The Temporary Wife/A Promise of Spring Read Online Free PDF
Author: Mary Balogh
They could have Papa’s debts paid off in no time at all. Philip would not be too happy about not being the one to save them from their impoverishment, of course, but he would come around to reality. And he would be able to marry Agnes.
She knew, of course, what she was going to tell Philip when he came home. She had had many solitary hoursin which to rehearse her story. But it went much against the grain to lie. She was not sure she was going to be able to do it. But she must—she had no choice. She could not possibly tell him the truth. For one thing, he might have her carried off to Bedlam. It was difficult even for her to believe that what had happened really had happened.
Oh, dear
, she thought. She was darning over a patch that had already been darned once. Poor Phil, he spent nothing on himself and everything on his brothers and sisters. She brushed impatiently at her cheek after a tear had plopped unexpectedly onto the back of her hand, startling her.
And then she felt the welling of panic that had been assaulting her at regular intervals ever since she had arrived home after signing those papers. Tomorrow she was going to marry a stranger—and a rather daunting stranger at that. She was doing it entirely for money. But after it was done there would be no going back. There would not—never ever—be a real husband or a real marriage for her. Not that there would have been anyway. But there was something rather frightening about the certain knowledge that …
But Philip was home, looking weary after his day’s work, and she smiled warmly at him, set aside her darning, and got to her feet to ladle out his soup and cut a slice of bread.
“You look tired,” she said, tilting up her cheek for his kiss.
“One is supposed to be tired in the evening,” he said. “Mmm, that smells good, Charity.” He plopped wearily onto his chair.
She sat at the table with him while he ate, her elbow resting on it, her chin in her hand. She did not know how to begin, and so she waited for him to start the conversation. He asked her if there had been any letterfrom home and then, when she shook her head, assured them both that it was too soon to expect another when they had heard as recently as the end of last week.
“Ah,” he said at last, obviously just remembering, “you had an interview this morning. Forgive me for not asking about it sooner. How was it?”
She smiled at him. “I was offered the position,” she said.
His spoon paused halfway to his mouth. “Ah,” he said again. “Well, that is good news. Are they pleasant people, Charity? Where do they live? How many children are there?”
“Very pleasant,” she said. “Wiltshire. Three.” She held carefully to her smile. “And yes, it is good news.”
He was trying to look pleased for her, she could tell. “It was
Mr
. Earheart who interviewed you?” he asked. “Did you meet Mrs. Earheart, Charity?”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” she said, “and the children too. They are all exceedingly pleasant, Phil. You would like them. They are leaving for the country tomorrow. I will be going with them.”
“Tomorrow,” he said, frowning. “So soon?”
“Yes.” She smiled gently. “I have made enough soup to last you for three days, and I have made some of the currant cakes you so like—a dreadful extravagance, I know, but I wanted you to have them.”
“Perhaps I should ask for an hour off tomorrow,” he said, “so that I can see you on your way and assure myself that your new employers are worthy of you. What time will you be leaving?”
“No, Phil.” She stretched out her hand to touch the back of his. “There is no need to do that. I would hate saying good-bye to you and then having to be cheerful for the children immediately after. I would much rather you did not come.”
Her brother covered her hand with his own and pattedit. “As you will, then,” he said. “But Wiltshire is not so very far away, Charity. And nothing is irrevocable. If
She knew, of course, what she was going to tell Philip when he came home. She had had many solitary hoursin which to rehearse her story. But it went much against the grain to lie. She was not sure she was going to be able to do it. But she must—she had no choice. She could not possibly tell him the truth. For one thing, he might have her carried off to Bedlam. It was difficult even for her to believe that what had happened really had happened.
Oh, dear
, she thought. She was darning over a patch that had already been darned once. Poor Phil, he spent nothing on himself and everything on his brothers and sisters. She brushed impatiently at her cheek after a tear had plopped unexpectedly onto the back of her hand, startling her.
And then she felt the welling of panic that had been assaulting her at regular intervals ever since she had arrived home after signing those papers. Tomorrow she was going to marry a stranger—and a rather daunting stranger at that. She was doing it entirely for money. But after it was done there would be no going back. There would not—never ever—be a real husband or a real marriage for her. Not that there would have been anyway. But there was something rather frightening about the certain knowledge that …
But Philip was home, looking weary after his day’s work, and she smiled warmly at him, set aside her darning, and got to her feet to ladle out his soup and cut a slice of bread.
“You look tired,” she said, tilting up her cheek for his kiss.
“One is supposed to be tired in the evening,” he said. “Mmm, that smells good, Charity.” He plopped wearily onto his chair.
She sat at the table with him while he ate, her elbow resting on it, her chin in her hand. She did not know how to begin, and so she waited for him to start the conversation. He asked her if there had been any letterfrom home and then, when she shook her head, assured them both that it was too soon to expect another when they had heard as recently as the end of last week.
“Ah,” he said at last, obviously just remembering, “you had an interview this morning. Forgive me for not asking about it sooner. How was it?”
She smiled at him. “I was offered the position,” she said.
His spoon paused halfway to his mouth. “Ah,” he said again. “Well, that is good news. Are they pleasant people, Charity? Where do they live? How many children are there?”
“Very pleasant,” she said. “Wiltshire. Three.” She held carefully to her smile. “And yes, it is good news.”
He was trying to look pleased for her, she could tell. “It was
Mr
. Earheart who interviewed you?” he asked. “Did you meet Mrs. Earheart, Charity?”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” she said, “and the children too. They are all exceedingly pleasant, Phil. You would like them. They are leaving for the country tomorrow. I will be going with them.”
“Tomorrow,” he said, frowning. “So soon?”
“Yes.” She smiled gently. “I have made enough soup to last you for three days, and I have made some of the currant cakes you so like—a dreadful extravagance, I know, but I wanted you to have them.”
“Perhaps I should ask for an hour off tomorrow,” he said, “so that I can see you on your way and assure myself that your new employers are worthy of you. What time will you be leaving?”
“No, Phil.” She stretched out her hand to touch the back of his. “There is no need to do that. I would hate saying good-bye to you and then having to be cheerful for the children immediately after. I would much rather you did not come.”
Her brother covered her hand with his own and pattedit. “As you will, then,” he said. “But Wiltshire is not so very far away, Charity. And nothing is irrevocable. If