Fate's Intervention Page 2

  “Please, do have a seat,” Marcelle pointed to the settee, grimaced as it protested under his heavy weight, and then reached for the summoning cord. Moments later, Nancy appeared in the doorway.

  “Yes, Miss?”

  “Please bring some lemonade and a few scones for our guest, Nancy.”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  Nancy pulled the door closed behind her and Marcelle turned back to her caller. With an overemphasized sway to her hips, she sashayed over to the window seat. Controlling the urge to laugh, she turned, spread her voluminous skirts, and plopped down. Without a pause, she lifted her legs slightly, shifted the skirt out of the way, and jammed her hands beneath her thighs.

  As she hoped, the gesture was not lost on Stanharbor.

  “Is anything amiss, my dear?” He asked, eyeing her strange sitting position. “Are you chilled? Perhaps you need a warming brick placed beneath your feet.”

  Marcelle’s smile widened. Gotcha! She thought. Just a little longer and you’ll wish we’d never met, you buffoon in gentlemen’s clothing.

  “I’m perfectly warm, thank you, kind sir,” she breathed airily. “It’s just that I promised my father that I’d show restraint.”

  “I’m not certain that I follow your meaning, dear.”

  “Well, my father seems to think I’m a threat to you.” Marcelle laughed lightly, leaning forward slightly to give him a better view of her assets. Keep him imbalanced, she thought. “So he made me promise to sit on my hands, and if for any reason I remove them from beneath my skirts, you are to yell as loud as you possibly can and he’ll come barreling through the doors and rescue you. Isn’t that simply the silliest thing you’ve ever heard?”

  Stanharbor’s gaze snapped to hers and his already rosy complexion grew flushed. Now that got his attention, she thought with glee.

  Clifford searched her vacuous expression for a moment, trying to discern what game she was playing at, but could see nothing hidden in the depths of her dark brown eyes.

  “Why, that’s absurd!” He tittered nervously. “You’re merely joshing’ this old man, surely? Why to think, a young snip of a girl like you harming a man of my size. I’m as big as a barge. Just the idea of it is simply laughable.”

  Marcelle joined in the gaiety, making certain that her breasts jiggled each time she laughed. Time to go in for the kill, she thought, mightily pleased with her little performance.

  “I agree wholeheartedly,” she continued to giggle, “And just so you know, I have absolutely no recollection whatsoever of trying to skewer my last caller with my knitting needle. Can you just imagine?”

  “A . . . a what?” Stanharbor choked, his humor vanishing.

  “Knitting needle,” Marcelle said, happy to repeat her statement.

  “Knitting needle?”

  “Uh huh, but you needn’t worry, my father confiscated all my knitting needles and now only allows me access to them when no one else is in the house. Of course, he can’t completely empty a room when someone comes to call, so I have to sit on my hands. It kind of reminds me to behave myself.”

  “But I don’t understand, my dear. Why would you skewer someone with a knitting needle?”

  You asked. Her mind answered, joyfully ready to supply the answer. “Well, as I said, I simply don’t have any recollection of doing so, but my father says it was because the man who came to call on me wouldn’t stop ogling my breasts, and that apparently upset me a great deal.”

  “Well, that would explain a lot,” Stanharbor mumbled beneath his breath.

  “I’m sorry, Clifford, I missed that. What did you say?” Marcelle batted her eyes, wide with innocence. She heard what he said and she had not a doubt that his statement was referencing her age and continued unmarried state. He obviously concluded that her mental state had something to do with both.

  Stanharbor rocked to a standing position and waddled over to retrieve his hat.

  “Are you leaving so soon?” Marcelle stood and hastened toward the coat rack. Stanharbor froze in mid-stride.

  “I can retrieve my own possessions, Miss Weatherman, if you’d be so kind as to remain seated while I do so.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind.” Marcelle continued doggedly toward the coat rack. She reached for the hat and coat, but a loud bang startled her and she turned. The parlor door was ajar and Mr. Stanharbor was gone.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Marcelle strained to hear the conversation coming from the foyer, grinning widely. She could hear her father’s soothing voice attempting to console an irate Mr. Stanharbor.

  “It’s no wonder no one will take that girl!” Stanharbor yelled loud enough to be heard six counties over. “I should have you arrested for trying to pawn that dangerous simpleton off on me.”

  Marcelle’s grin faded at that comment. Simpleton, was she? Hardly. She’d managed to outwit that brainless moron.

  The door adjoining the hall opened suddenly and Nancy strolled in, tray in hand. She glanced around and laughed quietly.

  “Gone, is he, Miss?” She asked.

  “In the hall with Father,” Marcelle smiled.

  “Well, I guess I’ll go and feed this to the young’uns.” Nancy said and turned to leave.

  “Nancy?”

  “Yes, Miss?”

  “Why didn’t you offer Mr. Stanharbor refreshments earlier? He was sitting here quite some time, waiting on me.”

  “Oh, I do apologize, Miss. I hadn’t realized it was all that long. I never get refreshments for your callers, or hadn’t you noticed before now?”

  “Not really, but why ever not?”

  “Well, truth be told, Miss, it’s usually a waste of food and time, since none of your suitors have stayed for more than a minute or two.”

  “Ah! Well, I guess it was best that you waited for me to request the refreshment,” Marcelle said.

  “It was still a wasted effort, nonetheless. Still, I actually thought this one would make it, since he’d been here so long.”

  Marcelle laughed. “I see. Well, thank you, Nancy.”

  “Very good, Miss.” Nancy said then left the way she came. The front door slammed at the same moment, and Marcelle quickly moved away from the parlor door.

  “Marcelle!” Her father’s voice boomed shortly before the parlor doors slid open with a bang.

  Marcelle stood by the French doors and watched Clifford Stanharbor’s carriage pull away quickly from the house, leaving a trail of dust in its wake.

  “He wasn’t interested in me, Father.” Marcelle tried to placate before a full-fledged argument ensued. “He pinned his eyes to my bosom the minute he acknowledged my presence. Had his gaze pinned there nearly the entire time he was in here.”

  “Well, dearest, you do have something to offer in that regard, you know,” her father muttered, “which just goes to show what an attractive woman you are and how eagerly sought after.”

  “You mean, how eagerly sought after my body is, don’t you, Father?”

  “You are not going to sidestep this conversation again with talk of love, are you, because I’m sick to death of trying to explain over the screeching and yelling that you are not mentally impaired. Are you aware, as important a man as Clifford Stanharbor is, he could spread rumors that you are a fruitcake over eight counties before the sun sets tomorrow?”

  “Good!” Marcelle snapped. “Then maybe, just maybe, I’ll have a short reprieve from grandfatherly type men showing up on my doorstep and openly gawking at me. Each time, I fear they may end having an attack from the strain all that ogling has to be putting on their heart. Oh, Father,” Marcelle moaned, “why must I marry at all? Why can’t I stay here, as I wish to do, and simply take care of you?”

  “Because you know as well as I do that I will not be around forever.” Peter settled onto the same settee that Stanharbor occupied moments earlier. He rubbed a hand wearily through his hair and sighed in a huff. He was still afraid to reveal to his only child the unsettling news he’d received from his physician a few we
eks ago.

  “Don’t say that, Father! Don’t say you won’t be around, because you will!” Marcelle settled herself at her father’s feet and laid her head on his lap.

  Her father absently stroked his daughter’s long, chestnut tresses, still thinking about his physician’s dire prognosis. If he was to believe what the doctor said, he had less than a year left to live. That meant less than a year in which to find his daughter a suitable husband.

  “It’s true enough,” he whispered, “that I won’t be around forever, and what have you to say about it? Telling me it isn’t going happen, won’t change the fact that it will happen eventually, and then what are you going to do? Women can’t own property, so the bank will sell the house. Where will you go, if you haven’t a husband to care for you?”

  “You shouldn’t talk like this. I don’t like it!”

  “No, I don’t suppose you do, because you don’t like hearing the truth of the matter. It bothers you,” he said. “Well, it bothers me when you try to avoid the conversation, but not today. Today you’ll answer me, girl. What will you do with yourself if I up and die tomorrow?”

  “Well, I can always go to live with Aunt Vera, in Georgia.”

  “Ha! You’d never survive your Aunt Vera and you know it!” Her father scoffed. “Besides the fact that you absolutely hate the city; your Aunt Vera will push you harder into marriage than I ever would. She would drag you to so many soirees that you’ll jump at the first man who walked into sight just to get out from under her thumb – and you know it to be true.”

  Marcelle giggled, but realized that her father was right. Aunt Vera was definitely not the answer. She shuddered as a memory surfaced of an encounter she had with her the old bat. She actually dared get sassy in her presence. She hadn’t done so to be deliberately disrespectful, but as a result over distress from the loss of her mother, and at how angry her aunt was making her father. Her aunt was droning on about Marcelle’s future and prospects. Marcelle hadn’t comprehended a word spoken. She was simply too young. Her father’s reaction caused her mouth to start flapping. She told her father to pour glue in her aunt’s mouth and maybe that would shut her up. For that one outburst, the repercussion was so harsh that she never even considered doing it again.

  Her Aunt dragged her upstairs by the hair and dunked her head in a vat of water. Then she took the lye soap, and shoved it in her mouth and made her sit there for five minutes. When that torment was complete, she locked Marcelle into her room for the night and allowed her not one bite of dinner – not that she could’ve eaten anything having so much lye soap sitting heavily in her stomach.

  She’d been five years old.

  Every time her Aunt paid visited from that day on, she avoided her as if she had contagious boils covering her body. She asked her father later, why he allowed her Aunt to do that to her, but all he would say was that, while he disliked his sister and her methods, he couldn’t allow a child of only five to learn disrespect for an adult – no matter how much that adult deserved it.

  The thing that scared her more than anything did now, is that her father would die, forcing her into having to move to Georgia. No choice. Inevitable. Her Aunt knew that Marcelle cared little for her company, but persisted with each visit, increasingly too many, that Marcelle needed a woman’s influence before turning ‘too barbaric’ and ‘unweddable’. Marcelle hated her visits.

  She dreaded her Aunt and her visits so, that she even prayed that her father would outlive her. It was unrealistic, she knew. She also knew that her father was advancing steadily toward old age. Already, he’d reached his sixtieth year. Older than most dads of her acquaintances. Still, while she understood that he wouldn’t survive for too many more years, she hoped that he would hang on long enough for her to find someone that would care for her and love her for who she was. Not the phony they expected her to be, and not solely for her physical appearance; preferably find that someone before her father forced her to wed a cadaver or he died.

  “I can’t go to Aunt Vera’s anyway,” Marcelle said, suddenly remembering her Aunt’s previous visit four years earlier. “Don’t you remember the last time she visited? She said that I was already too unruly and beyond hope. Since that’s the case and she wouldn’t have me any more than I’d go – you can’t die. Simple as that.”

  Peter shook his head in frustration at his daughter’s apparent naiveté, “For the love of Mary, girl! You can’t keep assuming that! I might very well fall off my horse tomorrow and break my bleeding neck. Now, no more dillydallying. I want your word that you will, at the very least, attempt to find a husband before the end of this year, you hear me? If you don’t, I’m going to ship you off to your Aunt Vera’s without a second thought, whether she wants you or not! Whether you want to go or not!”

  Marcelle looked at her father and winced. That was the second threat he’d issued her in less than quarter of a day. What had gotten into him lately? He’d never been this concerned about her marriageable prospects before. Until now, their combats had been closer to a game – admittedly one where each lost their tempers at times, but a game none-the-less. A game of who would capitulate first.

  “Okay, Father,” she murmured, lowering her head back onto his lap, “I’ll try to find a husband if you promise me that you’ll not bring another walking dead man in here for me to consider as a prospect. Deal?”

  “I’ll do my best to keep all prospects under the age of being on death’s door,” her father said, raising his hand as if delivering a solemn oath.

  “Not funny!

  “Okay, under forty,” he said, and Marcelle realized he wasn’t joking.

  Forty!”

  “I said younger than forty,” he clarified. “The number of eligible men, suitably wealthy enough to care for you, under the age of forty is already limited in the nearby counties. Still, if you want to narrow the field even further, I can always bring the age requirement down to below thirty, thereby decreasing your chances of marriage to close to nil. Understand?”

  “Very well, Father.”

  “Although I’ll be hard-pressed to find anyone suitable after that little stage act you put on here today,” her father grumbled.

  “Oh, Father, you couldn’t possibly have seriously considered Clifford Stanharbor a match for me, could you?”

  “What’s wrong with Clifford Stanharbor, dearest?” He asked, “Isn’t he charming enough for you? He’s definitely wealthy enough for my requirements!”

  “Charming isn’t the problem. Neither is his being prosperous.”

  Her father snickered, “Well, he was a bit portly for serious consideration.”

  “Portly! Father, please! He even called himself a barge.”

  “Well, since you’ve scared away every eligible suitor that’s come to call, he was just about the last option open to you.”

  “Over the age of fifty, perhaps.”

  “Perhaps, but that lovely little lady down the lane is attracting the suitors under fifty.”

  “That insipid twit? Carol Ann Blackheart?”

  “That’s Blackwarth, dear.”

  “She isn’t warth anything.”

  “Careful. You’re getting catty,” he admonished gently, “While she may not be worth much to look at, her father is worth plenty. It also happens that little Carol Ann is now marriageable age, so you might want to consider that when you start showing your claws.”

  “Who would be interested in a simpleton like that?”

  “Yes, well, she may not have your intellect, dearest, but she does know how to keep her tongue in check and how to entertain a suitor properly, so quite a number of gentlemen will be calling upon her shortly, I’ve no doubt. This is going to make things even more difficult for you. Perhaps Clifford Stanharbor will take a liking to her and eliminate her as competition for you.”

  “Point taken, Father, but how would you know how perfectly refined she is? Not looking for a young bride yourself, are you?”

  “Hardly,” her father
scoffed. “I merely met her when I went to welcome them to the neighborhood. Something my nicely-reared daughter should have done have done ahead of me, and still hasn’t.”

  It was time for Marcelle to scoff, “You went because you are a perfect gentleman, not to drum up some more business for Weatherman Stables?” Marcelle teased.

  “Without a doubt,” her father smiled. “Now, are we clear about marrying?”

  “Yes, Father,” Marcelle said dutifully, “but can we keep the requirements to under forty and under two-hundred fifty pounds, please?”

  “I’ll do my best. Now, shall we go into dinner? I think I need to add a few pounds to this skinny hide of mine.”

  “Think if I get to be portly, I might be less appealing to the male species?”

  “Get up and let’s go eat! Enough talk of marriage!” Her father swatted at her bottom as she ran from the room, but Marcelle dodged it easily enough.

  He watched Marcelle skip from the parlor and his heart grew heavy. He’d kidded with and played around with her for too long. Now his time was running short and she was growing up. Finding his daughter a husband would be a trial, now that she’d reached her seventeenth year. Oh, why hadn’t he pressed her marriage prospects when she was fifteen? Over the last couple of years, they’d attended weddings of young ladies that Marcelle grew up with, and those ladies were now having children of their own. Marcelle, however, had never shown an interest in marriage, but now, if he didn’t find her a husband before he passed on, she may very well end up in the clutches of his sister, Vera. That made him shudder with dread, so he could only imagine what it would do to his darling baby girl should she force him to send her to Georgia.

  No! He wouldn’t think about that. Tomorrow, he would double his efforts to find Marcelle a husband. Maybe even hire someone to find eligible prospects for him since he wasn’t up to the task any longer. If he had to increase her dowry as well – though finances were tight – then that’s just what he’d have to do.