Chapter Three
Kingston
Holding the stool out, I continue glaring at Faith while awaiting her acquiescence. The idea of her running out of my house and back to the orphanage fills me with cold anger. If I must be firm with her, then I’ll be firm with her. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her from returning to that dreadful place. Besides, she already admitted she won’t be living there much longer. She’s on the verge of homelessness.
Her cheeks still a deep pink, she approaches me and the offered seat. Without thinking, I lift her up and place her on the stool myself. Her hands fall on my shoulders while I hold onto her tiny waist, but she doesn’t resist my assistance. Once she’s fully seated, I fetch a clean cloth from a drawer and dampen it with warm water. I return to her side and commence wiping the dirt from her face, careful not to aggravate the bruise on her cheek or her split lip.
She’s quiet while I tend to her, though a nervous, thoughtful expression keeps crossing her pretty face. I proceed to wipe the dirt off her hands, and once that’s complete, I make a cold compress and touch it to the bruise darkening her cheek. The swelling on her lower lip has already gone down and a small scab has formed where her lip split. Mrs. Summers ambles in with a small case of medical supplies, and I thank her and politely dismiss her from the kitchen.
From the case, I find an ointment for Faith’s hurt lip, as well as a numbing salve to rub onto her cheek. The bruise is small, at least. I also give her two pills for the pain. She obediently takes a sip of water and swallows them down, all under my watchful eye.
I’m not happy she got hurt, but I can’t deny that I enjoy taking care of her.
Memories of happier times wash over me, pleasant times from years’ past. Faith doesn’t know it, but she reminds me of what I once had. Her sudden presence is filling up the empty parts of me and shining light on my darkness.
“Are you married, Mr. Freemont? Do you have children?” she asks, and her inquiry plunges me back into despair. Somehow, I force myself to stay calm and not become angry over her innocent question. I take a deep breath. It’s not her fault my wife and infant son perished years ago, and it’s not her fault I have been alone in mourning ever since.
Meeting her gaze, I press the cool compress to her cheek again. “I’m a widower,” I finally reply. “I had a son once, too. They both died of an illness five years ago.”
“I’m so sorry.” She places a gentle hand on mine and squeezes, her gaze brimming with compassion. “I lost my mother when I was six years old, also to an illness that swept through the town.”
“What of your father?”
“He passed away before I was born.”
“It must have been frightening, being sent to the orphanage at such a young age, after losing your mother.” I lift the compress from her cheek and notice the swelling has gone down considerably. Just before I return the compress to her face, a tear trickles down over her bruise. My eyes drift to hers, and I curse myself for saying something to upset her. Before I can offer my apologies, she wipes the tear away and folds her hands in her lap.
The heat of her hand squeezing mine lingers, and I mourn the loss of her touch.
“Yes, it was frightening.” She studies her hands and fidgets in her seat. Her golden tresses cascade forward, over her shoulders.
She’s an angel fallen from heaven.
That’s the only explanation I can think of for her sudden appearance in my life. Surely we haven’t run into one another today only to part so soon.
My mind abruptly wanders, down a path of heartening possibilities.
Lately, I have considered taking a wife again, so much so that after years of avoiding anyone outside of business, I’ve recently started attending social gatherings, hoping the act of being around others would help thaw my heart.
Hoping that maybe I would meet a woman who moves me.
Faith moves me.
Far too easily, I can imagine keeping her here. Two lonely strangers in need, getting to know one another during the long winter months. I gaze upon her loveliness, considering all the ways I might convince her to stay.
I could offer her a job. She’s looking for a maid position. I mull this possibility but quickly rule it out, because I don’t want her as my employee.
If I’m being truthful, I want her in my bed.
But it’s more than that. The urge to tend to her every need, coddle her, guide her, even discipline her, also dominates my thoughts. She’s never had a father figure, and I wonder if she might be open to an arrangement of sorts, one that puts her in my absolute charge.
“Well, I really should be going now, Mr. Freemont. Thank you for everything.” She places her hands on the counter and starts to slide off of the stool.
I immediately crowd around her, pinning her between myself, the stool, and the counter. Her breath catches and she peers up at me, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her cloak slips from her shoulders, and I pick it up and place it neatly on the back of the stool, leaning around her and not allowing her a chance to escape.
“You will sit your little bottom back on that chair right now, young lady. You haven’t been excused.” My tone is firm but kind, and I once again lift her up onto the seat. I take note of her increased breathing and her flushing, as well as her continual fidgeting on the stool.
My cock throbs, knowing I’m the reason she’s squirming and flushing so adorably.
Once I’m satisfied she won’t attempt to go anywhere, I retrieve a large bowl from the cabinets and fill it with a generous serving of Mrs. Summer’s stew. I place it in front of Faith and hand her a spoon.
“Your stomach has been growling this whole time. Please eat, and take your time.”
“But the snow…”
“Yes, it might snow today. But I promise you won’t be walking back across town in the bad weather. Eat your fill, Faith, and then we will discuss your future.”
“But—”
“No arguments.”
* * *
Faith
I’m not sure what’s happening, but I’d be a fool to turn down a hot meal. I grasp the spoon and take a bite. The savory flavor explodes on my tongue, and I quickly take another bite, and then another. I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything so delicious in my life. I devour the entire bowl in minutes, almost forgetting Mr. Freemont’s presence. But when I finish, I look up to find him staring at me. Fast as I ate, there’s probably soup all over my face. Shame courses through me, hot and pulsing.
“I’m so sorry, sir, that was terribly rude of me. You must think my table manners are atrocious.”
I’m surprised when he smiles and approaches me with a clean white cloth napkin. I reach for it, but he brushes my hand away and touches the napkin to my face. A gentle dab to each corner of my mouth, and then he steps back.
Strange, warring emotions roll through me.
I’m not sure whether to be touched by his gesture, or completely mortified. I’m a grown woman, and I ought to be able to control myself better, even it’s been a while since I had a proper meal.
“There’s no need to apologize, Faith. Would you like more?”
I shake my head. “No, thank you. I’m quite full now. It was absolutely delicious. I hope you’ll tell Mrs. Summers I said so.” I try to ignore the sadness that’s slowly creeping around the corners of my heart.
For a short time today, I stepped into another world. But now that Mr. Freemont has finished helping me, surely he will send me on my way soon. Except…he had mentioned discussing my future once I finished eating. He also insisted I wouldn’t be walking across town in the bad weather. I hold my breath as I peer into his handsome gaze, wondering if he knows of an available job. My heart thuds at the possibility that he might even ask me to work for him.
The prospect of being around him, day after day, renders me giddy and breathless. It’s all I can do to sit quietly and await his response.
“I’m glad you enjoyed the meal, little girl.” His warm smile melts my heart. “Now, it’s time we discuss your future. I cannot in good conscience send you away when it seems you will be homeless in a week. I know what happens to most girls who leave the orphanage, and the thought of you working in Madame Angelic’s bawdy house…” His words trail off and his fists clench. He exhales slowly and then reaches for me, tipping my chin up. “The idea of men using you and taking their pleasure of your body without care makes me murderous.”
“I appreciate your concern for me, Mr. Freemont, truly I am touched, but we just met. Um, officially, I mean. How is it possible for you to feel that way for a virtual stranger?”
“I don’t know.” He releases my chin and studies me with an intensity that once again has me squirming in my seat. “All I know is that if you walk out that door, I will miss you, and I will worry for you.”
His words make my eyes burn, and I’m also confused by the increasing heat that’s pulsing between my thighs. If I were alone right now, I would lift up my skirts and touch my pussy to see what’s wrong. But I don’t dare touch myself in front of Mr. Freemont. The very thought is shameful, and my face flames hotter and hotter.
He runs a hand through his hair. “I want you to live here, Faith. With me. I will give you a room of your very own. I will take care of you, and you will want for nothing.”
“You want me as your mistress?” I ask hesitantly. As I await his response, I decide being Mr. Freemont’s mistress would not be so bad. Belonging to one man would surely be better than spreading my legs for multiple men a day at Madam Angelic’s establishment. In the back of my mind, I’ve always known it would be a possibility that I’d end up working as a prostitute in order to survive. Of course, I had intended to exhaust all other avenues of work first.
“No, not as my mistress.” He grasps my hand. “As my wife, by trial.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“We would be married for a trial period of thirty days. At the end of those thirty days, we can decide whether to remain married or to separate. If we decided to separate for some reason, I would see that you remain taken care of for the rest of your life.”
“I see. So at the end of the thirty days, we both decide? You would not force me to stay with you if I did not wish it?”
“Precisely. I’m not in the habit of keeping wives against their will,” he says with a wry smile that serves to ease the tension. “However, I will be upfront with you about my expectations. I am not looking for an ordinary wife or an ordinary marriage.” He pauses for a moment. “You would live as my little girl, and you would call me Papa. I would care for you, and guide you, even discipline you when necessary. I would be a strict but loving father figure to you, Faith, and in time, when and if I think you are ready, I would take you as my wife-in-truth. I couldn’t help but notice how you blushed when I called you little girl and young lady, and I see that you keep squirming. The very idea of being my sweet little girl, and my wife, has no doubt shocked you, but it has also made you feel achy between your thighs, hasn’t it?”
I’m stunned speechless.
A marriage by trial.
But no ordinary marriage—a scandalous one. One that sounds very wrong to me, but, strangely, also very right. I stare down at his large hand, still clasping mine, and ponder the discipline part of his proposal.
What will he do if I’m disobedient? Will he send me to my room? Will he take me over his knee and spank me?
I’d be lying if I claimed I wasn’t intrigued by Mr. Freemont’s proposal. Or tempted. Despite his pointing out my squirming on the stool, I can’t help myself from shifting and pressing my legs tightly together as I look into his eyes, trying to judge whether or not his heart is true. It never occurred to me I might find a husband so soon after leaving the orphanage.
Without a dowry or an older relative to arrange a match for me, most of the men in Gerrardsville would pass me over. Betrothals are often secured years before a marriage ever takes place. I wonder why Mr. Freemont would want me, a girl he’s just met, over a match that could be advantageous for his family or his businesses.
His words from moments ago keep echoing between my ears.
If you walk out that door, I will miss you, and I will worry for you.
Could it truly be as simple as that? Or, perhaps, his desire for a not-so-ordinary marriage has scared other women away. I’m no fool. He must realize how vulnerable I am, sitting in his fancy kitchen in his fancy house, wearing a raggedy dress and holey shoes while my uncertain future looms over me.
I have three possible choices. One—I can live on the streets and most likely freeze to death this winter. Two—I can march myself to Madam Angelic’s house of ill-repute and spread my legs for strangers. Or three—I can accept Mr. Freemont’s outlandish proposal and never face the possibility of starving or freezing on the streets again. From a logical standpoint, option three is my smartest move, and it’s also the choice my heart is begging me to make.
If I’m well-behaved and prove myself a good wife, perhaps Mr. Freemont will fall in love with me and decide to keep me at the conclusion of our thirty-day trial. But even if he deems we must part ways, I’ll still be provided for, and no matter what happens in the end between Mr. Freemont and I, it’s likely I’ll have the means to help the other girls in the orphanage. A few extra supplies, especially food and medicine, would make a world of difference to the dozens of girls who call the orphanage home.
Yes, option three is an opportunity I can’t refuse.
My heart races, because when I say yes, I will soon become a married woman. Noticing the heat flaming in Mr. Freemont’s dark eyes, I can’t help but squirm again as I imagine all the naughty, not-so-ordinary, things he’s going to do to me.
“Faith?”
“I-I accept your proposal, Mr. Freemont.”
Relief washes over his features, then his expression soon turns serious and almost dark. “Papa,” he says. “Remember. You will call me Papa.”
“Yes, Papa.”
He gathers both my hands in his. “Papa is going to take very good care of his little girl.”