A Kiss To Remember | Herophine

Chapter Eleven - The Argument

Maggie

I adore the little ones, but it is the oldest girl who has stolen my heart. . ..

"They’re havin’ their first quarrel, they are. Why, it’s enough to break an old woman’s heart!" Maggie whispered, dabbing at her eyes with her apron.

“If he makes her cry, perhaps she’ll break the engagement," Katie said hopefully.

“If he makes her cry, I'll break his neck,” Anthony snarled.

John scowled. “If they 're quarrelin’, ’ow come I don’t ’ear no shoutin’ or cussin’? It ain't a proper quarrel without a bit o’ pottery bein’ flung.”

It was fortunate that their varying heights and Katie's lack of concern about wearing out the knees of her Sunday stockings made it possible for all four of them to press their ears to the drawing room door at the same time.

“Try the keyhole,” John suggested.

Wiggling between Anthony’s legs, Katie squinted through the brass opening. “All I can see is the key. I do believe he’s taken her prisoner.”

John began to roll up his sleeves. “That’s it, then. Break down the door, Anthony, while I fetch me pitchfork.”

“Don’t be a ninny, old man,” Maggie chided, punching him on the arm. “Young lovers must be left to make up their own quarrels. You might not remember that nasty row we had over that Fleet Street doxy when you was courtin’ me, but I bet you ain’t ever forgot the cuddle we had afterward.”

“Of course I ain’t. Why do you think I'm goin’ to fetch me pitchfork?"

“Shhhhh,” Katie hissed, flattening her ear against the door. “I think I hear something."

Josephine

Katie was mistaken, for inside the drawing room Josephine sat on the ottoman in absolute silence, thinking that she’d never actually seen a man too furious to speak. Her father had been a mild-mannered soul who considered displays of temper vulgar and unseemly. She’d once seen him drop an enormous Bible on his foot, breaking two toes, only to roll his eyes heavenward and beg the good Lord’s pardon for being so clumsy. She’d never once known him to lift his voice to her mother or any of his children, much less his hand.

Josephine watched Hardin prowl back and forth across the drawing room with wary fascination, the way one might eye a hungry lion pacing its cage in the Royal Zoo. Except at the Royal Zoo, she would have been safely outside the iron bars instead of inside the cage with the lion. The yellow kitten perched on the hearth studied his movements with equal absorption, as if trying to determine which one of them he would gobble up first.

He’d shed his church clothes for the pagan comforts of his lawn shirt and buckskin trousers. Every few steps he would wheel around to glare at her, open his mouth as if to say something, then clamp it shut again, and resume his pacing. After repeating this ritual several times, he was reduced to shaking his head and running a hand through his hair until he looked every bit as wild and dangerous as John still believed him to be.

He finally stopped with his back to her, rested his balled fist against the mantel, and said, very softly, “I don’t suppose I’m given to swearing, am I?”

Josephine shook her head. “Only under extreme situations ."

He swung around to face her. “And just what would you consider extreme situation? Would it be waking up naked in a strange bed with no memory of who you were? Would it be suddenly discovering that you’re about to become the husband of a woman who swears you’ve never even had the good sense to kiss her? Or would it be learning, along with the rest of the good folk of Arden, that you're to be the village’s new rector?” His voice rose. “Don’t you think you might have discussed that little snippet of information with me before sharing it with the town crier?"