Molly had allowed his dinner to get cold). As he sat at the table, she eyed him suspiciously from her chair in the corner of the room. She would have dismissed herself to her room but she was in the middle of the tale of Bonnie Bell and, no matter how often she’d read it, the story made her skin crawl. Her father finished his meal and stood, humming a cheery tune as he carried his dish to the basin, dipped it in, wiped it dry, and returned it to its place on the shelf. Molly sat up.
When he spun, she saw the grin sneak across his face. “No,” she declared immediately.
He threw up his hands and all mirth dropped from his features. “Molly, there is no reason-”
“No.” She crossed her arms as defiantly as she could manage.
“Are you not even curious-”
“Fine.” She stopped him again. “Who?”
He sighed and settled back into the chair, bracing himself with a forearm on the table. “Jackson Redding-”
Her gasp of horror shut him down a third time. Jackson was more than ten years her senior, and those years had not been kind. She knew her father would not allow her dismissal on such vain grounds, so, heated, she chose another argument. “He’s married thrice.”
“He is widowed,” her father insisted, “and you would be his third.”
“His third widower,” she shot back, “is that how you would see me?”
He stood to face her. “I would see you married before my years are over and no one remains to care for my only daughter.” His declaration deflated her and she stared at the floor as he continued, “Jackson has made an upstanding offer and I urge you to consider it.”
She didn’t respond and, after a moment, he went to his room. She felt guilty, and relieved the conversation was over, and distraught about the entire matter, until she heard him stop just outside his door. She froze.
“And if you refuse the offer, you will inform him yourself.”
The next morning, guilt had her up early. She hated spending long days inside, sewing and mending and such, so she pulled down a basket and headed out to pick berries. As often happened when she set out with good intentions, she ended up lying on the creek bank, perusing the collection of fairy tales, empty basket at hand. Her father had advised her that by simply leaving the book at home, she could avoid such issues, but she’d thought him ridiculous. She would never abandon something of such importance; she carried it with her everywhere, even sewing a hidden pocket in the back of her gown. It had been well aged when she’d found it and though she endeavored to keep it well, the pages were tattered and worn. She had drifted from those pages, imagining a life among the magic and dreams told within, when a sharp sound pulled her from her reverie.
She glanced around but couldn’t determine what it was because of the babble of the creek. She stood, narrowing her eyes at a motion a short distance away, and followed the sound, leaving her basket and book in the grass. As she approached the dark mass, its movement increased dramatically and she could see that it was a small animal, frantic now at her advance. It seemed to be caught among some weeds and abandoned fishing lines near a shallow on the other side of the creek. She stepped closer to the bank and leaned forward, trying to judge the depth. There was no way she could cross at that point, but she was fairly certain there was a rocky area a little further down. She’d never actually crossed there, she wasn’t even allowed to be this far out. The ball of fur whined and she realized it was a pup.
Excited now, she ran down the bank, searching for the rocks, worrying the entire way whether the pup had been abandoned by its mother, or supposing she was hidden away in the brush, wondering if there were more pups, contemplating whether her father would allow a mutt to run the village. When she saw the rocks, she leapt in, not bothering with searching for the best path. She splashed across
When he spun, she saw the grin sneak across his face. “No,” she declared immediately.
He threw up his hands and all mirth dropped from his features. “Molly, there is no reason-”
“No.” She crossed her arms as defiantly as she could manage.
“Are you not even curious-”
“Fine.” She stopped him again. “Who?”
He sighed and settled back into the chair, bracing himself with a forearm on the table. “Jackson Redding-”
Her gasp of horror shut him down a third time. Jackson was more than ten years her senior, and those years had not been kind. She knew her father would not allow her dismissal on such vain grounds, so, heated, she chose another argument. “He’s married thrice.”
“He is widowed,” her father insisted, “and you would be his third.”
“His third widower,” she shot back, “is that how you would see me?”
He stood to face her. “I would see you married before my years are over and no one remains to care for my only daughter.” His declaration deflated her and she stared at the floor as he continued, “Jackson has made an upstanding offer and I urge you to consider it.”
She didn’t respond and, after a moment, he went to his room. She felt guilty, and relieved the conversation was over, and distraught about the entire matter, until she heard him stop just outside his door. She froze.
“And if you refuse the offer, you will inform him yourself.”
The next morning, guilt had her up early. She hated spending long days inside, sewing and mending and such, so she pulled down a basket and headed out to pick berries. As often happened when she set out with good intentions, she ended up lying on the creek bank, perusing the collection of fairy tales, empty basket at hand. Her father had advised her that by simply leaving the book at home, she could avoid such issues, but she’d thought him ridiculous. She would never abandon something of such importance; she carried it with her everywhere, even sewing a hidden pocket in the back of her gown. It had been well aged when she’d found it and though she endeavored to keep it well, the pages were tattered and worn. She had drifted from those pages, imagining a life among the magic and dreams told within, when a sharp sound pulled her from her reverie.
She glanced around but couldn’t determine what it was because of the babble of the creek. She stood, narrowing her eyes at a motion a short distance away, and followed the sound, leaving her basket and book in the grass. As she approached the dark mass, its movement increased dramatically and she could see that it was a small animal, frantic now at her advance. It seemed to be caught among some weeds and abandoned fishing lines near a shallow on the other side of the creek. She stepped closer to the bank and leaned forward, trying to judge the depth. There was no way she could cross at that point, but she was fairly certain there was a rocky area a little further down. She’d never actually crossed there, she wasn’t even allowed to be this far out. The ball of fur whined and she realized it was a pup.
Excited now, she ran down the bank, searching for the rocks, worrying the entire way whether the pup had been abandoned by its mother, or supposing she was hidden away in the brush, wondering if there were more pups, contemplating whether her father would allow a mutt to run the village. When she saw the rocks, she leapt in, not bothering with searching for the best path. She splashed across
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