Marianne's Marriage Of Convenience

“I didn’t know there was a poor one,” she murmured.

“Oh, yeah. Your Great-Uncle Matty was rich. My great-uncle was poor. Ignatius M. Rockefeller. Ever heard of him?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Neither has anyone else. Great-Uncle Iggy died in a gold mining accident in Montana thirty years ago. He didn’t have a dime.”

She started to laugh and the buzz of conversation in the dining room resumed.

“Marianne, what’s so funny?”

“You,” she sputtered. “Me. Us. We’re getting married tomorrow and here we are, asking each other about our middle names.”

“Yeah. Maybe it’s because we’re both a little bit nervous about tomorrow.”

“Oh, Lance,” she whispered. “I am more than just a ‘little bit’ nervous. I have to confess I am a lot nervous!”

He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. He was apprehensive, too. But never in a million years would he admit that to Marianne.

Chapter Six

After supper they climbed the stairs to the second floor and stopped before the door to Marianne’s room. Lance cleared his throat.

“Tomorrow...”

“Yes?” Marianne looked up expectantly.

“Well, uh, tomorrow I guess we’re getting married.”

“Yes. Are you getting cold feet?”

He slid his gaze to the closed door. “Nope. Just thinking ahead. Tomorrow we’ll only need one room, and I was wondering, um, well, whether you wanted to move into my room or...”

“Oh.”

He pressed on through a dry mouth. “My room just has a single bed, and I noticed that yours has a...”

“Oh,” she said again. “Yes, I see.”

“See what?” he ventured. Suddenly he wondered if Marianne knew the first thing about being married, that after tomorrow they would only need one bed. At least he assumed they would need only one bed. Or did she have some kind of funny idea about marriage that she hadn’t told him?

“I realize that when we’re married we will need only one hotel room,” she acknowledged. “That is obvious.”

“Oh, yeah. Obvious.” It was also obvious that one bed and two people meant... He frowned. Did she really understand the implications of only one hotel room and only one bed? Marianne was a lot of things, but she was not dumb.

But it did make him wonder.

“Occupying one room instead of two will save us some money,” she said. She dug in her reticule for her room key, stuffed it into the lock and turned the knob. The door swung open, and once again he glimpsed the double bed in the center of the room.

He stopped dead. Jumping jennies, it was the bride who was supposed to be nervous about getting married, not the groom!

She looked up at him. “Lance, are you... Well, I mean, are you absolutely sure you want to marry me?”

Sure? Hell, no, he wasn’t sure. And neither was she if she had any smarts. But a promise was a promise.

“Yeah, I’m sure. I’ll meet you at the church tomorrow, Marianne. Three o’clock, right?”

“Yes, three o’clock. Good night, Lance.”

Before he could reply, she disappeared inside and closed the door. He stood stock still for a long minute, shaking his head. Was he imagining it, or did Marianne now not seem anxious or scared or even the least bit ruffled, as if getting married was something she did every day, like washing up the dishes? Well it sure wasn’t something he did every day! His nerves were strung up tight as a new barbed wire fence.

Still shaking his head he moved down the hall to Number Seven and unlocked the door to his room.

* * *

At half past two the next afternoon Lance slowly made his way toward the small white-painted church that sat on top of the hill at the far end of town. Puffs of frothy white mayweed and swaths of golden buttercups carpeted the ground, and three large maple trees shaded the building. It looked like a picture in a storybook. His pulse sped up.

Tall, gray-haired Reverend Pollock stood on the church steps, a black leather-bound Bible in his hands, and surveyed Lance with sympathetic brown eyes. Lance’s already tight chest got tighter. Why would the minister be feeling sorry for a man on his wedding day? There must be a whole lot of things about marriage that nobody was telling him.

The warm summer air was sweet with the scent of honeysuckle. As he reached the bottom step of the sanctuary, he tried to breathe normally, but for some reason he felt like he was drowning.

The minister stepped forward and extended his hand. “Mr. Burnside, welcome. This is an important day.”

Lance returned the reverend’s firm grip, then found he couldn’t utter a word.

“Nervous?” the reverend asked.

“Yeah. Didn’t expect to be, either.”

The minister grinned. “Most men are terrified when they get married. Or they should be.”

Lance stared at the man. “Dammit, Reverend, you tryin’ to scare me off?”

Pollock shook his head. “Certainly not, son. You look like a man who doesn’t scare easy.”

Lance groaned quietly. “Up until this morning I’d have agreed with you. Right now I’m not so sure.”

“Come on inside, Mr. Burnside. Your two witnesses are already here.”

He stopped short. “What two witnesses?”

“The waitress at the Smoke River Restaurant, Rita Sheltonburg. And Verena Forester, the town dressmaker.”

He had forgotten that they would need witnesses. Marianne must have organized them. Actually he was so tightly strung all he could remember was the gold wedding band he’d slipped into his inside pocket.

He hadn’t seen Marianne yet today. Maybe that was just as well. He hadn’t been able to eat a single forkful of his scrambled eggs, and his breakfast toast had tasted like a buttered pot holder. At the moment he figured he wasn’t the best of company.

He followed the minister into the small church, and the two middle-aged women sitting in the first pew twisted their heads to stare at him. He nodded at the waitress, Rita, and she sent him an encouraging smile. The other woman pinned him with hard blue eyes and a sour look.

Reverend Pollock guided him to the front of the church and turned to him. “Your bride seems to be a little late,” he intoned.

Lance groaned inwardly. Had Marianne chickened out at the last minute? Maybe she’d decided she didn’t want to stay in a pokey little town like Smoke River. Maybe she’d decided she didn’t want to marry him after all. Maybe...

He closed his fists convulsively, then concentrated on slowly opening his fingers one by one. Before he was aware of it he’d tightened his hands into fists again.

The two women bent their heads together and began talking in low tones. Their voices sounded like a hive full of honeybees. Lance closed his eyes involuntarily, then opened them when Reverend Pollock jostled his arm. He pointed to the pew across the aisle from the witnesses. “Sit.”

“Can’t,” he murmured. “I’m scared I won’t be able to stand up again.” To his credit the minister nodded, then took up a position beside him. It seemed like hours crept by while Lance sweated and tried not to think.

“Want to change your mind about this, son?”

He jerked. No, he didn’t. That thought had never occurred to him. He shook his head, and the minister smiled and ran his pale hands over the Bible.

Lance watched him for a few minutes, then began to pace back and forth in front of the wooden altar. The two witnesses followed him with their eyes, moving their heads from left to right and back again. At one point he thought he saw the waitress, Rita, smile, but when she caught him looking at her, her face went carefully blank.

He established a route from Reverend Pollock on one side to Rita and the dressmaker on the other, and every time he made a turn he glanced toward the back of the church. Where is Marianne?

He thought only brides got left standing at the altar, not grooms. Well, here he was, standing at the altar feeling like a lost puppy.

Where is she?

He made one more circuit and had just started another when suddenly he saw a movement. Marianne.

At the sight of her his eyes widened. She wore a simple yellow dress, the hem just brushing the tops of her shoes, and the late afternoon light bathed her in a warm golden glow. She looked like a shaft of summer sunshine.

His mouth went dry. Both witnesses stood up, and Reverend Pollock drew him into position in front of the altar. Marianne started down the aisle toward him, hesitated and then resolutely stepped forward. All at once Verena Forester moved into her path and held out a bouquet of yellow roses.

Marianne paused to accept the flowers, then watched Verena’s gaze run over the yellow gingham wedding dress she had cobbled together in such a hurry. The woman’s narrow face beamed.

At the altar, Lance was staring at her as if he’d never laid eyes on her before. She gripped her bouquet of roses and continued on down the aisle toward him. Dear God, was she really doing this? Marrying a man she had blackmailed into taking her as his wife? She should feel a huge measure of guilty shame, but for some strange reason she didn’t. Instead she felt as if she had just swallowed a bolt of lightning.

She caught Lance’s gaze and her heart stopped. Goodness, he looked so serious! Not a hint of a smile touched his mouth. His usually unruly dark hair was neatly combed, and as she watched, his smoky blue eyes went wide.

Was he as scared as she was? Worse, did he regret agreeing to marry her?

Her heart thumped erratically. Why was she so frightened? This man, Lance Burnside, meant nothing to her, wasn’t that true? She was simply using him for her own ends, wasn’t she? Why should she be frightened?

The answer brought her to an abrupt halt halfway down the aisle. I am frightened because this really does matter!

She took another step toward the man waiting at the altar, and he moved toward her and held out his hand. He had the strangest look on his face, as if he’d just seen a ghost. He enfolded her hand in his, and she noticed that his eyes looked shiny and they never left hers.

Verena Forester came to stand on her left; Rita positioned herself beside Lance. Then the minister stepped forward and opened his Bible.

“Dearly beloved...”

She could feel Lance trembling. Even so, his grip on her hand remained steady and his eyes continued to look into hers. All at once the reverend’s words leaped into her consciousness.

“Lawrence Burnside, do you take this woman...?”

Lance gave her hand a little squeeze. “I do.” His voice was steady, but she noticed that his shirtfront was fluttering.

Then the minister’s question was directed to her.

“Marianne Jane Collingwood, do you take this man...?”

Merciful God in heaven, can I really promise to love a man I scarcely know? She closed her eyes.

Lance waited. Did he understand her hesitation?

The gentle pressure of his fingers told her that he did understand, but he was waiting for her answer anyway.

Her mind cleared and she opened her eyes. No, she did not really know this man. But she had worked side by side with him for four years. She had watched him. For some reason she trusted him. And, she had to admit, she liked him.

“I—I do,” she breathed.

Reverend Pollock looked from Lance to Marianne and smiled. “I now pronounce you husband and wife.” Then his smile broadened into a grin. “Mr. Burnside, you may kiss your bride.”

Lance gulped. He released the hand he held in his own and reached to curve his fingers about Marianne’s shoulders. Damn, she was shaking like an aspen leaf in a summer breeze. He tried to smile at her, but his mouth wasn’t working right.

She was still staring up at him, a dazed expression on her face. Maybe she was waiting for him to kiss her, like the reverend said. She didn’t look scared or apprehensive; she was just waiting.

Outside the open sanctuary door he could hear some crazy bird singing its heart out. He became aware of his breath pulling in and out of his lungs, and then all at once he was aware of everything, the long silence, Reverend Pollock drumming his fingers on the Bible, even the occasional sniffing of Rita and the dressmaker. Good God, those two ladies were actually crying!

He felt like crying, too.

Marianne was still staring at him, waiting for him to kiss her, he guessed. Okay, he’d better do it and get it over with. He tightened his hands on her shoulders and drew her toward him.

She lifted her face to his, and in that instant he saw that her eyes were wet. His heart soared up and then thunked into his stomach. He pulled her close enough that the ruffle around the neck of her yellow dress touched his shirtfront, bent his head and brushed his lips against hers.

She closed her eyes, but she didn’t move. Her lips were soft, and she smelled faintly of roses, and unexpectedly his heart gave another thump as he moved slightly away from her. She felt sweet and unguarded in his arms, and suddenly he wanted to really kiss her.

And then she did something he would remember for the rest of his life. She opened her eyes, smiled at him and rose up on her tiptoes and pressed her mouth to his.

A locomotive ploughed into his chest and starbursts of hot light exploded in his brain. Some part of him felt the earth stop spinning on its axis, and then he lost himself in a big bubble of a fine new place he’d never been before. He tightened his arms around her and just held on.

After a long moment, a very long moment, he heard the minister cough politely, and he opened his eyes. What had just happened? Why were his eyelids stinging?

The two witnesses descended on them, mopping at their faces with lacy handkerchiefs and saying something. He couldn’t hear the words because of the roaring noise inside his head, but Rita’s face was one big grin and even the sobersides dressmaker was all smiles.

Reverend Pollock shook his hand. “Congratulations, Mr. Burnside,” he said loudly. He released his hand and then shook it again, pecked Marianne’s cheek and shook her hand, too.

Rita advanced and threw her arms around him, then turned to Marianne and smacked a kiss on her cheek. “Now, my dear, we have a little surprise for you. Sarah and Rooney Cloudman are giving you a wedding reception at Rose Cottage. That’s Sarah’s boardinghouse over on Maple Street.”

“Wedding reception!” Marianne gasped. “But we don’t know anyone in town.”

“Well,” Verena Forester announced, “pretty quick you’re gonna know everybody.”

Suddenly Lance stiffened. “Wait! I forgot the ring!”

Marianne blinked. “What ring?”

“The wedding ring I bought for you at the mercantile yesterday.”

Reverend Pollock laughed aloud. “Well, now,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes, “maybe you’d better get this ring on her finger before your wedding reception.”

Lance fumbled inside his vest and drew out an engraved gold band. “Give me your hand, Marianne.”

Shyly, she held out her hand. He lifted it in his and slipped the gold wedding band on to her fourth finger.

Marianne looked down at her hand and the lovely gold ring Lance had placed there. She couldn’t stop staring at it. Tiny roses were engraved all over it, like the roses she still carried in one hand. “Oh, it’s beautiful! It’s p-perfectly beauti—” She burst into tears.

Lance folded her into his arms. “Thank you,” she said against his chest. “Oh, Lance, thank you!”

“You’re welcome, Marianne. I wanted you to have a wedding ring.”

They stood in each other’s arms until he felt a gentle touch at his back.

“Come on, you two,” Rita said. “We’ll walk you over to Rose Cottage.”

* * *

Rose Cottage turned out to be the prettiest house Marianne had yet seen in Smoke River, a three-story structure with a wide front porch and a trellis covered with yellow rambling roses. Townspeople were spilling out the open front door and down the porch steps, calling out their congratulations. Marianne felt Lance check his stride.

“Whoa,” he said under his breath. “This is kinda scary.”

Marianne nodded. “I feel like I used to when Mrs. Schneiderman had a bad day.”

“Well, we lived through that,” he murmured. “I guess we’ll live through this, too.”

The first person to reach them was a plump, attractive older woman in a full-skirted green dress. “Welcome!” she called. “I’m Sarah Cloudman.” She grasped Marianne’s hands in hers and pulled her up the porch steps onto the veranda. “And congratulations.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Cloudman. And thank you for inviting us to your home.”

“You’re welcome, my dear. It isn’t every day a girl gets married, and we all know you’re both new in Smoke River, so we thought you should celebrate with friends.”

A lean, grizzled-looking man with a salt-and-pepper beard slapped out the screen door and shook Lance’s hand. “Every man deserves a good woman,” he boomed. He turned to Marianne and kissed both her cheeks. “Don’t know if I’ve ever seen a prettier bride ’less it was my Sarah, but you sure do come close.”

People swirled onto the front porch, and in no time she and Lance were surrounded by townspeople. Sarah Cloudman took her arm. “Come inside, both of you. We have wedding cake and lemonade waiting.”

“And some whiskey for the gentlemen,” Rooney Cloudman added.

Marianne knew she would never forget this afternoon, even if she lived to be a hundred. She and Lance must have received the good wishes of everyone in town from Carl Ness’s wife, Linda-Lou, and their twin daughters, Edith and Noralee, to tall, tanned sheriff Hawk Rivera, who looked straight into Lance’s face without a flicker of recognition. The two newspaper editors, Cole and Jessamine Sanders, welcomed them and asked all kinds of questions, and then there were the rotund barber Whitey Poletti, the old doctor, Samuel Graham, who lived at Rose Cottage, and the new doctor, Zane Dougherty and his wife Winifred, who lived in the big house at the top of the steepest hill in town. So many townspeople came to offer congratulations, Marianne was sure she would never remember all their names.

She recognized the young Indian boy Sammy Greywolf and met his handsome mother, Rosie Greywolf. Cattle ranchers, wheat farmers, the pretty young schoolteacher, Mrs. Panovsky, even a crusty old sheepherder who camped in the hills all stopped by Rose Cottage to wish them well.

But the highlight of the afternoon for Marianne was her introduction to a grinning Chinese man everyone called Uncle Charlie, the baker who had made the elegant four-tier wedding cake resting on Sarah’s walnut dining table. His wife, Iris, confided that his Chinese name was actually Ming Cha.

Marianne also met Uncle Charlie’s niece, Leah MacAllister, her husband Thad, and their nine-year-old son, Teddy, along with Judge Jericho Silver and his wife, Maddie, and their twin boys. Of all things, Maddie turned out to be a Pinkerton agent! My, the population of Smoke River was certainly interesting. And, Marianne noted with relief, the Pinkerton agent also didn’t give Lance a second look.

All afternoon Marianne couldn’t help wondering which business establishment it was that Uncle Matty had willed to her. It wouldn’t be Sarah Cloudman’s boardinghouse. Or the barbershop. Or the Smoke River Hotel or the restaurant. And she prayed again that it wasn’t the Golden Partridge saloon next to the hotel.

Lance shook so many hands and downed so many shots of Rooney Cloudman’s whiskey that by suppertime he was struggling to focus his thoughts. Marianne had long since disappeared into a chattering circle of women well-wishers. He wondered if she felt half as dizzy as he did. Probably not, unless she was lacing her lemonade with shots of Rooney Cloudman’s whiskey.

What a day! He couldn’t wait for it to be over so he could enjoy a quiet supper with Marianne at the restaurant. He caught her eye across the dining room where she was cutting more slices of Uncle Charlie’s applesauce spice wedding cake, but as he watched she was quickly drawn into another conversation with more chattering ladies.

He escaped to the veranda and sank on to the porch swing to rest a while. After some minutes, Rooney Cloudman joined him.

“Had enough?”

“Of what?” Lance said tiredly.

“Enough of all this fuss and folderol,” the older man said with a grin. “All a man really wants is to get the I-do over with and start the honeymoon.”

Lance suddenly jerked upright. Honeymoon! Oh, God, there was that double bed in Marianne’s hotel room, but he hadn’t really thought about it until this moment. Now he had to seriously consider what a honeymoon would mean.

For the first time he wondered if Marianne was planning to have a marriage of convenience.

Was she?

Well, he sure as hell wasn’t!

“What’s the matter, son? You look like you just swallowed a fishhook the size of a pick-ax.”

“Rooney, how long have you been married?”

The older man laughed. “Not near long enough.”

“You recall how you, uh, ended up gettin’ married in the first place?”

Rooney leaned back and pushed the swing into motion with his foot. “Yeah, I sure do. I was married before, see. ’Cept it wasn’t in a church or anything ’cuz I’m half Cherokee. My wife, she was full-blooded Cherokee. Anyway, she died before I came to Smoke River, and when I met my Sarah I was mighty leery about gettin’ hitched up again.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Well, hell, I went and fell in love. Sarah, now, she didn’t feel that way about me fer a lotta years. So...I waited.”

Lance nodded. “What do you think changed her mind?”

Rooney slapped a gnarled hand on his knee. “Son, if I knew the answer to that, I’d be a rich man.”

Lance could think of nothing to say to that.

Rooney stuck an elbow into his ribs. “Chances are you’re not gonna understand a whole lotta things about yer wife, even if you both live to a ripe old age. But that’s not what’s important, see? Understandin’ her, I mean. What’s important is real simple. Just keep on lovin’ her.”

“That’s it? That’s all?”

“Yep, that’s pretty much it. And,” Rooney added with a chuckle, “don’t ask too many questions.”

Lance nodded his head. “Thanks, Rooney. I’ll remember that.”

“And remember them real smart words ‘for better or worse.’”

At that moment Lance made himself a solemn promise. For better or worse, no matter what came, he would do everything in his power to be a good husband to Marianne.

Chapter Seven

By the time Lance and Marianne made their way back to the hotel, the entire day seemed like a dream. A good dream, Lance thought. Unexpectedly satisfying, even sweet, a word he never thought he’d use in regard to Marianne.

“You hungry?” Lance asked when they reached the foyer.

Marianne looked up at him. “After all that wedding cake and lemonade?”

“And whiskey,” he reminded her.

“Actually,” she said with a soft laugh, “I am starving. I hope Rita hasn’t taken steak off the menu tonight.”

They walked to the restaurant, and the beaming waitress headed across the dining room toward them, waving her order pad. “Coffee?” she inquired. She sent a surreptitious look at Lance.

“Oh, yes, please,” Marianne murmured. “I need lots of—”

“Sure,” Rita quipped. “Comin’ right up.”

“You, too?” Lance whispered.

“My temples feel like squashed biscuits,” she confessed as they sat down.

“I’d laugh,” he said, “but it would make my head hurt too much.”

“Oh, Lance, this entire day seems unreal.”

“Yeah, that’s what it feels like to me, too. Guess it’s because neither one of us has gotten married before.”

“Imagine,” she said with a giggle, “getting pie-eyed on your wedding day!”

“Your wedding day, too,” he reminded her.

“Are we really married?” she whispered. “It feels like I’m having a dream.”