far too old for the young woman."
"That is for me to decide."
"No, that is for Miss Burns to decide," Priscilla clipped. "Which she already has."
Before Priscilla could press her demand for Lord Whittington to leave, the second of the four men she was expecting stepped up to the open doorway. He removed his hat, revealing a balding head ringed by mouse-gray hair. "I'm Clayton Rathborn," he said, "and I've come to fetch Miss Johnson. I've got the wagon outside for her things."
Priscilla recognized the man from a photograph he'd sent to Libby. With his ruddy complexion and pockmarked face, he was even less attractive than in his photograph. The only reason Libby agreed to marry him was because she'd been caught in a compromising way with a man she'd thought to be a suitor prepared to ask for her hand, but who turned out to be married. The wife who'd caught them described, in prurient detail, the whole affair and posted it on the town bulletin board for all to see and relish. Clayton Rathborn's offer to take on a "soiled" woman as his wife was the answer to her prayers, at the time.
Priscilla backed around behind the old printing press, wanting to put something solid between her and both men as she said, "Well, you see, Mr. Rathborn, the fact is, Miss Johnson has decided to …" she took a long breath to settle the erratic beating of her heart....
"Let me guess," Lord Whittington said in an irritated voice, "Miss Johnson has decided to renege on her contract. Right?"
"It was her decision, Lord Whittington," Priscilla said. "I simply offered Miss Johnson a job so she could support herself while working off her travel expenses." She found the man's steady gaze disconcerting, but she was determined not to be distracted by it. She had the gut feeling they'd cross paths in the future, and it would not do for the owner and editor of The Town Tattler to cringe in his presence. Squaring her shoulders, she said to Clay Rathborn, "You will be reimbursed for Miss Johnson's expenses."
Clay Rathborn's eyes narrowed. "I'll hear it from Miss Johnson. Where is she?"
"Like I told Lord Whittington, the women are secure until this has been worked out. Neither of you have a claim on them. They have chosen not to marry you, and you will be reimbursed for their expenses. And that is that."
Lord Whittington stepped around the press and gazed down at Priscilla. "No, Miss Phipps, that is not that! I contracted in good faith to take Miss Burns as my wife, and I expect her to honor our contract."
Priscilla propped her hands on her hips, held the man's caustic gaze, and said, "You are not bargaining for a mule, Lord Whittington. You're contracting for a woman to share your life, and sleep in your bed, and bear your children. It might be a simple arrangement for a man of your callous nature to enter into, but the young women who will be working for me do not look at things the same way. For them, the prospect of finding love with the men they marry is important. There's nothing more to be said. You'll both receive your bank drafts when the bank opens in the morning. Good evening gentlemen." She stood firm, waiting for the men to leave.
To her dismay, the third of the four men appeared. From his muttonchop whiskers and mustachio she knew it was Jethro Bottoms, Abigail Chandler's intended. Before he could speak, Priscilla said, "Mr. Bottoms, Miss Chandler has changed her mind and she will be reimbursing you for expenses and terminating your marriage agreement—"
"The hell she's terminating our agreement!" Jethro Bottoms shouted, face livid. "I've waited three months for the damn woman and I'm not going home without her. Where is she?" He started up the stairs.
Priscilla called after him. "You will not find Miss Chandler up there, Mr. Bottoms. She is not in this building. And she will not be going home with you. Ever! You will be reimbursed for her expenses when the bank opens, and if you decide to cause trouble, you will find yourself sitting
"That is for me to decide."
"No, that is for Miss Burns to decide," Priscilla clipped. "Which she already has."
Before Priscilla could press her demand for Lord Whittington to leave, the second of the four men she was expecting stepped up to the open doorway. He removed his hat, revealing a balding head ringed by mouse-gray hair. "I'm Clayton Rathborn," he said, "and I've come to fetch Miss Johnson. I've got the wagon outside for her things."
Priscilla recognized the man from a photograph he'd sent to Libby. With his ruddy complexion and pockmarked face, he was even less attractive than in his photograph. The only reason Libby agreed to marry him was because she'd been caught in a compromising way with a man she'd thought to be a suitor prepared to ask for her hand, but who turned out to be married. The wife who'd caught them described, in prurient detail, the whole affair and posted it on the town bulletin board for all to see and relish. Clayton Rathborn's offer to take on a "soiled" woman as his wife was the answer to her prayers, at the time.
Priscilla backed around behind the old printing press, wanting to put something solid between her and both men as she said, "Well, you see, Mr. Rathborn, the fact is, Miss Johnson has decided to …" she took a long breath to settle the erratic beating of her heart....
"Let me guess," Lord Whittington said in an irritated voice, "Miss Johnson has decided to renege on her contract. Right?"
"It was her decision, Lord Whittington," Priscilla said. "I simply offered Miss Johnson a job so she could support herself while working off her travel expenses." She found the man's steady gaze disconcerting, but she was determined not to be distracted by it. She had the gut feeling they'd cross paths in the future, and it would not do for the owner and editor of The Town Tattler to cringe in his presence. Squaring her shoulders, she said to Clay Rathborn, "You will be reimbursed for Miss Johnson's expenses."
Clay Rathborn's eyes narrowed. "I'll hear it from Miss Johnson. Where is she?"
"Like I told Lord Whittington, the women are secure until this has been worked out. Neither of you have a claim on them. They have chosen not to marry you, and you will be reimbursed for their expenses. And that is that."
Lord Whittington stepped around the press and gazed down at Priscilla. "No, Miss Phipps, that is not that! I contracted in good faith to take Miss Burns as my wife, and I expect her to honor our contract."
Priscilla propped her hands on her hips, held the man's caustic gaze, and said, "You are not bargaining for a mule, Lord Whittington. You're contracting for a woman to share your life, and sleep in your bed, and bear your children. It might be a simple arrangement for a man of your callous nature to enter into, but the young women who will be working for me do not look at things the same way. For them, the prospect of finding love with the men they marry is important. There's nothing more to be said. You'll both receive your bank drafts when the bank opens in the morning. Good evening gentlemen." She stood firm, waiting for the men to leave.
To her dismay, the third of the four men appeared. From his muttonchop whiskers and mustachio she knew it was Jethro Bottoms, Abigail Chandler's intended. Before he could speak, Priscilla said, "Mr. Bottoms, Miss Chandler has changed her mind and she will be reimbursing you for expenses and terminating your marriage agreement—"
"The hell she's terminating our agreement!" Jethro Bottoms shouted, face livid. "I've waited three months for the damn woman and I'm not going home without her. Where is she?" He started up the stairs.
Priscilla called after him. "You will not find Miss Chandler up there, Mr. Bottoms. She is not in this building. And she will not be going home with you. Ever! You will be reimbursed for her expenses when the bank opens, and if you decide to cause trouble, you will find yourself sitting