A Mother In The Making. Gabrielle Meyer
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in the traditional sense—but more than enough time to realize his children needed a mother. “My concern is for my children.”
“But surely it will take some time for you to grieve—and then fall in love again.”
He stood abruptly. Fall in love again? He could never love another woman the way he had loved Anna. “I would never dishonor my wife’s memory by marrying for love. This is purely a practical decision on my part.”
She rose, as well. “Practical?” Her voice was filled with passion. “Marriage should be everything but practical! It would be dreadful to be married for practicality’s sake.”
Her response was unnerving. He leaned forward, his hands on his desk, and couldn’t help asking, “What is marriage, if it isn’t practical?”
She put her hand over her heart. “It should be whimsical and utterly romantic. It should be entered into for love, and no other reason.”
“You are young and naive, so I will forgive you.”
“Forgive me?” Ire rose in her countenance for the first time since entering the room, and he had a glimpse of the spark beneath all the fluff. “I know something about practicality, and it is overrated.” She put her hands on her hips and stared at him—and he suddenly felt like a schoolboy being reprimanded. “You need a bit of whimsy in your life. I could tell the moment I entered this room that you’re much too serious for your own good.”
He crossed his arms and offered her the stern look he gave the children when they were being impertinent. “You may have time for whimsy, Miss Maren, but I do not.” He was a widower, as well as a doctor with a pandemic on his hands. He had no time for anything resembling whimsy—and Miss Maren was at the top of his list.
He dropped into his chair and pulled a piece of paper out of his top drawer. The picture he had studied earlier peeked out at him. Anna had been as pragmatic as they had come—and he had admired her. Never once had she demanded anything else but practicality from him.
He began to scribble a note to his mother, informing her that sending Miss Maren was a mistake, no matter what her intentions. “I’m sorry, Miss Maren, but I will have to send you back to Chicago.”
The lady lowered herself into the chair, wilting like a plucked rose. “I can’t go back.”
He didn’t bother to look at her. “I need a steady, levelheaded woman to care for my children until I find a wife.” He would put her on the next train back to Chicago—and tell his mother exactly what he thought of Miss Maren.
* * *
Marjorie stared at the doctor, never imagining her day would end like this. “I’ve cut all ties to my life in Chicago—I can’t possibly return.”
Dr. Orton didn’t look up as he continued to scribble on the paper. A lock of brown hair fell out of place and brushed his forehead. “That’s not my concern.”
“But it is.”
He lifted his head, his brown eyes filled with frustration. “How is it my concern?”
“You asked me to come.”
“My mother sent you.”
“At your request.”
“At her suggestion.”
“Your mother told me I would be welcome.” Mrs. Orton had said that Dr. Orton’s family needed someone like Marjorie to bring joy back into their lives.
Dr. Orton paused and he looked as if he had to concede. “Everyone is welcome in my home.”
Marjorie toyed with a silk flower on her hat. “I don’t feel welcome at the moment.”
He sighed, put down his pen and then rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I suppose I can’t make you return home tonight. You’ll need to rest.”
Home. What a strange and lonely word at the moment. After Marjorie had left Preston Chamberlain at the altar, her parents had turned her out of their house and withheld her allowance, unless she marry him. But Preston did not love her. To him, she was an advantageous match—a business deal. Out of fear, she had almost caved to her parents’ demands, but then she was reminded of their own loveless union. They had married to strengthen social and financial ties, and they had been miserable.
Marjorie could never marry a man who didn’t love her.
If it hadn’t been for Mrs. Orton’s suggestion, and Dr. Orton’s need, Marjorie would have nowhere else to go. “I have no home to return to.”
He looked at her as if he didn’t believe her. “My mother told me you are a neighbor, from a good family.”
“Yes, they are good people.”
“Then surely you have a home.”
She needed to change the subject. She stood and ran her hand over the walnut mantel on the large fireplace. “You have a beautiful home. Your mother told me all about it. Actually she told me a great deal about you and the children.”
“That’s interesting,” Dr. Orton said as he crossed his arms. “She told me very little about you.”
Marjorie lifted her shoulder, trying to sound blasé. “What’s there to tell?”
She wished to say she had led a boring life, but the past few weeks had proven otherwise. Hopefully he hadn’t read the Chicago newspapers recently. They had covered the jilting and Marjorie’s subsequent departure from her parents’ home. But why wouldn’t they? Who would deign to reject Preston Chamberlain?
Marjorie, that was who.
Dr. Orton stood and motioned for her to follow him out of his office. He was a tall man, exuding confidence and authority as he strode to the door. “I will see that our cook sets a plate for you to join us for supper, and then you’re welcome to sleep in the governess’s room, but I will put you on a train to Chicago in the morning.”
“I beg you to reconsider your decision.” Marjorie wanted to put her hand on his arm and stop him from making plans to send her back—but she refrained. “I’ll show you I’m the right person for this job.”
“I doubt you could convince me to change my mind.”
Marjorie clutched her hat in her hands. “Give me until the end of the year—and if you’re unhappy with my work, I’ll leave.” In those two months, she might raise enough money to go to California.
“The end of the year?”
She nodded and offered him an innocent look. “What harm could I do in two months?”
He lifted an eyebrow, his face filling with skepticism. He stepped out of his office and Marjorie followed him into the front hall.
The home was stunning, inside and out. Three stories tall, with deep gables and large windows, it stood like a stately queen on the tree-lined street. Redbrick covered most of the house, with white bric-a-brac and trim gracing the windows and eaves. Inside the dark wooden trim and wainscoting gave it a warm feeling, while oak flooring and expensive—yet practical—furnishings reflected the status of the owner. It wasn’t quite as elaborate as Marjorie’s childhood home—but it was comfortable.
“Mrs. Gohl, the cook, and Miss Ernst, the maid, live in the servant’s quarters at the back of the second floor,” Dr. Orton said as he passed through the front hall and up the stairs. “Charlie is the only child home at the moment. The other three are across the street at my mother-in-law’s home...”
Marjorie followed close behind, her gaze feasting on a beautiful stained-glass window above the landing of the curved stairs. Rays of brilliant colors depicted a glorious sunset. She had tried her hand at working with stained glass, but the unfinished project was tucked away in her room in Chicago along with dozens of other half-completed ventures.
Dr. Orton stopped at the top of the stairs and Marjorie