A Bride for Donnigan (14 page)

Kathleen even thought of Charles and young Edmund. Did they like the countryside? Had they been favored with ponies of their own?

Strangely enough, Kathleen even thought of the cranky old baker. Had he passed on her hawker’s basket to another poor girl? Kathleen didn’t even want to picture the girl in her mind. The back streets of London were really not a place for a young girl to be.

And over and over, Kathleen’s mind went to Donnigan. Once again she said to herself, the disappointment still intense within her, “Sure—he’s no Irishman, and that’s the truth of it.”

But what was he? And who was he? He was fine enough to look at—though his size disquieted her. He said he had a farm. Kathleen felt pleased about that. A farm would be a nice change from cluttered, dirty streets and dark, tall buildings.

He seemed a gentleman—though certainly not as polished and sure of himself as Erma’s Lucas. But even as Kathleen had the thought, she stirred uneasily. She wasn’t quite sure if she would have been pleased with a man like Lucas. He seemed so intense—so in control—so totally mechanical. Again Kathleen wondered if Erma would be happy.

“I must stop this,” Kathleen scolded herself once again. “I will be a rag in the morning and not fit for a wedding and that’s the truth of it.” But even as she thought the words, Kathleen wondered again if there really would be a wedding.

Donnigan retired earlier than he should have. He just didn’t know what else to do with his long evening. But he may as well have stayed up and paced the streets. He tossed and turned and thumped his pillow, then wadded it beneath his head and tossed again.

Never had his mind been in such a state. Never had he faced such a difficult decision.

“Twenty-one! That’s ridiculous. She’s more like—like—I know what I should do,” he told himself firmly. “I should bundle her up and put her right back on the stage and send her home to wherever she came from.”

But Donnigan knew that he didn’t have the money for a second passage aboard an ocean-sailing ship.

“Maybe someone would take her on as hired help—let her grow up a bit,” he thought next. But he quickly dismissed that idea. How would he know if she was properly treated or whether she was taken advantage of?

“Well, I shouldn’t marry her, and that’s for sure,” he told himself. But if he didn’t marry her, what would he do with her?

It was quite obvious from the little luggage she carried that she wouldn’t be able to financially care for herself.

“Well, I can’t just take her to the farm without marrying her,” fumed Donnigan. “Even if I slept in the barn.”

There just didn’t seem to be an answer. It wasn’t that he was displeased with her. She was a pretty little thing—and she had spunk. He had seen that firsthand. In fact, when he really thought about it, if he’d had his pick of the three women who had disembarked the stage, he likely would have chosen her. The tall, prim Risa certainly would have made him quake in his boots. He wondered how Wallis was faring.

And Erma, though she appeared to be agreeable and cheery, made him wonder if such a constantly agreeing person might soon get on his nerves. But little Kathleen—when she smiled, her whole face brightened, and when her temper flared, those dark eyes shot sparks. He had a feeling that living with her would be a rather exciting adventure.

But she was so small—so young. He tossed again and in the stillness of the hotel room he softly cursed Wallis and Lucas for talking him into this crazy scheme and then the man Jenks who had no more sense than to send a child in the place of a woman.

He tried to push the disturbing thoughts from his mind so he could get some rest. “Twenty-one!” he snorted in disgust. “Why did she have to go and lie about her age?” He’d have to have a talk with her and sort it out in the morning. And he did need to ask her to please stop referring to him as “sir.” He much preferred Donnigan.

Kathleen was up and dressed, her belongings carefully packed, long before the rap came on her door. She knew, with the aid of the mirror, that she didn’t look rested, but she figured that she could likely get through one more day on nerves.

Donnigan stood before her, silently fumbling with his hat. Kathleen felt relief in seeing him. At least he hadn’t skipped town. She thought he looked as though he hadn’t slept so well either.

He managed a smile. “Good morning,” he greeted. Kathleen did hope he wouldn’t ask if she had slept well.

“I don’t know about you, but I sure am ready for some breakfast,” he said in his easy manner, and Kathleen managed a smile and a nod. She had been feeling hungry for a couple of hours.

He led the way back to the dining room and placed their orders. Kathleen was glad for the strong, hot coffee. Not only did it taste good, but it gave her something to do with her hands.

“We need to talk,” he surprised her by saying. He looked uneasy, but seemed determined to say what he had to say.

“Quite frankly,” he began, shifting his big frame on the brocaded chair seat, “I had pictured a—an older woman. One a bit more—more mature. Bigger.” He indicated a rough shape with his hands.

Kathleen felt the color draining from her face. It was her limp, she just knew it.

He stopped, and Kathleen saw him struggle with what he should say next.

“Your—your—the piece of paper that I got said you are twenty-one.” His eyes seemed to challenge her. He hated lies. It had bothered him all through the night that she might be a person that couldn’t be trusted. How could you live with a person, sharing your life and your dreams, if you couldn’t even trust her?

Kathleen met his gaze steadily. He saw her eyes widen with surprise—then darken with concern.

“It said that?” she asked almost under her breath.

He nodded.

Kathleen’s eyes fell to her plate. She shook her head slowly. He thought he could see anger smoldering in the dark eyes when she raised them again.

“It’s that Mr. Jenks,” she said. “I—I told him my true age—but the man must have put down—I’m—I’m sorry.”

The last words were spoken so softly that Donnigan had to strain to hear them. But her eyes spoke volumes. Donnigan was ready to believe that she was sorry, just as she had said.

“I—I don’t think that Mr. Jenks is a man to be trusted,” she finished lamely and her eyes registered anger once more.

Donnigan shifted his weight again. Suddenly he felt anger himself. Anger toward the man Jenks whom he had never met. He had to move on with the conversation or he would find himself asking questions that he might wish he had not asked.

“Why did you come to America?” he asked her simply. “I mean, at your age—why aren’t you still home with your folks in Ireland?”

Kathleen took a deep breath. He had a right to some answers. She had a few questions of her own.

“I came from London,” she said first and saw the surprise in his face.

“Sure, and I am Irish. But I have lived in London ever since—ever since my father had to give up his land. My mother died when I was a wee one. I hardly recall her face. My father married again—to a woman from France. Then my father died a few years back. We were left in—in rather—difficult—circumstances. I worked—if you call hawkin’ rolls and pies on the streets of London work. And then—then Madam”—the name slipped out before Kathleen had time to change it—“my stepmum, decided to marry again.” She stopped and raised her eyes to his. “So I signed up and—” She shrugged and looked down at her cup.

Donnigan sat silently digesting all that she had said.

“Why didn’t you stay with your family?” he asked softly.

“They were moving to the country,” she answered evenly.

“You don’t like the country?” He thought of his farm and little cabin as he asked the question, and a strange fear accompanied the words.

“And I wouldn’t know, would I now, not having memories of my own. But my father always said it’s a fine place to be a livin’.”

“So why didn’t you move with them?”

Kathleen’s eyes dropped again. Her fingers slipped to her lap where they clasped in agitation beneath the spread of tablecloth.

At last she raised her eyes again and Donnigan saw hurt and confusion there. “I wasn’t wanted—except as household staff,” she said honestly.

“Staff?”

She nodded, a bit braver now. Her chin came up and he saw the fire back in her eyes.

“Madam gave me two choices. A member of the household staff in the country—or a hawker on the London streets.”

Donnigan had no comment. He lowered his own gaze and toyed with the cutlery by his plate. She’d really had no choice. And neither did he, he decided as he stirred restlessly. Child or not, there was really nothing for him to do but marry her.

They arrived at the small church at ten o’clock. There was no fancy white gown or formal black suit. Lucas, dark suited, took his place beside Donnigan. Erma stood at Kathleen’s side. They used their slightly wilted flowers of the day before. Only this time, Erma graciously offered Kathleen her bridal bouquet. The ceremony was short and direct, and in a few moments Kathleen looked shyly up at Donnigan. They were now husband and wife.

Donnigan did not really look at her again until they were traveling the dusty, rutted road to the farm on the high seat of the wagon. He wondered just how disappointed she was feeling, having visited Erma’s posh hotel suite of rooms before leaving town so that they could bid each other goodbye.

But her face did not look dark and gloomy. She lifted her hand to remove her bonnet and brushed back her straying dark hair. Her face turned into the breeze that rustled the grasses by the roadside, and she took a deep, satisfied breath.

“I’ve longed for the country ever since I was a child,” she admitted frankly, and Donnigan, relieved, took a deep gulp of the fresh warm air.

They rode in silence again, and then Kathleen tilted her head as though listening intently.

“What bird is that?” she asked, her voice expressing excitement.

“Just a wood thrush,” he answered.

“You must teach me all the birds,” she responded and then seemed to catch herself. She was not to be a chatterer. And she certainly was not to be giving orders. Her face flushed with her embarrassment.

But Donnigan seemed not to notice. “You like birds?” he asked, his voice deep and warm.