His One Woman. Paula Marshall
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“Everything is magnificent in America,” he said. “The view I have at the moment is particularly fine.”
And he leaned forward and, looking deep into Marietta’s beautiful eyes, he kissed her on the lips, oh, so gently.
“You will forgive me, I am sure,” he murmured, “but the temptation was too great for me.”
Still silent, Marietta put her hands to her lips as though to seal his kiss there. So entranced was she, so wonder-struck, that Jack was tempted again—and fell. This time he took her in his arms and the kiss he gave her was deeper, more passionate, and, more to the point, she returned it, opening her lips a little and putting her arms around his neck. She was already learning the wordless grammar of love.
Dear Reader
Some years ago I did a great deal of research on the lives of those men and women who, for a variety of reasons, lived on the frontiers. Re-reading recently about life in Australia in the early nineteenth century, it struck me that an interesting story about them was only waiting to be told. Having written Hester Waring’s Marriage, it was a short step for me to wonder what happened to the children and the grandchildren.
Hence The Dilhorne Dynasty, each book of which deals with a member of the family who sets out to conquer the new world in which he finds himself. The Dilhornes, men and women, are at home wherever they settle, be it Australia, England or the United States of America, and because of their zest for life become involved in interesting adventures.
Paula
His One Woman
Paula Marshall
PAULA MARSHALL,
married with three children, has had a varied life. She began her career in a large library and ended it as a senior academic in charge of history in a polytechnic. She has traveled widely and has been a swimming coach. She has always wanted to write, and likes her novels to be full of adventure and humor.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter One
Washington, April 1861
‘A re you still working, my dear? I thought that you had promised to escort your cousin Sophie to the Clays this afternoon. I do not like to see you constantly at your desk. You deserve a little pleasure in your life; it should not be all hard grind.’
Marietta looked affectionately up at her father, Senator Jacobus Hope.
‘Visiting the Clays with Sophie is not my idea of pleasure,’ she told him, ‘and I needed to catch up with your correspondence—which I have now done. Aunt Percival has gone with her in my place.’
Her father sighed and sat down opposite to her. Marietta thought sadly that he was beginning to look his age. For the last seven years she had been his faithful assistant, ever since she had decided that she would never marry after four years of being pursued by every fortune hunter in America’s northern states.
Now, at twenty-seven, she was her father’s mainstay: no man could have been more useful to him, and, had she been one herself, he thought that she would have made a superb senator—but, being a woman, all such doors were closed to her.
Knowing this, the Senator felt the most bitter regret at having to tell her his unwelcome news, but in fairness to her he must. He ought not to delay any longer.
‘Marie, my dear child, I am sure that you are aware that age is beginning to affect my ability to perform the duties of my office efficiently, and only your invaluable assistance has kept me on course for the last few years. I have been wrong to lean on you so much, but you are the beloved child of my old age, my last memory of your mother. I was sorry when you refused Avory Grant seven years ago. I know that you thought him a flighty boy, but the years and marriage seem to have sobered him, as they sober most of us.
‘Knowing this, it grieves me to tell you that I shall not seek office again when this term ends in 1864. Had I not been certain that war was coming, I would not have stood for the Senate in 1860, but, since I had long warned that war was inevitable, I decided that I must play my part in it when it did arrive.
‘I have no regrets, I have had a long and fulfilling life, but what does trouble me is that you have given your life and your youth in service to me and before my term is over I wish to see you married. I do not want to think of you as a lonely spinster when I am gone.’
Marietta put up a protesting hand at this. ‘Oh, Father, you have many years yet, I am sure.’
Her father shook his head. ‘The doctors do not think so, my dear. It is even possible that I shall not live out my term. I repeat, I would wish to see you married.’
Marietta answered him as lightly as she could. ‘But who would marry me, Father? I am twenty-seven now, past my first youth, and I am not even pretty.’
‘Marie,’ he said, ‘you must know that there are many who would want you for a wife—’
She interrupted him for once. ‘Fortune hunters to a man, Father. I know that.’
Indeed, all the world was aware that, as the Senator’s heiress, Marietta stood to inherit a vast fortune in dollars, land, property and investments.
‘Yes, Marie, but not all men are fortune hunters, and you are a clever woman—I would trust to your judgement to choose the right husband. I blame myself for not encouraging you to marry after you refused Avory, but you were adamant and I was selfish. Go more into society, my dear, and the suitors will come running.’
‘You mean when I am available for sale in the market again,’ she said bitterly. ‘I don’t want that, Father.’
‘It would be preferable to a lonely old age. Do you wish to be like Aunt Percival, Marie? Even your dollars would not sweeten that fate.’
He could see that she was rejecting his advice, well-meant though it was—but he could also see that he had touched an unwelcome chord. He sighed, and turned to go, but before he left her to attend a Congressional committee, he murmured, as gently as he could, ‘I beg that you will consider most carefully what I have just told you, Marie.’
The door closed behind him.
Marietta rose, and sank into an armchair beside the empty hearth. Unwelcome thoughts raced through her brain. Had she been foolish, not clever, when she had rejected Avory Grant? He had seemed so young and callow, and she had wanted someone to whom she could talk, who would share her inmost thoughts, and Avory had certainly not been that ideal man. Had she been too discriminating, too certain that he had been marrying her for her money and not because he had felt any real desire or affection for her?
Alas, she had no illusions about herself. She was Marietta Hope, the only plain member of a bevy of beautiful Hope cousins, all of whom sported the blonde ringlets, pink and white faces, and hour-glass figures which mid-century Americans considered to be the acme of female desirability. Instead, she possessed a face which was clever rather than pretty,