Maryelle (War Brides Book 2) Read online

  “I’m guessing that wasn’t the last you heard from him.”

  “I thought it would be. I went upstairs to my empty flat that night and realized how very lonely I was. A loneliness that had been emphasized by the pleasure of talking to Kingston for several hours.” She smiled, a soft feeling in her chest. “You can imagine my surprise and pleasure when a letter arrived two days later. And another every day until he arrived on my step again.

  “He had several more passes. We spent every waking hour together. I showed him my favorite spots in London. We made a trip out of town.” That was the time they had buried Sheba. “And then he said his unit was due to be sent to France soon. He asked if I would marry him before he left. I couldn’t imagine life without him, so I agreed. We were married the next weekend. We had four wonderful days together, and then he was gone. I didn’t see him again until I arrived here.”

  “It’s obvious you love him very much.”

  “I would do anything for him.”

  Grandma’s face grew serious. “Let’s hope you don’t have to.”

  Her thoughts flew to Father Brown.

  Grandma’s eyes narrowed, and she looked intently into Maryelle’s face. “Have I struck a sour note?”

  “How well do you know the family?”

  “We’ve lived side by side since before Kingston was born. At one time his mother and I were good friends.”

  “What happened?”

  “She got busy with her babies. It was hard for her to come and visit. I went there a few times, but somehow I never felt really welcome.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t really say. Your father-in-law was always friendly to me—at least on the surface—but I sensed he didn’t like my presence. Tsk, Child. I shouldn’t be saying this to you. They’re your family now, and I’m sure you find them pleasant enough except for Lena, and we have to make allowances for her grief.”

  Maryelle didn’t answer.

  “Child, what is it?”

  She hadn’t intended to say anything, but her troubled thoughts would not be contained. “Father Brown isn’t as kind as he seems.”

  Grandma Wells’s mouth tightened. “No doubt you have solid reasons for your opinion.”

  “Very solid. I’ve seen him hit Kingston with a spanner. And the way he talked to him—yelled. The things he said. It was awful. And last night he hit Angus. Poor Angus. No wonder he’s so withdrawn. Kingston says his father’s ways don’t bother him. He just stands there. But Angus. I think it’s destroying him.” She stared down at her hands. She wanted to keep secret the things she’d discovered, but her knowledge threatened to eat her from the inside out. “I shouldn’t tell you all this.”

  “Your secret will be safe with me. And I will pray for a miracle in that family.” She paused. “I can’t say I’m surprised. I’ve wondered for years.”

  “Kingston told his father if he ever touched Angus again, he would break both his arms.” The thought of violence made her feel like pitching up her dinner. “I wish there were some way out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I wish we could move away and live on our own.”

  “I expect you could.”

  “No, we have no place to go. And Kingston loves that farm. It would break his heart to walk away and see it go to ‘rack and ruin,’ as he says. Besides, what would happen to Angus?”

  “So there are valid reasons for staying?”

  She nodded, misery wrapping around her heart like a hangman’s noose. “I wish there was some way of stopping him.” She didn’t have to explain to Grandma Wells that she meant Kingston’s father.

  “It’s dangerous to interfere with a man’s family. And I suspect it might only make things worse for everyone.”

  “Kingston said much the same. He said his mother tried to interfere on his behalf once or twice, and it only made his father angrier, more violent.”

  “We must take this to the Lord in prayer. He will provide an answer. And there are a couple of young men I feel we need to lift up to Him for protection.”

  After Grandma’s heartfelt prayer, Maryelle felt a degree better.

  “Let’s make the bread.”

  Maryelle’s first loaf was crude, the next one better.

  “Do you have any family left in Britain?” Grandma asked as Maryelle shaped loaves.

  “Not a living soul. How about you?”

  “I have an older sister and a niece and nephew.”

  “Have you ever been back?”

  “No. We planned to but never made it. There was always something else we had to spend the money on or we couldn’t spare the time.”

  “Do you think you’ll ever go back?” Maryelle asked as she shaped the rest of the dough into rolls.

  “Not now. I remember a time when it was uppermost in my mind, but after Harry died and then both sets of parents passed away, there didn’t seem to be any reason. And now we’re too old, and I don’t think Wes could take the trip.

  “There—you’re done. There won’t be time for you to bake them today so I’ll just tell you.” She explained how to test the temperature of the oven, where to place the loaves, how to tell if they were done.

  Grandpa Wells wandered in then and began poking through the cupboards in the back room.

  “What are you looking for, Wes?”

  He came out and stared at his wife. “You know—I can’t remember.” He laughed. “I guess I thought I’d know when I saw it. How long ’til supper?”

  “About an hour.”

  “Is it that time already?” Maryelle said. “I’d better get home. Thank you so much. It’s been wonderful.”

  “Come again any time. I’d be glad to teach you whatever you like.”

  Maryelle paused. “Biscuits. Canadian biscuits, not our English ones. I want to know how to make those.”

  “Child, they’re as easy as rolling off a log. Come tomorrow, and by the time you go home, you’ll know how to make a light biscuit that will make your Kingston’s mouth water. Why, I’ve won awards at the fair for years with my biscuits.”

  “I’ll be back if it’s at all possible.”

  “I will be praying for you.”

  Back home, tension returned to her muscles the minute Father Brown entered the room, Angus and Kingston at his heels.

  She was certain she wasn’t the only one feeling the tension. Mother Brown spent long hours at her garden. Jeanie and Lily spent most of their time at the playhouse in the trees. Lena no longer went for walks, choosing instead to inflict her misery on the inhabitants of the house. Poor Katherine received most of it and grew more and more dependent on Lena for direction for every move.

  Maryelle found solace in her solitary walks and in afternoons spent at the Wellses’.

  “I’ve been thinking,” she said one afternoon as she fried chicken for Grandma. “I think I’ve found a way to gain some ground at home.”

  “What’s that, my dear?”

  “Well, I think I could make bread on my own now.”

  “You’re a quick learner.”

  “Thanks. I keep trying to tell Lena that.”

  “Sooner or later she’ll realize it.”

  “I’ve decided to make it sooner. I’m going to get up early tomorrow morning and start the bread before anyone else gets up. I’ll show them I can do it.”

  “I don’t see any harm in that.”

  “I’ve thought about it, and I can’t see any reason for anyone to object.”

  “Does there have to be a reason?”

  “No.” She let her shoulders slump. “But I’ve got to be allowed to do something.”

  “Then go ahead. Make a batch of nice bread. And let the bricks fall where they may.”

  “Ouch. That doesn’t sound too good.”

  “My dear, don’t expect instant reversal in everyone’s attitudes. It will take time for the family to learn to accept you.”

  “I think they’ve had plenty of time. I’ve been here over th
ree months.”

  “I know it must be frustrating. I’ve been praying for things to change. Maybe this is the way. You go ahead, Dear. No one can fault you for doing a good deed.”

  “I hope not.” She said it with far more conviction than she felt.

  She shared her plans with Kingston. “I’m going to get up early tomorrow morning,” she told him as they prepared for bed. “I’m going to prove I’m capable of making bread, and it seems the only way I’ll be allowed to do so is to get up before everyone else and just do it.”

  “You know what I like about you?”

  “Everything, I would hope.”

  “Well, yes, but I was thinking of one thing in particular.”

  “And are you going to tell me what it is, Mr. Canada?”

  He ran his finger down her nose. “Maybe it wouldn’t be good for me to say anymore. Wouldn’t want you to get a swelled head or anything.”

  She pounced on him, tickling him until he yelled.

  “Shh. You want the whole family to come pounding on the door to see what’s the matter?”

  He choked back his laughter and caught her hands to stop her onslaught.

  “No fair, brown eyes. Tickle me to death then tell me not to laugh.”

  He pulled her down on his chest and kissed her nose.

  “So what was it you like about me?”

  “Back then I was thinking of your fighting spirit—a real British bulldog.” He cupped her face in his hands. “But right now”—his voice was low—“I’m thinking how much I like your eyes, your upturned little nose, your rosebud mouth.” He proceeded to kiss her.

  She waited until he broke away before she asked, “Have I told you how much I like everything about you?”

  “I don’t believe you have. But you could show me now and make up for neglecting to tell me.”

  With a happy laugh, she leaned toward him. Her heart was so full, she thought she wouldn’t be able to contain the shout of joy begging to escape.

  His eyes darkened to the color of old pines as she kissed him.

  She woke as the sun filled the sky with a pink blush. Kingston stared bleary-eyed at her as she pulled on her clothes.

  “I’m going to start the bread,” she whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

  “And miss the chance of seeing my wife being domestic? I wouldn’t think of it.” He stood, stretched his arms above his head, bent from side to side, and yawned loudly, then sank back to the edge of the bed.

  She leaned over and kissed him. “You’re bright-eyed this morning.”

  He groaned. “Beats me how you can spring from the bed with such clear eyes.”

  “I have a mission.”

  “Yeah, right. Make bread.” He yawned again. “Don’t suppose you’d consider doing it another day?”

  “Hurry up, or I’ll go without you.”

  He groped for his pants, struggled into them, and staggered after her.

  Downstairs she quietly gathered up the things she needed and measured everything out as Grandma Wells had taught her. She knew she would have to wait while the dough rose, but if her calculations proved correct, she could manage to get the bread into pans before anyone else got up. To be on the safe side, she covered the bread pan and hid it in the little room that housed the cream separator.

  “I’m done for now. Come on—let’s go for a walk or something.”

  Kingston set aside the paper he’d been reading and tiptoed after her. “Why do I feel like I’m a thief in my own house?”

  “Think of it as Christmas or something.”

  “How are you going to bake the loaves without being discovered?”

  “I’m hoping I can put the dough into pans before anyone gets up.” She checked the position of the sun. “I’ll try to hide the loaves until they’re ready to bake. Once they’re in the oven, I’m home free.” She giggled. “Have you thought how silly it is to be sneaking around to work?”

  He took her hand and swung it as they walked. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

  They walked in happy silence toward the garden. “This morning was nice.” He squeezed her hand. “Just the two of us together in the kitchen—you busy working, me pretending to read the paper but really watching you.”

  She stopped, jerking him to a halt. “You were looking at me? Whatever for?”

  He tugged her arm, marching forward, not bothering to look at her as he answered. “I was enjoying the scenery.”

  “What scenery?” she asked.

  He paused then and grinned down at her. “You, sweet Maryelle. You’re the best-looking thing around here.”

  “Kingston, you are so sweet.” She remained sober in spite of his wide grin. “I don’t know how I survived without you.”

  “Why is that?” He waggled his eyebrows.

  “Are you fishing for a compliment?”

  “Shamelessly,” he admitted, grinning like a satisfied cat.

  “You certainly deserve it.” She tipped her head. “Let me think. What is it that makes you so special?”

  His expression sagged. “Is it that hard to think of something?”

  “I’m only teasing. It’s not hard at all. I could start with your eyes that are so beautiful and expressive. I love it when you look at me and they go all dark. I know what you’re thinking without even asking.”

  “Is that a fact? So what am I thinking now?”

  She grinned. “That you’d like to kiss me.”

  He turned away. “You’re crazy.”

  “Now quit trying to distract me unless you don’t want to hear any more of your praises sung.”

  “Sing on, dear wife; sing on.”

  “You are as tall and straight as a ship’s mast. You are strong. You have a wonderful sense of humor. You”—her voice grew husky—“you have the most wonderfully free way of saying sweet things to me. I love that about you.”

  “A ship’s mast?”

  She shrugged. “It was the first thing that came to mind.”

  “Tall and skinny.”

  “Straight, with an upright bearing.”

  He sighed. “Beanpole.”

  She groaned. “Did I mention argumentative and stubborn?”

  “How did we get from I’m so special to I’m stubborn and argumentative?”

  “Better ask yourself that.”

  “Right. Kingston, how—?”

  “You are truly impossible at times.”

  “Yes, but you like it. You know you do.”

  “I give up.”

  “About time.”

  They had reached the garden. He pulled her into the crook of his arm. “Now stop being argumentative and let us enjoy the beautiful morning.”

  “Umm.” She nestled into his embrace. “It’s nice to be the only ones up.”

  “We should do this more often.”

  She sighed. “I wish we could be alone more often.”

  “Me too, but I don’t see how it’s possible.”

  “Unless we have our own place.” Would he listen to her request?

  His arm tightened around her. “Are you regretting things?”

  “Only that I can’t have you to myself.”

  “It will come, dear sweet Maryelle. It will come.”

  She nodded. The promise of things to come did little to satisfy the needs and wants of the present. Yet she knew their choices were very narrow. They basically had no place else to go, and, besides, what about Angus?

  “Your garden is looking fine.”

  “It needs a rain.”

  “The whole country needs rain. Pray to God it comes soon. The hay crops are burning; the wheat and oats are in the boot stage and about half as high as they should be.”

  She knelt to examine some of her plants. “The carrots need thinning. I guess I’ll do that today. But the bean plants have stopped growing altogether.” She moved on to her row of vines—squash, pumpkin, and cucumbers. “If I could water these, I could salvage them.”

  “You could use the was
h water and slop water from the house.”

  She stood and stared at him. “That’s a good idea. I’ll tell them at breakfast I want it to carry to my garden. They won’t mind, will they?”

  “Why should they? It’s only going to be thrown out.”

  She knew that what he said made sense, but nothing around here ever seemed to be as simple as it should be. “I suppose we should go back. I’ll put the dough in pans now and hide it before everyone gets up.” She had discussed it with Grandma, who agreed that this time, in order to gain the ground she wished, she could skip a second rising.

  If Kingston’s parents were surprised to discover she and Kingston were up when they came from their room, they gave no indication. Then Mother Brown checked the coffeepot, and finding it full of fresh hot coffee, she looked startled. As she poured herself and her husband each a cup, she glanced around the kitchen, checking, Maryelle supposed, to see if anything else was out of the ordinary; but she had managed to hide the bread pans on the top shelf in the pantry, covered with a tea towel. Everything else was washed and returned to its rightful spot. There was nothing to indicate she’d done anything but make the coffee.

  Over breakfast Maryelle announced she would like the washing-up water for her garden. No one protested. After breakfast dishes were done, she poured the water into a bucket and carried it to the garden to pour it carefully on four cucumber plants.

  Later, when she was sure the loaves were rounded and ready to bake, she went to the little pantry and carried two pans out. She’d kept an eye on the stove all morning and knew the oven was hot enough. Without saying anything, she slipped two loaves into the oven and returned for the other two. As she straightened, she came face to face with Lena.

  “What are you trying to prove?” the girl demanded.

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  “I should think that’s obvious.” Maryelle set aside the potholders. “I’m proving I can make bread.”

  “What makes you think you can make bread?”

  “Why don’t you wait a bit until it’s done and you tell me?” Maryelle smiled at Lena, determined not to be drawn into an argument. “It will be ready for dinner.”