Prim Rose by Millie Criswell | eBook

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Chapter One

Salina, Kansas, Late Summer 1883

"Damn, damn, and double damn!" Rose Elizabeth tapped her foot impatiently against the rotting boards of the railway platform as she waited with no small amount of dread for the arrival of the westbound train from New York City.

It was cursed hot, she was sweating like a pig, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky that held any promise of rain for relief.

"It's surely going to be something having a real live English duke living here in Salina," remarked Skeeter Purty, the station manager, scratching his whiskered chin. "I reckon it could put this here town on the map." The wad of chewing tobacco he spit missed its mark, landing just short of the brass spittoon near his rocker.

Rose jerked her head around, and with narrowed eyes she stared in disgust at the brown gooey mess on the platform, then at the old man himself, wondering if he'd been nipping at the bottle of corn liquor he kept hidden in his desk drawer and thought no one knew about it. She had half a mind to turn the old fool in to the sheriff, though she doubted Morris Covington would do anything about it. Mo had a hollow leg himself when it came to drinking whiskey.

Liquor had been banned in Salina and elsewhere in Kansas for the past two years, though that hadn't stop old-timers like Skeeter and Morris from imbibing whenever they got a hankering, which was often.

"In case that feeble mind of yours ain't workin', Skeeter Purty, I am not one bit happy about that damned duke coming here, and I'm doubly damned unhappy that he's stealing my farm outfrom under me." She crossed her arms over her chest, and her foot went into double-time.

The old man rocked back and forth, and he spit twice more, unfazed by Rose's sharp tongue. Rose Elizabeth had about the sharpest tongue in the whole state of Kansas for someone of such tender years. Some folks said she could cut a man down to size without raising much of a sweat, her tongue was so keen.

The townsfolk had taken to calling her "Prim Rose" behind her back, because it reminded them of what she was and what she wasn't. Like her namesake, Rose was about as thorny as they came, and not the least bit prim and proper like a young lady should be.

" 'Pears to me, Rose Elizabeth, that your sister wanted that farm sold off. Your pa, too. God rest his soul. 'Pears to me that you was lucky to have found a buyer so quick, and a rich one at that."

Rose felt her pocket for the cursed telegram that had arrived from the duke's English business factor, and she railed silently at the fates that had brought her to this day. Alexander James Warrick, the Duke of Moreland, would be arriving on the noon train. "Please be prepared to greet his lordship, show him every possible courtesy, guide him to his new residence, and familiarize the duke with the estate," the telegram dictated, like she was one of his dukeship's royal flunkies.

"We'll just see about that!" No one dictated to Rose Elizabeth, except perhaps her older sister Heather, who, much to Rose's great dismay, had had the unerring good sense to insist that their local land broker, Mr. Walker, advertise their farm for sale in The New York Times and other large city newspapers.

Despite her bad luck that the duke's business factor had seen the ad for their land and had talked the stuffy old goat into buying it, Rose had absolutely no intention of following Heather's high-handed orders that she hightail it to Mrs. Caffrey's School for Young Ladies in Boston once she turned over the farm to the new owner.

She didn't need refining, and she certainly didn't intend to abandon Ma and Pa's graves to a total stranger — a damned Englishman, and a duke to boot!

Whatever could Heather have been thinking of? Rose knew perfectly well that it had been their pa's idea to sell the farm. Ezra Martin wanted better for his three girls.

But to cast them off to parts unknown... To send them out into the cruel, strange world to seek husbands... She shuddered. It was perhaps the most impractical idea Ezra had ever concocted, and he'd hatched some doozies in his lifetime. And for Heather and Laurel to have gone along with him was, in her opinion, even more ridiculous.

Just because Heather had a burning desire to illustrate for a big city newspaper, and Laurel, who had the voice of a tree frog on her best day, had taken it in her head to become an opera singer in Denver, was no reason that she, Rose Elizabeth, should be forced out of the home she loved, off the land that was so much a part of her, to travel to a dirty, depressing city so that she could get refined and become a schoolteacher.

Indeed, she couldn't think of a worse fate. Unless, of course, it was being hitched to some smelly old English coot like the Duke of Moreland.

He was probably short and squat and looked like a toad. And with that thought, she reached into her other pocket to make sure that Lester, her pet bullfrog, was all right.

The duke was probably a dandified gentleman who had absolutely no idea how to run a wheat farm, and he was probably so arrogant and mannered that the sound of a good belch and a few well-delivered curses would send him into a fit of the vapors.

Rose smiled at that notion, then glanced at the telegram again. "Estate," it read. No doubt the duke was used to living high on the hog. He probably hadn't done a lick of work his entire life and was just looking forward to a holiday abroad.

Well, no stuffy Englishman was going to turn her respectable wheat farm into a playground for the rich, Rose Elizabeth vowed. Not if she had anything to say about it. And she would have plenty to say to the Duke of Moreland.

"Rose Elizabeth, praise the saints! Don't you have something better to wear than that old threadbare dress to greet the duke? Why, he's royalty, young lady."

Groaning at Euphemia Bloodsworth's high-pitched voice, Rose turned to cast Salina's most notorious gossip and resident spinster a thin smile. In fact, it was so thin you'd have been hard-pressed to find it, if your eyesight wasn't one hundred percent accurate. "Good afternoon to you, too, Miss Bloodsworth."

"Old Beaknose," which is how the Martin sisters had always referred to Euphemia behind her back, moved over to where Rose was standing.

"I don't mean to interfere, my dear," she said, as Rose rolled her eyes heavenward, "but I feel it's our duty to show his lordship that we aren't just a bunch of country bumpkins. As founder of the Salina Garden Club and Ladies Sewing Circle, I feel obligated to put our best foot forward." She smoothed the folds of her black taffeta gown and adjusted her white crocheted shawl. Euphemia supposedly had vinegar in her veins instead of blood, which explained how the woman could stand to wear such stifling garments in the summer heat.

"We are a bunch of bumpkins, Miss Bloodsworth," Rose replied. "And I don't think we should try to fool the duke into thinking any different. I certainly don't intend to put on airs and pretend to be something I'm not. My foot's staying firmly planted on good old Kansas soil."

Euphemia shook her head in disgust. "The other ladies of the welcoming committee will be joining me shortly, Rose Elizabeth. Perhaps the duke won't notice how provincial you look in that faded blue gingham gown. And really, Rose Elizabeth, you know how checks make a body look... Well, you should take care to minimize your propensity to pudginess."

Rose's cheeks reddened in embarrassment, as they always did when someone had the insensitivity to comment that her figure wasn't as pleasing as her two sisters'. She'd been cursed with a curvaceous body, a "pleasingly plump figure," her ma had always called it. But though she'd been cursed, she wasn't about to starve herself or make herself into something God hadn't intended. As long as no one called her a "plump little partridge," which was the nickname her pa had always used, she could put up with just about any of their stupid remarks.

"Leave the girl alone, Euphemia." Skeeter rocked forward and rose to his feet. "Rose looks just fine. There ain't nothin' wrong with the way she's dressed, far as I can see."

Rose flashed the station manager a grateful smile, now firmly convinced that he had indeed been tippling at the whiskey bottle.

Skeeter and most of the other bachelors in Salina kept their distance from Miss Bloodsworth and did their best not to engage her in conversation if they could help it. Because to Euphemia Bloodsworth, conversation, no matter how innocent, no matter how mundane, was an indication of interest. And to a spinster of Miss Bloodsworth's years, an indication of interest was tantamount to a full-fledged proposal of marriage.

"Why, Mr. Purty," Euphemia advanced on the man, "how very gallant of you to come to Rose Elizabeth's defense. Though it was totally unnecessary." She pursed her lips into what was supposed to be a smile, which reminded Rose that she needed to pick up some lemons from the grocer while in town. "I'm sure Rose knows that I was only being motherly. Since she was orphaned at such a tender age, I've always done what I could to step in for dear departed Adelaid."

And she'd very nearly given poor Ezra a heart seizure every time he'd had the misfortune to run into the old windbag in town. The widower had been at the very top of Euphemia's eligible-husbands list until his demise last May.

Having absolutely no intention of placing his name under Ezra's scratched-out one, Skeeter stepped back. "I'd better mosey on in and check to see if there's been a telegram sent. Train shoulda been here by now." He clicked open his pocket watch and scratched his thinning hair in bewilderment. "Can't figure out what's causin' the delay." But he sure as hell was happy to have an excuse to leave for a spell.

Watching Skeeter depart, Rose Elizabeth had half a mind to run after him. Skeeter was, for all his shortcomings, her friend. And though he tried her patience on many occasions, he was kindhearted and harmless for the most part. Except when strong drink took hold of him. But even snockered, Skeeter was a better companion than Euphemia. Being alone with the spinster for any length of time was not an amusing prospect.

Where the hell was that damned train? Maybe his most royal pain in the butt wouldn't be as bad as Euphemia and her endless array of questions.

"You must be so excited to be entertaining a member of royalty." Euphemia's face flushed with pleasure.

"It gives me the runs just to think about it, Miss Bloodsworth. Why, my bowels have been in an uproar ever since I heard about the duke's arrival." At least that was the truth, Rose thought.

Gasping, Miss Bloodsworth's hand flew to the cameo brooch at her throat. "Really, Rose Elizabeth!" She drew herself rigidly erect. "Proper young ladies don't mention such things. It isn't seemly. I can see that your father and sister were justified in wanting to send you back East to attend finishing school. You've many tough edges to smooth out, my dear.

"You may not be aware of this, but I was a graduate of Mrs. Caffrey's. Though it wasn't called by that name back then. I guess you can see what proper guidance can do for a young lady."

Biting the tip of her tongue, Rose decided once and for all that she would never attend Mrs. Caffrey's, or any other finishing school for that matter. The prospect of turning out like Euphemia was enough to guarantee it.

"I don't see much use in finishing schools, Miss Bloodsworth. Aside from teaching a body to poop silently and cut an orange with a knife and fork, there's not much benefit in them." Rose Elizabeth chuckled inwardly at the choked sound the spinster made.

"I... I must go and see what's keeping the welcoming committee. Please don't let the duke leave without meeting all of us." Euphemia walked off the platform with more agility and speed than Rose had thought possible.

As the whine of a locomotive sounded in the distance, Rose's brown eyes sparkled with mischief, and her lips curved into a smile. Perhaps getting rid of his dukeship was going to be easier than she'd originally thought.

She had every intention, as the telegram requested, of showing his supreme portliness the lay of the "estate." She was certain that when she was finished with him, she'd also have shown him exactly which way the wind blew.

The welcome mat at the Martin farm was going to be just a teensy bit smaller than the Duke of Moreland likely expected.

The train pulled into the Salina Railway Station with screeching brakes and belching black smoke. A large number of curiosity seekers had gathered, eager to see what a real member of English nobility looked like.

Euphemia's welcoming committee included Sarah Ann Mellon, whose husband owned the mercantile, her daughter Peggy, whose bustline matched her surname, and who "welcomed" just about anything with pants, and Abigail Stringfellow, wife of Horatio T. Stringfellow, mortician and sometime dentist. The four women waited anxiously for the duke to descend from his private Pullman car.

They were waving wildly at the train, grinning like hyenas, and, in Rose Elizabeth's opinion, making perfect fools of themselves. Why anyone in these United States would welcome British aristocracy with open arms, when it had taken this country so long to get rid of the pompous devils, was beyond her understanding. As her mama used to say, "There's just no accounting for taste."

Skeeter sidled up next to her, looking a mite perplexed by the turn of events. "I confess I was excited at the prospect of meeting the duke, but now I ain't so sure. 'Pears to me he's gonna be the center of attention for a right good while. The way them ladies are carrying on, don't know if that's such a good thing."

Rose looked into the crowd to find Marcella Tompkins waving as wildly as everyone else was. Folks in Salina knew that Skeeter had a crush on Marcella and was fixing to ask her to marry him someday. "I doubt Marcella will be interested in anyone as shallow as the duke, Skeeter," she reassured the older man, patting his arm. "He's sure to be as homely as my Lester, and not nearly as smart."

Slapping his knee, Skeeter let loose with a loud guffaw, and Rose Elizabeth followed suit. But her laughter died on her lips when her eyes fixed on the tall, incredibly handsome gentleman emerging from the train.

Impeccably dressed in a well-cut suit of black worsted wool, which contrasted dramatically with his snow-white shirt and flaxen-blond hair, he was surely the best-looking man Rose Elizabeth had ever laid eyes on. In fact, she was quite certain she'd never before seen such a fine specimen of a man. She knew damn well that there wasn't one like him in Salina, and probably not anywhere else in all of Kansas. A sinking feeling formed quickly in the pit of her stomach.

"Do you think that's him — the duke, I mean?" Skeeter asked, impressed in spite of himself, his complexion paling considerably. "I'd best go see how Marcella's faring. She might find this heat too unbearable, considering how delicate she is and all." In the blink of an eye he was gone, leaving Rose alone to face her fears and her worst nightmare.

Alexander James Warrick, the Duke of Moreland, was not the supreme portliness she'd been expecting. In fact, she doubted if he had a spare ounce of flesh on his muscular body.

"Damn, damn, and double damn!" She pasted on an uneasy smile as he approached.

"Miss Martin?" He held out a gloved hand to her, and she stared stupidly at it, as if it were some foreign object out to do her harm— it was definitely foreign— then she gazed up into his very aristocratic face, which was devoid of anything resembling a smile. "I'm Alexander Warrick, late of Sussex, England." His tone was imperious, and she knew without doubt that this man was used to issuing orders and having them obeyed.

Rose Elizabeth grasped his hand in what she hoped was a firm handshake. "I'm Rose Elizabeth Martin, presently of Salina, Kansas, of these United States of America," she mimicked, and several of the townsfolk laughed. "Where'd you stow your gear, your dukeship? We'd better get a move-on if we're going to reach the farm."

The duke glanced in bewilderment at the redheaded giant who appeared suddenly at his side.

"Now don't be selfish, Rose Elizabeth," Euphemia scolded with a silly giggle as she stood before the couple. "The rest of us would like to make his lordship's acquaintance."

The duke opened his mouth to speak, but Rose Elizabeth cut in, not allowing him the opportunity. "It's my responsibility to see that the duke gets settled in, Miss Bloodsworth... ladies." She smiled spitefully at Peggy, who she knew was in a perfect snit. They'd been rivals for years.

"Perhaps the duke will invite all of you out for tea and crumpets after he learns his way around my home." That shouldn't take him too long, Rose thought, considering that the soddy consisted of only three rooms, none of them very large. She couldn't wait to see the duke's expression when he saw his new "estate" for the first time.

Conveying his apologies to the group that had come to greet him, the duke issued orders to the man at his side, who Rose assumed was one of this servants, then clasped her upper ann rather firmly and led her off to the side of the platform where he could speak to her privately.

The duke's gaze slid over Rose Elizabeth, his blue eyes colder than a mountain stream, and it was obvious to her that he wasn't overly impressed by what he saw. She was taller than most women, and definitely a bit more well-rounded, and she did have a penchant for speaking her mind, but Rose considered these assets, not flaws.

"Don't ever presume to speak for me again, young woman," he said. "You've overstepped your bounds. You Americans are forever forgetting your place. Why, there is such a thing as simple courtesy, or are you so uncouth that you have forgotten that fact? Young women should learn to hold their tongues and speak only when spoken to."

He removed his leather gloves and slapped them against his left palm, and Rose had the distinct impression that Alexander James Warrick was trying to intimidate her. The arrogant, British jackanapes!

Fortunately, she wasn't easily dissuaded from her goals. And getting rid of Alexander Warrick was her top priority, however long it might take.

Swallowing all the vile things she wanted to say to him, she replied, "Custom dictates that I take charge, your royal highness," and was gratified to see the vein in his neck pulsing like oil gushing from a well.

"The telegram I received from your business factor stated that I was to greet and guide you to your new residence. If that's being presumptuous, your dukeship, then I guess I am." She smiled sweetly at him and was immediately rewarded with a dark scowl.

"Where is your conveyance, young woman? I'm tired, and I am in need of a bath and a hot meal."

"Really? Well, if you'll just follow me, your royalness, the farm wagon's out behind the station." She couldn't wait to see how he would manage to fit his rather well-sculpted backside into the old tin tub. No doubt he had a porcelain or even a gold one, back in England.

"I hope this wagon has a cover. It's deuced hot in this Kansas."

"This is nothing, your dukeship. Wait until the temperature really starts to sizzle. Why, you'll think your drawers are on fire for sure."

Alexander turned his attention to the young woman beside him, and his eyebrows arched up almost to his hairline. "If I didn't know better, Miss Martin, I would think you were trying to scare me off."

Rose shrugged. "Just trying to be honest about things. If you don't want to know the truth..."

"And are you a great teller of truths, Miss Martin?" Somehow, he thought not. Her lack of response proved only to confirm his opinion.

They had been riding in silence for almost two hours when Alexander mopped the sweat off his brow with a pristine linen handkerchief and said, "This is a strange land. I can't ever remember seeing anything so lacking in vegetation or so blasted flat." It was a harsh, unforgiving land, save for the fragrant wildflowers that bloomed in great profusion. Heat, wind, and miles and miles of nothingness stretched out before him. Windmills stood forlornly against the monotony of the azure sky, and tall prairie grass swayed gently in the breeze.

He cursed inwardly at his impulsive decision to flee England and purchase a country estate in America. But his fiancée's scandalous behavior, and his mother's harassing insistence that he marry posthaste, had made the trip a necessity. It was time to take leave of his problems, if only for a while. Once he had matters sorted out to his satisfaction, he would return to England and civilization. And to the responsibilities awaiting him there.

Adopting her best countrified accent, which she knew the duke would find appalling, Rose replied, "My pa used to say that if you stood at one end of Kansas, you could probably see all the way to the other. Of course he was just joshin'. Kansas ain't really that flat." Rose Elizabeth smiled at the memory, knowing that her father's love for the land flowed staunchly through her veins. "Pa also said that living here cultivates patience, a hide so thick you couldn't stick a knife through it, and a considerable sense of humor. Kansas ain't for everyone, that's true enough."

He winced at her fracturing of the English language. "I suppose not, but you seem quite taken with it."

"You've got to be born to this land to love it. Foreigners, such as yourself, don't usually fare well here."

"Indeed?"

She nodded. "Especially Englishmen. They're the worst of the lot, I'm afraid. With no great abundance of trees to speak of, no pretty green hills, no babbling brooks at every turn, like there is in England, Kansas is just too alien a place for most Englishmen to adjust to."

"You seem quite familiar with my ancestral homeland."

She clucked her tongue to prod the mules along. "I can read, your majesticness."

He cast her a glance of pure irritation. " 'Alexander' will do quite nicely, Miss Martin."

"I guess you might as well call me Rose Elizabeth, or Rose, if that's easier. That's my name."

"Ahh," he said. "That explains it then."

"Explains what?" she asked in confusion.

"Why, the thorns, of course." He smiled for the first time, and Rose's breath caught in her throat. Lordy be, he was a handsome devil. It was just plain sinful for a man to possess such long thick lashes and eyes the color of robins' eggs.

"On Richmond Hill there lives a lass more bright than Mayday morn; whose charms all others maids' surpass— a rose without a thorn."

"Why, you're a poet, your imperial highness," Rose quipped to hide her embarrassment. "Let's hope you're as poetic about your new abode." Pulling the wagon to a halt at the end of the lane leading down to the sod hut, she waited for the duke to catch his first glimpse of his new home. His white-faced, eye-popping expression was everything Rose Elizabeth could have hoped for.

"Bloody hell! Bloody blasted hell!"

Prim Rose

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