A Mother in the Making (14 page)

Lilly giggled as Marjorie set the kettle on the stove and Lilly poured the milk inside.

“Now, don't let it scorch,” Lilly warned. “Keep the heat low and stir it constantly with a whisk.”

Marjorie smiled as she turned on the gas burner. She might not know her way around a kitchen, but she could warm milk—even if that was almost all she knew how to make. What would she do on her own in California before she earned enough money to hire servants? She might very well starve.

Marjorie glanced at the kitchen clock. It was ten minutes after eight. When would John return home?

“I was thinking about Papa and Nurse Hendricks,” Lilly said as she stood beside Marjorie, watching her stir the milk.

“What were you thinking?”

“I don't want my papa to marry her.”

“No?”

Lilly put her arm around Marjorie's waist. “I want you to stay here forever.”

Marjorie put her free hand around Lilly's shoulder. “I wish I could stay forever.”

Lilly looked up at Marjorie, her innocent face filled with questions. “Then why don't you? I can talk to Papa and ask him to let you stay.”

“I wish it was that easy.” Marjorie watched the white liquid spin around the kettle. “Your papa wants to get married again so you can have a mother. It's very important for children to have one, you know. A mother can do more for you than a governess.”

“Why don't you marry my papa?” Lilly asked.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Marjorie stopped stirring the milk and squatted down until she was eye level with Lilly. “I would love to be your mother, but I am going to California. Your father will find someone who would make a far better mother than me.” She offered Lilly a smile. “I'm still trying to help him find the perfect one.”

“I think I already have.”

Lilly and Marjorie both turned their heads at the sound of John's voice.

“Papa!” Lilly raced across the kitchen and jumped into her father's arms.

He hadn't removed his hat or coat, and snow clung to his clothing. He watched Marjorie with his dark brown eyes. She stood and turned back to the stove, blindly stirring the milk, wishing her stomach didn't feel so strange every time he appeared unexpectedly.

“What are you still doing awake, Lilly?” John asked.

“Miss Maren and I couldn't sleep, so we came downstairs for warm milk and cookies.”

John's heavy footsteps crossed the kitchen floor until he stopped just beside Marjorie. “It looks like the milk won't be ready for a little while. Go and grab a couple cookies.” John set Lilly on her feet. “And then get to bed. We have church in the morning.”

“May I bring my cookies to my room?” Lilly asked hopefully.

“Just this once.” John took his hat off and set it on the table next to the stove. “I need to speak with Miss Maren. Alone.”

Marjorie looked down at her robe and slippers, all too conscious of her unbound hair.

Lilly ran to the pantry and pulled a cookie jar off the shelf.

John continued to stand beside Marjorie.

Steam began to rise from the milk as her mind swirled with what he had just said. Had he asked Jacqueline to marry him? He said he found the perfect mother for his children... Then why this stab of pain? Wasn't that what she wanted? To be replaced?

She licked her dry lips but didn't look at him, not trusting her emotions at the moment. “Maybe I should bring Lilly up to her room.” Marjorie started to move away from the stove, but John gently held her arm.

“I'd like for you to stay.”

His touch sent warmth through her body, but it was the tickle of his breath upon her cheek that caused gooseflesh to race up the back of her arms. He smelled of a spicy cologne that made her head swim and her pulse beat against her wrist and neck.

They stood that way until Lilly hurriedly left the room with a handful of cookies, as if she was afraid her father would change his mind. “Good night,” she mumbled over her shoulder, a cookie already in her mouth.

As soon as she was gone, John reached around Marjorie and turned off the gas. The flame under the kettle sputtered and died.

Marjorie swallowed and waited, unsure what she should do or say. His earlier comment still echoed in her mind and heart. Would Marjorie be forced to leave much sooner than she had planned...than she was ready?

“Would you like me to pour you a glass?” he asked close to her ear.

The last thing she wanted at the moment was a glass of warm milk, but she nodded. “Yes, please.”

John moved away from her and took two glasses out of a cupboard. His movements were slow and steady as he poured milk into each one. When he was done, he offered her a glass. “Be careful. It's hot.”

She took the glass of milk but didn't take a sip. The liquid heated the glass and warmed her hand.

“Would you please sit with me?” John asked.

Marjorie's breath was unsteady and her hands shook. “All right.”

He indicated the table in the corner of the room, near the floor-to-ceiling window, where the light didn't quite reach.

John pulled out a chair for Marjorie and she took the seat.

Snow continued to fall outside, gently brushing the window and falling on the white ground. It was a steady snow with little wind to move it about.

“How long do you think the storm will last?” she asked, unable to look him in the eye.

He took off his hat and coat, and then sat across from her at the small table causing their knees to touch.

She repositioned herself.

“Marjorie.”

“Yes?”

“Will you please look at me?”

She tore her gaze off the snow and looked into his warm brown eyes.

“Did you hear what I said earlier?” he asked. “When I first entered the kitchen.”

She nodded, but she couldn't bring herself to repeat his statement. She couldn't bear to think of what it meant.

How had she allowed herself to get so entwined in this family?

“I said I have finally found the perfect mother for my children.”

Nurse Hendricks. It made sense. He had known her for years. They worked well together. Marjorie hated to admit the truth, but she was almost certain John had found a woman who would fulfill many of the items on
both
of their lists. “When will you get married?”

“As soon as she says yes.”

“You haven't asked her yet?”

He shook his head slowly, his gaze intense. “These things take time.”

She played with the rim of her glass. Almost relieved that he hadn't asked her yet. It meant she'd have more time with the children before she was forced to leave—yet he didn't have much time left. “Remember, I'm leaving the first of the year.”

“I know, and I'll be gone for a few days before Christmas.”

She frowned as she studied his handsome face. “I don't understand why you need more time to ask her—isn't she agreeable to the idea?”

It was his turn to study her. “I don't know.”

“Then why not ask her? Even if she says no, you may still have time to convince her.”

He swallowed. “All right.” He cleared his throat, his face very serious. “Will you marry me, Marjorie?”

Marjorie stood so quickly she bumped the table and the two glasses of milk tipped. White liquid spilled across the table and splashed her nightgown.
“Me?”

He rose, milk dripping from his trousers. “It's not the worst idea.”

“But—what about Jacqueline?”

“She would never love my children the way you do.”

Marjorie pointed to her chest. “
I
can't marry you.”

“Why not?”

“There are so many reasons.” The most important was that he didn't love her—and she could never marry a man who didn't love her.

Unexpected moisture gathered in her eyes. She turned away so he wouldn't see her silly tears and crossed to the sink to grab a dish towel. She was able to get herself under control before she came back to the table and wiped the warm mess.

John grabbed another towel and bent down to clean the floor. He looked up at her, his voice soft, entreating. “I'm sorry I upset you. I thought, since the children love you...maybe you'd consider staying.”

“The children?” Pain sliced through her. Yes, the children loved her—but that would not be enough to sustain a marriage. She needed the love only a husband could give. She refused to settle for anything less—refused to sleep in the governess's room for the rest of her life.

“I know what happens when a man and a woman marry each other without love.” She set down the damp rag, her voice quivering with emotion. “Bitterness grows where love should reside, and they become angry and cold toward each other, and toward the world. I could never enter a loveless marriage.”

He slowly stood. “Marjorie, I cannot—”

She shook her head. “I know.” She couldn't bear to hear his words—not now, not when he had just proposed. She knew what he would say, but hearing him say it would be too much. “I should go to bed.”

She walked around him and he didn't try to stop her.

The back stairs were dark as she climbed them. One of the treads creaked, making her jump and causing the tears to start up all over again.

She stopped and leaned against the wall. What did it matter if John proposed to her without loving her? He needed a mother for his children; she knew that from their very first conversation. Hadn't she even tried to find someone for him to marry? His proposal should mean nothing to her—another business proposition—no different than him asking her to be the children's governess.

Yet it did matter.

He was the second man to propose marriage without offering her love.

Was it too much to ask for someone to love her?

Chapter Fourteen

J
ohn rested his hands against the top of the kitchen table, staring at the falling snow just outside the window. A gust of wind whipped around the house, swirling the flakes in a dizzying dance, much like the thoughts and emotions raging inside him.

He'd made a mess of things. What had he been thinking to just blurt out his question? He had planned to lay out all the reasons why she would be the perfect mother for his children. He knew it might take some convincing, but he didn't expect her to get so upset.

Milk still clung to the crack in the table and dripped off the edge and onto the floor. John set both glasses upright and stared at the dirty towels. He sat at the table and put his head in his hands. He had been a fool to even think she'd agree to give up her dreams to help him. She deserved more than what he could offer.

Yet he wanted her to stay. The idea of her leaving left an empty void in the pit of his stomach.

The faint sound of crying met his ears and he lifted his head.

Marjorie?

He stood and walked over to the stairs, flipping the kitchen light off as he went. He would apologize to Mrs. Gohl in the morning for the mess—but right now he had something far more important to tend to.

The stairway was dark, but as he turned the corner, he saw Marjorie's outline on the landing. She leaned against the wall, her face in her hands, and she was crying.

Empathy filled John's chest and he longed to put his arms around her. He hated seeing her upset, especially if he had caused her tears.

But why had he caused them? Was the thought of marrying him so terrible?

“Marjorie,” he said gently as he stopped on the landing.

She looked up at him. The glow of a hall lamp reached down the stairs and he could faintly make out the lines of her beautiful face, tears streaking her cheeks. She really would make a stunning actress on the movie screen. And if she looked half as heartbroken on film as she did in this moment, men and women all over America would cry with her.

He touched her cheek and moved a tear off her delicate skin. “What's wrong?”

She didn't move away from his touch. Instead, she studied him, her face filled with uncertainty. She looked so soft and vulnerable in her nightgown and robe, with her hair trailing down her back. It curled around her face, making her look even more unguarded at the moment.

She slowly lifted her hand and placed it on top of his.

“I can't marry a man who doesn't love me.” Her voice was filled with sorrow. “It's the reason I left Preston.”

John removed his hand from her cheek and put a little space between them on the landing. “My children's love is not enough?” He felt foolish even asking. Of course it wasn't enough. And the look in her eyes confirmed his foolishness.

“A child's love is not enough to sustain a marriage. My birth didn't help my parents' marriage—if anything, it complicated everything.”

“I'm sorry, Marjorie.” He leaned against the opposite wall. “I wish I could offer my heart—but I'm afraid I buried it with Anna. I can never allow myself to love again or betray her in that way.”

She shook her head and a lock of her blond hair fell over her shoulder. “I wouldn't ask you to. But someday, you will remarry, and I'm worried—” Her voice caught and she began to cry again. He felt helpless to stop her.

He took a step toward her again and moved a curl away from her cheek, reveling in the silkiness. “What's wrong now?”

She bit her trembling lip. “It's silly.” She tried to laugh. “I'm just being silly.”

“What?”

“I'm suddenly...afraid of the woman who will someday replace me.”

“Afraid?”

“I'm afraid to leave the children in the hands of someone else.” Emotions warred within her gaze. “Maybe
j-jealous
is a better word, though I despise it.” She stood straight, as if she was ready to face the truth. “I do love your children and I don't like the thought of someone else stepping in and taking my place.”

A bit of hope took root in his heart. He was desperate to convince her, and hoped it wouldn't take much. “Then don't go. Stay...for the children.”

She looked at him through her watery eyes, probing him. “Only for the children?”

For one brief, irrational moment, he let down his guard and put his hand back on her cheek.

She looked up at him, her eyes inviting.

Before he could think about the repercussions, he dropped his lips to hers and captured her mouth in a kiss.

Her lips parted in surprise and he deepened the kiss, pleased when she melted under his touch. It felt strange to kiss someone other than Anna—but it also felt wonderful.

All too soon, he realized what he was doing, and he pulled away, ashamed of his rash behavior. “I'm sorry—I shouldn't have done that.”

She put her fingers to her lips, her eyes bright with uncertainty.

He wanted to tell her to stay for him, too—but he couldn't. It wouldn't be fair, to either of them. Shame assailed him, and panic raced up his legs. He needed to get away from her. She posed too much of a threat to his heart. What had he been thinking? He couldn't be married to Marjorie in name only. Eventually he wouldn't be able to keep his distance. Wasn't this stolen moment proof? “I was wrong to ask you to marry me. Please forgive me—for everything tonight.”

He couldn't stay there with her. Embarrassment and shame coursed through him. He took the stairs two at a time and crossed the hall. He entered his bedroom and quickly closed the door, locking it on instinct, his breath coming hard.

He ran his hands through his hair, frustrated by how he had handled the whole situation. He wouldn't blame her if she left tomorrow. He had asked her to stay—and for what? For a broken man who offered her nothing in return. And what of that kiss? What had he been thinking? What must
she
be thinking? He had been a heartless cad. Asking her to marry him, kissing her the way he did and then telling her he would never love her.

Anger at himself burst inside his chest and he wanted to growl at his stupidity. He paced the room, reliving all the moments that had just passed—but he paused when he heard her bedroom door click down the hall.

John sank to the floor and dropped his face into his hands.

Anna's lavender sachet filled the bedroom with her scent, bringing back a lifetime of memories. Guilt washed over him just thinking about his wife, and how he had dishonored her by kissing another woman in their home.

He had wept the night Anna died, and he wept the night of her funeral. Tonight, he wept again, because for the first time he realized he had lost more than his beloved wife the day she died.

He had lost a lifetime of love, affection and companionship. Never to be had again. He had to let Marjorie go. She was a woman any man would be proud to have as a wife—and she would make a wonderful mother. Yet he was not free to pursue her, to open his heart to loving her like she needed to be loved.

He wiped at his face, resolve hardening his heart. He had been wrong to ask Marjorie to marry him. It had been a foolish decision that both of them would regret.

He would turn his efforts back to his list to find a mother for his children before the end of the year—one he wouldn't be tempted to kiss...or love.

* * *

Marjorie stood in her bedroom, leaning against the door, tears streaming down her face. Her poor heart had been pummeled and left tender and bruised.

John had asked her to marry him but told her he could never love her.

Then he had kissed her like she had never been kissed before. Oh, why had he gone and done something so terribly wonderful? A kiss changed everything. Made her feel things she never dreamed of feeling.

How would she face him in the morning?

Her corner lamp was still on, and the book she had been reading before Lilly came in was sitting on the chair. The fire had died down to embers and the snow continued to fall, though now it wasn't soft but had turned into hard pellets of ice.

She flipped off the lamp, removed her robe and slippers and crawled between the cold sheets, shivering for a long time.

It was true, she loved the children, but how could he think that would be enough? She wanted to be angry at him, but she couldn't. He was grieving and only wanted what was best for his family.

Marjorie rolled onto her back and stared up at the dark ceiling. She admired John more than any other man she had ever known. She enjoyed the times she spent with him and looked forward to him coming home from work. She adored his laughter and the way he cared for his children with discipline and love. She respected his work and marveled at the way he was revered in the community.

But what did any of it matter, if she did not have his love?

Marjorie looked over at the window and watched the snow. It gathered in the corners and sounded like sand hitting the glass.

She thought back to the conversation with John in the kitchen, and the myriad emotions that had flooded her being. But one emotion stuck out above the overs.

Jealousy.

Marjorie groaned. “Jealousy?”

Saying the word out loud the second time made it sound even more horrible. She had told him she was jealous of someone coming in to replace her with his family, but that was only half the truth. She was even more jealous of someone becoming his wife, which could only mean one thing. She cared for John much more than she had realized, or was willing to admit.

But when he had pulled her into his arms and kissed her on the stair, the jealousy had melted away, and other emotions had taken her by surprise—the most powerful was fear.

Fear that she would fall in love with him if she didn't guard her heart—and fear that he would never return that love—which was the greatest fear of all.

If she was smart, she would leave immediately and not risk falling in love. But she couldn't leave, not yet. She didn't have enough money to get to California. If she continued to work for John for three weeks, she'd have just enough saved up to buy a train ticket.

She hadn't completed her other goal, either. John needed a wife. The children needed a mother.

Her list no longer mattered like it had in the beginning. She was less concerned about finding a woman who would stand up to John, and more concerned that she find someone who would love him and the children like Marjorie would love them.

She knew right where to go.

* * *

The afternoon sun was hidden behind gray clouds as Marjorie knocked on the Scott's front door. The cold wind continued to blow, swirling the snow into large drifts around the side of the house. Automobiles had been put away, and the town had come alive with horse and sleigh. That very morning, John had brought his horse from the livery and had attached it to the sleigh to bring them all to church.

It had been a cold ride—and not just because of the weather. She and John had barely spoken all morning. The tension between them was as awkward as she had expected.

The uncomfortable morning had turned into an uncomfortable afternoon and Marjorie had left as soon as lunch finished. She would take advantage of her afternoon off and see to her plans.

The door opened and Mrs. Scott stood in her black mourning gown. Her lips were pursed and her nose was red as she stared at Marjorie. “What do you want?”

“I'd like to talk to Dora, please.”

Mrs. Scott harrumphed. “You're not welcome in this house.”

“Oh, Mother.” Dora appeared behind her mother. “Marjorie is freezing. Let her in.” She opened the door wider. “Come in, Marjorie.”

Mrs. Scott narrowed her eyes but didn't try to stop Marjorie as she stepped over the threshold.

The house was warm and smelled of pumpkin pie. A large stand-up radiator emanated heat from the corner of the foyer.

“Let me take your hat and coat.” Dora held up her hand and took the items from Marjorie after they were removed.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Marjorie said, touching up her curls.

“Of course.” Dora motioned toward the back of the foyer. “Come into the parlor.”

The Scott home was less extravagant than the Ortons', but still elegant. The foyer held an open staircase and a tall coat tree with an oval mirror. Oak floors extended from the front door, into a parlor and all the way to the dining room beyond.

Mrs. Scott followed Marjorie, her arms crossed.

“I was afraid something was wrong when neither of you came to church today,” Marjorie said.

“Mother has a cold and we haven't had a chance to bring out the sleigh,” Dora explained.

“We don't have a man about the place to see to such things.” Mrs. Scott sent a pointed look toward Dora. “We have to hire a man to do it for us, or wait until John has a spare moment.”

Dora lifted her eyes toward the ceiling and then smiled at Marjorie. “Please have a seat.”

Marjorie sat in a wingback chair, near the crackling fireplace. She had hoped to speak to Dora alone, but there was no way to ask Mrs. Scott to leave her own parlor.

“Would you like tea?” Dora asked, sitting on the sofa across from Marjorie.

“No, thank you. I won't keep you long.” She glanced at Mrs. Scott, who still stood watching her.

“Be about your business and then skedaddle,” Mrs. Scott said.

“Mother.” Dora lifted her brow. “Be kind, or I'll have to ask you to leave.”

Mrs. Scott harrumphed again and then turned. “I'm going to go lie down. I don't feel well.”

“I'm sorry,” Dora said the moment Mrs. Scott was out of sight. “She's always been a bit outspoken, but she has become worse since Anna's death.”

“Everyone grieves differently.”

Dora placed her hands in her lap, a smile on her face. “I'm so happy you've come to visit. To what do I owe this surprise?”

Marjorie took a deep breath and leaned forward—but nothing came out of her mouth.