The Love Comes Softly Collection

by Janette Oke

  “Ah,” he said, pulling out his pocket watch, “she’s early—it’s only ten minutes of eight.”

  Mrs. Celia Prescott came in with a flurry of excited comments and overdone apologies. She and Mrs. Stafford-Smyth hugged each other warmly, and then greetings passed all about the room. Mr. Walsh chuckled over each remark and Mrs. Celia Prescott tittered prettily in his direction. Pierre looked at Belinda with an I-told-you-so expression, and she had a hard time keeping from giggling herself.

  “You know my Petah,” said Mrs. Stafford-Smyth, and Pierre bowed to acknowledge the older woman.

  “And this is Miss Belinda Davis,” Mrs. Stafford-Smyth went on, and all eyes turned to Belinda.

  “No wonder you’ve been off in hiding, young man,” teased Aunt Celia with a twinkle. “In what part of Europe did you find her?”

  Before either Pierre or Belinda could respond, Mrs. Stafford-Smyth interrupted with, “Belinda is American.”

  “Then perhaps we shall see more of your grandson in the future,” observed Mr. Walsh with another chuckle.

  Again Belinda could feel Mrs. Allenby’s sharp eyes on her. She wished with all her heart that she could crawl more deeply into her blue silk dress. To Belinda’s relief, the woman said nothing.

  Aunt Celia reached over to pat Pierre’s cheek. “I admire your taste, deah,” she gushed. “I always knew you were discerning.”

  Belinda opened her mouth to say something, but when she saw Pierre shake his head, she closed it. They all had misunderstood the situation entirely. Was no one going to explain?

  Belinda sighed and shrugged and allowed Pierre to lead her in to dinner.

  As the meal progressed Belinda was glad for Pierre’s presence at her side. She usually had no problem chatting with older people, but the conversation around the table was all foreign to her. They spoke of people she did not know, places she had never seen, and events that were somewhere in their past.

  Pierre let the dinner guests chatter on around them. He deftly directed the conversation to things he hoped would be of interest to Belinda. He found her charming and very attractive. He wished to ask her all sorts of questions, but he held himself in check. Where had his grandmother found such a lovely girl, and why was Belinda willing to spend time in a house with only an older woman?

  The thought did occur to him that his grandmother was a very wealthy woman and that Belinda might have interest in her money. But Pierre, even with a somewhat suspicious turn of mind, dismissed that thought. She just didn’t seem the type, unless she had everyone fooled.

  After dinner the men rose in preparation for retiring to the library for a brandy and cigar, and the ladies were invited to the drawing room for another cup of coffee.

  When Belinda cast a look of appeal toward Pierre, he immediately rose to the occasion.

  “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind if Belinda and I took a walk in the garden?” Pierre asked his grandmother.

  He noticed that Belinda drew a thankful breath.

  “Run along,” encouraged his grandmother, beaming as though the idea had been hers. She seemed to be smiling secretly to herself as she led the ladies into the drawing room.

  Belinda excused herself and went for a wrap, though the night was still young and comfortably warm. She knew she would feel more comfortable with a bit more covering. Returning to the waiting Pierre, she breathed deeply as she stepped out onto the terrace.

  “Thank you,” she whispered to Pierre, and he nodded in understanding.

  “You mean you didn’t look forward to the gossip of the old ladies any more than I did to the stale smell of cigars?” he asked lightly, and Belinda chuckled.

  “Yes,” she said, “I was thinking about all those wonderful books in the library in all that smoke.”

  “Oh, those old books will be fine,” he said carelessly. “It isn’t the first time the room has been filled with cigar smoke.”

  “Actually,” he went on after a few minutes of silence, “I wasn’t trying to be a hero. I just wanted to have a very pretty girl all to myself.”

  Belinda could feel his eyes on her, no doubt measuring her reaction to the compliment. She carefully kept her expression neutral and simply smiled quietly.

  “I’ve chatted on about myself enough,” Pierre said. “Now I think it’s your turn.”

  She turned to him and smiled slightly. “I have nothing nearly as exciting to tell,” she answered evenly. “I was born, grew up, and lived right in one little town on the plains. And that’s about all there is.”

  He laughed. “I think I am being effectively put off,” he said good-naturedly.

  “Not really,” she assured him.

  “You’ve not traveled?”

  “Not a bit till I came to Boston.”

  “No interests?”

  “Oh, I’ve lots of interests. Simply no means.” She spoke frankly, unembarrassed.

  “Where did you meet my grandmother?” he questioned.

  “She was on a trip—out to San Francisco.”

  “You were on the same train?”

  “Oh no,” Belinda hastened to add. “She took ill. Had to stop at our town until she recovered.”

  “I see,” he said. But she could tell he really didn’t.

  “Grandmother spoke to me again about showing you Boston,” he went on. “Would you be interested?”

  Belinda couldn’t help but feel an expectant thrill go through her. “I’d like that,” she said honestly.

  “I’d like that, too,” he echoed. “Where do you want to start?”

  “I . . . I know nothing about the city. Best you do the choosing. You’d know what we should see.”

  He smiled. “Fine,” he said. “You’ll have your first lesson at nine tomorrow.”

  Belinda returned his smile. She was looking forward to seeing more of this beautiful city, to learn of its history and its intrigue.

  “I’ll be ready at nine,” she answered, then added with a little laugh, “Not Aunt Celia’s nine—but clock-time nine.”

  Pierre chuckled with her.

  “Are you . . . are you planning to be with Grandmother for . . . for some time?”

  Belinda sobered. “I love it here,” she admitted. “I’ve been here only a week and already I love it. Just like yer—your grandmother said I would. But how long I stay”—she gave her shoulders a gentle shrug—“that depends,” she added.

  “Depends? On what?”

  “Your grandmother. Me. How we get on together.”

  “I see,” he said slowly.

  “Are you staying long?” she asked, turning the tables.

  He paused a moment, then said with a little chuckle, “It depends.”

  Her words had brought him up sharply, and silence fell between them again as they walked around the lovely garden. It depends! On how Grandmother and I get on together! Pierre rolled the words around in his mind awhile. In actual fact that was why he had come home. He was quite sure that his grandmother’s will was still unsettled. She had wanted first to “try” her grandsons. Now that Franz was about to settle in France with his new love, Pierre felt it an opportune time for him to “get in good” with his grandmother. Why should this beautiful home, this notable estate, be left to someone quite outside the family? Yet his grandmother was independent—verging on the eccentric. She was likely to do just that if neither of her grandsons showed any interest in the place—or in her. Or in pursuing a course of which she approved.

  So Pierre had decided to leave his European playground temporarily and come home to “court” his grandmother. Oh, he had never admitted the truth—not even to himself. But as Belinda asked her question, the reality of the situation hit the young man. He was here to get what he could from his grandmother’s will. Perhaps we are not so different after all, he concluded with a careful look at the attractive girl by his side. The only fact in his favor was that he was kin.

  He glanced at her once more, wondering what she was thinking and whether she indeed was after the
same thing he was—his grandmother’s money.

  Pierre did not sleep well that night. To himself he admitted that he found Belinda attractive. She seemed so honest, so sincere . . . so . . . unsophisticated. Yet she had somehow managed to fool his shrewd grandmother. She must be far more skilled at deceit than I credit her with.

  He struggled with what to do. He saw his grandmother’s deep devotion to Belinda. If he were to question her concerning Belinda’s integrity, would she become upset? Would it be better to forget the possibility that Belinda might be after the elderly lady’s money and take no chance of alienating his grandmother? Did he really care so much about the estate that he would risk a rift with the elderly woman? After all, he knew that as things now stood, he and his brother would inherit at least some of her money. Perhaps he should be content with that.

  And then Pierre thought about Belinda. What if . . . what if she inherits the bulk of the estate? Was there another way for him to solve his dilemma? After all, she was pretty and pleasing to be with. She had not seemed immune to his charms. Perhaps they could share the estate in another fashion. But Pierre felt uncomfortable with that. If Belinda was so sly as to ingratiate herself with his grandmother only for personal gain, was she to be trusted as a marriage partner? As any kind of partner? And hadn’t he sensed an undercurrent in the room when the staff had been present? Did they know something about Belinda that was not yet exposed?

  Pierre tossed and turned and tried to sort the whole thing through, but an answer escaped him.

  Finally he decided that he must have an open talk with his grandmother. He knew it was risky, but he had to chance it. With the resolution made, he settled down to a few hours of sleep.

  He had made his appointment to meet Belinda at nine, so at eight o’clock, Pierre knocked on his grandmother’s door. She was already seated at her small corner desk, her breakfast tray left almost untouched on a low table by her bed.

  She smiled when she saw him and leaned to accept his kiss on her cheek.

  “Good morning,” she welcomed him. “Belinda tells me that you are becoming a tour guide this morning.”

  He attempted a smile. He had little time, so he decided not to spend it in small talk. “That’s who I came to talk about, Grandmother,” he admitted.

  She smiled at him. “You seem to be off to a good start,” she beamed. “Isn’t she delightful?”

  He did not answer her question. “Where did you meet her, Grandmother?”

  “I thought you knew. I took a train trip west, and on the way home I fell quite ill. A stroke, they said. I would have died had it not been for the care I received.”

  “Died?” he echoed, thinking that his grandmother was perhaps being a bit melodramatic.

  “Belinda and her brothah, who is a doctah—and a very good one, by the way—stayed with me day and night for the first few weeks. Then Belinda continued to give me nursing care for several more months.”

  Pierre thought he could understand why his grandmother felt indebted to the girl, but he was still puzzled.

  “So, in gratitude, you invited her here as your guest,” he prompted, hoping to get more information.

  “Belinda? Oh my, no. She traveled back with me to nurse me on the train if need be. I was still very weak. Still am.” She stopped and chuckled softly. “She still insists that I get propah rest and—why, she’s already been in heah this morning fussing and—”

  “Nurse?” said Pierre. He still did not grasp the situation.

  “Nurse!” his grandmother repeated, and seeing the frown on his face, she continued. “Not all nurses are old grannies with head scarves, you know.”

  “You mean Belinda Davis is a nurse?”

  “Yes, of course. Didn’t you know? That’s what I’ve been telling you.”

  “She’s . . . she’s in your employ?” He was aghast at the very thought.

  Mrs. Stafford-Smyth laid down her pen and looked at her grandson. “What is it that’s bothering you?” she asked him. “Are you as stuffy and narrow-minded as Pottah or Windsah? Are you, too, going to insist that because Belinda is an employee, she can’t be my deah, deah friend? If I want—”

  But Pierre stopped her. “But the place as a guest at dinner? The . . . the expensive gown? Surely a working girl—?”

  “I’ve just told you,” the woman insisted. “Belinda is more than a nurse. She is good company.”

  “And you purchased her gown?”

  Mrs. Stafford-Smyth shuffled angrily at her papers. “Yes,” she answered sharply. “I purchased the gown. I didn’t want her feeling uncomfortable in the presence of those who call. She’s a sensitive little thing. She already feels upset about the coolness of the staff. They feel that she should be treated as one of them.”

  “But that’s exactly what she is. Staff! An employee! Your nurse!”

  “She is,” admitted the woman.

  “But . . . but . . . you led me to believe that she was your . . . your guest.”

  “I did no such thing,” denied the woman. “You jumped to your own conclusions.”

  “But you . . . you asked me to . . . to escort her about town.”

  The dark eyes of Mrs. Stafford-Smyth sharpened and focused on the face of her grandson. “I did,” she said evenly. “And you should bless me for it! Belinda is an intelligent, independent, sensitive, and attractive young lady. Something that you haven’t seen in one little lady for all your lifetime, I’ll wagah. If you are so put off by the fact that she has no mansions, no family jewels, then you are not the man I had hoped you to be.”

  Pierre took a step backward. He knew better than to challenge his grandmother when she was in such a mood.

  “Yet you seriously wish me—?”

  “Yes,” she said sharply. “Yes, I wish you to treat her like the lady she is. Belinda deserves to see Boston—to have a good time. And you should be thankful that you have the opportunity to be the one to escort her.”

  Her dark eyes snapped with the intensity of her feeling, and Pierre closed his lips tightly against the words he wished to speak. Two pairs of eyes measured each other, and then Pierre took a deep breath and shrugged his shoulders.

  “All right,” he said resignedly. “All right, Grandmother. I’ll play your little game. But if word gets out that your grandson is busy escorting a member of the household staff, you could well be the laughingstock of your friends.”

  “Then perhaps they have no business being called my friends,” she retorted, and Pierre knew that he was dismissed—and defeated.

  Twenty-Four

  Extended Horizons

  True to his agreement with his grandmother, Pierre showed Belinda around the city of Boston. He took her to all the parks, museums, and historical sites. They attended plays and musicals. He even accompanied her to church on Sundays. He could tell that Belinda was enjoying it immensely. She seemed to appreciate his company. But he was holding himself aloof in his ongoing concern about the social level of his young companion.

  He knew his grandmother was elated. She made clear she was hoping the relationship would quickly develop into something deeper than friendship. She urged Pierre on to new sights and experiences with Belinda, slipping him extra funds to show her the lavish side of Boston’s fine restaurants, theaters, and social gatherings.

  Gradually Pierre became more and more troubled about the situation he found himself in. He did find enjoyment in the times with Belinda. He no longer worried that she was after his grandmother’s money. In fact, he considered Belinda so naïve that she scarcely knew what money was. She viewed it as something to be slipped to newsboys on the street corners or placed in the offering receptacle on Sunday. No, Belinda was not at Marshall Manor for selfish reasons, he concluded.

  But Pierre still puzzled over it all. Did Belinda, could Belinda, ever really fit into the life of high society? She was so open, so unsophisticated, and he knew she understood little of the social classes that existed in Boston. No, he concluded, Belinda was really from
a different world than the one he knew. He decided to enjoy their outings, their friendship, and leave their relationship at that, even though he was aware that much of Boston’s society, along with Mrs. Stafford-Smythe, already accepted her grandson and the attractive young guest as an established pair.

  Mrs. Stafford-Smyth was resting when there came a gentle tapping on her door.

  “Yes,” she called softly. “Come in.”

  Windsor entered and stood at rigid attention. “Mrs. Celia Prescott is heah to see you, madam.” Then he added in a confidential tone meant only for the ears of his lady, “I must say, she seems to have herself in quite a tizzy.”

  The good lady smiled. Her friend Celia was often in quite a tizzy over one thing or another.

  “Would you take her to the drawing room, Windsah, and have Pottah fix tea? I’ll be right down.”

  “Yes, madam,” answered Windsor with a click of his heels. Mrs. Stafford-Smyth smiled. Poor Windsor. He did insist on being socially correct in spite of their long-term friendship.

  When Mrs. Stafford-Smyth entered the drawing room a few moments later, she found Celia Prescott pacing back and forth in front of the marble fireplace. A lace handkerchief was being brutally attacked in two agitated hands.

  “Celia! So good to see you. Please, won’t you sit down?” she greeted her friend.

  “Virgie, you’ll never guess what they are saying,” began Mrs. Prescott excitedly. “It’s slanderous, that’s what it is. Just slanderous! And you must put a stop to it at once.”

  “Why whatevah are they saying?” asked Mrs. Stafford-Smyth in bewilderment, wondering if there was some news of her far-off grandson that had not yet reached her ears.

  “Miss Belinda—that fine young lady you have staying heah—?”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Stafford-Smyth hesitantly. Surely Peter had not gone and done some foolish thing and unwittingly besmirched Belinda’s name—unthinkable!

  “They are saying—”

  “Who are saying?” cut in Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. If she needed to deal with gossipmongers, she wanted to know exactly whom she was dealing with.