Chapter 2 - The Girls Who Had Forgotten How to Speak
The magistrate asked Evelyn three times whether she understood what she was doing.
Each time, her answer became less certain.
“Yes.”
Then:
“I believe so.”
And finally:
“No, sir. But I’m doing it anyway.”
Josiah almost smiled.
Almost.
The magistrate was an elderly man named Henry Bell, with white eyebrows and a habit of polishing his spectacles whenever the world disappointed him.
He removed them now.
“Mr. Whitmore, perhaps you might explain.”
Josiah stood beside Evelyn in the small courthouse office.
Abigail and Margaret occupied a wooden bench behind them.
Both girls watched Evelyn.
Neither watched their father.
“I explained,” Josiah said.
“You told me you wish to marry a woman you met approximately”—the magistrate checked the clock—“forty-seven minutes ago.”
“Correct.”
“That is not an explanation. That is evidence that sunstroke exists.”
Evelyn covered a laugh with a cough.
Josiah glanced at her.
For the first time she saw a trace of humor in his eyes.
It vanished quickly.
“Judge Bell—”
“I’m a magistrate.”
“You’ve been correcting me since I was sixteen.”
“And apparently none of it worked.”
Henry turned toward Evelyn.
“Miss Gallagher, are you being coerced?”
“No.”
“Threatened?”
“No.”
“Paid?”
Evelyn hesitated.
Josiah looked offended.
“Henry.”
“I’m asking.”
“No,” Evelyn said. “Though technically he has promised me food.”
Henry closed his eyes.
“That does not improve matters.”
Despite everything, Evelyn smiled.
The girls noticed.
Margaret’s lips twitched.
It was tiny.
But Evelyn saw it.
So did Josiah.
His face went still.
Fourteen months.
Evelyn wondered what grief could steal two children’s voices for fourteen months.
Henry sighed.
“Mr. Whitmore, perhaps Miss Gallagher deserves to understand why you are in such an infernal hurry.”
“She does.”
Josiah finally told her.
His late wife, Clara, had come from one of Boston’s oldest families.
The Harringtons.
Money made in shipping, banking, railroads, and, according to Josiah, “making everyone else miserable.”
Clara had walked away from most of it when she married him.
Her father had never forgiven her.
Neither had her elder brother, Percival Harrington.
After Clara died, Percival petitioned through lawyers to have Abigail and Margaret placed with their maternal family.
“The petition failed,” Josiah said.
“Why?”
“Because they live with their father.”
“That seems sensible.”
“It would be, if this were about the girls.”
Evelyn studied him.
“What is it about?”
Josiah’s jaw tightened.
“Money.”
Clara’s maternal grandmother had left a trust.
It would eventually pass to Clara’s surviving children.
A substantial trust.
Very substantial.
“How substantial?”
Henry answered.
“Enough to make wealthy men behave like poor thieves.”
Josiah continued.
“If I retain custody, the trust remains managed independently until Abigail comes of age. If Percival gains legal guardianship—”
“He controls it?”
“Much of it.”
Evelyn looked toward the girls.
Abigail was staring at the floor.
Did she understand?
Perhaps more than adults assumed.
“Why does having a wife matter?”
Henry rubbed his forehead.
“The Harrington argument alleges Mr. Whitmore’s household is unstable. His work takes him to remote mines. The girls have experienced trauma. Several governesses have resigned.”
“They resigned?”
Josiah said dryly, “One was frightened of snow. Another believed mountain lions could open doors.”
“And the woman today?”
“Apparently she was frightened of dogs.”
Evelyn crossed her arms.
“That one I understand.”
His gaze dropped briefly toward her torn skirt.
“But you weren’t.”
“I was terrified.”
Josiah paused.
“You went anyway.”
Evelyn looked at the girls.
“So would their mother.”
Something shifted in Josiah.
The room quieted.
Henry cleared his throat.
“Mr. Harrington’s lawyers have requested another hearing. They intend to argue that the girls require maternal care and a socially appropriate household.”
Evelyn frowned.
“Socially appropriate?”
Henry gave her a sympathetic look.
“I suspect that phrase will become unpleasantly important.”
She understood.
Her clothing.
Her poverty.
Her lack of family.
Her figure.
Her manners.
Everything Oak Haven had already decided made her undesirable.
“You think marrying me helps?”
Josiah looked directly at her.
“I think my daughters refusing to release you helps.”
“You barely know whether I can read.”
“Can you?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’ve cleared that hurdle.”
She glared.
His almost-smile returned.
Henry looked between them.
“This is madness.”
“Likely,” Josiah said.
“But legal madness?”
Henry sighed.
“Unfortunately.”
Twenty minutes later, Evelyn Gallagher became Evelyn Whitmore.
There were no flowers.
No church bells.
No wedding dress.
Josiah slipped a plain gold band onto her finger.
It had belonged to nobody else.
He had purchased it from the jeweler next door while Henry prepared the paperwork.
Evelyn was strangely grateful for that.
Clara’s ring would have felt like theft.
When the magistrate declared them married, Josiah bent toward her.
He did not kiss her mouth.
Instead, he paused as if asking permission.
Evelyn gave the smallest nod.
His lips touched her forehead.
Warm.
Brief.
Respectful.
Something unfamiliar moved through her chest.
She ignored it.
Outside, Abigail took Evelyn’s left hand.
Margaret took her right.
Josiah walked beside them toward the carriage.
People stared.
By the time they reached Whitmore House, half of Oak Haven would probably know.
Whitmore House turned out to be an understatement.
It stood high above town against the mountain, built of timber and stone, with enormous windows overlooking pine forests and distant peaks.
Evelyn stared from the carriage.
“That’s your house?”
“Our house now.”
She looked at him.
“That sentence may take some time.”
“You have time.”
The carriage stopped.
Servants gathered near the entrance.
Evelyn’s confidence disappeared.
She suddenly saw herself through their eyes.
Torn skirt.
Dusty hem.
Old boots.
Wild red hair.
A woman pulled from the street and installed as mistress of the house before supper.
Josiah climbed out first.
Then offered Evelyn his hand.
She accepted.
The girls followed.
A stern woman in black waited at the top of the steps.
Josiah introduced her.
“Mrs. Beatrice Crowley. Head housekeeper.”
Mrs. Crowley looked Evelyn over once.
It was enough.
“This is my wife,” Josiah said.
If Mrs. Crowley was shocked, she hid it well.
“Of course, sir.”
Her gaze returned to Evelyn’s torn skirt.
“Shall I prepare the guest room?”
“My room,” Josiah said.
Evelyn’s head snapped toward him.
He added calmly, “I’ll sleep in the adjoining study.”
Mrs. Crowley’s mouth tightened.
“Of course.”
The girls led Evelyn inside.
For the first time in days, food appeared in front of her.
Soup.
Bread.
Roast chicken.
Potatoes.
Evelyn stared.
Josiah sat opposite her.
“Eat.”
“I don’t want them thinking I’m an animal.”
“Who?”
She glanced toward the servants.
Josiah followed her eyes.
Then looked back.
“I don’t care what they think.”
“Well, I do.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve spent twenty-eight years living among human beings.”
That earned a real flicker of amusement.
“Eat, Evelyn.”
Hearing her name from him felt unexpectedly intimate.
She picked up the spoon.
Margaret sat beside her.
Abigail opposite.
The girls ate quietly.
Evelyn forced herself to take small bites despite wanting to devour everything.
Halfway through the meal, she noticed Margaret pushing pieces of bread toward her.
One at a time.
As though feeding a frightened animal.
Evelyn looked at the child.
Margaret immediately looked down.
Evelyn’s throat tightened.
She took the bread.
“Thank you.”
Margaret glanced up.
No words.
But something in her eyes softened.
Later that evening, a physician cleaned Evelyn’s calf.
The wound was shallow.
She would be fine.
The girls refused to go to bed unless Evelyn accompanied them.
Their room contained two carved beds separated by a window overlooking the mountains.
Evelyn tucked Margaret beneath the blankets.
Then Abigail.
“Good night.”
Abigail grabbed her wrist.
Evelyn sat again.
“Would you like me to stay awhile?”
The girl nodded.
Evelyn began telling them a story her mother had once told her.
Nothing grand.
A story about a stubborn little hen who believed she could outrun winter.
Halfway through, Margaret closed her eyes.
Abigail lasted longer.
When Evelyn finally stood, she found Josiah outside the door.
He had been listening.
“She smiled,” he said quietly.
“Who?”
“Margaret.”
Evelyn shrugged.
“It was a ridiculous hen.”
“They haven’t smiled much.”
Pain entered his face.
Evelyn softened.
“You loved their mother.”
Josiah looked toward the dark hallway.
“Yes.”
There was no jealousy in Evelyn.
Only an ache for a man who still carried grief like another coat.
“What happened to her?”
His expression closed.
“Tomorrow.”
She understood that as a boundary.
“All right.”
Josiah showed Evelyn to his bedroom.
Their bedroom.
The space was enormous.
She stopped inside.
“I cannot sleep in this.”
“It’s a bed.”
“It could comfortably hold six adults and a mule.”
That surprised a laugh out of him.
A real one.
Low.
Brief.
Beautiful.
Evelyn stared.
Josiah stopped laughing.
They looked at each other.
The room changed.
Then footsteps approached.
Mrs. Crowley entered with another woman carrying measuring tape and folded fabric.
“The seamstress, sir.”
Josiah nodded.
“I’ll leave you.”
He disappeared into the study.
The seamstress looked Evelyn over.
Slowly.
Evelyn knew that look.
She had seen it her entire life.
Mrs. Crowley folded her hands.
“So.”
Her tone was cool.
“The master has brought home a stray.”
Evelyn’s spine went rigid.
The seamstress began measuring her.
Bust.
Waist.
Hips.
She clicked her tongue.
Then muttered:
“I’m a dressmaker, ma’am. Not a tentmaker.”
Evelyn lowered her eyes.
There it was.
The familiar sting.
The reminder that even with a gold ring on her finger, she was still Evelyn Gallagher.
Too large.
Too poor.
Too wrong.
She opened her mouth to apologize for existing.
Then the study door opened.
Josiah stood there.
His expression was terrifyingly calm.
“You’re measuring my wife.”
The seamstress froze.
Josiah stepped into the room.
“You’ll speak to her with respect.”
Mrs. Crowley stiffened.
“Mr. Whitmore—”
“That applies to everyone under this roof.”
His eyes moved to the housekeeper.
“Especially anyone who wishes to remain employed.”
Silence.
Evelyn looked at him.
No one had defended her like that.
Not since her father died.
She did not know what to do with the feeling.
Josiah turned toward her.
For a moment, they simply looked at one another.
Then a knock sounded downstairs.
Hard.
Urgent.
A servant appeared moments later holding a telegram.
Josiah broke the seal.
His expression changed immediately.
Evelyn stepped closer.
“What is it?”
He handed her the paper.
Three lines.
That was all.
PERCIVAL HARRINGTON ARRIVES OAK HAVEN IN TEN DAYS.
LEGAL HEARING REQUESTED UPON ARRIVAL.
PREPARE THE CHILDREN.
Evelyn read it twice.
Then looked toward the room where Abigail and Margaret slept.
Ten days.
She had been a wife for less than six hours.
A mother for even less.
May you like
And someone was already coming to prove she deserved to be neither.
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