His Haunted Heart Read Free Page B

slim possibility of me learning the craft of chicken roasting in one afternoon. That way, Mr. ‘Can you cook?’ wouldn’t go hungry and throw me to the street. We’d have chicken every night, but neither of us would starve.
    “Start the coffee and the biscuits. Don’t just stand there like a twit.”
    “I don’t know how to make biscuits.” She turned around, looking shocked and then recognized the accusation in my squint. It was her fault she’d never taught me to cook. She was always afraid that I’d excel at something—anything—and maybe outshine the other three women in the house. “Yes, well, I’ll make them. Just start the coffee and get Gran’s good tablecloth from the cabinet.”
    There was no use getting the good stuff out now. He’d probably already seen the decrepit floors and the layer of aged soot around the fireplace. It wasn’t as if he thought he was dining with royalty. I shrugged and retrieved the tablecloth after putting the kettle on to boil. A stray rag was used to swipe the crumbs from the table and into my hand. There was no use in putting a cloth on top of crumbs, it would be like throwing a curtain over the pebbles on the beach.
    I’d never seen the beach, but I’d read about it.
    An hour later, everything was ready and the table was set. Halfway through the meal, a question rose in my mind and in my critical situation, I didn’t know whether or not to broach the subject or keep my mouth shut until the vows were exchanged. My father seemed to acknowledge the oncoming question and pointed his knife in my direction, effectively slicing the question from my tongue before it had a chance to coalesce.
    I glanced at the stranger, now my betrothed, to see if he could detect the family strife beneath the clanking of forks and knives. What I didn’t expect, when my eyes met his, was the concern written on his pristine, un-marred face.
    “You don’t eat much,” he regarded with a nod to my plate.
    “Usually she gorges like a cow,” my mother snapped, her cheeks puffed full of her own ball of cud. When she spoke, her eyes never left her plate, concerned that some of her chicken would vanish if she didn’t offer it constant worship.
    “Yet, you remain a slip of a thing. Strange.” He spoke directly to me, ignoring the false jab.
    Pooching my lips together, I defied the rising smile. Already he could see right through my mother’s antics. Maybe he wasn’t as stupid as I’d assumed.
    There must’ve been some secret deformity if he’d chosen me.
    The rest of the meal went off without a hitch and before I knew it I was already feeling as if I’d left this place yet was no closer to knowing where I was going or who I was going with.
    I only owned three skirts, three shirts with ragged corsets and various other garments including two sweaters, more like glorified rags—and one dress left behind by Adele. I didn’t even own a coat and my only pair of shoes was a worn-thin pair of lace up boots that had been thrown to the garbage bin by a woman I washed clothes for.
     
    ~~
     
    “You’ve got everything?” My mother barged into my room at the break of day, and seemed to have a genuine concern though I could see right through it. I’d been up since dawn, staring out the window, letting the promise and curse of my future flit through my mind.
    I nodded to my suitcase. “It’s all in here.”
    During the night, I’d wondered if I would be provided a wedding dress like the other girls, or maybe even just a clean, patch-free dress. It was less of a question and more of an unrequited hope. None of those things ever came. When the sun broke through my window, giving up on the prospect, I dressed in my plum-colored dress with a black fitted coat on top, my best, and ruined the little beauty the ensemble contained coupling it with my failing boots. I’d tangled my hair into a loose braid so that it hung over my left shoulder, masking the part of me he’d regret being wed to.
    The man