Page 12 of Midnight Rider
“Shouldn’t your out-of-town guests be arriving soon?”
“My father’s handpicked matrimonial candidates arrive tomorrow,” she said with undisguised revulsion. “One’s German, the other’s Italian.”
“He invited them, then,” he murmured under his breath. This was a surprise. Colston Barron hadn’t seemed interested in other candidates for Bernadette’s dowry the last time he’d spoken with the man. Of course, he’d avoided the place like the plague since then. Guilt had kept him away; it disturbed him to think of using Bernadette for his own ends. He was ashamed of himself, of his less than noble motive, wooing a woman he didn’t love for the sake of financial gain. It was dishonest at best, and he was too honorable not to be suffering from a bad conscience.
“Of course he invited them,” Bernadette replied. She glanced at him sadly, with faint accusation. “You’re not one of his prospective hopefuls, by the way, in case you were wondering. That should be of some comfort to you.”
He pulled a cigar case from his shirt pocket and extracted one of the Cuban cigars he favored. He produced a small box of matches and lit it before he spoke. “I see.”
She wondered why he should suddenly look so thoughtful, so tense. He turned away and she studied his profile. Could he be upset because he wasn’t a candidate for her hand? She didn’t dare hope so. But what if he was?
He felt her avid gaze and turned to meet it. She colored prettily. “How are you going to feel about living abroad?” he asked.
“It’s that or find some way to support myself,” she said wearily. “My father says either I get married or I get out.”
“Surely not!” he exclaimed angrily.
“Well, he threatened to do it,” she replied. She rubbed the mare’s soft muzzle absently. “He’s determined to have his way in this.”
“And will you do what you’re told, Bernadette?” he asked quietly.
She looked up at him, red-cheeked. “No, I will not! Not if I have to take a job as a shop girl somewhere or work in a factory!”
“Your lungs would never survive a job in a cotton mill,” he said softly.
“The alternative is to be someone’s servant,” she replied miserably. “I couldn’t hold up to do that, either. Not for long.” She leaned her cheek against the horse’s long nose with a sigh. “Why can’t time stand still or go backward?” she asked in a haunted tone. “Why couldn’t I be whole instead of sickly?”
“I can’t believe that any father would cast off his daughter just because she refused to marry a candidate of his own choosing,” he said irritably.
“Isn’t it done in Spanish families all the time?”
He dismounted, cigar in hand, and moved to stand beside her. He was so much taller that she had to toss her head back to see his lean, dark face when he was this close.
“Yes, it is,” he replied. “In fact, my marriage was the result of such an arrangement. But American families usually don’t make those kinds of choices.”
“That’s what you think,” she replied. “It’s done all the time in the wealthier families. I knew a girl at finishing school who was forced to marry some rich French vintner, and she hated him on sight. She ran away, but they brought her back and made her go through with the ceremony.”
“Made her?”
She hesitated to tell him why. It was vaguely scandalous and one didn’t speak of such things in public, much less to men.
“Tell me,” he prompted.
“Well, he kept her out all night,” she said reluctantly. “She swore that nothing happened, but her family said she was ruined and had to marry him. No other decent man would have her after that, you see.”
His dark gaze slid down her slender form in the riding habit and he began to smile in a way he never had before. “How innovative,” he murmured.
“I went to the ceremony,” Bernadette continued. “I felt so sorry for her. She was in tears at her own wedding, but her father was strutting. Her new husband was a member of the old French nobility, the part that didn’t die in the Revolution and was later restored to its former glory.”
“Did she learn to accept this match?” he probed.
Her eyes clouded. “She hurled herself overboard on the ship taking them to France,” she said, and shivered. “Her body washed up on shore several days later. They said her father went mad afterward. She was his only child, and his wife was long dead. I felt sorry for him, but nobody else did.”
Eduardo smoked his cigar and stared at the muddy water of the stream. There had been a good rain the day before, and the ground was soaked. He felt oddly betrayed by what he’d heard. He wondered why Bernadette’s father had such a quick change of heart. Perhaps he realized that Eduardo wouldn’t be easily led in business, or perhaps he felt that a man who was half Spanish wasn’t the sort of connection he wanted to have. It stung Eduardo to think that Colston might feel he wasn’t good enough to marry his daughter.
“I’m sorry if I’ve embarrassed you,” she said after a long silence had fallen between them.
He gave her a level look. “You haven’t,” he said. “Why does your father care so little about your happiness, Bernadette?”