His One Woman

  “Everything is magnificent in America,” he said. “The view I have at the moment is particularly fine.”

  And he leaned forward and, looking deep into Marietta’s beautiful eyes, he kissed her on the lips, oh, so gently.

  “You will forgive me, I am sure,” he murmured, “but the temptation was too great for me.”

  Still silent, Marietta put her hands to her lips as though to seal his kiss there. So entranced was she, so wonder-struck, that Jack was tempted again—and fell. This time he took her in his arms and the kiss he gave her was deeper, more passionate, and, more to the point, she returned it, opening her lips a little and putting her arms around his neck. She was already learning the wordless grammar of love.

  Dear Reader

  Some years ago I did a great deal of research on the lives of those men and women who, for a variety of reasons, lived on the frontiers. Re-reading recently about life in Australia in the early nineteenth century, it struck me that an interesting story about them was only waiting to be told. Having written Hester Waring’s Marriage, it was a short step for me to wonder what happened to the children and the grandchildren.

  Hence The Dilhorne Dynasty, each book of which deals with a member of the family who sets out to conquer the new world in which he finds himself. The Dilhornes, men and women, are at home wherever they settle, be it Australia, England or the United States of America, and because of their zest for life become involved in interesting adventures.

  Paula

  His One Woman

  Paula Marshall

  PAULA MARSHALL,

  married with three children, has had a varied life. She began her career in a large library and ended it as a senior academic in charge of history in a polytechnic. She has traveled widely and has been a swimming coach. She has always wanted to write, and likes her novels to be full of adventure and humor.

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  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter One

  Washington, April 1861

  ‘Are you still working, my dear? I thought that you had promised to escort your cousin Sophie to the Clays this afternoon. I do not like to see you constantly at your desk. You deserve a little pleasure in your life; it should not be all hard grind.’

  Marietta looked affectionately up at her father, Senator Jacobus Hope.

  ‘Visiting the Clays with Sophie is not my idea of pleasure,’ she told him, ‘and I needed to catch up with your correspondence—which I have now done. Aunt Percival has gone with her in my place.’

  Her father sighed and sat down opposite to her. Marietta thought sadly that he was beginning to look his age. For the last seven years she had been his faithful assistant, ever since she had decided that she would never marry after four years of being pursued by every fortune hunter in America’s northern states.

  Now, at twenty-seven, she was her father’s mainstay: no man could have been more useful to him, and, had she been one herself, he thought that she would have made a superb senator—but, being a woman, all such doors were closed to her.

  Knowing this, the Senator felt the most bitter regret at having to tell her his unwelcome news, but in fairness to her he must. He ought not to delay any longer.

  ‘Marie, my dear child, I am sure that you are aware that age is beginning to affect my ability to perform the duties of my office efficiently, and only your invaluable assistance has kept me on course for the last few years. I have been wrong to lean on you so much, but you are the beloved child of my old age, my last memory of your mother. I was sorry when you refused Avory Grant seven years ago. I know that you thought him a flighty boy, but the years and marriage seem to have sobered him, as they sober most of us.

  ‘Knowing this, it grieves me to tell you that I shall not seek office again when this term ends in 1864. Had I not been certain that war was coming, I would not have stood for the Senate in 1860, but, since I had long warned that war was inevitable, I decided that I must play my part in it when it did arrive.

  ‘I have no regrets, I have had a long and fulfilling life, but what does trouble me is that you have given your life and your youth in service to me and before my term is over I wish to see you married. I do not want to think of you as a lonely spinster when I am gone.’

  Marietta put up a protesting hand at this. ‘Oh, Father, you have many years yet, I am sure.’

  Her father shook his head. ‘The doctors do not think so, my dear. It is even possible that I shall not live out my term. I repeat, I would wish to see you married.’

  Marietta answered him as lightly as she could. ‘But who would marry me, Father? I am twenty-seven now, past my first youth, and I am not even pretty.’

  ‘Marie,’ he said, ‘you must know that there are many who would want you for a wife—’

  She interrupted him for once. ‘Fortune hunters to a man, Father. I know that.’

  Indeed, all the world was aware that, as the Senator’s heiress, Marietta stood to inherit a vast fortune in dollars, land, property and investments.

  ‘Yes, Marie, but not all men are fortune hunters, and you are a clever woman—I would trust to your judgement to choose the right husband. I blame myself for not encouraging you to marry after you refused Avory, but you were adamant and I was selfish. Go more into society, my dear, and the suitors will come running.’

  ‘You mean when I am available for sale in the market again,’ she said bitterly. ‘I don’t want that, Father.’

  ‘It would be preferable to a lonely old age. Do you wish to be like Aunt Percival, Marie? Even your dollars would not sweeten that fate.’

  He could see that she was rejecting his advice, well-meant though it was—but he could also see that he had touched an unwelcome chord. He sighed, and turned to go, but before he left her to attend a Congressional committee, he murmured, as gently as he could, ‘I beg that you will consider most carefully what I have just told you, Marie.’

  The door closed behind him.

  Marietta rose, and sank into an armchair beside the empty hearth. Unwelcome thoughts raced through her brain. Had she been foolish, not clever, when she had rejected Avory Grant? He had seemed so young and callow, and she had wanted someone to whom she could talk, who would share her inmost thoughts, and Avory had certainly not been that ideal man. Had she been too discriminating, too certain that he had been marrying her for her money and not because he had felt any real desire or affection for her?

  Alas, she had no illusions about herself. She was Marietta Hope, the only plain member of a bevy of beautiful Hope cousins, all of whom sported the blonde ringlets, pink and white faces, and hour-glass figures which mid-century Americans considered to be the acme of female desirability. Instead, she possessed a face which was clever rather than pretty, glossy chestnut-coloured hair, and a body which was athletic rather than curvaceous.

  But what she lacked in beauty she made up for in intellect and commonsense, which she dismally knew was not what young men looked for in their future wives.


  ‘Good God, never say she’s cousin to the Hope beauties,’ had been the first remark she had heard when she had attended her come-out ball at the age of eighteen—whispered behind her back, of course. ‘What a sad disappointment she must be for her poor papa.’

  ‘Oh, never mind that,’ had been the unkind answer. ‘All his lovely dollars will make her plain face seem pretty.’

  Useless for her father to tell her that she was pretty—after a fashion which, alas, was not now in style. After two years of misery in ballrooms where her cousins were enjoying themselves, she had retired from frivolous society in order to be her father’s companion and, until now, she had never regretted doing so, for his political career had given her life meaning and point.

  In three years, perhaps sooner, that life would be over, and what would be left for her then? She would become Aunt Hope, the spinster sent for when needed or, if not that, she might become one more of the wealthy and eccentric old Yankee women who toured Europe, bullying their servants.

  No, she would not think of the future—other than to contemplate what the evening’s duties held for her. She was due to attend yet another White House reception in company with her father and her young cousin Sophie, to whom she was acting as temporary chaperon. Well, at least she had avoided this afternoon’s tedium at the Clays, and that was something for which to be grateful.

  She pulled out her watch. Time for tea—and not in the study. The room suddenly seemed oppressive. She would go downstairs and play at being an idle lady, a role she would have to take up when her father retired. She would sit on her own, and Asia, the new black maid, would bring in tea and cakes, English fashion as Aunt Percival liked. She would indulge herself for once and not think of maintaining her admirably firm figure. Perhaps becoming plump might make her fashionable!

  But her desire to be alone was destined not to be fulfilled—an omen, perhaps—for when she entered the front parlour there was a strange man standing before the window, his back to the room, until he turned to see her as she came through the door.

  They faced one another, both surprised. Marietta walked towards him, her face a question mark—a polite one, to be sure, but still a question mark.

  ‘I see that we have a visitor, sir. You came to see me—or my father? If so, you were not announced.’

  He bowed.

  ‘I believe that there must have been some mistake, madam. I came to visit Miss Sophie Hope, but the little maid who admitted me left me here some time ago, and has quite abandoned me.’

  Marietta sighed. ‘Asia,’ she said cryptically; as one of his eyebrows rose, she added, ‘Our new maid: she is only half-trained, I fear. Alas, I must disappoint you. My cousin is out for the afternoon, and so Asia should have informed you.’

  He had moved from the window and she saw him plainly now. He was tall, but not remarkably so, being barely six feet in height, she guessed, and well built. He was, after a strange fashion, handsome, with laughter lines deep around his mouth and eyes. His eyes were remarkable, an intense blue. His hair was ordinary, being sandy and straight. His carriage was as good as his clothes, but his accent was strange. He appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties. She was a little intrigued by him. What was he doing, this unknown man, calling on Sophie at tea time?

  He seemed to read her thoughts. ‘I am, perhaps, a little beforehand,’ he explained cheerfully. ‘I have met Sophie on several occasions in the last fortnight, the latest being last night when she asked me to call, but gave me no fixed date. Since I had no engagements this afternoon, I decided to accept her invitation.

  ‘My name is John Dilhorne, madam, and I will take myself off with my apologies,’ and he bowed again.

  Marietta surveyed him, and his undoubted self-possession, coolly. ‘The apologies are due from us for wasting your time.’

  She made a sudden surprising decision: a decision which was to alter her life and his. ‘Since my cousin Sophie is out calling, with our Aunt Percival, and you are here, and I was contemplating afternoon tea on my own, then I would take it as a favour if you would join me.’

  It was his turn to assess her. This must be the plain cousin, the bluestocking, of whom Sophie had spoken last night. Senator Jacobus Hope’s daughter, secretary and good right hand, now almost a recluse, Sophie had said, forswearing normal social life. She had left Aunt Percival to escort her last night, which was a blessing, Sophie had remarked with a laugh, since her aunt was not as severe as Cousin Marietta.

  He had first met Sophie at a grand ball given by the Lanceys and, attracted by her looks and vivacity, he had pursued her with some assiduity. He was now a little disappointed that he was to be entertained by the only plain Miss Hope, for so he had heard her called.

  Not, he thought, that she was remarkably plain. She made little of her striking hair, and her expensive but dark clothes did her no favour, being more suitable for a woman of fifty rather than one of not yet thirty.

  Where women were concerned Jack Dilhorne was both fastidious and discriminating, and the thing which he valued most in a woman was a good body. Unfortunately, the fashions of the day often denied him the opportunity to discover whether those he met possessed one. On more than one occasion he had found that a pretty face was allied to a lumpy or flaccid figure.

  His assessment of Miss Marietta Hope told him that—despite her severely classic face—by her carriage and walk she possessed this valuable attribute. On the other hand, by her expression, manner and reputation, however, it was plain that no gentleman was ever going to have the privilege of seeing her unclothed!

  At the moment she was busy making him welcome with extremely cool formality, pulling the bell to summon the servant, ordering tea for them, and recommending him to a large armchair.

  ‘My father’s,’ she told him. ‘But he is out, attending a committee on the Hill.’

  When his eyebrows rose at this remarkable statement, she told him that the Hill was shorthand for Congress where the Senators worked. ‘He will not be back until late. It is the coming war which exercises us, Mr Dilhorne, as you have doubtless noticed. You are from abroad, are you not?’

  ‘From Sydney, Australia, Miss Hope. I have business here.’ He did not explain what it was. ‘I am staying at Willard’s Hotel until I find suitable rooms. So, you are sure that there will be a war?’

  ‘No doubt of it all,’ she told him firmly. ‘Now that Mr Lincoln is President, and the two sides being so intractably opposed to the degree that seven Southern states have already seceded from the Union, how can we doubt it?’

  ‘How, indeed?’ said Jack, amused. Yes, she was a bluestocking, and doubtless as well informed as any man. She was quite the opposite of little Miss Sophie with her ardent seeking of his opinion on everything. Miss Marietta Hope was used to speaking her mind—but it was as though she were able to read his.

  ‘Come, Mr Dilhorne, you did not visit my cousin to talk politics with her. Pray speak to me as you would have done to Sophie.’ Her face was alight with amusement when she came out with this.

  ‘Oh, I do not think that would be wise, Miss Hope. You would not be entertained by it.’

  ‘Now, why should you suppose that, Mr Dilhorne,’ she parried, ‘seeing that you have only just met me? Sophie and I might well be intellectual twins.’

  So saying, she briskly wielded the heavy tea-pot which a repentant Asia had just brought in, handed him a cup brimful of tea, and offered him English muffins, and sandwiches, as well as Aunt Percival’s best pound cake. None of which he declined, and it was surprising how slimly athletic he was if this were his usual appetite.

  Seeing her eye on him while he was eating, he grinned at her a little. ‘But you are mind-reading, too, Miss Hope. Yes, I like my food. I was taught to.’

  Perhaps food had been short in his childhood, Marietta concluded—but he looked as though he had been well fed from birth.

  ‘You have not answered my last question, Mr Dilhorne, nor carried out my express wish for idle convers
ation.’

  Marietta was overcome by surprise to find that she was flirting with an attractive man whom she had only just met.

  ‘Do call me Jack,’ he said through his muffin, which exploded ungracefully, splashing him with melted butter. ‘Sophie does.’

  ‘Most incorrect of her,’ said Marietta severely, ‘since I deduce that you have not been formally introduced.’

  ‘For that matter, neither have we,’ said Jack, elegantly retrieving the remains of the muffin and depositing them on his plate.

  ‘No more we have,’ returned Marietta, who was beginning to enjoy herself. ‘So licence reigns supreme.’ She further added, after watching him struggle, ‘As your way with muffins would seem to suggest.’

  ‘They call them English,’ said Jack, cleaning his sticky fingers on his expensive lawn handkerchief rather than on the Hopes’ equally expensive damask napkin, ‘but I have not seen an English muffin like this one. Ours do not explode.’

  ‘Oh, you have mannerly muffins, like the English themselves, I suppose. But a bit weighty, perhaps?’

  ‘I own that I was wrong,’ said Jack, accepting a sandwich and warily inspecting it before taking a bite, lest that, too, should cascade about him. ‘You are even more adept at light raillery than Sophie, but you do have the advantage of the muffins. Ballrooms and receptions have fewer diversions; conversation there must be sustained without such useful props.’

  ‘Try the pound cake,’ suggested Marietta, waving the plate at him, her face alight with an amusement she had not felt for years. ‘Or do you call pound cake something exotic in…New South Wales, is it not?’

  ‘Bravo!’ exclaimed Jack as he took a piece. ‘You are the first bona fide US citizen I have met who knows where Sydney is situated. No, unless our aborigines bake this delicacy, I have not met it before. It is well named, a most filling concoction. You may help me to another slice.’