Daring Bride

by Jane Peart

  Dark-red leather-bound books filled the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that lined the walls, surely among them a first edition or two. Did MacGowan actually read any of them, or were they just for show?

  Trent MacGowan turned from the windows that overlooked the long stretch of lawn. He was wearing a creamy, roll-necked, cable-knit sweater, gray slacks. “You approve?”

  “Indeed I do. It’s very fine. I guess I’m wondering why you hired me, when obviously you had someone with very good taste and historical perspective to design this room.”

  “I had my reasons.”

  Evalee had a sudden insight that startled her. MacGowan’s mocking way of speaking belied how he felt. These were things he cared deeply about. This house and what went into it were important to him.

  Seating himself behind the massive desk, MacGowan said, “I called you over here this morning for two purposes. I understand there are some rumors about me circulating around Mayfield, and I’d like to put them to rest. I hope you will help me do that while you act as my representative. Contrary to what you may have heard, Mrs. Oblenskov—or Countess, if you prefer—I did not steal this property, although I’m sure Miss Wemberly will tell quite a different version of our transaction. I paid her market value plus. Not something my business manager or accountant totally approved of, I might add. I certainly didn’t swindle a poor, helpless old lady, no matter what the current rumors making the rounds are.”

  Evalee saw a muscle in MacGowan’s cheek tense. If these rumors made him angry, he was suppressing it. He went on matter-of-factly.

  “In recent years there have been a great many changes in Mayfield of which you apparently have not been aware. For instance, did you know that Dunning Mills went into receiver-ship? I bought the mill and now run it, along with some other business interests in Virginia. When the Wemberly mansion became available, it seemed appropriate that I purchase it as well. It is halfway between Mayfield and Dunning, an easy commute.” He halted and then went on more quietly. “You see, I always loved this house when I was a youngster passing by it in my stepdaddy’s pickup truck.” The last few words were laced with heavy sarcasm. “You may not understand this, but I believe every man has a dream, one that is often born in boyhood. I was fortunate enough to be able to buy mine.”

  He took out one of his black Turkish cigarettes from a square silver box on the desk and lit it with a flick of his ornate lighter.

  Evalee looked past him, out through the French windows behind his desk. They were open, and she could hear the drone of a lawn mower. He had already hired people to care for the lawns. She had noticed three gardeners at work when she came this morning. One was setting out dozens of bedding plants in the newly spaded circular flower beds, another was meticulously clipping the boxwood, and the third was moving sprinklers constantly to bring the grass to a velvety perfection.

  She thought of the Wemberlys, who had lived here for generations. Particularly she thought of old Miss Wemberly, with her papery skin, her sunken cheeks dabbed with two spots of rouge, her wispy hair twisted into a knot at the nape of her thin neck, her stooped, skeletal figure in her faded finery. How she must have hated giving up this house—and to someone like Trent MacGowan—even though it meant she could now live in comfort in some snug little apartment in Arbordale and be assured that her last days would not be spent in dire poverty or in the county home. How her pride must have suffered when she sold this place. She must have detested MacGowan for having the money to do what she longed to do to restore her beloved home and property.

  Evalee wondered what it would be like to be a millionaire like Trent MacGowan. How would it feel if there was nothing you couldn’t get by snapping your finger or lifting a phone or pushing a button? But then, she knew that what he couldn’t buy was belonging, the inherited kind. He could not hunt with the Mayfield Valley Hunt Club. But he didn’t need to—he could buy a stable full of thoroughbreds, bring his own friends in to form their own hunt. He had a driving, self-absorbed personality, one that would never be satisfied. There would always be something more to acquire, to control, to run. His main preoccupation was wealth and power and what it could bring him.

  MacGowan’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Shall we walk through the house now? Then you can get a better idea of what has to be done, where to start.”

  Evalee had brought a notebook, and as they went into the high-ceilinged, spacious rooms, she could only imagine how beautiful this house must have once been. Could she bring that back, to this man’s expectations?

  Of course, MacGowan could never have seen the interior in its prime. His only view of the mansion would have been as a barefoot boy looking through the iron gates. Nevertheless, it was a bigger job than Evalee had imagined. Was she up to it? And could it all be done before the deadline MacGowan had set?

  Evalee didn’t let any of her concerns show. Trent MacGowan was a man who only respected strength and power. Whether he was mistaken about Evalee or not, he felt she had the ability to transform this wreck of a house into its original state. She didn’t dare seem hesitant or uncertain.

  MacGowan spoke in his harsh voice. “I’m leaving for New York in the morning. And I may have to be out of the country for a few weeks, but you can always report to me through my secretaries—Doris here and Miss Thompson in the New York office—if you need to get in touch with me urgently.” He paused. “I hope you’re planning to spend most of your time on Wemberly affairs.”

  How annoyingly arrogant he was! She felt a rush of irritation. “As I told you, Mr. MacGowan, I have a few other clients I’d begun working with before I took on this assignment. I will certainly give you fair time.”

  He frowned fiercely. “Maybe I should put you on a retainer so you’d be working exclusively for me. Is that possible?”

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. MacGowan. I do have other people who are just as eager to have their decorating done.”

  “If I paid you enough, you could make it possible,” he said flatly.

  Evalee had to bite her lip not to snap back at him. With effort she kept her voice calm, cool. “I have a business, Mr. MacGowan, customers I want to keep. I cannot afford to devote myself exclusively to one client.”

  “Well, just as long as my house is ready by June. I want to give a big housewarming party. That’s eight months from now. Do you think you can manage that, Countess?” His tone was baiting.

  Mentally gritting her teeth, Evalee replied, “Yes, I’m sure I can, Mr. MacGowan.”

  “Just as long as we understand each other, Countess,” he said. “Well, I think that’s all for now.”

  Evalee felt dismissed, but she tried to leave with some dignity. As he turned to walk back to his office, she went to the front door. She had a strong temptation to slam it as she left.

  If it weren’t for the fact that she needed the money, she would have gladly, at that point, tossed his commission back at him. The man was insufferable.

  chapter

  17

  KITTY TYPED THE last sentence and gave a sigh of relief. Unbelievable! She was finished. She’d done it. Her book was written at last. She wasn’t sure if it was good or bad or what Craig Cavanaugh would think of it. But she’d done what she’d set out to do. It had taken her longer than she thought. However, Cavanaugh was still in England, and his office did not expect him back until the last week in November. He’d given her this gift of time, and she was very grateful.

  She stretched out her arms, turned her head from side to side. Her neck ached from bending over the desk all morning. The ocean view from the windows that circled the front of the beach house was tempting. The sea, whipped by the brisk wind into a rippling blue-green, was frosted with whitecaps. She could stop now, take a brisk walk along the ocean, breathe deeply the sea air.

  Being near the ocean had always refreshed her. There was something particularly bracing about a sea breeze. Maybe she should try to find a small house by the ocean somewhere. More and more she realized that going back to
Eden Cottage was no solution. A place like this was perhaps what she needed, a small house of her own where she could see the ocean, walk along the beach—that might be the answer for her restless spirit.

  She knew she would miss this house when she went back to New York. It had proved a haven and also a wellspring for her creativity. The work had gone so much better while she was out here. Some days it had seemed to flow. Even the hard parts, the poignant, heart-wrenching sequences, seemed to have almost written themselves in this quiet, concentrated atmosphere.

  As far as she was concerned, she had written her heart out, said all she wanted to say. She had ended her book with Armistice Day, on which she had been in the midst of writing a note to the mother of a young soldier she had nursed until he died. The armistice, when it came, had seemed a hollow victory. Too many had perished, too many lives had been forever changed.

  Her book was finished. Kitty felt free now. She had done what she had set out to do, what she had been compelled to do. She felt that Richard would have been proud of her. She hoped Craig Cavanaugh would be pleased with what she’d done.

  She had arranged for his cleaning woman to come in after she left:, so everything would be as spick-and-span as she had found it. She would restock the kitchen cabinets and leave a thank-you note for Mr. Cavanaugh.

  After she packed up to return to the city, Kitty glanced around the beach house, took a last longing look at the blue ocean. She then went out, locked the door behind her, and walked to the small station to wait for the train to New York.

  Mayfield

  December 1937

  With the holidays approaching, Gatehouse Interiors was buzzing with activity. Evalee had more people coming in, searching for unusual gifts for special people on their lists. She was very good at suggesting things, helping customers either find just what they were looking for or select something unique. A small beaded purse, a one-of-a-kind teacup, perhaps a scarf or an ornate Victorian picture frame. She also gift wrapped beautifully, which added to the delight of shopping at Gatehouse. Business became so brisk, she had to ask Jill to help out during the hours her twins were at school. Jill happily complied and added her charm and English grace to assisting customers as they lingered uncertainly over a choice.

  Evalee had clients who suddenly wanted their interior decorating done before Christmas. She met with them during the morning, returning to Gatehouse when Jill left for home. Evalee then kept the store open until five-thirty.

  Christmas week she was busier than ever. She had decided to close the store on the twenty-third so she could enjoy Christmas Eve with Natasha and her mother, then Christmas Day with the family at Cameron Hall.

  The Wemberly commission required a great deal of her time. Trent MacGowan’s mandate to get the best, the finest, with price no object, necessitated long-distance calls to New York dealers, trips to estate auctions in Richmond. She tried to sandwich all this in between her store responsibilities and her personal life. However, her days were hectic, every one filled with new challenges concerning MacGowan’s mansion. She discovered it was a job that couldn’t be left when the store closed. She often worked on Wemberly-related problems and concerns late into the night, after Natasha was asleep. Evalee was often exhausted, and she was looking forward to having time off, time to herself, time to enjoy with her little daughter.

  She was also anticipating some pleasant times with Alan Reid. Over the past several months they had seen each other frequently. The more she got to know Gareth’s friend, the more she liked him. She realized he was the first male friend she had ever had. She had lived by the commonly accepted adage that there was no such thing as a friendship between a man and a woman. Well, it was the exception that proved the rule. With Alan she could discuss many interests they had in common—such as music, art. And they could laugh together. Alan had a droll sense of humor, full of subtleties and self-deprecation, that she thought delightful. What she found particularly satisfying was that he saw beyond her facade and allowed her to be herself—a self he liked.

  In the warmth of his acceptance, Evalee was able to talk to him in a way she had never talked to anyone. Best of all, he and Natasha had taken to each other immediately. Alan seemed to love children, and Evalee asked him, “Did you always think you’d be a teacher?”

  “No, not at all. It was the last thing I thought of, actually. My mother died when I was nine, and I was sent to Briarwood. After that, four years of college. By that time, I’d been at school most of my life. I felt I had too narrow a view of things. So I took off and traveled all over the country, taking different kinds of jobs. I worked in Montana at a ranch, as a guide in Yosemite, anything that would give me enough money to keep going. I wanted to see the country, meet different people, observe various ways of living. It was a wonderful time.” He smiled a little sheepishly. “But the depression was in full force, and jobs weren’t too plentiful. I finally realized I had to start making a living. A lot of years and money had been spent on my education. It was payback time. Becoming a teacher seemed a logical choice.” Now his smile was a bit rueful. “Ironically, I found I loved teaching. Loved kids. And wanted to share some of my own enthusiasm for learning and life.”

  “And have you?”

  “Well, that was a little ambitious, maybe even a little egotistical. But if you can get one boy, one student, thinking beyond certain limitations—well, that’s what I’ve tried to do. Don’t know whether I’ve succeeded.” He paused. “Or if I’ll be doing it for the rest of my life. I still have dreams of my own. Plans I haven’t yet fully explored.”

  “I know what you mean. You don’t like to be categorized, put into a box and labeled—'He’s a teacher.’I don’t, either. I hate it when people assume something about me that isn’t true.”

  Warming to her subject, Evalee continued. “I don’t really expect anybody to understand me—or the world I’ve created for myself. Like Gatehouse Interiors. Although nobody actually said so to me, there was a lot of doubt about whether I could pull this off. I wasn’t even sure if Mayfield was ready for what I wanted to create here. But I had to try. I know people thought it was different, foreign. But it was my vision of the world. It may seem strange to others, but not to me.” She paused, and she felt the sadness of the past come over her. “You see, I’ve been out there. And I don’t like it. It’s cruel, heartless, tragic. When I lived in Paris, I found out that in order to survive, I had to get beyond the dirty streets, the indifferent people on the Metro, the rude customers…Here I can make my own environment beautiful. I think that life should have style, that we should surround ourselves with what we love, what makes us laugh. Beauty, joy, music—all are important to me. Without it life is boring—or worse, unendurable.”

  Alan seemed to understand her. She enjoyed his company enormously. Tomorrow he was taking Natasha and her to see the local production of Dickens’A Christmas Carol. She knew that the three of them would have a wonderful time.

  Just before Christmas, on one of the longest, most tiring days Evalee had ever spent at Gatehouse Interiors, there was a constant stream of customers. As the day lengthened, Evalee waited on them in a kind of haze, being pleasant and helpful, answering questions, figuring up purchases, ringing the cash register, wrapping packages. She longed for the business day to be over, yearned for a long, warm soak in the tub, a cozy dinner by the fireplace.

  The last customer finally left, and Evalee had started to close up, when to her dismay Trent MacGowan walked into the shop. What was he doing here? Had he come for an accounting? She suddenly felt lightheaded, jittery. She’d had nothing but coffee all day.

  It was turning dark outside, and Evalee pulled the cord of the Tiffany lamp on her desk. “Mr. MacGowan,” she said a trifle breathlessly, “I didn’t expect you. I mean, I didn’t know you were back in town.” She was annoyed that she suddenly felt like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

  He was standing by the small Christmas tree she had decorated in Victorian style—paper
cornucopias, gilt cherubs, crocheted lace snowflakes, strings of cranberries and popcorn—examining the fragile, painted glass ornaments. “Well, Countess, I don’t always feel it’s necessary to announce my arrival. Sometimes I simply take a whim. And I did this time. Wanted to see Virginia in December, my house in the snow. I’ve brought a photographer from New York to take pictures. Thought it might make an impressive Christmas card next year when I’m in residence at Wemberly. By the way, what progress have you made? How close am I to that possibility?” His gaze moved about the room, taking in everything—the wreaths at the windows, the handmade needlepoint stockings hung on the holly-and-evergreen-bedecked mande. With a tinge of sarcasm, he added, “Or perhaps you’ve been preoccupied with playing Christmas fairy?”

  Evalee felt herself stiffen. He was challenging her. In spite of herself, she felt indignant. She struggled to make her reply coolly professional. “I’ve received word that the shipment of Chippendale chairs for the dining room should be here around the first of the year. As they’re coming from England, it’s hard to put an exact date on delivery.” She added evenly, “I reported all this to Miss Miller, but if you’d like to see the correspondence yourself…” She made a move to the file cabinet.

  He waved his hand in a negative gesture. “That won’t be necessary. I’m a man used to having things done quickly. I’m unfamiliar with something as esoteric as furnishing a house with eighteenth-century antiques. I’ll accept your word for it that things are moving along as well as they can. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of the June deadline.”

  He moved about restlessly, pausing here and there to pick up a porcelain figurine or examine a silver porringer. “There are two reasons I stopped by today, Countess. One was to inform you that I’ve learned that one of the biggest antique shows in the country takes place in New York shortly after the first of the year. I want you to attend. Buy whatever you think would be suitable for the house. I’ve let them know you’ll be representing me. They’ll notify you of the exact date. Of course, all your expenses will be paid.”