Marianne's Marriage Of Convenience
“Lance, before we get married, perhaps we should become better acquainted. More than just the polite conversation we had on the train, I mean.”
“Maybe,” he conceded. “Sure don’t have much time, though. We’re getting married day after tomorrow.”
“Well, perhaps we could start with our supper,” she suggested.
“Yeah,” he said, staring at her dinner plate. “We both like rare steaks.”
“And we both like lots of fried potatoes,” she said. Talking about steak and potatoes was snatching at a straw, but it was a start.
“I like lots of any kind of potatoes,” he offered with a grin. “I like peas, too.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I have shelled so many mountains of pea pods I am sick sick sick of peas!”
“Carrots?” he asked, his voice hopeful.
She shook her head. “What about cabbage?”
“Chewy,” he pronounced. “Tastes like grass.”
She sat up straighter. “My coleslaw does not taste like grass!”
His cheeks turned pink. “Nah, you’re right, it doesn’t. You put some kinda fancy dressing on it, so your coleslaw tastes okay, I guess. What about apples?”
She nodded. “Yes, I like apples.” She picked up her knife and cut a bite of steak. “What about pears?”
“Pears are mushy.”
“Really?” She laid the knife back on her plate with a sharp click. “You think my ginger-poached pears are mushy?”
“Marianne, after they’ve sat around for an hour or two waitin’ for all the boarders to finish eatin’ so I could finally sit down for supper, your pears are plenty mushy, yeah.”
She frowned. She realized that neither of them had ever eaten a meal when it should be eaten, when the dishes were piping hot and bubbly from the oven and the salad greens were crisp. Even her layer cakes and cobblers tasted stale after sitting in a hot kitchen all afternoon and half the evening. Or maybe it was because she was so exhausted by the time she forked a bite past her lips she couldn’t taste anything. And they had never before eaten a meal, a real meal, together.
“What about...houses?” he asked. “I like brown houses with white trim.”
“I like big houses. I have never owned anything before, certainly not a house. So I want a great big house! I know Uncle Matty was rich, so I’m quite sure my inheritance will include one. I don’t care what color it is. I just hope it’s the biggest house in Smoke River.”
Lance studied her. “Do you think this business you’ve inherited is real prosperous then?”
“Of course. Uncle Matty could afford to live in New York City half the time. Out here in this little town he must have been the wealthiest man in the county.”
“Maybe we should talk about—” he paused to fork a slice of fried potato into his mouth “—religion. What church should we get married in?”
“Not Lutheran,” she said decisively.
“Why not?”
“Because Mrs. Schneiderman was Lutheran. She made everyone say a long fancy grace before every single meal, even breakfast.”
“Okay, not Lutheran.”
“And not Catholic,” she added. “The priest at St. Timothy’s in St. Louis refused to let one of the boarder’s daughters attend Sunday school just because they were Russian. Lance, you’re not Catholic, are you?”
“Don’t know. But I’ve got nothing against them. I don’t think I’m Catholic, anyway. My folks never said.”
“Oh? Where were you brought up? In St. Louis?”
“Nah. Little tiny town in Indiana called Tulip Flat.”
She put down her knife. “How did you—?”
“Come to rob a stagecoach?”
“Well...not exactly.” She could tell her cheeks were flushing. She hadn’t wanted to embarrass him; the question just slipped out. “I mean, how did your picture get on that Wanted poster? I told you before I don’t really think you’re an actual thief.”
“Yeah, well, you’re wrong there. I am a thief.”
Her fork clattered on to her plate. “What? Good heavens, Lance, I can’t go into business with someone who’s dishonest! And I certainly can’t marry someone who is really a thief. Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“You didn’t ask,” he said drily. “You just said all the reasons why I couldn’t be a thief.”
“You mean you really did rob a stagecoach?”
He looked up and held her gaze. “Yeah, I really did. I stole a piggy bank from a snotty ten-year-old kid because he was acting like an ass, braggin’ about how smart he was. Been sorry about it ever since.”
She stared at him. “But why did they think—?”
“Because his momma complained to the sheriff and said I was the only other passenger so it had to be me.”
“So it wasn’t a Wells Fargo gold shipment?”
“Yeah, it was. But it wasn’t me that stole it. I got off at the next stop, in Valdez. The robbery happened somewhere between Valdez and St. Louis.”
“But they blamed you? Why?”
He sighed. “Because nobody would believe that a proper-looking momma with a ten-year-old kid would rob a stagecoach. I’d left the Sackler gang by then because they’d shot a stage driver, but it kept me on the run until I landed at Mrs. Schneiderman’s.”
Marianne bit her lip. That meant the Wanted poster in her reticule was not only outdated, it was based on a false assumption. She felt her hold over Lance Burnside slipping away.
“Marianne, listen.” Lance leaned across the table toward her and lowered his voice. “There’s two reasons why you could pressure me into marrying you. One is that it’d take me a lot of time and money to prove I’m innocent of that Well Fargo robbery, and I’ve never had a lot of time or money.”
“Oh,” she said with a nod. “I can understand that.”
“The second reason is that by marrying you I get to own half of some kind of business. It’s my chance to make a different life for myself, and I’d have to be soft in the head not to see the advantage in that.”
Again she nodded.
And the third reason is that, even with all your starchy manners, I’ve lusted after you for years.
Chapter Five
Marianne found the dressmaker, Verena Forester, next to Uncle Charlie’s Bakery. The shop was a small establishment whose display window had seven outlandish ribbon-bedecked summer hats and an elegant green crepe gown with ruffles around the hem. Too fancy for a working girl, she thought.
She walked through the shop entrance with trepidation. Never in her entire life had she ordered anything from a dressmaker. Ever since she was a girl, all her clothes had been hand-me-downs; even her camisoles and underdrawers had been given to her by Mrs. Schneiderman’s boarders or donated by the St. Timothy’s church ladies. Now here she was entering a dressmaking establishment for the very first time in her life, and her hands felt sweaty.
Verena Forester turned out to be a tall, fortyish woman with gray streaks in her once dark hair and a sour expression on her narrow face. Marianne introduced herself and explained what she needed.
“A wedding dress,” the dressmaker said, her tone disapproving. “By tomorrow.” She sniffed and cast an accusing look at Marianne’s waistline. “Some reason you’re in such a hurry?”
“Well, yes, there is a reason, but it is a legal matter, not a physical one.”
“Hmm.” The dressmaker sounded unconvinced. “What kind of wedding dress did you have in mind for a hurry-up ceremony that’s going to happen just twenty-four hours from now?”
Marianne bit her lip. “A very simple one. No fancy flounces or bustles or—”
“You mean plain,” Verena inserted.
“Oh, not too plain,” Marianne said. “I’d like it to be attractive, but I would also like it to be useful later on, something I can wear after the wedding. I am a businesswoman, you see, and—”
“Come with me,” Verena snapped. She led the way to the tall shelves along the wall where bolts of fabric were stacked up as high as the ceiling. “Pale green lawn, perhaps?” She pointed to a bolt halfway up the stack. “That’d go nice with your dark hair, Miss.”
Marianne shook her head. Lawn was so light and summery. It wouldn’t do for year-round wear.
“Then there’s that pale green peau de soie up there next to it. Bring out your eyes. You havin’ a reception?”
Marianne blinked. “Why, no, we’re not. My fiancé and I are new in Smoke River. We don’t know anyone in town.”
The dressmaker pinned her with beady eyes. “That’s too bad, Miss. This here’s a real friendly town.”
“I’m sure it is, Miss Forester. But you see, as I explained before, we are in somewhat of a hurry. Arranging for a wedding reception takes time, and—”
“So?” Verena’s thick eyebrows went up.
She gulped. Were people in small towns like this always so nosy? She didn’t want to confide everything about Lance and herself to a perfect stranger, at least not within her first twenty-four hours in Smoke River. Especially since she was beginning to feel just a tad frightened at the prospect now staring her in the face, getting married to a man she didn’t know all that well and then taking on her inherited business establishment, which was still a mystery.
At the moment, Marianne admitted, she was most nervous about the getting married part. Somehow when she was back in St. Louis it had all seemed like a perfectly straightforward matter; she would get married and then she could claim her inheritance. But now that it was actually right around the corner, she was...well, terrified.
The dressmaker poked a bony forefinger at a fat bolt of fabric at eye level. “How about a nice practical—”
“Yellow gingham,” Marianne finished. “Yes, that one.” She pointed at the bolt. “Gingham will get lots more wear than a fancy silk or a sheer lawn.”
Verena sniffed again, manhandled the bolt of yellow gingham onto the counter and flipped out her tape measure. “Twenty-four hours, you say?”
“Y-yes. Can you do that?”
The dressmaker’s thin face broke into a grin. “You just watch me, Miss, I am the best dressmaker in the county. I have accomplished miracles before, and I can certainly do so again.”
“Oh, I have no doubt—”
“Now,” Verena ordered, “raise your arms so I can take your measurements.”
* * *
Lance paced up and down in front of Ness’s Mercantile, past bushel baskets of ripe peaches and apricots, crates of apples and burlap sacks bulging with potatoes. Inside, the air smelled enticingly of lavender. Lavender? This must be the only mercantile in the world that didn’t smell of pickles or coffee beans or aged cheese. Then he noticed beribboned bundles of the fragrant herb hanging from a rafter.
The store had neatly arranged aisles with displays of garden rakes and boys’ leather boots, even a rack of flower seeds. Fat glass jars of caramels and lemon drops and jelly beans lined one shelf.
The proprietor looked up from the newspaper spread on the wooden counter and surveyed him with a scowl.
“Good morning,” Lance said. “My name is Lawrence Burnside, I just arrived in town yesterday from St. Louis, and I’m looking for a new shirt and a church.”
The man, owner Carl Ness, jerked his head to the left. “Gents’ shirts are down that aisle,” he said shortly. “And we only got one church in town.”
Lance stared at the mercantile owner’s face. “Smoke River has just one church? What denomination is it?”
Ness frowned. “Look, mister...Burnside, is it? This ain’t a big city like St. Louis. Here we got the Smoke River Community Church and that’s it. Suited Smoke River folks for the last forty years. Doesn’t really have a ‘denomination’ so to speak.”
“Do they marry people, Mr. Ness?”
“Well, whaddya think, son? How else are people out here gonna get hitched?”
Lance grunted. “Yeah, I see what you mean.”
“You gettin’ yourself married, are ya?”
“Yes, Mr. Ness, I am. Tomorrow, in fact.”
The mercantile owner gave him an assessing look. “You know this girl for a long time?”
“About four years,” Lance said.
“How long you been engaged?”
Lance blinked. “Um...four days.”
Carl Ness slapped his palm down on the counter. “Four days? Son, are you crazy? That’s not even long enough to learn a gal’s middle name.”
Lance took a step back and nervously ran his fingers through the hair flopping into his eyes. Well, that much was true. He had no idea what Marianne’s middle name might be. Adelaide? Nah, too old-maidish. Samantha? Too fussy. What about Euphemia? Nope. Too fancy.
“Look, Mr. Ness, all I need is a shirt so I can get married tomorrow.”
The proprietor rolled his eyes, but the frown went away and his eyes lit up. “Second aisle, next to the fly swatters.”
Lance chose a long-sleeved blue chambray shirt with white pearl buttons on the cuffs and added a tan leather vest with two pockets and a secret one on the inside. When Lance reached the counter, Mr. Ness had another question for him.
“You got a wedding ring?”
He stared at the paunchy man behind the cash register. A wedding ring? Heck, no, he didn’t have a wedding ring. Until four days ago he’d never had a single thought about a wedding, or a wedding ring. Ever since the prospect of marrying Marianne had presented itself, he’d been on a train chugging its way across the prairie toward Smoke River. But... He gulped. No doubt about it, he was getting married tomorrow, so maybe a wedding ring was a good idea.
“Uh, I don’t suppose you have a jewelry store in town, do you?”
“Nope. Got a tray of gold rings, though. You want to see ’em?”
Lance hesitated. He had exactly seven dollars in his pocket, and that had to cover their hotel room and all their meals until Marianne took over her business and they would have a steady income. “Um...”
Before he could come up with a coherent answer, the proprietor slid a velvet case of shiny gold rings on to the counter. Lance studied them and frowned. What kind of ring would Marianne like? A plain band or one with curlicues engraved all over it? She had never struck him as being a curlicue type of woman, so he moved his gaze over to the plain gold rings on the tray.
“Take yer time, son,” Ness said. “A man only gets married once. If he’s lucky, that is.”
“You married, Mr. Ness?”
The proprietor rolled his eyes. “Huh! You see the front of my store? That’s the most god-awful pink I’ve ever laid eyes on. Last week it was apple-green, and the week before that it was purple.”
“Does your wife paint your storefront?”
“Nope. My daughter does. For years my wife’s been tellin’ my Edith that she’s artistic and that her father’s a mean old fuddy-duddy with no sense of adventure. I’m so married I can’t look my wife in the face and tell her she’s crazy.”
“Yeah, I see your problem, Mr. Ness. I couldn’t tell my fiancée she’s crazy, either.”
“I’m tellin’ ya, a man’s gotta think real careful about gettin’ himself tied down to a woman. It’s kinda like Russian roulette, if you know what I mean.”
Lance bit back a chuckle. “Seems to me if you’re married you could say that to your wife, couldn’t you? You know, just be honest with her?”
“Oh, well, maybe I could. And maybe I’d sleep in the barn for the next twenty years. You got a lot to learn about women, son.”
Lance sighed. What did he know about Marianne, apart from her tendency to give orders and never say thank-you? But he liked what he did know about her. She was sensible and hardworking and generally fair-minded. And darn good-looking.
He continued to mull carefully over the tray of rings until his eye fell on a medium-wide gold band with some design carved on the surface, some kind of flowers, roses, maybe. He bent to look at it close up. “How much is that one?”
“Four dollars.”
He hesitated.
“I got cheaper rings, son.”
Still he hesitated. But for some reason he wanted the one with the roses engraved on it. Something about it just felt like Marianne. He spilled four silver dollars on to the counter and slipped the ring into his pocket. No matter what her middle name was, he liked Marianne, and he wanted her to have a pretty wedding ring.
* * *
Marianne was late to supper, so Lance took a seat in the dining room and gave the waitress a grin.
“Where’s your girl tonight?” the woman asked.
“Still over at the dressmaker’s, I guess.”
The woman laughed softly. “Is she ordering a dress to be made up?”
“Yeah. A wedding dress.”
She snorted. “If I know Verena Forester, that could take most of the night. You probably won’t see your girl ’til morning, so you might as well have some supper.” She slapped down a menu.
But before he could study it, Marianne appeared. She was out of breath, and her face looked kinda shiny, like she was lit up from the inside. His heart gave a horse-sized kick.
Before he could stand up even halfway, she plopped on to the chair across from him. “I have had the most trying afternoon!”
“Me, too,” he admitted.
“I’ve just spent three hours at the dressmaker’s.” She leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “Lance, I’ve never even been inside a dressmaker’s shop before. I had no idea about... Anyway, Verena Forester, she’s the dressmaker, helped me choose a dress pattern and took my measurements and everything. I felt like Cinderella.”
Lance chuckled. “Well, Cinderella, I found out there’s only one church in town. Not Lutheran and not Catholic, just a plain old church. Smoke River Community Church.” He didn’t mention the two hours he’d spent at Ness’s Mercantile, poring over the tray of wedding rings.
The waitress tapped her pencil on her order pad. “We have chicken tonight. Fried, baked or stewed.”
“Fried,” they said together.
“Potatoes?”
“Fried,” they chorused again.
The waitress laughed. “Is there anything you two disagree about?”
“Not so far,” Lance said.
“Wait,” Marianne countered. “We do disagree on something, Lance. My ginger-poached pears, remember?”
“Got peach pie tonight,” the waitress said. “You agree on that?”
“Sure,” Lance said.
“With ice cream,” Marianne added.
“Yeah. Chocolate ice cream,” he said.
“Chocolate!” Marianne blurted out. “Ick!”
The waitress grinned and headed for the kitchen. When she had disappeared, Marianne reached over and caught his sleeve.
“Lance, I... I have a confession to make.”
His belly flip-flopped. “What about? You don’t like chocolate ice cream?”
“It’s not about ice cream. It’s about...well, I’m getting nervous.”
Another flip-flop. “What are you nervous about, Marianne?”
“About tomorrow. Getting married. I’ve never been married before.”
He released the breath he’d been holding. Bridal jitters. What made her think a man didn’t get the jitters, too?
“Marianne, I’ve never been married before, either. What exactly are you nervous about?”
“The next forty years,” she said in a subdued voice.
“Oh.” Relief made his voice sound strained. He’d thought maybe it was him she was nervous about. Or maybe their—he swallowed hard—wedding night. Oh, God, she had to be a virgin. Funny, he’d never thought about it before. He’d just assumed...
“Could you be more specific?” he ventured. “What about the next forty years makes you nervous?”
She dropped her forehead on to her palm. “The forty years part. Marriage is such a, well, a permanent thing. Do you think we will like each other for the next forty years?”
“There’s no way to know that now,” he said with a smile. “Ask me again in forty years.”
She lifted her head and tried to smile at him. Her mouth wasn’t working quite right because it looked like something halfway between a lopsided grimace and a shaky O.
“I’m also worried about my wedding dress,” she said.
“Huh? You mean whether it’ll be ready in time?”
She shook her head. “No. I mean whether you will like it.”
All at once he felt warm all over. She cares about whether I will like her wedding dress? He started to smile, and then another thought popped into his brain. Maybe that meant she was worried about how she would look in her wedding dress? Maybe she really cared about how she would look to him?
Or maybe he wasn’t the least bit important in this business. She needed him only because she needed to marry somebody, and he was the handiest somebody around.
The waitress reappeared. “Two fried chicken dinners and two coffees, right?” She plopped down both plates and the coffee cups. “Gonna have to wait on the peach pie. It’s not out of the oven yet.”
An uneasy silence fell. Marianne picked up her fork to stab a slice of fried potato, then set it back down on the table. She’d lost her appetite. An entire afternoon spent answering dressmaker Verena Forester’s questions and trying to calm the butterflies careening around her stomach was taking its toll. The last thing she needed to do was add a fried potato to the battle going on inside of her.
“Marianne? You look like a ghost just up and poked you in the chest. What’s wrong?”
“N-nothing.” She hadn’t the foggiest notion what was wrong.
His blue eyes held hers in an extra-penetrating look. “Yeah? Nothing is wrong?”
“Of course not,” she said shakily.
Of course something is wrong! In exactly twenty-four hours I am going to promise to spend the rest of my life with someone I scarcely know. Anyone with an ounce of intelligence and a lick of good sense would be frightened half to death.
He reached over and lifted the salt shaker out of her hand. “Then how come you just salted your coffee?”
She bit her lip. “Oh. Well, perhaps I am a bit unnerved. Actually—” she lowered her voice “—I am, um, well, I am getting downright scared.”
“Thank God,” he muttered. “I was beginning to think getting married didn’t matter enough to you to ruffle even one feather.”
A choked laugh burst out of her mouth. “Oh, I have a feather ruffled, all right,” she said in a shaky voice. “It isn’t every day a woman gets married.”
Lance quickly switched their coffee cups and signaled the waitress. “Could you bring me another cup of coffee?”
The woman studied the full cup of coffee at his elbow. “Something wrong with this one?”
“I...um...I accidentally added too much...sugar,” he said. “Wedding jitters, I guess.”
The waitress grinned at him and whisked the cup away.
“Thank you,” Marianne murmured.
Lance blinked. An unprompted thank you from the queen of orders that must be obeyed? He found himself staring at her, and his heart gave a little jump. Did he really know this woman at all?
“Marianne?”
“Yes, Lance?”
“I have something to ask you.”
Her face changed. “Yes? What is it?”
“Marianne, what is your middle name?”
Her eyes widened. “My middle name? It’s Jane,” she said. “I was christened Marianne Jane. Why on earth is that important?”
Jane! It was a simple name. Unaffected, straightforward and honest. “It’s not important, really. I was just curious.”
He addressed his fried chicken, but all during their supper he could think of nothing else but Marianne’s middle name. Jane. He liked it. He liked it a lot.
Then she startled him with a question of her own. “Lance, what is your middle name?”
Oh, God, he’d do anything to avoid telling her that. The waitress saved him by bringing a fresh cup of coffee and setting it down in front of him. He stared at it.
“Lance?” Marianne persisted. “I asked you a question.”
“Yeah, I heard you.”
Her hand hovered over her cup. “Well, what is it? Your middle name?”
He grimaced. “Rockefeller.”
“What?” she cried.
Every diner in the crowded restaurant stopped talking and stared at them. After a long, awkward pause, she leaned toward him. “What?” she repeated in a whisper.
“Not the rich Rockefeller,” he whispered back. “The poor one.”