“Of course,” Ruth continued, “we also need to find a reputable midwife. And hopefully our upcoming fundraiser will bring in a group of benefactors to help cover our operating costs. Speaking of which . . .” Ruth pushed the morning paper across the table with a broad smile. “We made the front page of The Daily Star.” She pointed to an article underneath the latest war news.
A photo of Bennington Place accompanied a caption that read Local Widow Opens Private Maternity Home in the Heart of the City.
Ruth beamed. “The reporter promised the story would be visible, but front and center? How marvelous! Think of how many people will learn about us now.”
Nerves skittered up Olivia’s spine at the thought of the extensive publicity their new venture would receive. It had taken every ounce of Ruth’s persuasion to ensure the reporter didn’t use the term unwed mothers in the headline, which might have garnered a negative reaction from the community. They certainly didn’t need that as they strived to get their project off the ground.
Olivia scanned the printed words beneath the photo, anxious not to find any mention of her name. She let out a relieved breath. As promised, she was only referred to as Mrs. Bennington’s partner. Olivia didn’t want anyone to associate Ruth’s name with a woman who’d been arrested and incarcerated at the Mercer Reformatory.
Ruth rose to clear the breakfast dishes from the table. “I do wish you would take more credit for our venture,” she said, as though reading Olivia’s thoughts. “After all, this is your vision more than mine. All I did was provide the location.”
Olivia stood and refolded the newspaper. “You did much more than that. Not only did you provide the capital for the renovations, but you also opened your home and your heart to me. I don’t know where I’d be without you.” She blinked hard as she pulled Ruth into a hug.
“You’re the one who saved me, Olivia dear.”
“Then for that, I’m grateful. You have too much life in you to give up.”
Ruth laughed. “God willing, I’ll have enough energy to see this project through.”
“You better.” Olivia grinned. “Because I can’t do all this by myself.”
Darius entered his office on the eighth floor of the downtown building and set his briefcase on top of the mahogany desk. As he did every day, he inhaled the smell of leather and ink and let out a satisfied sigh. This was what he’d been working so hard for. This beautiful office with its view of the city signified he was well on his way to the bright future he’d envisioned for himself and Sofia.
“Any idea what’s got the boss all worked up?”
Darius turned to see his colleague Kevin Caldwell in the doorway. His blond hair was more disheveled than usual, as though he’d been running his hands through it.
“No, I’ve been out most of the morning.” Darius crossed his arms. “What’s going on?”
“I swear there’s steam coming out of Walcott’s office.”
“Maybe I should schedule another meeting off-site.” Darius grinned. Their boss’s temper was nothing new. Each employee learned to deal with it in their own way. As the newest member of the Walcott team, Kevin had not yet found a coping method. Darius slapped the man on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. Whatever the problem, it will likely blow over by tomorrow.”
A door slammed down the hall. “Reed. My office. Now!”
Darius winced. “Then again, tomorrow is a long way off. Wish me luck.”
“You got it, pal.” Kevin poked his head around the door, looked left and right, then scurried off.
Darius braced himself as he approached the boss’s office and knocked on the door.
“Come in.” The familiar bellow allowed his nerves to ease. If Darius had committed some grievous error, the command to enter would have been laced with profanity.
“Is there a problem, sir?”
The older man turned toward him. “You tell me.” He slid a newspaper across the polished surface of his desk.
Darius moved forward to pick it up. After the first glance at the war headlines, he couldn’t determine what had Walcott so hot under the collar, but then the photo of a house caught his attention.
“The Bennington property.”
Mr. Walcott scowled. “How long have I been trying to get Widow Bennington to sell to me?”
“Years?”
“More than I care to count.” Mr. Walcott slapped a palm to the desktop. “And now this ‘young woman’ they mention in the article has convinced her to open a maternity home. Of all the harebrained—”
Darius glanced at the man’s reddened complexion and frowned. “Come on, sir. It’s not worth having a heart attack over.” Lately, with the man’s burgeoning waistline and his fiery temper, Darius feared for his superior’s health.
“What would make a woman pushing seventy want to play nursemaid to a bunch of pregnant women?” Mr. Walcott paced the area behind his desk. “She should be sitting in a rocking chair on a porch somewhere, knitting or playing bridge.” He smashed a fist into his palm. “None of this makes a lick of sense.”
Darius had to concede the man made a valid point. Still, getting upset enough to turn his face that shade of purple was a bit excessive. “Why don’t we sit down? Let’s put our heads together and see what other options we have.”
Walcott pierced him with a hard stare. “You think we still have options?”
“Of course we do. The Bennington mansion isn’t the only viable property in town. We can find another space worth purchasing.”
“I don’t want another property. That estate is in the perfect location. Think of the building complex we could put up there. I’ve had the blueprints for Walcott Towers in the vault for years, waiting for the Bennington property to open up.” Walcott rubbed his chin, a determined look coming over his features. “But you’re right, Reed. We still have options.”
Darius’s stomach began to churn. He knew that look, and it usually meant trouble.
“You are going to use your charms to convince Ruth Bennington that this maternity home is a terrible idea and that she should sell her house to us. With what I’m willing to pay her, she could open three homes in another part of town.”
Darius bit back an immediate rebuttal. What his boss said was true. If Mrs. Bennington sold to Walcott Industries, she would get top dollar and could easily open a more modern facility somewhere outside the heart of the city, which would make more sense for that type of establishment. How did the caption under the photo phrase it? A home for underprivileged women.
Darius held back a snort of disgust. He wasn’t an idiot. This so-called maternity home was meant to harbor morally corrupt women whose foolish life choices had landed them in trouble of their own making. Wouldn’t they rather be hidden away on the outskirts of town?
He skimmed the rest of the article. Black-tie event. $25 a plate fundraiser. Investors welcome. Proceeds will be donated to Bennington Place.
So Mrs. Bennington was looking for financial aid. That meant the whole enterprise could be on shaky ground.
“Did you read the entire article?” Darius asked.
“Of course I did. Why?”
“It sounds like the lady needs more capital and without it, she might not be able to stay in operation long.” Darius raised a brow. “We could use the black-tie event as an opportunity to warn any potential backers away from this venture.”
“Hmm. Good point.” Walcott plopped back onto his leather chair and rubbed his goatee, a sure sign that the cogs were turning. “Get yourself a tuxedo, boy. You and I are going to this shindig. Between the two of us, we should be able to persuade anyone foolhardy enough to attend not to waste their money.”
Darius kept his expression even, masking his dismay at having to attend another tedious affair, not to mention having to find suitable attire, since his usual good suit wouldn’t do for this event. Plus, it would mean another night he’d have to disappoint Sofia.
“In the meantime, I want you to pay the widow a visit. Get a
feel for what’s really going on there and make a case for why she should consider selling. Use those persuasion skills you’ve picked up on our dime.”
Darius forced his lips into a smile, though it felt more like a grimace. Mr. Walcott took every opportunity he could to remind him that Walcott Industries was paying for the business courses he took on Saturday mornings—courses he needed to eventually earn his degree, which would hopefully merit a large raise, or maybe even a promotion. “Fine. I’ll call and arrange—”
“Don’t call. She’ll only refuse to see you. Go over unannounced. You’re much more likely to get in that way.”
Darius nodded. “Fine. I’ll go first thing tomorrow.”
He tugged his tie loose as he left the room. Arguing with a stubborn old widow would likely be a colossal waste of time, but if it kept the boss happy, then Darius would consider it a win.
7
The next morning, Olivia whipped the eggs into a frenzy in the ceramic mixing bowl, then poured them onto the hot skillet. It was the cook’s day off, and Olivia didn’t mind stepping in to fill Mrs. Neale’s shoes. In fact, she rather enjoyed it.
From the open kitchen window, the melodious sounds of the birds cheered her soul. Mornings were her favorite time of day, when everything seemed new and fresh, untainted by the events to come. She loved to sip her coffee as she helped in the kitchen and watch the sun rise over the hedges in the backyard, the stillness of the early hours creating a cocoon that suspended reality for a brief interval.
It was a time when Olivia could pretend that the tragedies in her life hadn’t happened and that she was still a young girl full of hope for the future. Not the jaded twenty-two-year-old she’d become.
The eggs sizzled and hissed, reminding her to stir them before they burned. Margaret and Patricia didn’t need their breakfast ruined, especially since Olivia was still trying to make a good impression on them.
Margaret sometimes seemed restless, unsure whether to stay or go. But Olivia hoped that with an outpouring of kindness, she and Ruth could convince her to stay.
She spooned the eggs onto a platter and turned off the heat. Glancing at the clock, she calculated the time remaining for the biscuits. Five more minutes should be perfect. Then she’d make tea for Margaret, who didn’t like her brew too strong. For Patricia, who preferred coffee, a fresh pot sat on the stovetop, filling the kitchen with a delectable aroma. Olivia had missed her favorite morning beverage while at the reformatory, where she’d been lucky to receive some lukewarm tea. Amazing how such small luxuries could be taken for granted.
The sound of chimes from the doorbell rang through the house. Olivia startled. Who would be coming here at this early hour? Her head snapped up. Maybe another woman in need had read about their home in the paper.
With fresh eagerness, Olivia hurried down the long hallway toward the front of the house, a fervent prayer on her lips. Lord, help me to be a welcoming face to whomever you’ve brought to us.
Putting on her best smile, Olivia opened the door. Her expression turned to a frown as she took in the dark-haired man on the porch. “Can I help you?”
The man scanned her from head to toe in one quick glance. Then his vivid blue eyes focused on her with an intensity that made her squirm.
“Um . . . yes,” he said. “That is, good morning. I’m looking for Mrs. Bennington.”
Olivia regarded the man’s pinstriped suit and the fedora perched at a jaunty angle over his forehead and stood more firmly in the door’s opening. “I’m afraid she’s not up yet. May I tell her who came by?” Hopefully he’d get her insinuation that it was much too early to be calling on anyone.
He chuckled. “Forgive me for arriving unannounced at this hour. But the matter I wish to discuss couldn’t wait. My name is Darius Reed. And I’d like to—”
“Olivia? Who’s at the door?” Ruth’s voice echoed from the hall behind her.
Olivia’s heart sank. Now she’d never get rid of him. Reluctantly, she opened the door wider. “A man named Mr. Reed. He wants to speak to you about something important. Or so he claims.” She speared the man with the glare she learned from Mamma when dealing with annoying customers.
The stranger only smiled. “Mrs. Bennington? My name is Darius Reed. I’d like to talk to you about . . . your new venture here.”
Olivia’s gaze narrowed. Something about that statement rang false.
Ruth stared at him, sizing him up, then nodded. “Very well, Mr. Reed. Join me for coffee?”
“I’d love to, ma’am.” He removed his hat and stepped inside.
Ruth turned. “Oh, forgive my manners. This is my partner, Miss Olivia Rosetti.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Rosetti.” He gave a slight bow, his eyes twinkling.
Obviously he expected her to be impressed, but she refused to be taken in by false charms. “Excuse me,” she said. “I have something in the oven.” Turning on her heel, she retreated down the hall to the kitchen.
Wisps of black smoke escaped from around the stove’s cast-iron door. No! Their uninvited guest had made her burn the biscuits. Grabbing a tea towel, she opened the door and waved away a wall of smoke, then grabbed the tray and set it on the stovetop with a sigh. All that remained were small blobs of charcoal. Definitely not edible. Everyone would have to settle for toast to go with the now-cold eggs. That and the leftover muffins from yesterday would have to do.
“Can I do anything to help?” A tentative voice came from the doorway.
Olivia swiped a hand across her forehead and looked up to see Margaret standing by the counter. Only eighteen years old, the girl seemed afraid of her own shadow. Olivia had yet to get her to open up about the circumstances that had brought her to Bennington Place, but she was patient. She’d wait until Margaret was ready to talk.
“How are you at making toast?”
The girl smiled. “I can manage without burning it.”
She handed the girl a knife to slice the loaf of bread. “Great. Because this morning I can’t say the same.”
Darius sipped the delicious brew and set his cup aside. “Best coffee I’ve had in ages,” he said to Mrs. Bennington, who was seated on the sofa across from him.
“All thanks to Olivia. She has a secret ingredient I’ve yet to get her to reveal.” The woman chuckled with obvious affection.
“A woman of many talents, I take it. Are you two related?” Darius had been astonished by the beautiful young woman who’d greeted him at the door. So much so that the speech he’d practiced on the way over had flown from his mind. Those big brown eyes under finely arched brows had mesmerized him, as did the upsweep of dark hair that accentuated those high cheekbones, those full lips . . .
Mrs. Bennington’s brows rose. “Do we look like we’re related?”
Heat crept up his neck. How did he answer that without insulting someone? Miss Rosetti definitely favored what he assumed was an Italian heritage, judging by her last name, whereas Mrs. Bennington couldn’t look more British. “It’s possible.”
“True. But no. We’re friends and now business partners.” She calmly set her cup on the coffee table. “What exactly would you like to know about our maternity home?” Her shrewd gaze landed on him without blinking.
“Well, for starters, I wanted to know what made you decide to start such a venture.” He didn’t add at your age, but she seemed intelligent enough to grasp his implication.
“I have my reasons. Personal ones that I need not disclose to you.” Her eyes narrowed. “May I ask what firm you represent? And what interest they have in our facility?”
He could lie. Pretend he was here as a potential investor. But lies didn’t sit well with Darius. If he expected his daughter to tell the truth, how could he do any less? He pulled a business card from his suit pocket. “I’m with Walcott Industries, ma’am. And I’m here to make you a proposition, one that could benefit you greatly and allow you to open two or more such maternity homes.”
The woman’s mouth turned d
own. “I highly doubt that, Mr. Reed, given the price of real estate in Toronto these days.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “That’s my point. If you moved your operation outside the city limits, you’d get a lot more property for your dollar. You could afford two houses easily with the profits you’d make from selling this place.”
A crash sounded in the hallway. Darius’s gaze swung to the doorway, where Miss Rosetti stared down at a platter of baked goods that were now scattered on the floor.
He jumped up and rushed to assist her.
Miss Rosetti looked past him. “Ruth, you’re not thinking of selling the house, are you?”
The older woman rose. “No, my dear. I most certainly am not.” She shot Darius a glare. “I was just about to inform Mr. Reed of that fact.”
He helped the younger woman scoop up what looked like blueberry muffins and heaped them on the platter, which had fortunately stayed intact.
“Please join us, Miss Rosetti,” he said. “I believe this conversation concerns you as well.” Perhaps she would see the merit of his offer once she learned all the details.
She set the plate on a side table and took a seat next to Mrs. Bennington.
Darius hesitated, gathering his thoughts before crossing the room. “I’m here on behalf of Walcott Industries to make you the following offer.” Reaching into his interior jacket pocket, he withdrew the papers that Mr. Walcott had drawn up. He placed them on the table in front of the women, then resumed his seat to wait while they read the short piece.
Miss Rosetti put a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide.
Mrs. Bennington, on the other hand, remained expressionless. A few seconds later, she straightened. “It’s a generous offer, there’s no denying that. Much more than the last time Mr. Walcott tried to entice me to sell. But you can tell your boss that my answer remains the same.” With one finger, she slid the paper across the table. “I respectfully decline.”
Miss Rosetti’s shoulders sagged in obvious relief.
A Haven for Her Heart Page 6