Page 16 of Mail-Order Lady

Her mother stood. The movement was graceful as always, but something in it had changed—the fluidity gone mechanical. She picked up her bag and turned toward the exit.

She paused at the door with her back to them, one hand resting on the knob. “I have traveled nearly three months to see you.” Her voice came low and measured. “I have brought your father’s things. I brought Kate’s things. I came here because you are my daughter and I love you.”

Clara couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even breathe. She knew better than to respond to Mother when she was this angry.

At last, her mother turned. This was no longer the warm expression or even the calculating one. A hardness had taken over her gaze. “This isn’t finished.”

She worked to swallow the knot in her throat. “I know.”

Her mother’s focus shifted to Robert—a long, direct look that moved from his hands on Clara’s shoulders to his face and held there. Whatever she found, she didn’t comment on it. She gave a single nod, precise as a period at the end of a sentence, and walked out of the parlor.

The sound of her footsteps crossed the lobby. The hotel door opened and closed.

The parlor went quiet.

Clara’s body had begun to tremble. What had they done? The full wrath of Margaret McKinney would descend on them all, and that was a force she’d worked her entire life to keep at bay.

Robert appeared in front of her, crouching as he studied her face. Those eyes… The same brown they always were, looking at her with such compassion. Such…

She had to pull herself together. They needed to discuss this. Discuss…what they’d done. What needed to come next.

She sniffed and willed the tears to stop. Fought for a smile as she dabbed at the liquid with her sleeve. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

His expression softened. “Don’t be sorry for anything.” He pressed a handkerchief into her hands, then rose and stepped back, giving her space to gather herself.

Robert was always like that. There anytime she had a need, but never forcing his presence on her. Those long days during the scarlet fever had taught her this about him. The hours he’d spent reading to her. The way he’d always had cool water or warm tea ready. Because he’d had the disease as a boy, he’d been the only one allowed into her sickroom. But he’d also turned out to be the very best choice. As surprising as that fact still seemed.

At last, she motioned to the seat beside her, the one her mother had occupied. “We should figure out what to do next.”

He sat, angling himself toward her instead of sitting side by side.

“She’ll hire a solicitor.” He rested his forearms on his knees. “She said as much, or close enough to it. She won’t accept my word for it.”

Clara turned the handkerchief over in her fingers. “No. She won’t.”

“Which means she’ll search the records.” He paused. “And when she does, she’ll find nothing.”

Her middle twisted into a knot. Why had she allowed the lie, much less confirmed it? Now they’d created a true debacle.

“The rest of what I told her was true in every legal respect.” His voice stayed solid. “A married woman cannot be compelled into another contract. The difficulty is that the marriage itself doesn’t exist.” He looked at her steadily. “Not yet.”

The word yet hung in the air between them.

She set the handkerchief in her lap and smoothed it flat with both hands. At last she managed words, though she couldn’t meet his gaze. “You’re proposing we make it true.”

“Yes.” He didn’t move. “A marriage in truth would close every avenue she has. She could hire ten solicitors. None of them would find anything to use against you.”

A wagon passed outside the window. The sound of it filled the parlor and then faded.

“You would do that?” She folded the handkerchief once along its crease. Then she finally made herself meet his gaze. “Marry me? In truth.”

“I would be honored to.” He said it the same way he said everything—without flourish. But with a sincerity that made his words mean all the more.

He held her gaze without looking away, and she let herself rest in those rich brown eyes. “You would have every freedom you wished for. Whatever arrangement suited you best.” He paused, that steady patience showing through as he chose his words. “Separate rooms, if you’d prefer. Your own space, your own time. Nothing would change unless you wanted it to.”

He looked down at his clasped hands for a moment, then back up. His eyes narrowed the tiniest bit. “The only thing that would be different is that your mother would have no ground left to stand on.”

The sting of tears rushed in once more, but she pressed her lips together to hold them back. “You would give up—” Her voice nearly cracked, so she stopped. Turned toward the window. Swallowed, then started again. “This is not a small thing you’re offering.”