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Authors: Miriam Minger
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"Perhaps, Corisande, this isn't a good time."
Donovan's voice was surprisingly quiet as he drew alongside her, his expression
somber. "We could talk to your father tomorrow."
"Yes, I . . ." Corisande stopped, shaking her
head. "No, we should tell him now. I don't want Mrs. Polkinghorne to be
the one to give him the news—"
"News? Is there news?"
Corisande was startled that her father seemed suddenly
aware of their conversation, his eyes falling upon Donovan.
"Yes, Papa. Good news. Happy news." She
swallowed, hating to lie to her father. "Lord Donovan Trent has asked me
to marry him, and . . . and I've accepted. I know it's sudden, but, well . . .
you'll perform the ceremony, won't you, Papa?"
For the briefest instant, she saw a flicker of such
clarity in her father's face—as in those times when she sensed he knew full
well about her smuggling—that she truly believed he had grasped the import of
her words. And from the way he glanced back at Donovan as if taking his
measure, even scrutinizing him, she began to wonder if the dark cloud that had
settled over his mind years ago might be lifting.
But her shoulders fell when, a brief moment later, he
merely turned back to his pruning, mumbling something to himself about how the
purple blossoms were half as abundant this year as the last, their scent but half as sweet. Meanwhile Corisande felt close to
tears, as close as she'd been for some time, not wanting to admit it but slowly
coming to the realization that her father might very well be half mad, not just
eccentric.
As he went about his business, finishing the veronica
and moving across the garden to his geranium plot, where he sank to his knees
in the dirt, she swallowed hard and turned away, her eyes meeting Donovan's.
All this time he had said nothing, but she broke the awkward silence, waving
her hand helplessly at her father.
"The Reverend Joseph Easton, my lord. Surely not a
man to stand in the way of our agreement." She moved to walk past him, but
Donovan caught her arm and stopped her.
"Has he been like this for long?"
Again she was struck by the stillness in his voice, but
maybe he was simply unsettled or even repulsed by what he'd seen. Repulsed?
That thought made her stiffen angrily, and she jerked her arm away. "Since
my mother died, not that it's any of your affair . Nor
does his malady make him any less a man deserving of respect! My father is much
beloved by the people of this parish, tinner, fisherman, and shipbuilder alike,
and I'll not have you—"
"Cease your bloody tirade, woman. I merely asked a
simple question," Donovan said through his teeth, tempted to grab her by
the shoulders and shake her. Hell and damnation, he had only to open his mouth
and she thought the very worst of him! "You're right, it's none of my business— as long as he's capable of saying the proper words
when it comes time for the wedding."
"Oh, he'll say them, though I'll be choking on
every one."
"You'd best choke on the rest of your venom too,"
Donovan advised dryly, glancing beyond Corisande as Frances
came charging through the kitchen door, the stout housekeeper's face red as a
beet, her rolling pin held high. "And smile prettily, my love. It seems
the reinforcements have arrived."
"You stand away from her there, do 'ee hear me,
stranger?" Frances blustered as Corisande groaned. "Never you fear , Corie, they're coming soon to help us, Dr. Philcup
an' the constable! I didn't know who to fetch first so I sent up a cry for 'em
both an' came back as quick as I could—"
"It's all right, Frances. Papa's fine. I'm fine.
Everything's fine." Corisande tensed as she felt Donovan draw her
possessively into the crook of his arm, but somehow she managed a lighthearted
tone. "And put down that rolling pin, will you? I can't have you cracking
the man I'm going to marry over the head—"
"Marry?"
The rolling pin hit the ground with a thud, Frances
looking as if she were about to totter, her slack mouth forming words that
"Perhaps, Corisande, this isn't a good time."
Donovan's voice was surprisingly quiet as he drew alongside her, his expression
somber. "We could talk to your father tomorrow."
"Yes, I . . ." Corisande stopped, shaking her
head. "No, we should tell him now. I don't want Mrs. Polkinghorne to be
the one to give him the news—"
"News? Is there news?"
Corisande was startled that her father seemed suddenly
aware of their conversation, his eyes falling upon Donovan.
"Yes, Papa. Good news. Happy news." She
swallowed, hating to lie to her father. "Lord Donovan Trent has asked me
to marry him, and . . . and I've accepted. I know it's sudden, but, well . . .
you'll perform the ceremony, won't you, Papa?"
For the briefest instant, she saw a flicker of such
clarity in her father's face—as in those times when she sensed he knew full
well about her smuggling—that she truly believed he had grasped the import of
her words. And from the way he glanced back at Donovan as if taking his
measure, even scrutinizing him, she began to wonder if the dark cloud that had
settled over his mind years ago might be lifting.
But her shoulders fell when, a brief moment later, he
merely turned back to his pruning, mumbling something to himself about how the
purple blossoms were half as abundant this year as the last, their scent but half as sweet. Meanwhile Corisande felt close to
tears, as close as she'd been for some time, not wanting to admit it but slowly
coming to the realization that her father might very well be half mad, not just
eccentric.
As he went about his business, finishing the veronica
and moving across the garden to his geranium plot, where he sank to his knees
in the dirt, she swallowed hard and turned away, her eyes meeting Donovan's.
All this time he had said nothing, but she broke the awkward silence, waving
her hand helplessly at her father.
"The Reverend Joseph Easton, my lord. Surely not a
man to stand in the way of our agreement." She moved to walk past him, but
Donovan caught her arm and stopped her.
"Has he been like this for long?"
Again she was struck by the stillness in his voice, but
maybe he was simply unsettled or even repulsed by what he'd seen. Repulsed?
That thought made her stiffen angrily, and she jerked her arm away. "Since
my mother died, not that it's any of your affair . Nor
does his malady make him any less a man deserving of respect! My father is much
beloved by the people of this parish, tinner, fisherman, and shipbuilder alike,
and I'll not have you—"
"Cease your bloody tirade, woman. I merely asked a
simple question," Donovan said through his teeth, tempted to grab her by
the shoulders and shake her. Hell and damnation, he had only to open his mouth
and she thought the very worst of him! "You're right, it's none of my business— as long as he's capable of saying the proper words
when it comes time for the wedding."
"Oh, he'll say them, though I'll be choking on
every one."
"You'd best choke on the rest of your venom too,"
Donovan advised dryly, glancing beyond Corisande as Frances
came charging through the kitchen door, the stout housekeeper's face red as a
beet, her rolling pin held high. "And smile prettily, my love. It seems
the reinforcements have arrived."
"You stand away from her there, do 'ee hear me,
stranger?" Frances blustered as Corisande groaned. "Never you fear , Corie, they're coming soon to help us, Dr. Philcup
an' the constable! I didn't know who to fetch first so I sent up a cry for 'em
both an' came back as quick as I could—"
"It's all right, Frances. Papa's fine. I'm fine.
Everything's fine." Corisande tensed as she felt Donovan draw her
possessively into the crook of his arm, but somehow she managed a lighthearted
tone. "And put down that rolling pin, will you? I can't have you cracking
the man I'm going to marry over the head—"
"Marry?"
The rolling pin hit the ground with a thud, Frances
looking as if she were about to totter, her slack mouth forming words that
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