“I did not know thatyouwished to marry, Mr. Cormack.”
“All men do.” He paused. “I should not say that. I dinnae ken what all men wish. And, indeed, before ye came to Dunburn, I dinnae wish for marriage myself.”
She still did not know what to say so she relied on the rote answer she had given to half a dozen suitors when she was still living in England. Before Giles. Before her disgrace and self-imposed exile.
“I am very flattered. You must allow me some time to consider your proposal.”
Boyd laughed briefly. She had never heard him laugh before. It was a quiet laugh but it was pleasant, like a gentle tickle. Perhaps he was not as humorless as she had thought.
“Ye say that very well. I see I have surprised ye. I dinnae ken how to make my interest apparent to ye. Of course, ye are very bonny. But many lasses are bonny.”
“Yes,” she said. “That is true.”
This was unlike any other proposal she had ever had.
“And a minister should not marry a bonny woman. So that is a mark against ye. That it pleases me so much to look on ye.”
She did not know what to say to that.
“And ye are English. An oddity. Some say the enemy. But ye have settled very well here.”
“I hope so.”
He looked away from her and at the fire. “And I admire yer work here. I know that ye must have been raised as a fine lady, for such were yer clothes when ye first came here. But ye work like ye came from a farm. Sun up to sun down. With purpose.”
“My mother came from farm people.”
“Well, a minister is in need of such a wife.”
“I see.”
The fire crackled.
“Mr. Cormack,” she said. “I meant what I said. I will consider your proposal.”
And she did. A week later, she asked for him to join her in the churchyard, ostensibly to talk to him about some plantings she hoped to make, months from now, when the ground was not frozen.
“I needed to speak to you, privately, Mr. Cormack, and wanted to make sure that there would be no impropriety in our meeting. So, we are out of doors in the cold wind, I’m afraid.”
She smiled nervously, shivering.
There was disappointment in his eyes. “Ye want nae impropriety because ye have decided to refuse me.”
“No,” she said quickly. “No, I have not decided. But there is something I feel you should know. It may change what you feel about me. And you may wish to withdraw your proposal. I am not ... unspoiled. Before I came here, I gave myself to a man. A man I cared for. Or thought I cared for. Who was married. I did not know that, at the time. But still. There was no child. No one here knows of it. But it is well-known in London. I was publicly shamed. It is why I left London and came here.”
“I see.”
She could not read his expression.
“Now, I must be the one to ask for time to consider.” He turned and walked away.
She looked after him as he went into the church. She felt no relief from telling him, only a horrible churning feeling in her stomach. What did she hope for now? She did not know.
Three days later, he fell into step beside her as she walked to buy some flour to make cakes for Twelfth Night.
“I have searched my soul. I hold to my proposal. I would still like ye to be my wife.”
She felt he was waiting for her to thank him or to make some other expression of relief and gratitude. Perhaps he thought she would fall into his arms and accept him at this moment. She bit her lip. The angry part of her that felt she had been unfairly punished for her desire now rose up in her. She had to push her temper down and control her voice to answer him.
