FOURTEEN
Gwen arrived at Morgan’s home at three minutes to the hour the following Tuesday afternoon. She had meant to cancel the lesson. More than once she’d begun a note to tell him she couldn’t do it. The notes had ended up unfinished in the trash.
A woman wearing a black dress and matching apron answered her knock. “You must be Miss Arlington.” The woman opened the door wide. “Mr. McKinley told me to expect you. I’m Mrs. Cheevers, the housekeeper. Please come in.”
“Thank you.” Gwen stepped into the entry hall. “I believe we’ve met before, Mrs. Cheevers. At the Humphrey girl’s wedding last year.”
“Oh. Of course.” The housekeeper motioned with her right hand. “If you’ll make yourself comfortable in the front parlor, Mr. McKinley will join you soon. He’s in a meeting with Mr. Doyle.”
Mrs. Cheevers led her into a beautifully appointed room with a high ceiling and tall windows that afforded a view of the town and the mountain range to the south. The piano, which stood near one of those windows, had been polished to a high sheen.
“May I bring you some refreshment, Miss Arlington?”
“No, thank you.” Gwen made her way to the piano and slipped onto the bench.
Her grandparents owned a grand piano similar to this one. Her own lessons had begun on that instrument when she was six years old, before her hands could properly span the keys. She recalled many an hour in the music room of her grandparents’ home in Hoboken, practicing her scales over and over again.
Mr. Kirby, her teacher, had been a strange-looking little man with thick glasses that rode the tip of a birdlike nose. “Do it again, child. Concentrate this time,” he’d told her.
Sometimes Gwen had cried in frustration, but her tears hadn’t moved her mother. Elizabeth Arlington had wanted Gwen to learn to play and learn to play she would. A musical ability, she’d told Gwen repeatedly, was one of the social graces. Every young lady of quality played an instrument.
Her mother couldn’t have guessed that Gwen would one day be paid to teach others.
“Poor Mother,” Gwen whispered as she placed her fingers on the ivory keys. “What a disappointment I am to her.”
She heard men’s voices and twisted on the bench an instant before Morgan and Fagan Doyle came into view.
When Morgan saw her through the parlor doorway, he smiled. “Ah, you’re here already.” He stepped into the room.
“It’s now past three o’clock.”
“Is it?” He checked his watch. “I hadn’t realized. I am sorry to have kept you waiting.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Fagan, you remember Miss Arlington. She’s here to give me a lesson on the piano.”
Gwen slid to the end of the bench as the two men approached.
“’Tis a pleasure to see you again, Miss Arlington.” He gave her a broad wink. “Be patient with Morgan. I wouldn’t call him daft, but still…” He shrugged as his voice faded to silence.
“Be on your way, Fagan.” Morgan feigned a scowl.
Fagan laughed. “He has no sense of humor, that one. None at all. Have a care, miss.”
“I will, Mr. Doyle.” She grinned at him, enjoying the easy banter of the men. “Thank you for the warning.”
As Fagan left the room, Morgan looked at Gwen and in a stage whisper said, “I most certainly do have a sense of humor. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t survive having Fagan for a friend.”
His eyes, she thought, contained so much life, and his laugh was deep and rich. Had she noticed that before?
Swallowing hard, Gwen reached into her bag and withdrew the sheet music she’d brought with her. “We should begin your lesson, Mr. McKinley.”
“Of course.” He moved to the left side of the bench and sat beside her, his shoulder almost touching hers.
It was quite warm in the room. Perhaps she should ask that a window be opened.
Morgan put his fingers on the piano keys, his left little finger resting on lower C, his right thumb resting on middle C.
Gwen gave him a sharp look. “You’ve had lessons before.”
“Yes, but that was years ago.”
“But I thought — ”
He pressed middle C with his thumb, three times in quick succession. “My parents and I heard Percy Grainger play in the London recital that established his reputation as a virtuoso. I’ll never forget it.” Slowly, Morgan played the notes of the C-major scale with his right hand. “I was twenty years old at the time. Percy Grainger was nineteen. I remember wanting to learn to play just like him.”
How easily he spoke of his travels in England and Europe, of the grand hotels and spas he’d visited, of seeing one of the great pianists of their day perform in London. Morgan had led the sort of life her mother could only dream of, the kind of life she’d wanted for her daughter if only Gwen would have married well.
Poor Mother.
Gwen’s maternal grandparents were well-to-do merchants in New Jersey. Part of the nouveau riche, their money had opened many doors for Elizabeth and Gwen. But some doors at the highest echelons of good, long-established society had remained firmly closed. Gwen hadn’t cared, but her mother had.
What would Mother think if she could see me now?
Morgan’s left hand began the scale, moving from left to right, but he struck a sour note as he crossed his middle finger over thumb. He stopped, chuckled, then looked at her. “As you can tell, I’m no virtuoso.”
Gwen swallowed again. “You’ll get better.” Her heart beat an uncertain rhythm in her chest. “It only takes practice.”
How easy it would be to lean to his right and kiss her lips. Morgan longed to know if she tasted as sweet as she looked.
As if she’d read his mind, her eyes widened and color infused her cheeks. She slipped from the bench and stood beside it, clenching her hands at her waist. “Please play that scale again, Mr. McKinley.”
He shouldn’t be thinking about how easy it would be to kiss her or how sweet she looked. That wasn’t why he was here. He concentrated again on the piano keys. His playing felt awkward, his fingers stiff. How many years had it been since he’d sat on a piano bench, his fingers touching ivory? Too many.
“Do you know your C-major chords?”
“Yes.” He positioned his hands, hearing the notes in his head even before he played them.
“Now the G-major scale.”
He thought about it a moment. Ah, yes. F-sharp. He played the scale, first with one hand, then the other, and finally together.
Gwen moved to the bend in the piano beside the open lid. Her expression was grave. “You deceived me, sir.”
His fingers stilled.
“You let me believe you were a beginner.”
He wished he could deny the accusation, but he couldn’t. Though he hadn’t lied to her, he also hadn’t revealed the whole truth. Sometimes omission was the same as a lie.
“How well can you play?”
“Not as well as I’d like. That’s why I asked for the lessons.”
She studied him with a narrowed gaze.
“I didn’t intend to deceive you, Miss Arlington, but I did and I’m sorry.” He stood, shoving the bench away with the back of his knees. “I apologize. Please forgive me.”
Seconds passed like minutes as she appeared to weigh his words. He felt like a prisoner awaiting the verdict. Would it be freedom or the gallows? Would she remain or walk out the door?
At last, she spoke. “Tell me about the instruction you’ve received.”
“I had a few lessons when I was a boy of about ten or so, but like I said, my father had other aspirations for me.” He shook his head, envisioning his father. “Don’t misunderstand me — he was a wonderful man. But he held strong opinions about the proper roles for men and women. Musical interests were not for his son.” He chose not to tell Gwen what his father would have thought of a woman running for mayor. “I was twenty-six when he passed away. I hadn’t lost the desire to learn to play the piano, so I hired an instructor who taught
me the basics. But then my mother’s health worsened, and I started traveling with her. I played whenever I could. I even mastered a few songs, but my technique wasn’t good.”
His mother hadn’t cared about his technique. Over and over again, she’d asked him to play “Amazing Grace,” “Jesus, Lover of My Soul,” and other favorite hymns. She’d loved it even when he could only play the melody with his right hand. “It comforts me,” she had said to him countless times.
Morgan cleared his throat as he tamped down the poignant memories.
“How long has it been since you played?” Gwen’s voice was filled with compassion, as if she’d heard the words he hadn’t spoken.
“About four years.”
“Nothing is lost. You’ll remember what you learned, I promise you. It’s just a bit rusty.” Gwen motioned toward the piano keys. “Let’s begin our lesson again, shall we?”
She smiled at him.
And in that moment he realized something. A man couldn’t plan if or when he would find a woman who would win his regard. It simply happened. Such was the case with the enchanting Miss Arlington. Despite his intentions to remain free of attachments, despite all his promises to himself, he’d fallen for her like a lemming tumbling over a cliff into the ocean, headlong and mindless of the danger. And unless he missed his guess, it was much too late to save himself. Although she might not know it yet, Gwen already held his heart captive in her hands.
Good thing he knew God’s timing was perfect. He couldn’t say much for his own.
Gwen was not so naive that she didn’t recognize the light of interest in Morgan’s eyes. She’d seen it in men’s eyes before. She saw it in Charles Benson’s eyes every time they were together. And yet Morgan’s gaze seemed different. As if he saw beneath the surface and knew the real Guinevere Arlington.
Which was a ridiculous, romantic notion, and she was not a ridiculous, romantic woman. Besides, in her experience, few men saw beneath the surface when it came to women.
She drew herself up, trying hard to look every inch the teacher. “Please play the C-major scale again. A little faster this time.” Then, to make certain her thoughts didn’t continue to wander where they shouldn’t, she moved to stand behind Morgan.
The remainder of the lesson progressed in a normal fashion with her student running through the scales and chords, roughly at first but improving with each try. Gwen suspected she would soon hear him play more difficult melodies.
And though she was loath to admit it, she looked forward to listening to him play again, next week and the one after that and the one after that.
FIFTEEN
Harrison Carter closed the office door and turned toward his visitor. “What can you tell me? Why was she in his home?”
Elias Spade, a short, bespectacled man, shook his head. “Miss Arlington’s giving McKinley piano lessons.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true, sir. She was there just over half an hour, and I could observe the two of them clearly. My view was unobstructed.”
Harrison crossed to the window that overlooked Main Street. Kitty-corner from his law offices stood the sandstone municipal building that housed both county and city governments. For more than a decade, all the major decisions regarding what was and wasn’t done in this area had been made in Harrison’s office first. He wasn’t about to let anything upset the order of things.
Piano lessons. What was she thinking? Foolish girl.
This was why women shouldn’t be involved in politics or business. They had no head for it. They were naive and unable to make the types of decisions men made on a daily basis. Women belonged in the home and not in the halls of government. To think he would be saddled with this foolish female for the next four years set his teeth on edge.
Maybe he shouldn’t have given her his support. But what else could he have done? If he’d backed Tattersall, he’d have been labeled crazy. And while he could have run for mayor himself, he knew his own interests were better served in his position as head of the county commissioners.
He cursed softly. He would have to assert a little more control over Miss Arlington.
“What more have you learned?”
Spade answered, “McKinley owns the land free and clear. No mortgage. No encumbrances. Almost a hundred acres.” He cleared his throat. “And from what I hear, he’s got some connection to the governor or some senator. I’d be careful if I were you.”
“Moses Alexander isn’t interested in what’s happening in Bethlehem Springs. He’s too busy trying to make Idaho a dry state to notice us.” Harrison sat in an oversized leather chair. “What about McKinley’s business practices? What about his family?”
“Sorry, sir. Nothing you don’t already know.”
Harrison felt his temper rising. “What am I paying you for, then?”
“Mr. Carter, Morgan McKinley is one of the fifty wealthiest men in the country. What he doesn’t want anyone to know, they aren’t going to know. I’ve done my best, but there just isn’t anything more to be learned.”
“Get out.” Harrison waved his hand. “Get out of my sight.”
Elias Spade didn’t waste any time following the order.
Harrison got up from his chair and began to pace the length of the office, hands clasped behind his back. He had to stop McKinley from completing that resort, had to force him to give up and sell the land — at a price far less than it was worth. Let him build his resort someplace else. Any place but where it was right now.
Gwen sat back on her heels and wiped the back of her left gardening glove across her forehead. It was unusually warm for early June, and her flowers loved it. Unfortunately, so did the weeds. But she would persevere until every last one of them was gone. Her flowerbeds were one of her joys.
And as much as she disliked the weeding chore, the task did provide time for praying about and thinking through matters that bothered her. Take, for instance, Mr. McKinley. He bothered her a great deal.
She hadn’t seen him since Tuesday, not since she’d gone to his home for his first piano lesson. Yet he continued to weigh on her mind. And whenever she thought of him, she felt a strange — what? A strange longing. As if something were missing in her life.
She yanked another weed from the earth.
What a ridiculous notion. Nothing was missing from her life. She was content in every way. Content in her own small home. Content with teaching her music students and writing her pieces for the Daily Herald. Content tending to her colorful garden. Her life was full of friends and worthwhile activities, and her faith gave her purpose. She didn’t need anything more. Not a single, solitary thing.
If she’d wanted more, she could have had it. She could have married Bryant Hudson when she was nineteen. Bryant was from a family of good society, old money, dignified and responsible. Her mother and his parents had arranged the marriage, and she’d liked Bryant well enough at first, before she truly got to know him. They’d become engaged with the usual fanfare and had planned to wed as soon as she finished her schooling — schooling he believed was a waste of time and money.
From the start, her fiancé had made it clear he cared nothing for Gwen’s thoughts or opinions. When she brought up items she’d read in the newspaper to him, especially matters of politics or economics, he would look at her as if she’d grown a second head. In his mind, such things couldn’t be of any interest to a young woman.
Gwen straightened and brushed loose hairs away from her face.
Oh, how close she had come to making a tragic error. She might have ignored all the warning signs and married him despite her growing uneasiness. But then had come the day when she’d mentioned to Bryant her plans to attend a meeting led by supporters of woman’s suffrage. He had forbidden her to go.
In a flash, she’d seen her future. She would be expected to pretend she hadn’t a serious thought in her head. She would be expected to decorate her husband’s arm and her husband’s home, nothing more — another possession
he could brag about to his friends. Bryant didn’t love her, held no special affection for her, would never think of her as an equal partner in marriage.
She’d ended her engagement that very day and had promised herself to never again give anyone else control over her life.
Sadness washed over Gwen, remembering how her poor mother had taken to her bed, distraught over the news of the broken engagement. Maybe, if her mother had tried to understand Gwen’s decision, things wouldn’t have become so strained between them. But then, if things hadn’t been so strained, maybe Gwen wouldn’t have come West to meet her father and sister and maybe she wouldn’t have made Bethlehem Springs her home. So she supposed it was all for the best.
Rising from the ground, she removed her gloves and dropped them into a basket with her gardening tools. As she turned toward the porch, she heard an automobile putter to a halt on the street. Her heart gave a little hiccup, then quickened. A moment later, Morgan appeared at her front gate.
He smiled when he saw her. “Good day, Miss Arlington.” He tipped his hat, looking dapper in his light-colored summer suit.
“Mr. McKinley.” She brushed at the dirt and grass stains on her apron. She must look a fright.
“You’ve been gardening.”
“Yes.”
He opened the gate and stepped into the yard. “You have the loveliest gardens in town.”
Her face warmed at his compliment.
“I am here on a matter of business.”
“Business?”
“Regarding the campaign.”
“Oh.” She picked up the basket and moved toward the porch, hoping to put her thoughts in order. “Do sit down, Mr. McKinley, while I get us something cool to drink.” She motioned toward the chairs.
“Don’t go to any trouble for me. I know I’m intruding.”
“Not at all.” What was wrong with her? Let him state his business and leave. “I won’t be but a moment.”
She set the basket on the porch, opened the screen door, and stepped inside. The mirror over the table in the entry told her that not only was her hair disheveled but there was a smudge of dirt on her forehead as well. She whipped off her soiled apron and used one corner of it to wipe the dirt from her face as she headed for her bedroom. Once there, she quickly brushed her hair back into its proper place, all the while telling herself that the only reason she cared about her appearance was because of the election. She did not want to feel at a disadvantage with her opponent.
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