Marry Me (40 page)

Rhyne placed a finger perpendicular to his lips. “No, I don’t. I think they were gorging themselves on ice cream and caramel sauce, but it was worth mentioning just to see your face.”

Toppling her back on the bed, Cole exacted his revenge in a way that satisfied them both.

One week later, Judge Elijah Wentworth became the dinner guest of the Monroes. Whitley conducted herself with all the social graces she learned from her mother, and while she certainly did honor to the memory of Margaret Brookes Monroe, her demeanor was so correct that Cole spent a fair amount of time anticipating the onset of disaster. All that goodness unnerved him.

Whitley’s behavior had the opposite effect on Rhyne. She began the meal unnerved and by following Whitley’s example, found her ease as dinner progressed. At no point did Whitley allow the conversation to become awkward or veer into subjects that were better discussed privately. Rhyne had no idea if that was because Whitley was ignorant of what occurred at the social or if it was because she knew at least some part of it. Her experience with Cole’s sister led her to believe there was every possibility it was the latter.

It was as Rhyne was clearing the table so she could serve dessert and coffee that she noticed Whitley’s attention was flagging and that her interest seemed less than genuine. “Please excuse us, Judge, but I need Whitley’s help in the kitchen.”

Both men stood as Whitley dutifully rose to assist Rhyne. She gathered the things that Rhyne couldn’t carry and followed her into the hallway. As soon as they were in the kitchen, she hurried to put her dishes in the sink and then leaned over it.

Rhyne emptied her arms of platters and cutlery and went to stand beside Whitley. “What’s wrong? You’re flushed.”

Whitley shook her head. “I don’t know. I started to feel odd before we sat down. A little queasy and hot and–” She pushed Rhyne away and vomited violently into the sink.

Rhyne’s initial reaction was to press one hand against her stomach and the other over her mouth to keep from retching. She gagged once before she managed to control the response. Breathing deeply, she stepped back to Whitley’s side and placed her palm against the girl’s back. She rubbed gently as Whitley’s narrow frame shook with spasms. Even after Whitley emptied her entire dinner into the sink, she continued to heave.

Rhyne glanced behind her and down the hallway to see if Cole perhaps had heard and was on his way to lend assistance. The cavalry was not coming. She pumped water to rinse away the waste while Whitley leaned weakly against the sink. When Whitley’s shudders subsided, she asked, “Will you take a glass of water?”

Whitley only nodded faintly. Her fingers were trembling when Rhyne thrust the glass into her hands.

Rhyne kept her palm just beneath the glass in the event Whitley lost her grip. “Just a few sips,” she said. “Then rinse your mouth.”

Whitley did as she was told. “I want to sit down.”

“Of course.” Rhyne took the glass away and pulled out a chair. She hovered until Whitley dropped into it. “I’m getting your brother.”

“No!” Whitley surprised them both with the strength of the grip she put on Rhyne’s arm. “No,” she repeated more softly. “Don’t tell him I was sick. It will ruin the evening.”

“Whitley, you can’t return to the table.”

“Make an excuse for me. Tell him I have a headache. I do. It wouldn’t be a lie.”

“I can’t do that.”

“But the judge will leave.” “So we’ll invite him again.”

“But–” She stopped because she really was too weak to argue. Her shoulders sagged with the realization that she was defeated.

Rhyne took immediate advantage. “I’m getting Cole so he can help you to your room. I can’t very well escort you past the dining room without him seeing us.” She made certain Whitley was squarely in the chair before she left.

It was an animated conversation that she interrupted in the dining room. Both men looked up as she entered, the judge politely, Cole rather more curiously when he saw her hands were empty. “Pardon me,” she said, “but Whitley’s taken ill suddenly. Cole, she needs to lie down. Will you make certain she manages the stairs?”

Cole rose to his feet, excusing himself at the same time. “I won’t be long,” he promised.

Judge Wentworth watched him go. He asked Rhyne, “Is there something I can do?”

She shook her head, her tongue suddenly cleaving to the roof of her mouth.

The judge stood, walked to Rhyne’s chair at the foot of the table and pulled it out for her. “Please, won’t you sit down?”

Rhyne hesitated. “I should–” Her eyes darted toward the hallway as she heard Whitley and Cole approaching. She took her seat to keep the judge’s attention from wandering in that direction. Whitley deserved a dignified escape after her splendid performance at dinner. “Thank you,” she said as Judge Wentworth pushed in her chair. Her gaze fell on the empty table. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think to bring the cake and coffee.” She started to rise, but he waved her back down and returned to his chair.

“There’s no reason not to wait for Dr. Monroe,” he said. “I’d have a hard time doing justice to your cake right now, although I certainly would make the effort. The meal was delicious, and I thank you for it.”

Rhyne managed a weak smile. The judge was studying her again, but at least this time his regard was thoughtful, not merely stunned.

“Did your father teach you to cook?”

All of Rhyne’s earlier anxieties returned, and she had a renewed appreciation for Whitley’s role as the gracious, conversational go-between. “My brothers taught me,” she said. Her mouth was dry. She wished she’d remembered the coffee. “Judah never cooked except sometimes for himself. Mostly he barked orders if he wanted something done a particular way.”

“So Rusty and Randy were your mentors.” He made a sound at the back of his throat that registered his surprise. “I never thought those boys did much more than raise hell.”

“They did that, too.” She shrugged. “They weren’t so bad when no one was around to watch them. Leastways, they could have been worse.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Wentworth rubbed his jaw with his knuckles. “I think I make you uncomfortable,” he said. “I’m sorry for that.”

Rhyne stopped fidgeting with the napkin she’d drawn into her lap, but it was pointless to pretend he was wrong about her discomfort. “You’re the only one that’s ever remarked that I look like her. I keep coming back to that in my mind.”

The judge inclined his head sympathetically. “I can’t speak for anyone else. I noticed it right off.”

“Cole said you saw me before the social.”

“Did he? I wondered if you knew we had talked. Forgive me, but I didn’t want to raise that particular conversation if it was unknown to you.”

Rhyne noticed the judge shifting slightly in his chair. His eyes, too, had drifted away from hers. “I think I’ve made you uncomfortable,” she said, and unlike him, she did not apologize for it. “I know from Cole that you made his acquaintance at Miss Adele’s.”

Elijah Wentworth cleared his throat. “The doctor is forthright, I see.”

“He is.” She felt no need to explain that she’d only learned the entirety of their conversation a few evenings ago. “He said you saw me walking home from the Porters.”

“That’s right. Will Beatty pointed you out, but as I told your husband, I knew who you were the moment these old eyes fell on you.”

“Why didn’t you say something then?”

“Couldn’t.”

“Because you were with that no-account Beatty boy?”

“No. Because I couldn’t speak.” His slight smile was rife with self-mockery. “I don’t rightly recall the rest of what Will and I were discussing. I know I said all the proper things because he never asked if I’d just been mule-kicked, but that’s what happened. You walked through my line of sight, and I got mule-kicked.”

Rhyne didn’t know what to say. She was relieved to hear Cole’s footsteps on the stairs. Her attention turned briefly to the open doorway.

Cole paused on the threshold but didn’t enter. “I need to get my bag.”

Rhyne frowned. “What’s wrong with–”

He held up his hand. “I’ll only be a few more minutes.” Then he disappeared.

Judge Wentworth offered an understanding and regretful smile. “I should leave.”

“No. Please don’t. That is the very last thing that Whitley would want. Really, she will be sad to learn that her illness sent you away prematurely.”

“So,” he drawled thoughtfully, “I’m staying because it’s what young Whitley wants.”

“Yes.” Rhyne pressed her hands together in her lap and made her admission reluctantly. “And what I want.”

“Very well.”

Rhyne thought that perhaps he would speak to all her unasked questions, but he merely sat there waiting for her to take the lead. “I know almost nothing about my mother,” she said at last. “Judah did not encourage us to talk about her.”

“He forbid it, you mean.”

“Yes. He forbid it. What was she like?”

“Like no one else,” he said without having to think about it. “Loyal comes to mind. Strong-headed, even stubborn. She didn’t look like a woman with enough grit to make the journey from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh, yet she stuck by Judah all the way to Reidsville and then a bit beyond that. Except when she was commanding the stage, her manner was soft-spoken and gentle, but she always held herself proud. She wasn’t easily riled, but your brothers could do it from time to time. Rusty, I think it was, lined his pockets with candy from Morrison’s. Delia took him by the ear, marched him back to the emporium to make amends, and then brought him to me to learn what the law had to say about thieves.”

“All that, and Judah still waiting for him at home.” Rhyne shook her head, sympathizing. “Poor Rusty.”

“I don’t know that Delia ever told Judah. It didn’t seem as though she intended to at the time. I had the sense that she protected your brothers from the hard edge of Judah’s temper.”

“Then I stand corrected. Rusty was a lucky ba–” She caught the pejorative on the tip of her tongue and swallowed it. “Boy,” she said instead. “He was a lucky boy.”

Humor briefly brightened Elijah Wentworth’s gray eyes as he watched a wave of color come and go in Rhyne’s cheeks. Sobering, he absently stroked his neatly clipped beard. “I don’t suppose there was anyone protecting you from the same.”

Rhyne shrugged. “No one ever took a lickin’ for me, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s what I mean.” He continued to regard her thoughtfully. “I noticed you generally refer to your father as Judah. Do you address him that way?”

“It’s his name.”

“So it is. Did he ask you to call him that?”

“I don’t remember that he ever asked me
not
to. Truth is, I don’t talk to him much. Never have. Mostly it’s conversation about him.” Her chin thrust forward a notch. “I suppose you think my mother wouldn’t have approved.”

“I know she wouldn’t have. She was particular about matters of respect and deference. She believed manners defined the social order.”

“A snob, then.”

The judge was taken aback for a moment, and then he chuckled. “If she was, she had the good manners to keep it to herself.”

Rhyne remembered what Whitley had said about breeding. “Was my mother a decent sort of person?” “She was. Gracious. Forgiving to a fault.” “Kind?”

“Yes. Patient, too.”

Rhyne considered all of that before she sighed heavily. “There’s the proof that I
must
be my father’s daughter. No one’s ever won a wager depending on me to be patient.”

“Don’t forget that I said Delia was steadfast and willful, or that she had enough grit to polish some of Judah’s rough edges.”

“I don’t recollect that you said it quite that way.” “Well, I’m saying it now.” “Did you love her, Judge?”

The bald question startled Elijah Wentworth. He blinked, looked away, and blinked again. Years of presiding over trials helped him gain his composure relatively quickly. “We all–” He stopped because Rhyne’s forthright stare gave him no quarter. The easy answer was not the right answer, and after all this time, Rhyne deserved more than what was convenient or safe.

“Yes,” he said. “I loved your mother. I wanted to marry her.”

“She was already married.”

“So she reminded me every time I proposed.” His slight smile hinted at his regret. “Loyal, remember? I naively thought she would change her mind. I drew up documents for a divorce, and she was properly horrified that I would take those measures without her permission.”

“Why did you?”

The judge folded his hands in his lap and tapped his thumbs together. “Your mother loved me, Rhyne. She told me so, and I believed her. The fact that she wouldn’t leave Judah was a complication, not an end. I hoped that time and what she felt for me would whittle away at her resolve.”

“Stubborn,” said Rhyne. “Seems you knew about that firsthand.”

“Indeed. Judah didn’t like Delia being out of his sight. It’s probably the reason he didn’t last long at mining. He needed to know what she was doing and to whom she was speaking.”

“Apparently with justification.”

He frowned, disappointed by her response. “I think you judge your mother too harshly, but I’m not going to try to persuade you to do otherwise.”

“Did Judah know about you?”

“I think he did, yes.” His pause was almost infinitesimal. “Eventually.”

“Is that why he moved the family away?”

“I’ve always believed so.”

“Did you see her before she died?”

“I saw her twice. Both times she was with your father. I never saw her alone. We never spoke again.” His voice had become a trifle husky. “I’ve never been what you would call a permanent resident of Reidsville. I was in Denver when she died.”

Rhyne wanted to know if he had sensed her mother was gone before he learned it for a fact. She held the question back, afraid that the answer to what might be a fancy in her mind would break her heart.

“Delia had a brother,” the judge said. “Did you know that?” When Rhyne shook her head, he went on. “A bit older, I believe. There’s every chance that he’s still alive. Franklin was his Christian name. She called him Frankie, but it was Franklin Benjamin Rhyne. A tribute, I suppose, to Philadelphia’s most famous citizen.”