Janet Dean - Courting Miss Adelaide

Constance Gunder? Air whooshed out of Charles’s mouth and his gaze settled on the woman across from him.

“Me? Why? I don’t understand any of this,” Miss Crum said. “Why mention my mother?”

Constance Gunder, the name Charles’s mother had hurled in his father’s face after Adam had accused his wife of flirting in church. Charles had never forgotten the name—or his father’s reaction. Adam had backhanded his mother, knocking her to the floor, and then stood over her, shouting she wasn’t worthy to wipe Constance Gunder’s shoes and if she ever spoke that name again, he’d kill her. Charles had known then that somehow this woman had been at the root of Adam’s anger, anger he expelled through his fists.

Constance Gunder, the woman Charles learned to despise—could she really be Miss Crum’s mother?

How could his father do this? Was this one last ha-ha from the grave?

“Furthermore—” Mr. Evans began.

Charles jumped to his feet. Mary laid a hand on his wrist, but he jerked away from her touch. “What’s going on here?” His voice sounded gruff and he cleared his throat. If only he could clear this nightmare his father had concocted as easily.

“It’s quite simple,” Mr. Evans said, nonplussed by Charles’s reaction. “You and Miss Crum are half owners of The Noblesville Ledger.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

Mr. Evans’s gaze returned to the will. “There’s more.”

“More?” Unable to sit, Charles strode to the fireplace, putting him across from Miss Crum, the woman who’d made a crack in his frozen heart. What a joke on him.

Miss Crum’s eyes were wide, probably seeing dollar signs. Yet, even as he thought it, he knew the accusation wasn’t true. Still, the idea clung to his mind like a burr under a saddle.

Mr. Evans bent over the paperwork. “‘The equal shares of The Noblesville Ledger are not to be sold by either Charles Graves or Adelaide Crum for a period of two months. If either heir goes against my wishes, and sells his or her half of The Noblesville Ledger before the end of a two-month waiting period, the equipment and building are to be sold, all proceeds going to charity.’”

Charles stalked back to the table. Mary met his gaze with a worried frown. “He promised the paper to me! Why did he leave a perfect stranger half of my paper? Then force us to keep this ludicrous arrangement for months?”

Mr. Evans tipped his head between Charles and Miss Crum. “Perhaps she isn’t a stranger, at least not to your father.”

Color climbed Miss Crum’s neck. “I’m not sure what you’re suggesting—”

“My father returned to Noblesville only once—four years ago, when he bought The Ledger.” Charles turned to Miss Crum. “Did you two arrange this then?”

Miss Crum gasped. “I’ve never even met your father.”

“Adam didn’t share his motives with me, but rest assured, knowing your father, he had his reasons. Where there’s a will, there’s always a reason.” Mr. Evans chuckled to himself.

Charles scowled. “Have you considered joining a minstrel show, Mr. Evans?”

The attorney sobered. “I apologize.” He handed Mary and Miss Crum a copy of the will, then laid the third copy where Charles had been sitting. “This lawyering can get dry as dust. I can see this is no laughing matter.”

“Surely we can make this partnership work for two months,” Miss Crum said, as if her ownership was of no consequence. “I won’t be underfoot at The Ledger. I have my own business to run.”

“Charles, sit down,” Mary said, tears brimming in her eyes.

But he couldn’t sit. Just when Charles had found some measure of control over his life, his father yanked it out of his hands. Even from the grave, Adam managed to control—no, punish—him.

His gaze sought the milliner’s. “If you’re expecting this business relationship to be pleasurable, Miss Crum, you’re mistaken. As soon as I can, I’ll buy you out. In the meantime, I promise, this will be the longest two months of your life.”

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