Gerrity's Bride

With shameless satisfaction, Emmaline reeled in the prize she had won. “There, on the bed,” she said with a lazy movement of her hand. “I left the box out in case you came by.”

Theresa’s mouth formed a soft circle of wonder as her small hand edged across the coverlet to allow slender fingers to trace the fragile flowers that graced the shiny prize she coveted.

“This is for me?” she whispered hopefully.

Emmaline nodded, her smile guardedly triumphant as she watched. “Open it, why don’t you?” she urged softly.

With an eagerness that brought a startled burst of laughter from her elder sister, Theresa clambered onto the bed and then, with anxious eyes, glanced back for approval.

“Go ahead, open it,” Emmaline said encouragingly as she approached the foot of the bed. She was heady with success, and her cheeks were rosy with excitement.

Pretty as a picture. The words that described the scene flew into being as Matthew Gerrity watched from the doorway. Unseen, unnoticed by the two, who were deeply engrossed in their own involvement, he hesitated outside the room.

A strange emotion tore at his heart, a painful surge he recognized as jealousy tightening his jaw, and his eyes narrowed as he surveyed the woman who had begun to usurp his place. With feminine skill, she had brought about this happening, knowing intuitively what would whet a small girl’s curiosity, what would draw the child into her orbit.

“Sneaky,” he said in a casual accusation as he left his watching post to shatter the fragile picture burning in his mind. Unwilling to admit the beguiling of his senses, he chose to break the tenuous moment of vulnerability that had seized his control. He thrust away the moment of envy, the sense of standing outside the magic circle, his mouth tightening with the effort.

Emmaline glanced at him quickly, her smile smothered by the shuttered look he cast in her direction.

“Not sneaky, just devious,” she told him softly. “I need every foothold I can manage.”

Oblivious of the adults who spoke civilities over her head, Theresa was involved in the process of lifting the cover from the box, her fingers already foraging beneath the tissue, which had kept the contents from damage during the long journey.

With a gasp of delight and a whisper of wonder, she drew forth the beautiful bisque doll Emmaline had brought for her. With bonnet and gown barely wrinkled, with delicately hand-painted features smiling demurely in her direction, the loose-limbed creation enthralled Theresa completely. The doll’s hands were lifted carefully and examined, the slippered feet treated with tender regard.

Then the child’s small head lifted, and for the first time, Emmaline saw the sister she had traveled so far to meet and claim as her own.

“Oh, thank you, Emmie,” she said with joyous haste, her small tongue shortening the ponderous length of her sister’s name.

Emmaline cast a glance that reeked of triumph in Matthew’s direction and then allowed her features to soften as she sat down beside the girl, who held the doll with careful hands.

“Emmie?” she asked carefully, her heart rejoicing at the implied intimacy.

Theresa looked up and shrugged. “Emmaline is too long to say.” Her eyes darted to the tall form of her brother, who watched silently. “Do you like my present, Maffew?” she asked with obvious restraint as she awaited his opinion.

To his credit, Matt Gerrity smiled and nodded his approval. Unwilling to dampen the pleasure of his small sister, he faced the knowledge that his solitary relationship with her was at an end.

“Your sister knew just what you would like, didn’t she?” he asked, his question directed at both females.

Emmaline’s chin lifted defiantly as she allowed her smile to widen in response. “You had a head start, Matthew,” she said carefully.

Theresa looked from one to the other, as if she sensed the undercurrents that lay beneath their words.

He relented, unwilling to cloud the small face looking at him with a trace of uncertainty. “It’s a beautiful doll, Tessie,” he assured her. “I’m glad your sister brought it to you.”

The gathering cloud vanished. Theresa embraced the doll, her arms holding the stuffed body with care and her head bent as she crooned softly against the delicately rouged cheek.

Matt’s glance brushed with tenderness over the small form as she rocked the doll within her arms, and Emmaline’s breath caught in her throat as she glimpsed the warmth of his regard.

Just for a moment, an errant thought pierced Emmaline’s satisfaction as she hugged her small victory. Just for a fleeting second, she wondered how it would feel to have that same tender look bestowed upon her own being. And for the space of that moment, she felt alone, bereft of human touch, once more the lonely girl who had been searching for a lifetime and until now had never caught a glimpse of what she sought.

* * *

“You’re getting married?” The words were shrill and carried easily to the hallway, where Emmaline had paused. Voices from the library had alerted her to the presence of a visitor, and she had hesitated, unwilling to intrude upon a private conversation. With one hand, she leaned against the wall beside her, vacillating between advancement and retreat.

The murmur of Matthew’s voice was blurred by the rapid speech of a woman who appeared intent on overriding his explanation.

“I don’t understand! I just cannot believe you’ve dragged a bride out of the woodwork!” she exclaimed with the same shrill vehemence.

“Now, Deborah,” Matt said firmly.

A silence settled against her ears, and Emmaline leaned forward a bit, listening for the reply she was sure must be forthcoming. No longer was she tempted to retreat to her bedroom. Gone was the ladylike urge to ignore the passionate exchange in the library. The woman was talking about her, and Emmaline’s eyes were wide with annoyance.

“I was hardly dragged out of the woodwork,” she muttered beneath her breath.

A muffled sob reached Emmaline’s hearing, and then a whispered flow of words caused her to change her position. She took her hand from the whitewashed wall, jammed it in her pocket and moved carefully down the hallway, bent on catching sight of the unseen female who had managed to put a blight on this morning.

Hesitating before the open door of the library, she stiffened, her mouth tightening in disapproval. Matthew’s hands were busy, one distractedly patting a slender back, the other in the process of wiping away tears with a large white handkerchief. The woman who was allowing such familiarity with her person was sighing and sobbing with dainty purpose, the sounds at variance with the shrill comments she had been making only minutes ago.

“Am I intruding?” Emmaline asked from her vantage point. She schooled her features into a concerned mask and stepped forward.

Matt looked up and glared at her over the head of the woman he was attempting to comfort. “I’m not sure this is the time for a formal introduction, Emmaline,” he said bluntly.

The woman in his grasp shuddered once more, then straightened her shoulders and took charge of the handkerchief he held. Walking to the window, she pulled aside the white curtain and looked out upon the view from the front of the house.

Emmaline lifted one eyebrow in an unspoken question and, with a delicate movement of her hands, signified her willingness to retreat, backing away from Matthew’s apparent frustration.

“Never mind leaving.” He changed his mind and reached for her hand, clasping her fingers in a grasp she knew would be easier to accept than to wiggle out of. “This probably is as good a time as any,” he muttered, contradicting his first reaction to her appearance.

“Deborah,” he said briskly, and then waited while the woman at the window slowly turned to face them.

“This is Emmaline Carruthers, the woman who will be my wife.”

Not “my bride” or “the woman I’ve asked to marry me,” but, bluntly, “my wife.” Emmaline struggled to look pleasant. She knew she couldn’t manage friendly, and welcoming was far beyond her capacity for the moment. Pleasant would have to suffice.

With but a passing glance, the woman turned her attention to the tall man who had delivered her a telling blow. His jaw was set and rigid, but his eyes held a trace of pity Emmaline could not help but notice. Perhaps it was the unwanted suggestion of such an emotion that tightened the woman’s own features into a civil expression marred only by the flaring of her nostrils as she spoke.

“Congratulations to both of you. I’ll admit I was a bit surprised at the news, Matt, but then, you always were full of surprises,” she said, dropping her gaze, to brush with one hand at the unwrinkled expanse of her skirt.

“This is Deborah Hopkins, the daughter of our nearest neighbor,” Matthew explained as he drew Emmaline closer, his fingers tightening on her own as she reluctantly stepped next to him.

“I really must leave. I only dropped by to invite you to Sunday dinner, Matt,” the blond creature said, her breasts lifting as she stifled a sigh. Her eyelashes fluttered in a sad little gesture Emmaline noted grimly, and then, fastening her gaze on the man who stood across the room, Deborah smiled. Pathetically, her mouth trembled in a way designed to tug at a man’s heartstrings.

Only as she made her way past them to the doorway did she deign to look directly at Emmaline. Her eyes swept from the top of her unruly curls, down past the black mourning dress that hung in heavy folds to the floor. In a gesture that dismissed Emmaline as insignificant, Deborah moved past her, and it was only when she reached the front door that Matthew moved.

“Let me walk you to your buggy,” he offered, releasing Emmaline’s hand and reaching Deborah’s side with long, easy strides.

She looked up at him with a brave little smile and nodded, stepping back so he could open the door.