephew,” Max said, his voice low and angry.
“He is,” I agreed. “Would you like to hold him?”
I knew it was manipulative, but if anyone could ease the tension and improve Max’s mood, it was my son. He had that effect on everyone. Especially his family.
I handed M.J. to him without waiting for his answer. Max held him close to his chest, his angry expression dropping into one of pure awe. I knew he could see himself in the baby’s face, and when M.J. opened his eyes and gurgled, a laugh burst through Max’s lips.
“He has our eyes,” he said softly.
“He looks just like his dad,” I replied, then took a deep breath. “Max, I’m trying to make things right. Marshall wants to raise his son, and I want that, too.”
His eyes darted up to meet mine. “How will that work?”
“We’ll figure it out. I believe we can be functional co-parents. Partners.”
He nodded, his eyes travelling from me, to the baby, then to Karly. “He’s perfect, isn’t he?”
“He is,” she agreed, reaching to brush her fingers over M.J.’s head as she smiled at me.
Max handed the baby to Karly and watched her cuddle him with stars in his eyes. I could tell he was imagining his future, when she would one day hold his child in her arms. I felt myself getting sappy, simultaneously happy for my best friend and maybe the tiniest bit jealous.
“You know, this is the easy part,” I said, my voice light and teasing. “You should try cleaning him up when he has a blowout.”
“A blowout?” Max asked, shooting me perplexed look.
“Poop explosion,” I explained, smirking. “All the way up the back and down the legs. It gets everywhere. Meanwhile, he’s screaming bloody murder and peeing all over the place.”
Max made a gagging noise, and Karly frowned.
“You’re making that up,” she accused in a soft baby voice as she made funny faces at M.J.
“No, she’s not,” Jessa said as she breezed into the room and took the baby from her. “The struggle is real, isn’t it, little man?”
“Once he put his hand in it, then reached up and tangled his fingers in my hair,” I said, fighting a grin.
“Ugh,” Karly groaned, shivering.
Jessa winked at me, then turned back to Karly. “Frankie spit up in Rafe’s mouth once.”
Max turned green, and Karly laid a hand on his arm before shooting me an accusing glare. I laughed, feeling more at ease than I had since getting home. I’d missed this—the jokes, the bantering back and forth. It was familiar when everything else was so drastically different.
“My turn,” Rafe called out as he joined us.
He took the baby from Jessa and sat on the couch with none of the bumbling awkwardness the other men exhibited when they held him. He was an old pro now that he was a dad. Frankie was almost seven months old, and the apple of her daddy’s eye.
I turned back to Karly and Max. “We’re just teasing you guys. I mean, shit like that does happen, but the good far outweighs the bad.”
“It sure does,” Rafe sing-songed, jiggling the baby in his arms.
Jessa excused herself to go check on dinner, and Karly followed her to the kitchen. Rafe was in his own little word, making baby noises at M.J. when Max caught my attention and motioned for me to follow him. He walked out onto the front porch, and I pulled the door closed behind us.
“Listen, I’m sorry if I was being an asshole before,” he started, but I shook my head to cut him off.
“I understand. You were just looking out for your brother.”
“That’s true,” he said, “but it still doesn’t excuse my behavior. I have never been in your position, and I have no right to judge.”
I nodded, accepting his apology even though I didn’t need it. I knew I’d fucked up. I was honestly surprised everyone was being as
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her friend stooped and kissed her, she looked up at her wistfully, and said—
“Ida, if this girl comes to you, you won’t think of her only as a marketable article, will you? You will allow her to marry—if she does marry—to please herself, won’t you, dear?”
“You silly, romantic little person!” exclaimed the other, patting her cheek with two solid taper fingers. “What an absurd question. As if any girl is ever married against her will in these enlightened days!”
Mrs. Sladen made no answer beyond an involuntary sigh. She went out to the verandah, and got into her rickshaw without another word and ere she was whirled away, nodded a somewhat melancholy farewell to her handsome, prosperous-looking friend who, clad in a rich tea-gown, had framed herself for a moment in the open doorway, and called out imperiously—
“The post goes at six; you have just ten minutes.” Then, with a shiver, Mrs. Langrishe closed the window and returned to her comfortable fireside. “Poor Milly!” she muttered, as she warmed one well-shod foot. “She was always odd and sentimental. Marry to please herself—yes, by all means—but she must also marry to please me!”
A rickshaw (the popular conveyance in the Himalayan hill-stations) is a kind of glorified bath-chair or grown-up perambulator, light and smart, and drawn and pushed by four men; it flies along flat roads and down hills as rapidly as a pony-cart, especially if your Jampannis are racing another team.
Mrs. Sladen’s rickshaw was old; the hood, of cheap American leather, was cracked and blistered, it had a list to one side, and her Jampannis wore the shabby clothes of last year—but, then, their mistress did the same! As they dashed down hill, they nearly came into collision with a smart Dyke’s cee-spring vehicle, and a quartette of men in brilliant (Rickett’s) blue and yellow liveries. The rickshaw
contained an elderly lady of ample proportions, with flaxen hair and a good-humoured handsome face surmounting two chins. This was Mrs. Brande, the wife of Pelham Brande, Esq., a distinguished member of the Civil Service.
“Kubbardar, kubbardar!—take care, take care!” she shrieked. Then to Mrs. Sladen, “My gracious! how you do fly! but you are a light weight. Well, come alongside of me, my dear, and tell me all the news; this place is as dull as ditch-water, so few people here. Next year, I shan’t come up so early.”
“I believe every house is taken,” said Mrs. Sladen, cheerfully, as they rolled along side by side. “Even the Cedars, and the Monastery, and Haddon Hall.”
“You don’t say so! The chimneys smoke beyond anything. I pity whoever is going there.”
“A bachelor, I believe, a Captain Waring, has taken it for the season, as it’s close to the mess.”
“In the regiment that’s marching up—the Scorpions?”
“No; I believe he is out of the service, and coming up for the hot weather, and to try and get some shooting in Thibet later on.”
“Then he must have money?” wagging her head sagaciously.
“Yes, I dare say he has. I’m told it is going to be a gay season.”
“That’s what they always say,” replied Mrs. Brande, impatiently. “I’ll believe it when I see it. But I did hear that Mrs. Kane is expecting a brother that is a baronet: he’s coming up to see the hills; he has been globe-trotting all winter. And so you have been up with the Duchess—she’s all alone, isn’t she?”
“Yes, for the present; but she will soon have a niece with her—a niece from Calcutta.”
“A niece!” sharply, and leaning half out of the rickshaw. “What niece?”
“Her brother’s daughter, Miss Paske; she is said to be very pretty and accomplished, and attractive in every way.”
“You need not tell me that!” in accents of concentrated contempt. “Is Mrs. Langrishe the woman to saddle herself with an ugly girl? She’ll be having grand parties now; all the rich young fellows, and the baronet—no poor subalterns, you’ll see—and she will get her off her hands in no time. Just the sort of thing she will like, and a fine excuse for having packs of men dangling about the house.”
“Oh, Mrs. Brande, you know that is not her style,” expostulated her companion.
“Well, well, she is your friend—a school-fellow, too—though you must have been in the infant-school, so I’ll say no more—but you know I am not double-faced, and I cannot abide her, and her airs, and her schemes, and her always pushing herself to the front, and sitting in the general’s pew, and being the first to ask that Austrian prince to dinner, and getting up at parties and sailing out before the commissioner’s wife—such impudence!—and people put up with her. If poor little Mrs. Jones was to do such things—and she has a better right, being an honourable’s daughter—I’d like to know what would be said? But there’s no fear of Mrs. Jones; there’s no brass about her,” and Mrs. Brande gave a bounce, that made the cee-springs quiver!
“Now, Mrs. Brande, you forget that Ida is my friend.”
“Ay, and better be her friend than her enemy! Well, here is my turn, and here we part”; and, with a valedictory wave of her podgy hand, in another instant Mrs. Brande was thundering down the narrow road that led to the best house in Sharani—her own comfortable, hospitable dwelling.
Mrs. Sladen posted her letter, and went on to the club and reading-room, a long, low building overlooking a series of terraces and tennis-courts, and the chief resort of the whole station. As she entered the gate, she encountered an elderly gentleman, with beetling brows, a coarse grey moustache, and a portly figure, riding a stout black pony.
“Been looking for you everywhere,” he bellowed; “where the mischief have you been? Swilling tea as usual, I suppose? Soper
and Rhodes are coming to take ‘pot luck,’ so go home at once—and, I say, I hear there is fish at Manockjees’, just come up; call in on your way, and fetch it in the rickshaw.”
Exit Colonel Sladen to his evening rubber; exit Mrs. Sladen to carry home much-travelled fish, and possibly to cook the chief portion of the dinner.
CHAPTER III.
“OTHER PEOPLE HAS NIECES TOO.”
Mrs. Sladen had not only given Mrs. Brande a piece of news; she had introduced her to a grand idea—an idea that took root and grew and flourished in that lady’s somewhat empty mind, as she sat alone in her drawing-room over a pleasant wood-fire, which she shared impartially with a sleek, self-conscious fox-terrier.
All the world admitted that once upon a time “old Mother Brande” must have been a beautiful woman. Even now her fair skin, blue eyes, and chiselled features entitled her to rank as a highly respectable wreck. Who would have thought that refined, fastidious, cynical Pelham Brande would have married the niece of a lodginghouse keeper? Perhaps if he had anticipated the career which lay before him—how unexpectedly and supremely successful he was to be, how the fierce light inseparable from high places was to beat upon his fair-haired Sarabella—he might have hesitated ere he took such a rash and romantic step. Little did he suppose that his fairhaired Sally, who had waited so capably on him, would one day herself be served by gorgeous scarlet-clad Government chupprassis; or that she was bound to walk out of a room before the wives of generals and judges, and that she would have a “position” to maintain! But who is as wise at two and twenty as he is at fifty-two? At two and twenty Pelham Brande had just passed for the India Civil Service, and was lodging in London; and whilst preparing for the Bar he got typhoid fever, and very nearly died. He was carefully tended by Mrs. Batt, his landlady, and her lovely niece Sarabella, who was as fair as a June rose, and as innocent as a March lamb.
The best medical authorities assure us, that nothing is so conducive to convalescence as a skilful and pretty nurse, and under the influence of Sara’s ministrations Mr. Brande made rapid progress towards recovery, but fell a victim to another malady—which proved
incurable. He did not ask his relations for permission or advice, but married his bride one morning at St. Clement Danes, took a week’s trip to Dover, and two first-class passages to Bombay.
As a rule, junior civilians are despatched without ruth to lonely jungle districts, where they never see another white face for weeks, and their only associates are their native subordinates, their staffs of domestics, and the simple dwellers in the neighbouring villages. Now and then they may chance on an opium official, or a forest officer, and exchange cheroots, and newspapers; but these meetings are rare. After a busy university career, after an immense strain on the mental faculties, necessary to passing a severe examination, the dead sameness of that life, the silence and loneliness of the jungle (aggravated by the artless prattle of the office baboo), is enough to unhinge the strongest mind. Miles and miles from the haunts of his countrymen, from books and telegrams, and the stir and excitement of accustomed associations, the plunge from the roar of the London streets, and life at high pressure, to the life in a solitary up-country district, is indeed a desperate one; especially if the new-comer’s eyes and ears are not open to the great book of Nature—if he sees no beauty in stately peepul-trees, tracts of waving grain, venerable temples, and splendid sunsets; if he does not care to beat for pig, or shoot the thirsty snipe, but merely sits in his tent door in the cool of the evening, his labours o’er, and languishes for polo, cards, and theatres. Then he may well curse his lot; he is undeniably in a bad way.
Pelham Brande had nothing to fear from loneliness or ennui. Sara made him an excellent helpmate. She picked up the language and customs with surprising facility; she proved a capital housekeeper, and as shamelessly hard at a bargain as any old native hag. But she never took to books, or to the letter “h.” For years the Brandes lived in out-of-the-way districts, and insignificant stations, until by slow degrees his services and abilities conducted him to the front. As advancing time promoted him, his wife declined in looks, and increased in bulk, and her tastes and eccentricities became fixed. Pelham was not actually ashamed of his partner, but he was alive to the fact, that, with a cultivated gentlewoman at the head of his
establishment, he would have occupied a vastly more agreeable social position. But he never admitted—what his friends loudly affirmed—that, as he sat opposite to Sara day after day, he was also sitting face to face with the one great mistake of his life!
Twice he had taken her to Australia for six months, but never (nor did she desire it) to her native land. Once, years ago, he ran home himself, and was received by his relations, as relations generally welcome a wealthy, childless, and successful man. They even brought themselves to ask, somewhat timidly, for Sara; and she, on her part, sent them generous consignments of curry powder, red pepper, and her own special and far-famed brand of chutney. The good lady had not many resources beyond housekeeping. She read the daily paper, and now and then a society novel, if it was plentifully peopled with lords and ladies; she could write an ordinary note, invitation, or refusal, and a letter (with a dictionary beside her). She was fond of her cows, and poultry, and adored her dog Ben; gave excellent, but desperately dull dinners; dressed sumptuously in gorgeous colours; enjoyed a gossip; loved a game of whist—and hated Mrs. Langrishe. She lived a monotonous and harmless life, vibrating between the hills and plains each season, with clockwork regularity.
As Mrs. Brande sat before her fire, and watched the crackling pinewood, she was not happy. Officially she was the chief lady of the place, the “Burra mem sahib;” but clever Mrs. Langrishe was the real leader of society, and bore away all the honours—the kernel, so to speak, of distinction, leaving her but the miserable shell. With a young and pretty girl as her companion, she would be more insufferable and more sought after than ever As it was, she, Sara Brande, could make but little stand against her; and once her enemy was allied to a charming and popular niece, she might figuratively lay down her arms and die. She was a friendless, desolate old woman. If her little Annie had lived, it would have been different; and she had no belongings, no nieces. No! but—happy thought!—Pelham had no less than three, who were poor and, by all accounts, pretty. He had helped their mother, his sister, to educate them; he sent them money now and then. Why should she not adopt one of these girls, and
have a niece also? Yes, she would write herself; she would speak to Pelham that very evening after dinner (it was his favourite dinner). The more she became accustomed to the idea, as she turned it over in her mind, the more she was filled with delight, resolve, and anticipation. The girl’s route, steamer, room, dresses, were already chosen, and she was in the act of selecting her future husband, when Mr. Brande entered, brisk and hungry.
After dinner, when Mr. Brande was smoking a cigarette, his artful wife opened the subject next to her heart, and remarked, as she handed him a cup of fragrant coffee—
“Pelham, you are often away on tour, are you not? and I feel uncommon lonely, I can tell you. I am not as active or as cheerful as I used to be. I’m too old for dancing, and tennis, and riding. Not that I ever was much hand at them.”
“Well, do you want to come on tour? or shall I buy you a pony, or hire you a companion?” inquired Mr. Brande facetiously—a cleanshaven, grey-haired man, with thin mobile lips, keen eyes, and, at a little distance, a singularly boyish appearance. “What would you like to do?”
“I should like to ride and dance by proxy,” was the unexpected answer. “Let us ask out one of those Gordon girls, your nieces. I’d be very good to her; and you know, Pel, I’m a lonely creature, and if our own little Annie had lived, I would not be wanting to borrow another woman’s daughter to keep me company.”
Mr Brande was surveying his wife with a severely judicial expression; it relaxed as she spoke of their only child, buried far away, under a tamarind tree, on the borders of Nepaul.
Yes, their little Annie would have been five and twenty had she lived, and doubtless as lovely as Sally Batt, who had turned his head, mitigated his success, and whom he rarely repented of having married.
“Your sister has three girls,” she continued, “and she is badly off. What is the pension of a colonel’s widow? Why, less than some folks give their cooks.”
“It is not considerable, certainly, and Carrie finds it hard enough to make both ends meet; she never was much of a manager. But, Sally, a girl is a great responsibility, and you are not accustomed to young people.”
“No; but I can learn to study them, for I’m fond of them. Say ‘Yes,’ Pel, and I’ll write. We will pay her passage, of course, and I’ll meet her myself at Allahabad.”
Mr. Brande tossed the end of his cigarette into the fire, fixed his eye-glass firmly in his eye, and contemplated his wife in silence. At last he said—
“May I ask what has put this idea into your head all of a sudden?”
“It’s not—exactly—sudden,” she stammered; “I’ve often a sort of lonely feel. But I must truthfully say that I never thought of your niece till to-day, when I heard that Mrs. Langrishe is getting up one of hers from Calcutta.”
Mr Brande jerked the glass hastily on to his waistcoat, and gave a peculiarly long whistle.
“I see! And you are not going to be beaten by Mrs. Langrishe—you mean to run an opposition girl, and try which will have the best dresses, the most partners, and be married first? No, no, Sally! I utterly refuse to lend myself to such a scheme, or to allow one of Carrie’s daughters to enter for that sort of competition.” And he crossed his legs, and took another cigarette.
“But listen to me, Pel,” rising as she spoke; “I declare to you that I won’t do what you say, and, any way, your niece will be in quite a different position to the Langrishe’s girl. I’ll be as good to her as if she was my own—I will indeed!” and her voice trembled with eagerness. “I’m easy to get on with—look how long I keep my servants,” she pleaded. “These Gordons are your nearest kin; you ought to do something for them. I suppose they will come in for all your money. Your sister is delicate, and if anything happened to her you’d have to take, not one girl, but the whole three. How would you like that? Now, if one of them was nicely married, she would make a home for her sisters.”
“You are becoming quite an orator, and there is something in what you say. Well, I’ll think it over, and let you know to-morrow, Sally. As to leaving them my money, I’m only fifty-two, and I hope to live to spend a good slice of it myself.” And then Mr. Brande took up a literary paper and affected to be absorbed in its contents. But although he had the paper before him, he was not reading; he was holding counsel with himself.
He had not seen Carrie’s girls since they counted their ages in double figures; they were his nearest of kin, were very poor, and led dull lives in an out-of-the-way part of the world. Yes, he ought to do something, and it would please the old lady to give her a companion, and a pretty, fresh young face about the house would not be disagreeable to himself. But what would a refined and well-educated English girl think of her aunt, with her gaudy dresses, bad grammar, mania for precedence, and brusque, unconventional ways? Well, one thing was certain, she would soon discover that she had a generous hand and a kind heart.
The next morning Mr. Brande, having duly slept on the project, gave his consent and a cheque, and Mrs. Brande was so dazzled with her scheme, and so dazed with all she had to think of, that she added up her bazaar account wrong, and gave the cook a glass of vinegar in mistake for sherry—which same had a fatal effect on an otherwise excellent pudding.
In order to compose her letter comfortably, and without distraction, Mrs. Brande shut herself up in her own room, with writing materials and dictionary, and told the bearer to admit no one, not even Mrs. Sladen. After two rough copies and two hours’ hard labour, the important epistle was finished and addressed, and as Mrs. Brande stamped it with a firm hand, she said to herself aloud—
“I
do trust Ben won’t
be jealous. I hope he will like her!”
Being mail day, Mrs. Brande took it to the post herself, and as she turned from dropping it into the box, she met her great rival coming up the steps, escorted by two men. Mrs. Langrishe was always charming to her enemy, because it was bad style to quarrel, and she knew that her pretty phrases and pleasing smiles infuriated the other
lady to the last degree; and she said, as she cordially offered a neatly gloved hand—
“How do you do? I have not seen you for ages! I know it’s my business to call, as I came up last; but, really I have so many engagements, and such tribes of visitors——”
“Oh, pray don’t apologize!” cried Mrs. Brande, reddening; “I’d quite forgotten—I really thought you had called!” (May Sara Brande be forgiven for this terrible falsehood.)
It was now Mrs. Langrishe’s turn to administer a little nip.
“Of course you are going to dine at the Maitland-Perrys’ next week?” (well knowing that she had not been invited). “Every one who is anybody is to be there. There are not many up yet, it is so early; but it will be uncommonly smart—as far as it goes—and given for the baronet!”
“No, I am not going, I have not been asked,” rejoined Mrs. Brande with a gulp. She generally spoke the truth, however much against the grain.
“Not asked! how very odd. Well,” with a soothing smile, “I dare say they will have you at their next. I hear that we are to expect quite a gay season.”
“And I was told that there will be no men.”
“Really! That won’t affect you much, as you don’t ride, or dance, or go to picnics; but it is sad news for poor me, for I am expecting a niece up from Calcutta, and I hope the place will be lively.”
“But I do mind, Mrs. Langrishe, just as much as you do,” retorted the other, with a triumphant toss of her head. “Perhaps you may not be aware that I am expecting a niece, too?” (How could Mrs. Langrishe possibly divine what the good lady herself had only known within the last few hours?) “Yours is from Calcutta, but mine is all the way from England!” And her glance inferred that the direct Europe importation was a very superior class of consignment. Then she added, “Other people has nieces too, you see!” And with a
magnificent bow, she flounced down the steps, bundled into her rickshaw, and was whirled away.
Mrs. Langrishe stood watching the four blue and yellow jampannis, swiftly vanishing in a cloud of dust, with a smile of malicious amusement.
“Other people has nieces too, you see!” turning to her companions with admirable mimicry. “She is not to be outdone. What fun it is! Cannot you fancy what she will be like—Mrs. Brande’s niece, all the way from England? If not, I can inform you. She will have hair the colour of barley-sugar, clothes the colours of the rainbow, and not an ‘h’!”
CHAPTER IV.
THE THREE YOUNG MAIDS OF HOYLE.
It was true that Mrs. Gordon and her daughters resided in a dull, out-of-the-way part of the world; but they could not help themselves. They lived at Hoyle, in the first instance, because it was cheap; and, in the second place, because living at Hoyle had now become second nature to Mrs. Gordon, and nothing short of a fire or an earthquake could remove her.
Hoyle is in the south of England, within a stone’s throw of a shingly beach, and commands a full view of the white shores of France. It is an old-fashioned hamlet, at least fifty years behind the age, where the curfew is still sounded, the sight of a telegraph envelope is only interpreted as a messenger of death, and is cut off from the bustling outer world by the great expanse of Romney Marsh. In deference to this fin de siècle age, a single line of rail crawls across the seaside desert, and once or twice a day a sleepy train stops just one mile short of the village. The village of Hoyle was once a chartered town, and was built many centuries before trains were invented. It was even out of the track of the lively stage-coaches, and owed its wealth and rise—and fall—entirely to its convenient proximity to the sea, its seclusion, its charming view of the opposite coast. Yes, its solid prosperity—low be it spoken—was due to smuggling. The High Street is lined by picturesque red-brick houses, which are occupied by the descendants of—shall we say sailors?—a well-to-do primitive, most respectable community, though from yonder upper window the present tenant’s grandfather shot a preventive officer stone dead; and in the chimney of the next cottage (a most innocent-looking abode) three men who were in trouble lay concealed for a whole week. The capacious cellars of the Cause is Altered inn, were, within living memory, no strangers to bales of silk and casks of brandy.
Between the village and the inn there stands a solid old red house, with a small enclosed garden in front, and a paved footpath leading to its mean little green hall-door. The windows are narrow, the rooms irregular, and the ceilings absurdly low—but so is the rent. It suits its tenants admirably; it is warm, roomy, and cheap; it boasts of a fine walled garden at the rear, of acres of cellarage, and is known by the name of Merry Meetings. This jovial designation is not of modern date, but points back to the grand old days when it was the residence of the chief man in Hoyle; when it was club, bank, receiving-house, and fortress. Many were the carousals that took place in Mrs. Gordon’s decent panelled parlour. To what grim tales and strange oaths have its walls given ear! There have been merry meetings, of a much tamer description in the present time, when the maidens of the neighbourhood have gathered round the table, and chatted and laughed over cups of honest tea, brewed in Mrs. Gordon’s thin old silver teapot. Pretty girls have discussed dress, tennis, and weddings, where formerly weather-beaten, bearded men assembled to celebrate the safe arrival of a newly-run cargo, and to appraise filmy laces, foreign silks, and cigars, and to quaff prime cognac and strange but potent waters.
The widow and her daughters have occupied Merry Meetings for fifteen years, ever since the death of Colonel Gordon. He had retired from the service and settled down near a garrison town, intending to turn his sword into a ploughshare; but in an evil moment he ventured his all in a tempting speculation, hoping thereby to double his income; but instead of which, alas! water came into the Wheal Rebecca, and swept away every penny. Seeing nothing between him and the poor-house but a small pension, Colonel Gordon was not brave enough to face the situation, and died of a broken heart— though it was called a rapid decline—leaving his widow and three little girls to struggle with the future as best they could.
Colonel Gordon’s connections were so furious with him for losing his money, that they sternly refused to assist his widow; therefore she meekly collected the remains of the domestic wreck, and retired to Hoyle with her children and an old servant, who had strongly recommended her native place, where her “mistress could live in
peace and quiet until she had time to turn herself round and make plans.” Mrs. Gordon took Merry Meeting, which was partly furnished, for three months, and had remained there for fifteen years. Her plans were still undeveloped; she constantly talked of moving, but never got beyond that point. Occasionally she would say, “Well, girls, I really will give notice this term. We must move; we must decide something. I will write to a house agent. And, Honor, you need not mind getting the garden seeds, or having the kitchen whitewashed.” But when to-morrow came these plans had melted into air, and the garden-seeds were set, and the kitchen renovated, as usual.
Mrs. Gordon was something of an invalid, and became more lethargic year by year, and a prey to an incurable habit of procrastination. She resigned her keys, purse, and authority into the hands of her eldest daughter, and contented herself with taking a placid interest in the garden, the weather, the daily paper, and sampling various new patent medicines. She still retained the remains of remarkable personal beauty and a fascination of manner that charmed all who came in contact with her, from the butcher’s boy to the lord of the soil. People said that it was shamefully unfair to her girls, the way in which Mrs. Gordon buried herself—and them— alive. She never made the smallest effort to better their lot, but contented herself with sitting all day in a comfortable easy-chair, making gracious remarks and looking handsome, stately, and languid.
Life was monotonous at Merry Meetings. Two or three tennisparties in summer, two or three carpet-dances in winter, now and then a day’s shopping in Hastings, were events which were varied by long gray stretches of uneventful calm. The daily paper was a most welcome arrival; and the Miss Gordons entertained as eager an expectation of letters, of stirring news, of “something coming by the post,” of “something happening,” as if they lived in the midst of a large and busy community.
And what of the three Miss Gordons?
Jessie, the eldest, is twenty-six, and quite surprisingly plain. She has pale eyes and a dark complexion, instead of dark eyes and a
pale complexion, also a nose that would scarcely be out of place in a burlesque. She is clever, strong-willed, and practical, and manages the whole family with admirable tact, including Susan, the domestic treasure.
Jessie Gordon’s name is well known as the author of pretty stories in girls’ and children’s magazines. She earns upwards of a hundred a year by her pen (which she generally adds to the common purse), and is regarded by her neighbours with a certain amount of pride, slightly tempered with uneasiness. Supposing she were to put some of her friends into a book! However, they criticize her work sharply to her face, make a great virtue of purchasing the magazines in which her tales appear, and magnify her merits, fame, and earnings to all outsiders.
Fairy, whose real name is Flora, comes next to Jessie in age; she is about two and twenty, and has a perfectly beautiful face—a face to inspire poets and painters, faultless in outline, and illumined by a pair of pathetic blue eyes. A most delicate complexion—of which every care, reasonable or unreasonable, is taken—and quantities of fine sunny brown hair, combine to complete a vision of loveliness. Yes, Fairy Gordon is almost startlingly fair to see; and seen seated at a garden-party or in a ball-room, all the strange men present instantly clamour for an introduction; and when it has been effected, and the marvellously pretty girl rises to dance, behold she is a dwarf—a poor little creature, with a shrill, harsh voice, and only four feet four inches in height! Her figure is deceptive—the body very long in proportion to the limbs.
Many and many a shock has Fairy administered to a would-be partner. Did she ever read their consternation in their faces? Apparently never; for no matter who remained at home, Fairy could not endure to miss an entertainment, even a school feast or a children’s party. It was an unwritten family law that Fairy must always come first, must always be shielded, petted, indulged, amused, and no one subscribed to this rule more readily than the second Miss Gordon herself. She was keenly alive to her own beauty, and talked frankly to her intimates of her charms; but she never once referred to her short stature, and her sisters but rarely alluded to the fact
between themselves, and then with bated breath. Even six inches would have made all the difference in the world; but four feet four was—well, remarkable. Of course the neighbours were accustomed to Fairy—a too suggestive name. They remembered her quite a little thing, a lovely spoilt child, a child who had never grown up. She was still a little thing, and yet she was a woman—a woman with a sharp tongue and a despotic temper. Fairy had true fairy-like fingers. She embroidered exquisitely, and made considerable sums doing church needlework, which sums were exclusively devoted to the decoration of her own little person. She was also a capital milliner and amateur dressmaker; but she had no taste for music, literature, housekeeping, or for any of the “daily rounds, the common tasks.” She left all those sort of things to her sisters.
Honor, the youngest Miss Gordon, is twenty years of age, slight, graceful, and tall—perhaps too tall. She might have spared some inches to her small relative, for she measures fairly five feet eight inches. She has an oval face, dark grey eyes, dark hair, and a radiant smile. In a family less distinguished by beauty she would have been noteworthy. As it is, some people maintain that in spite of Fairy’s marvellous colouring and faultless features, they see more to admire in her younger sister—for she has the beauty of expression. Honor is the useful member of the family. Jessie could not arrange flowers, cut out a dress, or make a cake, to save her life. Honor can do all these. She has a sort of quick, magic touch. Everything she undertakes looks neat and dainty, from a hat to an apple-pie. Her inexhaustible spirits correspond with her gay, dancing eyes, and she is the life and prop of the whole establishment. She plays the violin in quite a remarkable manner. Not that she has great execution, or can master difficult pieces, but to her audience she and her violin seem one, and there is a charm about her playing that listeners can neither explain nor resist.
The youngest Miss Gordon has her faults. Chief of these, is an undesirable bluntness and impudent recklessness of speech—a deplorable fashion of introducing the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, no matter how unwelcome or how naked—and a queer, half-absent, and wholly disconcerting way of thinking aloud.
Her friends (who are many) declare that she is young, and will grow out of these peculiarities, and at any rate she is by far the most popular of the three sisters!
One gusty March morning, the sea displayed towering grey waves, with cream-coloured crests, the rain beat noisily against the window in which Jessie Gordon stood waiting for the kettle to boil, and watching for the postman. Here he came at last, striding up the paved path in his shining oilskins, and with a thundering bang, bang! he is gone.
“The paper, a coal bill, and an Indian letter,” said Jessie to Fairy, who, wrapped in a shawl, was cowering over the fire. “I’ll take them upstairs whilst you watch the kettle.”
Mrs. Gordon always breakfasted in bed, to “save trouble,” she declared, but to whom she omitted to mention. She turned the letters over languidly, and exclaimed—
“One from India from Sara Brande. Wonders will never cease! What can she want? Well, let me have my tea at once, and when I have read her epistle, I will send it down to you. And, here—you can take the paper to Fairy.”
Jessie returned to her tea-making—she and Honor took the housekeeping week about. In the middle of breakfast, Susan stalked into the room—an unusual occurrence—and said—
“Miss Jessie, the mistress is after pulling down the bell-rope. I thought the house was on fire. You are to go upstairs to her this minute.”
Jessie was absent about a quarter of an hour, and when she appeared, beaming, and with a letter in her hand, she had such an air of suppressed exultation, that it was evident to her sisters, even before she opened her lips, that the long-expected “something” had happened at last.
