child.”
“Papa, what I’m going to face is so different from me playing with my dolls and pretending to get them ready because their father had promised he was going to take them out for sweets.”
“No one is born knowing how to be a wife, husband, mother or father. We learn every day in the same manner students learn from their professors every day.
“You were given an excellent education. You were taught the academics as well as how to cook, supervise a household staff. I’m certain you’ll make Samuel a wonderful wife.”
A tentative smile inched the corners of her mouth upward. “Do you think he’ll be a good husband, Papa?”
Wondering how much he should tell his daughter about her future husband, Jose Luis said, “What I believe is that he will bring you great joy.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What aren’t you telling me, Papa?”
“Your novio is young and very ambitious. Which means you must be patient and support him in all his endeavors.”
“What endeavors?”
“That you must ask him, Chica. ”
“What if he won’t tell me? Samuel doesn’t talk much. The only conversation we’ve had is about tobacco.”
Jose Luis patted her cheek. “That’s because I’ve monopolized your young man. Now that you are engaged, that will change. Beginning tonight, he belongs to you.”
“ Gracias , Papa.”
“De nada, mi amor.”
Jose Luis escorted her back to the sala and placed her hand in Samuel’s. They exchanged a look that spoke volumes.
Even before Marguerite-Josefina had taken her vows, her father had relinquished his responsibility to protect her to Samuel Cole.
Chapter 8
If ever two were one, then surely we.
—Anne Bradstreet
M .J. glanced up from her needlework and froze. Samuel stood under the arched doorway, staring at her. How long, she mused, had he been there? How was it she hadn’t heard his approach? His shirt and trousers were dotted with moisture, and it was apparent he’d been caught in the sudden downpour that had slackened to a soft, soothing and hypnotic tapping against the windows.
“Hola,” she said shyly.
He nodded, smiling. “Hello.”
It had been three days since the announcement of their betrothal had appeared in the major newspapers. The news was followed by invitations from Cuba’s officious social elite who sought a glimpse of Jose Luis’s daughter with her purported well-to-do americano de color . Gloria had appointed herselfM.J.’s surrogate mother, accepting those she felt advantageous to her niece and future husband.
Samuel extended the hand he’d concealed behind his back. “I brought you a little something.”
M.J. laid aside the shuttle, placing it along with the square of linen on the table next to her chair. She’d been working feverishly to tat lace around the edges of a set of six embroidered napkins that matched the tablecloth she’d completed that spring.
Her favorite cousin, whom she’d selected as her only bridal attendant, had helped her go through Carlotta Diaz’s heirloom linens, china, stemware and silver, selecting what she wanted packed and shipped to Samuel’s West Palm Beach, Florida, home.
Rising gracefully, M.J. shook her head. “You’ve given me enough, Samuel.”
“That’s your opinion,” he countered in the soft, drawling tone that never failed to send shivers over her body.
“What do you have?” She watched his approach; his right foot toed in a little and made for a slight swagger in his gait.
He handed her a package wrapped in paper imprinted with colorful butterflies. “Open it and see.”
M.J. sank down to her chair and peeled back the paper. A gasp of surprise escaped her. Samuel had given her a bottle of Maja perfume and an exquisite black lace fan. Who’d told him the fragrance was her favorite?
Smiling up at him, she asked, “How did you know?”
“I didn’t know until I asked the shopkeeper if I could smell it.” He went to his knees in front of her. “It smells delicious on you.”
“Papa, what I’m going to face is so different from me playing with my dolls and pretending to get them ready because their father had promised he was going to take them out for sweets.”
“No one is born knowing how to be a wife, husband, mother or father. We learn every day in the same manner students learn from their professors every day.
“You were given an excellent education. You were taught the academics as well as how to cook, supervise a household staff. I’m certain you’ll make Samuel a wonderful wife.”
A tentative smile inched the corners of her mouth upward. “Do you think he’ll be a good husband, Papa?”
Wondering how much he should tell his daughter about her future husband, Jose Luis said, “What I believe is that he will bring you great joy.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What aren’t you telling me, Papa?”
“Your novio is young and very ambitious. Which means you must be patient and support him in all his endeavors.”
“What endeavors?”
“That you must ask him, Chica. ”
“What if he won’t tell me? Samuel doesn’t talk much. The only conversation we’ve had is about tobacco.”
Jose Luis patted her cheek. “That’s because I’ve monopolized your young man. Now that you are engaged, that will change. Beginning tonight, he belongs to you.”
“ Gracias , Papa.”
“De nada, mi amor.”
Jose Luis escorted her back to the sala and placed her hand in Samuel’s. They exchanged a look that spoke volumes.
Even before Marguerite-Josefina had taken her vows, her father had relinquished his responsibility to protect her to Samuel Cole.
Chapter 8
If ever two were one, then surely we.
—Anne Bradstreet
M .J. glanced up from her needlework and froze. Samuel stood under the arched doorway, staring at her. How long, she mused, had he been there? How was it she hadn’t heard his approach? His shirt and trousers were dotted with moisture, and it was apparent he’d been caught in the sudden downpour that had slackened to a soft, soothing and hypnotic tapping against the windows.
“Hola,” she said shyly.
He nodded, smiling. “Hello.”
It had been three days since the announcement of their betrothal had appeared in the major newspapers. The news was followed by invitations from Cuba’s officious social elite who sought a glimpse of Jose Luis’s daughter with her purported well-to-do americano de color . Gloria had appointed herselfM.J.’s surrogate mother, accepting those she felt advantageous to her niece and future husband.
Samuel extended the hand he’d concealed behind his back. “I brought you a little something.”
M.J. laid aside the shuttle, placing it along with the square of linen on the table next to her chair. She’d been working feverishly to tat lace around the edges of a set of six embroidered napkins that matched the tablecloth she’d completed that spring.
Her favorite cousin, whom she’d selected as her only bridal attendant, had helped her go through Carlotta Diaz’s heirloom linens, china, stemware and silver, selecting what she wanted packed and shipped to Samuel’s West Palm Beach, Florida, home.
Rising gracefully, M.J. shook her head. “You’ve given me enough, Samuel.”
“That’s your opinion,” he countered in the soft, drawling tone that never failed to send shivers over her body.
“What do you have?” She watched his approach; his right foot toed in a little and made for a slight swagger in his gait.
He handed her a package wrapped in paper imprinted with colorful butterflies. “Open it and see.”
M.J. sank down to her chair and peeled back the paper. A gasp of surprise escaped her. Samuel had given her a bottle of Maja perfume and an exquisite black lace fan. Who’d told him the fragrance was her favorite?
Smiling up at him, she asked, “How did you know?”
“I didn’t know until I asked the shopkeeper if I could smell it.” He went to his knees in front of her. “It smells delicious on you.”
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