With Love from Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #2) by Ruth Glover Page B
Authors: Ruth Glover
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it?”
“It’s Kerry. What’s wrong? May I come in?”
After a long silence Franny’s muffled voice gave permission. She was prostrate on her bed, face white in the gloom, eyes puffed.
Kerry flew to her side. “Franny! Whatever is wrong? What is it?”
“You mustn’t be concerned, Kerry. I’m just ill today. That’s all—ill.”
“But you’ve been so well, so . . . happy.”
Franny was silent, too silent; it was an agonizing silence.
“Shall I get Auntie?” Kerry asked, worried and perplexed.
Franny gave a short laugh; one would have called it a bitter laugh if one didn’t know Frances any better than that. “My heavens, no. Above all people, don’t call Aunt Charlotte. Just leave me be, Kerry. I’ll be all right. Please, dear.”
Kerry crept away with the first real unhappiness she had felt in her aunt’s home. That it touched her beloved Franny was worse, she believed, than if she herself were the one suffering.
At the dinner table that evening, Sebastian being absent and only Kerry and Charlotte present, an empty chair gaped loudly of Frances’s absence; she had so often, of late, been present,adding her special cheer to the occasion. It was a quiet, gloomy affair.
Finally Charlotte, with a sigh, laid aside her serviette, and said, “There is a problem, a very real problem to be faced, Kerry. Particularly by Frances, and we must help her face it and bear the pain.”
“What, Aunt? What’s wrong? Oh, I can hardly stand it . . . I hurt so.”
“Frances hurts far more. Yes, I’ll tell you about it, my dear. You are old enough to be treated as an adult, and we mustn’t ignore that. You’ll need to be an adult, certainly, to help Frances.”
“Anything!” Kerry promised.
“It seems Señor Garibaldi,” Charlotte said in a strained voice, “has been enticing Frances to fall in love with him. By little actions, soft gripping of her hands, looking into her eyes and, finally, declaring her to be his true love.”
“But, Aunt . . . is that so bad? It’s made Franny come alive. She’s been feeling so much better, and I think it’s all because she has hope, now, of a normal future—”
“She has hope of nothing!” Charlotte said in a hard voice. “That man is a blackguard . . . an unprincipled wretch—”
Charlotte’s wrath caused her voice to rise, but her vocabulary was inadequate to express her feelings, and she stumbled now with various descriptions of the dancing master, all of them insulting: shameless fortune hunter, traitor, knave, mercenary.
Kerry’s face must have shown her bewilderment, for Charlotte ceased her tirade, brought her serviette to her face for a moment, and spoke more calmly. Garibaldi (he no longer rated the “Señor”) was a snake in the grass who had inveigled himself into Frances’s affections, very soon urging marriage upon her, which was to be a fleeing away in the night, a private ceremony, then and only then making an announcement to the family. A romantic escapade, he had termed it.
“But, Aunt Charlotte—I still don’t see—”
“The man is a charlatan, Kerry! A mountebank! With the lowest of purposes!”
“How do we know—”
“From Gideon, that’s how.”
Gideon, it seemed, while driving the dancing master back and forth, had become a confidant. From the beginning, Señor Garibaldi had been interested in the family’s wealth. He had assumed that Miss Frances, being the oldest, was heiress to it all. And he had, forthwith, “pressed his suit.” Poor, dear Frances—gullible, taken in by his protestations of love, yearning for someone to love, had been easy prey.
Somewhere along the way Garibaldi had brought up to Franny the subject of her parentage—her mother and father, where were they? Abroad, perhaps? Frances had quickly explained that her parents were dead, that she had been taken in by dear Aunt Charlotte and Uncle Sebastian, and that she was, in fact, a penniless orphan, dependent on their love and
“It’s Kerry. What’s wrong? May I come in?”
After a long silence Franny’s muffled voice gave permission. She was prostrate on her bed, face white in the gloom, eyes puffed.
Kerry flew to her side. “Franny! Whatever is wrong? What is it?”
“You mustn’t be concerned, Kerry. I’m just ill today. That’s all—ill.”
“But you’ve been so well, so . . . happy.”
Franny was silent, too silent; it was an agonizing silence.
“Shall I get Auntie?” Kerry asked, worried and perplexed.
Franny gave a short laugh; one would have called it a bitter laugh if one didn’t know Frances any better than that. “My heavens, no. Above all people, don’t call Aunt Charlotte. Just leave me be, Kerry. I’ll be all right. Please, dear.”
Kerry crept away with the first real unhappiness she had felt in her aunt’s home. That it touched her beloved Franny was worse, she believed, than if she herself were the one suffering.
At the dinner table that evening, Sebastian being absent and only Kerry and Charlotte present, an empty chair gaped loudly of Frances’s absence; she had so often, of late, been present,adding her special cheer to the occasion. It was a quiet, gloomy affair.
Finally Charlotte, with a sigh, laid aside her serviette, and said, “There is a problem, a very real problem to be faced, Kerry. Particularly by Frances, and we must help her face it and bear the pain.”
“What, Aunt? What’s wrong? Oh, I can hardly stand it . . . I hurt so.”
“Frances hurts far more. Yes, I’ll tell you about it, my dear. You are old enough to be treated as an adult, and we mustn’t ignore that. You’ll need to be an adult, certainly, to help Frances.”
“Anything!” Kerry promised.
“It seems Señor Garibaldi,” Charlotte said in a strained voice, “has been enticing Frances to fall in love with him. By little actions, soft gripping of her hands, looking into her eyes and, finally, declaring her to be his true love.”
“But, Aunt . . . is that so bad? It’s made Franny come alive. She’s been feeling so much better, and I think it’s all because she has hope, now, of a normal future—”
“She has hope of nothing!” Charlotte said in a hard voice. “That man is a blackguard . . . an unprincipled wretch—”
Charlotte’s wrath caused her voice to rise, but her vocabulary was inadequate to express her feelings, and she stumbled now with various descriptions of the dancing master, all of them insulting: shameless fortune hunter, traitor, knave, mercenary.
Kerry’s face must have shown her bewilderment, for Charlotte ceased her tirade, brought her serviette to her face for a moment, and spoke more calmly. Garibaldi (he no longer rated the “Señor”) was a snake in the grass who had inveigled himself into Frances’s affections, very soon urging marriage upon her, which was to be a fleeing away in the night, a private ceremony, then and only then making an announcement to the family. A romantic escapade, he had termed it.
“But, Aunt Charlotte—I still don’t see—”
“The man is a charlatan, Kerry! A mountebank! With the lowest of purposes!”
“How do we know—”
“From Gideon, that’s how.”
Gideon, it seemed, while driving the dancing master back and forth, had become a confidant. From the beginning, Señor Garibaldi had been interested in the family’s wealth. He had assumed that Miss Frances, being the oldest, was heiress to it all. And he had, forthwith, “pressed his suit.” Poor, dear Frances—gullible, taken in by his protestations of love, yearning for someone to love, had been easy prey.
Somewhere along the way Garibaldi had brought up to Franny the subject of her parentage—her mother and father, where were they? Abroad, perhaps? Frances had quickly explained that her parents were dead, that she had been taken in by dear Aunt Charlotte and Uncle Sebastian, and that she was, in fact, a penniless orphan, dependent on their love and
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