Fate's Intervention

By Barbara Woster

Marcelle is too old for games -- or marriage -- so she believes.

(Romantic Comedy/Thriller) Tired of the endless parade of cadavers presented by her father as potential mates, Marcelle becomes disillusioned with love and marriage. With her prospects diminishing, and her determination to remain unwed increasing--can fate intervene?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara Woster
• Release date: Jan 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733660211

Book preview

ONE

1882

I will not have you chasing away every eligible suitor that comes to call! Peter Weatherman’s voice was getting raw from yelling at his daughter. She sat across from his massive mahogany desk, arms crossed defiantly beneath her breasts, eyes narrowed in insolence, and lips pursed in anger. He sighed. His yelling was accomplishing nothing—except to give him a sore throat—but despite her stubbornness and irritation, he had to try to get through to her. Had he known how difficult a female became when they hit the age of majority, he would have forbidden his wife from dying—God rest her soul. Right now, he needed God to provide him a little rest for his soul also.

When her father grew silent, glaring at her with his icy emerald eyes, Marcelle straightened her posture further. She refused to allow him to sway her—now or ever. She unclenched her stiffening fists, flexing repeatedly, and felt the blood return to its normal circulation, as she wished her life would. Things were fine before she turned fourteen. Now, at seventeen, she was tired—tired of the same embittered argument with her father, which occurred like clockwork. She examined her father’s face, red from the exertion of her dressing down, but she would not allow the threat of a potential heart attack to sway her from her stance. Not this time. Never again.

She loved her father dearly, but she needed to continue to stand firm or he would run roughshod over her life, and she couldn’t allow him to continue trying. She was tired beyond all comprehensible thought of him treating her like a horse at an auction, brought out of her barn when he had yet another buffoon ready to inspect her wares. Each suitor genuinely surprised her when he didn’t open her mouth to inspect her teeth—at least none had yet. Still, while her teeth had thus far been safe from inspection, they often inspected the rest of her openly and shamelessly for longer than she cared. Of course, every time she protested the behavior of chosen suitors, her father would remind her that she needed a man that would provide her a financially stable future, even if that meant suffering a bit of indignity.

Well, she didn’t happen to want financial stability, not at the price her father demanded. If her father wanted her to have financial stability, she preferred that it came as love wrapped in a package that time had not yet covered with graying hair and wrinkles.

She was also growing weary of these constant battles. After years of trying to find a suitable mate and arguing with her father about the unsuitability of every one of them, she felt certain that he would know that her tastes didn’t run anywhere near the old, infirmed, portly, or stuffy men he insisted on promenading before her.

She took a deep breath to control her breathing and relax her taut nerves.

The men you have chosen, Father, as you are aware, she replied tightly, are older than you are, and not exactly what I’d consider suitable marriageable material. She repeated this exact statement monthly since age fourteen when her father started parading corpses before her and she realized he seriously expected her to choose from one of them. She knew what his response would be because their entire conversation never veered from its current content.

Who said anything about suitable? I said eligible, her father shot back.

Semantics, Father. If the gentlemen weren’t suitable, at least in your opinion, they wouldn’t even make it in the front door. Aren’t you even interested in the least whether I’ll be happy with any of the men you’ve chosen, or are property and a big bank roll all you can see?

You have a tongue like a whip, girl.

And you have a mind that can only register dollar signs, Marcelle fired back. Is that all you’re interested in? Is that all that’s important to you?

Property and a big bank roll, my darling daughter, are all that matter, and if I didn’t care about your well-being, then I’d simply marry you to the first cowpoke that wanted to bed you and be done with it. Now, stop causing me grief, go into that sitting room, and entertain the young man that’s come to call or so help me... Peter stopped speaking suddenly and rubbed a hand wearily across his face and through his quickly graying hair. A sigh escaped and Marcelle relaxed her rigid posture. She eyed her father warily.

Or so help you what, Father?

In all the years that they’d had this discussion, he had never taken to threatening her, but now she wondered, possibly a little too late, whether she’d pushed him too far. Had her antics and arguments over the past years caused as much strain on his patience as hers? Perhaps he was tired of waiting for her to choose a husband. Perhaps he would now marry her off to the next man who walked through their front door. Perhaps the suitor that waited for her in the parlor. She shuddered at the thought. His next words, whispered in such a defeated tone, caused more worry in her than any threat he could ever issue, but his words were reassuring nonetheless.

Nothing, dearest. Just the ravings of a tired, old man. Still, you know, dear, you are getting on in years, and soon even the old geezers that I’ve selected for you aren’t going to be interested.

I’d hardly call seventeen aged, Father.

No, I don’t guess you would, but you know as well as I do that men consider it ancient. He sighed loudly. "If only your mother were here, God rest her soul, she’d know what to do about your belligerent attitude. If you were a boy, I’d know what to do about your belligerent attitude. With another sigh, her father tried a more tactful approach. Will you at least humor me, my girl? You’ve already kept the poor man in the parlor waiting on you for the past half hour. Perhaps you won’t have to run him off. Maybe he’ll take a dislike to your tardy manners and decide you aren’t worth his valuable time."

How much did you pay this one to show up today? Marcelle quipped.

Far more than your old hide is worth, her father retorted.

Marcelle laughed shortly, I’m not the only one with a whip-like tongue.

Yes, well, you do get it from somewhere. Your mother was a sight bit more docile than either you or I, so I know it wasn’t from her that you get that somewhat annoying trait. I only wished you hadn’t inherited it from me either. It’s just unfortunate that you didn’t inherit my care for money, or you’d see the wisdom of marrying someone financially sound; and no, I haven’t started paying people to court you, so you can shake that silly notion free from its lodgings and discard it. Put it in the pile with all the other silly notions you’ve had in your life, which probably have created a sizable mound by now. However, I was serious about your age, child. Seventeen may not be aged to you, but to a man wanting children, you may as well be as old as the men that have come courting you.

I’d laugh, but I didn’t find that humorous. You know, not all men want twenty children. I may just find a man who wants only one, so seventeen or eighteen shouldn’t present a problem. Besides, Father, I’ve told you repeatedly that the man I marry could build us a one-room shack. It wouldn’t matter to me, if he loves me and is willing to work to provide a living for us.

That’s easy to say when you’ve never had to want for anything. Try living without money for a week and you’ll change that tune quickly enough.

Sounds like you have.

Indeed, and I’m not a woman.

A woman? What does gender have to do with anything?

Oh, dearest, her father sighed, a woman requires much more in the way of support. A man could wear the same clothes every day, never bathe, eat whatever he found in the wild, and sleep under the stars—without a care. Can you see a woman doing that? Really?

Point conceded. Still, Father, do I truly require that much in the way of upkeep that you must marry me to a wealthy man without regard to my feelings for him? Why can’t you find a young, good looking man of modest means?

I’ve tried, and none are interested in an old crone. Just kidding, dear. Admittedly, you aren’t very difficult to care for. I just want to ensure that you never want for anything, and men of modest means, no matter the age, couldn’t possibly do that for you. Can you blame a father for wanting the best for his child?

No, I can’t. I just want you to see my side of it as well. Perhaps I’m willing to suffer a bit of discomfort in order to wed for love.

Peter sighed yet again. He was pleased that their constant battles had taken a turn, but only hoped the shift would prove beneficial. I’ll see what I can do in that regard. I could possibly even provide the discomfort part without the courtships if you don’t stop giving me grief. Now, all this conversation hasn’t changed the fact that a suitor is in the parlor, and has been waiting for you for, he paused, glancing at his pocket watch, forty-five minutes, I do believe.

Must I, Father?

Leaving him there would hardly be polite, and since I didn’t raise you without manners, will you do your old man a favor and at least attempt civility with this caller? I have no more room on my head for more gray hair.

All right, Father, she conceded reluctantly, never truly happy when they fought. I’ll go and meet the suitor, and I promise to try to behave myself. She twisted her lips to display her best brainless, dim-witted smile. How’s this? She asked mischievously through gritted teeth. Her ploy worked and her father laughed.

Don’t overdo it dear; just do try to be pleasant.

Marcelle stood to leave, but stopped and turned back to face her father when she reached the door. "You said for me to go and meet the young man in the parlor. Exactly what’s your idea of young?"

Not in his grave yet, her father answered with a straight face that left Marcelle wondering whether he was joking.

TWO

Marcelle rolled her eyes childishly when she entered the parlor, and her faux smile faded.

Her father hadn’t lied when he categorized this suitor as young. By her estimation, he was on the low end of fifty. A man younger than her father, to be sure, but hardly one she would classify as young. While not as gray haired and wrinkled, physically, he made the skeletal forms of previous suitors seem far more appealing. Normally, large and tall men held more attraction for her, because she was far from petite at 5’8". Her displeasure over his physique had nothing do with size, rather his lack of shape.

He was standing by the French doors, staring off at the horizon, and deep in thought. Her being temporarily unnoticed gave her ample time to size up his ample frame in more detail. Perhaps there was more to the man than revealed by his size. The longer she inspected him however, the more doubtful she became.

He had at least two visible chins, and a third that she could tell that he snugly encased within his overly tight cravat. That third chin wanted to break free of its confines, she noticed, and only hoped it would wait until after he departed. The sight of it oozing free would likely send her to her bed with a case of the fits. Her gaze slid downward, and she shuddered.

He’d constricted his colossal paunch inside of his waistcoat. So tight fitting, the navy material puckered in protest, and the silver buttons appeared ready to pop. Warning bells went off in her mind when her gaze returned to his visage. His bulbous nose bespoke of too many nights spent imbibing alcoholic beverages, as did his overly rosy complexion. She wondered if he was inebriated just now. His rigid stance meant nothing, as he probably needed to maintain that stance in order to keep his clothes in place.

Inebriated or sober, it mattered not to her, for he was without a doubt the most horrific-looking specimen she’d ever laid eyes on. Perhaps she should give a previous suitor serious thought, before her father gave this man serious consideration. This particular man—who clearly cared little for his health and well-being—left her feeling physically ill. The others merely made her want to laugh, and not due to their amusing repartee.

When he shifted slightly, recognition dawned, and her shiver of repulsion intensified.

What in the name of all that is holy is he doing here, she wondered. Surely, her father wasn’t really considering this match.

Clifford Stanharbor was the owner of a very profitable horse ranch in the neighboring town. She’d encountered him occasionally when she accompanied her father to the local horse auction that ranchers held semiannually down in Lander.

Her father purchased their personal mounts from him before deciding to go into the horse business himself. The fact that one horse he’d purchased died only a month after Stanharbor delivered it to the house, spurred his decision. The second proved too skittish to train or ride. That horse finally ran away. Stanharbor refused to refund the purchase price of either mount.

His obvious lack of horse sense made her wonder more than once how he stayed in business year after year. More disconcerting than his lack of horse sagacity, however, was his lack of marriage logic. She refused to be a gossipmonger, but wasn’t above listening to them, and the rumor mill never ceased when it came to Clifford Stanharbor and his preferences. Generally, those rumors were backed by a modicum of fact, as each of his wives had been extremely young and exaggeratedly fragile.

Apparently, the fragile part wasn’t a rumor as each of his wives had been so weak that death claimed each one soon after marrying Stanharbor. Those who survived long enough to bear him children suspiciously met their demise prior to their eighteenth year. During Stanharbor’s marriageable years, he’d wed nine times and procreated an equal number of times. Without a doubt, the rumors surrounding Stanharbor’s wives, and the nature of their deaths, made for many an entertaining evening for the women in the twelve surrounding counties.

To add fuel to the rumor mill, no one saw any of the young women again once they signed the marriage certificate, and no one knew of their deaths until Stanharbor went on the prowl for a new wife. Since Stanharbor gave each a private burial immediately without benefit of an autopsy, no one knew the cause of death either. Wealth and power obviously had its benefits.

She wondered, eyeing him critically, if he got rid of his wives simply because he considered them too old and haggard after a certain age. This did pique her curiosity, however. What did Stanharbor want with her? She was far from petite, fragile and, by most men’s standards, very old; and definitely past marriageable age, if she was to believe her father.

Had Stanharbor finally exhausted the local supply of fragile petites, forcing him to look in her direction? Had her father finally resorted to consorting with the competition in order to see her wed?

Well, as for the local supply of petites, she knew of at least one petite girl that she could aim Stanharbor’s attention toward—her neighbor, Carol Ann Blackwarth. She’d moved in only a few months before, but Marcelle heard that she was close to marriageable age. Either way, promises to her father or no, she wasn’t about to give this porcine joke of a man any encouragement beyond what it would take to get him out of the front door. The last thing she wanted was to end impregnated and then buried in a mass grave before her eighteenth birthday.

What had her father been thinking, inviting him into their home to court her? Well, if she had anything to do with it, he’d been waddling from this room screaming in the next minute or two. She had that profound effect on unwanted suitors. That made her smile. She couldn’t smile for real though, or he may think her amiable.

She pasted on the same brainless, dim-witted smile she’d displayed for her father, and then stepped forward, into his view. Stanharbor noticed the movement and turned from the French window. Her smile, however perfectly rehearsed, nearly slipped when she realized he wasn’t paying the least bit of attention to her smile—or anything from the neck up. Instead, he pinned his gaze greedily to her bosom, gawking at them, as would a starving man a five-course meal. Well, men may not consider her a spring chicken any longer, but it was apparent that her body was still in good enough shape to spark this man’s appetite. In fact, it tended to spark every suitor’s appetite, for all responded in a similar fashion, if not quite so bold.

Without a doubt, he definitely had to go—and quick. Just like the others. Sorry, Father, she said tacitly before moving closer to her caller.

Mr. Stanharbor, is it? She asked, trying to keep the irritation from her voice. At least the address brought his attention to bear on where it should be—her face.

Clifford Stanharbor at your service, Miss Weatherman, he said gallantly, bowing formally. Marcelle noted that it was an elegant attempt and probably would have been quite graceful, once. Now, his bulk impeded that grace and he simply looked as if he would tip, head over heels. She cringed, praying silently that his clothes didn’t pop off, as she feared.

"Would you care for some light refreshment, Mr. Stanharbor?" Marcelle asked cordially, noticing the absence of a serving tray. She hoped he caught the word ‘light’, as she doubted whether they had enough food in the pantry for his normal eating habits.

Please, call me Clifford, and yes, some lemonade and scones sound delightful. Taking a long drive along dusty trails does tend to leave a man parched. I had to leave quite early to make it here at a reasonable hour and haven’t been offered anything since arriving.

Marcelle caught the insult but chose not to respond. Still, she did wonder why Nancy had failed to offer anything prior to her joining their guest in the parlor. It simply wasn’t like her.

Nonetheless, feasting your eyes on my breasts is not going to quench your thirst and is just as rude as not being offered refreshments, Marcelle thought, wanting dearly to express the sentiment aloud, but refrained. If she was too rude, he may leave before she’d had her bit of sport.

Please, do have a seat, Marcelle pointed to the settee, grimaced as it protested under his heavy weight, and then reached for the summoning cord. Moments later, Nancy appeared in the doorway.

Yes, Miss?

Please bring some lemonade and a few scones for our guest, Nancy.

Yes, Miss.

Nancy pulled the door closed behind her and Marcelle turned back to her caller. With an overemphasized sway to her hips, she sashayed over to the window seat. Controlling the urge to laugh, she turned, spread her voluminous skirts, and plopped down. Without pause, she lifted her legs slightly, shifted the skirt out of the way, and jammed her hands beneath her thighs.

As she hoped, the gesture was not lost on Stanharbor.

Is anything amiss, my dear? He asked, eyeing her strange sitting position. Are you chilled? Perhaps you need a warming brick placed beneath your feet.

Marcelle’s smile widened. Gotcha! She thought. Just a little longer and you’ll wish we’d never met, you buffoon in gentlemen’s clothing.

I’m perfectly warm, thank you, kind sir, she breathed airily. It’s just that I promised my father that I’d show restraint.

I’m not certain that I follow your meaning, dear.

Well, my father seems to think I’m a threat to you. Marcelle laughed lightly, leaning forward slightly to give him a better view of her assets. Keep him imbalanced, she thought. So, he made me promise to sit on my hands, and if for any reason I remove them from beneath my skirts, you are to yell as loud as you possibly can and he’ll come barreling through the doors and rescue you. Isn’t that simply the silliest thing you’ve ever heard?

Stanharbor’s gaze snapped to hers and his already rosy complexion grew flushed. Now that got his attention, she thought with glee.

Clifford searched her vacuous expression for a moment, trying to discern what game she was playing at, but could see nothing hidden in the depths of her dark brown eyes.

Why, that’s absurd! He tittered nervously. You’re merely joshing this old man, surely? Why to think, a young snip of a girl like you harming a man of my size. I’m as big as a barge. Just the idea of it is simply laughable.

Marcelle joined in the gaiety, making certain that her breasts jiggled each time she laughed. Time to go in for the kill, she thought, mightily pleased with her little performance.

I agree wholeheartedly, she continued to giggle, And just so you know, I have absolutely no recollection whatsoever of trying to skewer my last caller with my knitting needle. Can you just imagine?

A...a what? Stanharbor choked, his humor vanishing.

Knitting needle, Marcelle said, happy to repeat her statement.

Knitting needle?

Uh huh, but you needn’t worry, my father confiscated all my knitting needles and now only allows me access to them when no one else is in the house. Of course, he can’t completely empty a room when someone comes to call, so I have to sit on my hands. It kind of reminds me to behave myself.

But I don’t understand, my dear. Why would you skewer someone with a knitting needle?

You asked, Her mind answered, joyfully ready to supply the answer. Well, as I said, I simply don’t have any recollection of doing so, but my father says it was because the man who came to call on me wouldn’t stop ogling my breasts, and that apparently upset me a great deal.

Well, that would explain a lot, Stanharbor mumbled beneath his breath.

I’m sorry, Clifford, I missed that. What did you say? Marcelle batted her eyes wide with innocence. She heard what he said, and she had not a doubt that his statement was referencing her age and continued unmarried state. He obviously concluded that her mental state had something to do with both.

Stanharbor rocked to a standing position and waddled over to retrieve his hat.

Are you leaving so soon? Marcelle stood and hastened toward the coat rack. Stanharbor froze in mid-stride.

I can retrieve my own possessions, Miss Weatherman, if you’d be so kind as to remain seated while I do so.

Oh, I don’t mind. Marcelle continued doggedly toward the coat rack. She reached for the hat and coat, but a loud bang startled her, and she turned. The parlor door was ajar, and Mr. Stanharbor was gone.

THREE

Marcelle strained to hear the conversation coming from the foyer, grinning widely. She could hear her father’s soothing voice attempting to console an irate Mr. Stanharbor.

It’s no wonder no one will take that girl! Stanharbor yelled loud enough to be heard six counties over. I should have you arrested for trying to pawn that dangerous simpleton off on me.

Marcelle’s grin faded at that comment. Simpleton, was she? Hardly. She’d managed to outwit that brainless moron.

The door adjoining the hall opened suddenly and Nancy strolled in, tray in hand. She glanced around and laughed quietly.

Gone, is he, Miss? She asked.

In the hall with Father, Marcelle smiled.

Well, I guess I’ll go and feed this to the young’uns. Nancy said and turned to leave.

Nancy?

Yes, Miss?

Why didn’t you offer Mr. Stanharbor refreshments earlier? He was sitting here quite some time, waiting on me.

Oh, I do apologize, Miss. I hadn’t realized it was all that long. I never get refreshments for your callers, or hadn’t you noticed before now?

Not really, but why ever not?

Well, truth be told, Miss, it’s usually a waste of food and time, since none of your suitors have stayed for more than a minute or two.

Ah! Well, I guess it was best that you waited for me to request the refreshment, Marcelle said.

It was still a wasted effort, nonetheless. Still, I actually thought this one would make it, since he’d been here so long.

Marcelle laughed. I see. Well, thank you, Nancy.

Very good, Miss. Nancy said then left the way she came. The front door slammed at the same moment, and Marcelle quickly moved away from the parlor door.

Marcelle! Her father’s voice boomed shortly before the parlor doors slid open with a bang.

Marcelle stood by the French doors and watched Clifford Stanharbor’s carriage pull away quickly from the house, leaving a trail of dust in its wake.

He wasn’t interested in me, Father. Marcelle tried to placate before a full-fledged argument ensued. He pinned his eyes to my bosom the minute he acknowledged my presence. Had his gaze pinned there nearly the entire time he was in here.

Well, dearest, you do have something to offer in that regard, you know, her father muttered, which just goes to show what an attractive woman you are and how eagerly sought after.

You mean, how eagerly sought after my body is, don’t you, Father?

You are not going to sidestep this conversation again with talk of love, are you, because I’m sick to death of trying to explain over the screeching and yelling that you are not mentally impaired. Are you aware, as important a man as Clifford Stanharbor is, he could spread rumors that you are a fruitcake over eight counties before the sun sets tomorrow?

Good! Marcelle snapped. Then maybe, just maybe, I’ll have a short reprieve from grandfatherly type men showing up on my doorstep and openly gawking at me. Each time, I fear they may end having an attack from the strain all that ogling has to be putting on their heart. Oh, Father, Marcelle moaned, why must I marry at all? Why can’t I stay here, as I wish to do, and simply take care of you?

Because you know as well as I do that I will not be around forever. Peter settled onto the same settee that Stanharbor occupied moments earlier. He rubbed a hand wearily through his hair and sighed in a huff. He was still afraid to reveal to his only child the unsettling news he’d received from his physician a few weeks ago.

Don’t say that, Father! Don’t say you won’t be around because you will! Marcelle settled herself at her father’s feet and laid her head on his lap.

Her father absently stroked his daughter’s long, chestnut tresses, still thinking about his physician’s dire prognosis. If he was to believe what the doctor said, he had less than a year left to live. That meant less than a year in which to find his daughter a suitable husband.

It’s true enough, he whispered, "that I won’t be around forever, and what have you to say about it? Telling me it isn’t going happen, won’t change the fact that it will happen eventually, and then what are you going to do? Women can’t own