flowers.”
“And you let her go on alone?”
“Why not? She didn’t want my company.” Mr. Baker looked puzzled, but was he sincere? Mama had never been present at his visits to Millam Cottage, but he’d lived in Carleson Peak long enough to hear tales of the erratic Mrs. Gray.
“Mr. Baker—”
“Had I gone with your mama, I would have missed the great pleasure of seeing you, Miss Gray…Susan.”
Her name came out in a whisper as his lips caressed the back of her hand. A fire spread up her arm and over her body. She should stop him. Pull away. Say something to show how him furious she was. If only she were furious.
“Mr. Baker—”
“Morgan, please. Oh, Susan.” His voice broke. “You weren’t meant to be someone’s daughter. You were meant to be someone’s woman.”
Woman , not lady. She pushed the thought away as his lips found hers. She’d never been kissed before. Feelings she’d only imagined—and some she never dreamed of—raced through her. He opened the top button on her dress, and she didn’t object. He opened another button and another. Why didn’t she protest?
The breeze raised chill bumps on her breasts. He pressed her against the tree, and she let her arms fall to her sides. Useless. As if she’d lost her mind. His hair brushed over her throat and his breath warmed her skin. She heard a bell ringing in the distance.
It was like she’d come to the summit of a mountain. She could turn back now, go down the way she came, run and join Fisher with Mama. Or she could go with Morgan to the other side. Perhaps she’d been enchanted by the white lady after all. She denied him nothing.
And he took everything.
“I am a fallen woman,” she said afterwards, wonder in her voice. And yet she wasn’t sorry. She was twenty-one years old. Other girls she knew had been married four, five, six years. Some had more than one child. But married was the key word. “I’m...”
“Ruined?” Morgan said. “A slut?” The words hit like a slap across the face, but there was a twinkle in his eye. “Oh, my love, I’m teasing you.” He laughed indulgently and chucked her chin.
She felt foolish. Unworldly. Perhaps she wasn’t as free of society’s expectations as she’d believed. It was easier to agree with Rousseau in theory than in practice.
“Our feelings are transcendent,” Morgan said. “Susan, you’re beautiful and pure. What we have is more powerful than social custom. You could never be a slut.”
He put her buttons back together, his fingers making quick work between her breasts. “You’re wrong,” she said. She wanted him to take her again.
“Nevertheless,” he said. “I have to go to Manchester on the afternoon coach. When I return Saturday, I’ll speak to your father.”
“My father?”
“My darling Susan, I want to make you mine forever. Properly. I want you to be my wife.”
Almost Wonderful
All week Susan could barely keep her composure. Her feet never touched the ground. She was reborn. Morgan loved her. Of course she loved him, but she never dreamed he’d return that love. She smiled for no reason. But there was a reason. Soon the world would call her Mrs. Morgan Baker. The week’s wait was torture and bliss.
On Friday Papa was at home, and Mama was well enough to come down to supper. She sat across from Susan at Papa’s right-hand side. Her white-blond hair was neatly plaited, not a strand astray. Her pale blue eyes were clear, and there was color in her cheeks. She ate no more than one or two bites from each course, but she took a little wine and appeared to follow the conversation. It felt like a normal family meal. From time to time, Papa covered Mama’s hand with his so tenderly it broke Susan’s heart.
Oh, Mama, you’re so beautiful! What happened to make you this way?
She was lovely when she wasn’t a mess, and Papa was darkly handsome. Susan had inherited the light and the dark and come out a drab mouse with brown hair and a plain
“And you let her go on alone?”
“Why not? She didn’t want my company.” Mr. Baker looked puzzled, but was he sincere? Mama had never been present at his visits to Millam Cottage, but he’d lived in Carleson Peak long enough to hear tales of the erratic Mrs. Gray.
“Mr. Baker—”
“Had I gone with your mama, I would have missed the great pleasure of seeing you, Miss Gray…Susan.”
Her name came out in a whisper as his lips caressed the back of her hand. A fire spread up her arm and over her body. She should stop him. Pull away. Say something to show how him furious she was. If only she were furious.
“Mr. Baker—”
“Morgan, please. Oh, Susan.” His voice broke. “You weren’t meant to be someone’s daughter. You were meant to be someone’s woman.”
Woman , not lady. She pushed the thought away as his lips found hers. She’d never been kissed before. Feelings she’d only imagined—and some she never dreamed of—raced through her. He opened the top button on her dress, and she didn’t object. He opened another button and another. Why didn’t she protest?
The breeze raised chill bumps on her breasts. He pressed her against the tree, and she let her arms fall to her sides. Useless. As if she’d lost her mind. His hair brushed over her throat and his breath warmed her skin. She heard a bell ringing in the distance.
It was like she’d come to the summit of a mountain. She could turn back now, go down the way she came, run and join Fisher with Mama. Or she could go with Morgan to the other side. Perhaps she’d been enchanted by the white lady after all. She denied him nothing.
And he took everything.
“I am a fallen woman,” she said afterwards, wonder in her voice. And yet she wasn’t sorry. She was twenty-one years old. Other girls she knew had been married four, five, six years. Some had more than one child. But married was the key word. “I’m...”
“Ruined?” Morgan said. “A slut?” The words hit like a slap across the face, but there was a twinkle in his eye. “Oh, my love, I’m teasing you.” He laughed indulgently and chucked her chin.
She felt foolish. Unworldly. Perhaps she wasn’t as free of society’s expectations as she’d believed. It was easier to agree with Rousseau in theory than in practice.
“Our feelings are transcendent,” Morgan said. “Susan, you’re beautiful and pure. What we have is more powerful than social custom. You could never be a slut.”
He put her buttons back together, his fingers making quick work between her breasts. “You’re wrong,” she said. She wanted him to take her again.
“Nevertheless,” he said. “I have to go to Manchester on the afternoon coach. When I return Saturday, I’ll speak to your father.”
“My father?”
“My darling Susan, I want to make you mine forever. Properly. I want you to be my wife.”
Almost Wonderful
All week Susan could barely keep her composure. Her feet never touched the ground. She was reborn. Morgan loved her. Of course she loved him, but she never dreamed he’d return that love. She smiled for no reason. But there was a reason. Soon the world would call her Mrs. Morgan Baker. The week’s wait was torture and bliss.
On Friday Papa was at home, and Mama was well enough to come down to supper. She sat across from Susan at Papa’s right-hand side. Her white-blond hair was neatly plaited, not a strand astray. Her pale blue eyes were clear, and there was color in her cheeks. She ate no more than one or two bites from each course, but she took a little wine and appeared to follow the conversation. It felt like a normal family meal. From time to time, Papa covered Mama’s hand with his so tenderly it broke Susan’s heart.
Oh, Mama, you’re so beautiful! What happened to make you this way?
She was lovely when she wasn’t a mess, and Papa was darkly handsome. Susan had inherited the light and the dark and come out a drab mouse with brown hair and a plain
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