Colorado Dawn (45 page)

“Stubborn girl.” Mrs. Throckmorton’s expression soured even more. “I thought you were too intelligent to be so blinded by love.”

Love? Hardly that. Although Margaret might want to love her fiancé, she had little expectation of it. Which was certainly not his fault. Blond, hazel-eyed, generous—at least with her, less so in business—and so full of life he seemed to draw all the air from a room, Doyle Kerrigan was a man who easily inspired female admiration. But Margaret wasn’t sure she was capable of love, or that it would even be wise to open herself to that possibility. If she had learned anything during those first devastating years in this great land of opportunity, it was that love was an illusion, and God didn’t care, and the only thing lower than the immigrant Irish were the despicable runners who preyed on them.

Another deep sigh caught Margaret’s attention and she looked over to see Mrs. Throckmorton dabbing at her eyes. She refrained from snorting. Bribery, condemnation, and now guilt? What ploy would the crafty old woman try next? Full-blown hysteria? Margaret couldn’t even imagine such a thing.

“I know why you’re doing this.” Watery blue eyes looked up at Margaret out of a face that suddenly looked old and defeated. “It’s because of what that vile woman did to you, isn’t it? You don’t think you deserve true happiness, so you’re punishing yourself by marrying this man.”

Shame rose in a hot flush, even as a dark coldness closed around Margaret’s heart. How did Mrs. Throckmorton even know about Mrs. Beale? And why now? After avoiding the subject for fifteen years, why did she bring it up on what was supposed to be one of the happiest days of Margaret’s life? So angry she couldn’t find words to express it, she glared at her guardian, hands fisted at her sides.

“If only I had known—”

“How could you?”

“Your papist priest should have told me.”

“It doesn’t matter, ma’am.” Realizing she had grabbed handfuls of her silk skirts, Margaret forced her fingers to straighten. “It’s all in the past.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Shocked to see real tears roll down those wrinkled cheeks, Margaret let her anger go. Crossing to the chair, she put her arm around the thin shoulders and leaned down to kiss the cool, papery cheek. “Nothing happened, ma’am,” she lied. “No one touched me. Father O’Rourke found me before the auction.”

“I never thought I’d be grateful to a Catholic priest.”

Irish and Catholic were synonymous in the elderly woman’s mind, and she had scant liking for either. It still vexed her that Margaret had chosen Father O’Rourke to officiate at her wedding rather than her own Lutheran minister.

A few more tears, then with a pat on Margaret’s arm she gently pushed her away. “Do stop hovering. You know I can’t abide it.”

Grateful to escape, Margaret went back to the window. To rid herself of the emotions still churning inside, she took several deep breaths, watching the cold glass fog with every exhalation. Closing her eyes, she reached deep into her mind for happier memories—rolling emerald hills, misty dales, waves crashing in frothy disarray
against treeless bluffs. Instead of the strident voices of the newsboys hawking the late edition three stories below, she heard the call of terns on a chill north wind, the warble of her father’s tin whistle, her mother’s soft laughter.

It frightened her how hard she had to work to recall those memories now and how much they had dimmed over the years. Even Cathleen appeared to her less and less frequently. When those memories faded altogether, would she be more or less whole than she was now?

Footfalls sounded in the hall.

She turned to see Pringle in the doorway. “Mr. Kerrigan’s carriage has arrived, madam,” he said solemnly, his bushy white brows raised in his usual expression of disdain whenever he mentioned her Irish fiancé’s name.

“Thank you, Pringle,” Mrs. Throckmorton said. “Please have a cup of warm milk and a piece of toast sent to my room. That will be all.”

“Very well, madam.”

As the sound of Pringle’s footsteps receded, Margaret crossed to the mirror. Her mood lifted as excitement gripped her, making it hard to take a full breath against the stays around her ribs. This was it. Her night. “I wish you would change your mind and come with me,” she said over her shoulder to the woman watching from the chair. “I wouldn’t be so nervous if you were there beside me.”

“Nonsense. You will be a stunning success. I have trained you too well for it to be otherwise.”

A last look to be sure everything was in order, then Margaret turned to face the woman who had been almost like a grandmother to her for over half of her life. “Well? How do I look, ma’am?”

The pinched lips thinned in a reluctant smile. “Like a princess.”