He recalled stories of the Ransoms’ legendary hospitality from his youth, remembered the glow of these lights from across town, and the deep yearning to be a part of their elite gaiety. It was a damn shame to see Ambrose Ransom’s third story collecting dust, but as he approached the entryway to a small arched alcove, he smiled. Besides a few old trunks and bookshelves, the little nook held only a threadbare sofa and a writing desk . . . with a fountain pen on it.
“Perhaps you have mice,” he teased as he gave Celesta a knowing look. “The dust in here’s been disturbed, rather recently, I’m guessing.”
Justine let out a humorless laugh and walked briskly toward the stairway. “Celesta indeed scratches around like a mouse, at all hours of the night,” she replied dryly. “What she sees in that cramped little room, I’ll never know. We used to hang guests’ coats in there when we were hosting a ball.”
“Used to watch the moon rise over the river when we weren’t,” Katherine murmured as she rejoined them on the second-floor landing. “But we’re boring you with our sad stories, Mr. Frye. You’ve been a patient listener.”
“Au contraire,” he replied with a warm smile. “For years I’ve wanted to see the interior of this house, and I’ve enjoyed it thoroughly. I hope Celesta realizes how fortunate she is to be residing here now.”
His hooded glance suggested he was scheming something up. Surely he wouldn’t mention her stories, or—
“And we’re fortunate to have her,” Katherine replied more cheerfully. When they’d come down the grand staircase with its glossy, carved newel posts, she stopped and looked up at him, her expression thoughtful. “And where are you staying these days, Mr. Frye?”
“At the Park Hotel. My room overlooks Central Park, but the view’s nothing like what you have from these bluffs.”
The silence that enveloped the vestibule hung heavy with anticipation, marked by the steady tick of the grandfather clock. Any polite guest would be saying good night, Celesta thought, yet Damon stood among them, still gazing around as though he couldn’t soak up enough of the Ransom atmosphere. Something in the way Aunt Katherine cleared her throat made Celesta’s mouth go dry.
“What would you think about staying here with us, Damon?” the little woman asked in a voice shrill with apprehension. “And instead of paying rent, you could do some painting and papering for us. These days I wonder how prudent it is for three women to live up here, so isolated and defenseless, and—well, we’d love your company, if you think you can tolerate us.”
Damon lit up with a boyish grin and grasped her slender hands between his. “Mrs. Ransom, I couldn’t have phrased it better myself. You’ve got a deal. I’ll move in tomorrow.”
Chapter 7
Damon was barely down the hill on his horse before Justine turned in the doorway, bristling. “How dare you invite him to live here—and without asking me! You two planned this while I was shopping. Plotting against me!”
“Celesta had nothing to do with it,” Katherine said in a shaky voice. “And had we asked, you’d have said no.”
“Of course I would!” Justine closed the door and glowered at them, her silver-streaked bun quivering with her agitation. “What will people say when they hear Damon Frye’s come to live with us?” she demanded. “After they get done snickering at two old women boarding such a handsome young stud, they’ll start watching Celesta, counting the days until she follows in Lucy Bates’s footsteps.”
She turned to her niece, her dark eyes aglitter. “Have you given Eula Perkins a decision yet?”
“No, I—”
“Well, it seems your aunt has left you no proper alternative but to return to honest employment at—”
“And what will that prove?” Aunt Katherine looked jittery, yet she drew herself up to her full height. “You’re blind if you haven’t noticed Patrick’s interest in Celesta. Here, she’ll have two of us to look after her reputation when Damon’s not working at the Cruikshank site. I did this for her, Justine. Ransom Manor is her rightful home. Were your mother alive, she’d be appalled at how yellowed and threadbare her lovely rooms have become.”
“My mother has nothing to do with—”
“And besides,” Katherine continued more firmly, “I thought you liked Mr. Frye. Why, he had you talking and giggling like—”
“I was not giggling.”
“—a young woman again. We need some happiness in this house, Justine,” she stated as her eyes misted over. “We’re shriveling like two peas in a dried-up pod. Damon Frye’s a competent carpenter with a sincere interest in preserving our home. And now that he’s agreed to do the work, we can hardly tell him we’ve changed our minds.”
Justine’s eyes narrowed as she looked down her pointed nose at her sister-in-law. “Yes, you certainly saw to that, didn’t you? After I offered to show him around—merely being the polite hostess—you tossed us out of the frying pan and into the fire. He’ll eat us out of house and home, and he’ll spend so much time making eyes at your niece one can only guess how little work he’ll accomplish in his spare moments.”
“He seems quite industrious to me,” Katherine shot back. “Took the initiative of coming here to repair the gazebo—without expecting pay, might I remind you.”
The old maid grunted. “And you don’t know what he’s trying to catch with his generosity? You are naive, Katherine.”
Celesta’s collar felt unbearably tight. Her two aunts were staring each other down, their silence as heated as their argument, and the last thing she wanted was to draw attention to herself by unbuttoning her top buttons.
Justine tired of their glaring contest and turned her attention to her niece. “And what do you have to say about all this, Celesta?”
She cleared her dry throat. “Nothing.”
“I suppose Frye’s coming here has erased any inclination you may have had about returning to work for Eula Perkins.”
“I...I haven’t decided—”
“Your indecisive nature will cost you, young lady,” Justine said with a wagging finger. “If you can’t see that your aunt has invited the viper from Eden to live in our midst, you’re doomed to share Eve’s fate. And consider yourself warned, Celesta: if I suspect certain behavior going on behind my back, you and Damon Frye shall be banished, never to set foot in this house again. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she whispered.
“Fine. I’m retiring for the evening, and I suggest you do the same. I need to pray over this matter and gather my strength for tomorrow. What with Eula paying a visit and Mr. Frye moving in, it promises to be a trying day.”
Justine marched up the center of the grand staircase, never looking back as her steady tread echoed in the hallway. For a moment the two of them stood watching after her, doom on their faces, until Katherine shifted.
“It’ll serve her right to lie awake half the night,” she said in a terse whisper. “She has no call to give us such a tongue-lashing for wanting to modernize this musty old house, as though she’s the only one who lives here.”
Celesta let out the breath she’d been holding. “It was a surprise when you asked Damon to stay here, Aunt. I can understand why Justine’s so taken aback about—”
“You’re on her side, then? You think I’m a doddering old fool for asking Mr. Frye to help us preserve this home—for you?”
She was caught between another pair of adversaries who, in their way, fought as nastily as Patrick and Damon did. She could either fall victim to Frye’s dark desires, or be cajoled back into the Perkins household for dubious reasons; she could break Katherine’s heart by moving out, or she could inspire Justine’s constant criticism by staying. There was no neutral ground, and there was no way out of a bitter battle on both fronts.
“You’re not old or doddering, Aunt Katherine,” Celesta replied quietly, “but your matchmaking’ll get us both into trouble. Damon could charm a snake—”
“I bet he has a lovely singing voice,” she sighed.
/> “—out of a sack, and fixing up this house is the last reason he jumped at your invitation.”
“Ah. So he’s expressed his interest.” Katherine grinned like a little girl caught spying. “I bet he’s a wonderful kisser, too. He certainly has the lips for it.”
Celesta closed her eyes against the image of a single drop of lemonade trailing down Damon’s dusky neck. “I’m going upstairs now. I think we all need to sleep on this.”
“Hmph. Justine’s no more asleep than you and I. She’s smoking,” Katherine said with an emphatic nod, “and one of these nights she’ll set the room on fire.”
Saturday breakfast was a tense meal: Justine complained her eggs were broken and her bacon burnt, while Katherine retorted that no one should be expected to cook on such an antiquated stove. Celesta kept her eyes on her plate, wishing this day were over. “Someone’s coming,” she announced quietly, not daring to watch Damon approach on his horse.
The two women stopped bickering to peer out the kitchen window. “Punctual to a fault!” Katherine crowed. “I told you Mr. Frye was an industrious sort.”
“And he’s about to be versed in our expectations.” Justine rose from the table, checking her tightly pulled hair as she went to the pantry door. Then she turned, looking sour. “He’ll sleep in the cellar, or he’ll sleep nowhere. I’ll not have my standards compromised during his stay. And he’ll keep his shirt on!”
She was out the door like a whirlwind, and Celesta didn’t envy Frye the lecture he’d get ... yet it was for her own good Justine was behaving this way. Or did the spinster fear for her own moral downfall, after succumbing to Damon’s pleasantries last night? She did have more of a swish in her skirt as she descended the stone path toward where he was squatting to open a can of paint.
Damon let the old girl approach without looking up, knowing just what sort of talking-to she was planning. Not until the hem of her dark blue skirt fluttered to a halt a foot away did he glance up with a polite smile.
“Mr. Frye,” she stated with a businesslike nod.
“Miss Ransom,” he replied, stirring his paint. There was an awkward pause while he waited for her to continue.
“Your prompt completion of this job is appreciated. We don’t look kindly upon slugabeds in this household,” she said hesitantly. “And if you’ve brought your things, we’ve decided to let you sleep in the cellar, where it’s coolest. You’ll undoubtedly appreciate that after a hot day’s labor.”
Swallowing a laugh, he rose to stand beside her, wearing his politest smile. “I sense Katherine’s offer was as big a surprise to you as it was to me,” he said in a genteel voice, “so if you’d rather I didn’t board here—”
“Oh, no, we—we’re proud to have you,” Justine stammered. She twisted her hands into a knot as bright pink spots appeared on her faded cheeks. “My sister-in-law does have a way of speaking before she thinks, but she’s right about the house needing some work.”
“I think you’ll be pleased with the difference fresh paper and paint will make,” he replied suavely. “I hope it’s all right that I’ve brought some samples with me. And I’ll be pleased to pass along my professional discount when I order your materials. It’s the least I can do for the privilege of staying in your home while I work.”
“That will be fine, Mr. Frye,” she murmured.
Her bright eyes strayed to his backside when he leaned over to pick up his paint, and then he noticed she was staring at his shirt, which was unbuttoned down to the bib of his overalls. “Will there be anything else?”
She looked ready to deliver a fire and brimstone sermon, but the scowl passed. When she relaxed, or talked about her proud family past, Justine Ransom was a comely enough woman who would’ve made the right man a devoted, if testy, wife.
“No, that will be all. Carry on, Mr. Frye.”
Indeed I will, he thought as he gave her his best smile. He set his paint brush in motion over and around the strips of new latticework, and when his landlady entered the house his eyes followed the majestic white pillars up to the third story. There, beneath the peak of the portico roof, was the rose window that bathed the ballroom alcove in its pastel lights . . . where Celesta wrote her stories now, pacing when she couldn’t sleep.
Be ready to walk the floor, sweetheart, he thought with a chuckle. You’ll get no rest while Damon Frye’s under your roof.
***
When Celesta heard hoofbeats and carriage wheels on the stone pathway, her heart constricted in her chest. Sometime during the morning Eula and Patrick Perkins would each expect a yes from her, and she didn’t want to say that. Justine had a point: her indecisiveness would only give them leverage to coax her back with. A “no” with a solid reason to decline was her best defense, yet—as Justine also knew—it was far easier to think of a clever reply than to actually deliver it.
And Damon wasn’t helping matters. He was an accomplished whistler, and his light-hearted melodies floated into the kitchen while she and Aunt Katherine were arranging cookies on a plate. She knew as sure as thunder followed lightning that he was here to wreak havoc in her already turbulent world, and that it was only a matter of time before Justine caught her in his damning embrace and cast her out. Perhaps she should return to the Perkins household now and save the humiliation of begging for work when she was destitute.
Yet the twinkle in Patrick’s crystal blue eyes when he stepped through the door behind his mother warned her that he, too, had questionable intentions. “Celesta, it’s so good to see you,” he murmured as he reached for her hands. “Pardon us for being early, but—well, I couldn’t keep Mother home any longer.”
Eula waved him off with an indulgent laugh and hugged Katherine. “And how are you, dear?” she crooned. “You’ve been in my thoughts constantly since the funeral. I imagine Celesta’s presence has been an immeasurable comfort to you.”
Celesta forced a smile. This was all a bit too cozy, considering the Perkins family hadn’t socialized with the Ransoms since before she was born. She felt dowdy in her floral-print cotton dress—especially since Patrick was the prince of fashion in his navy blue blazer with its brass buttons. He and Eula were gazing about the entryway as though they intended to buy it, until Katherine gestured toward the music room.
“As you can see, nothing’s changed since your last visit,” she said with a little laugh, “but we’re—”
“Just as charming as I remember it,” Eula cooed.
“—in the process of redecorating. As soon as Mr. Frye finishes the gazebo repairs, he’ll be papering and painting for us. You can’t imagine how excited we all are.”
Mrs. Perkins dropped into a wing chair near the piano, thunderstruck. “You’ve hired Damon Frye?”
Katherine looked deliriously pleased that she’d caught both Perkinses off guard. “It’s barter, actually,” she said with a catlike smile at Celesta. “We’re giving him room and board in exchange for his labor. So much nicer for him than a hotel, you know, and we couldn’t ask for a more congenial carpenter. He’s a fascinating man, with a genuine passion for preserving Ransom Manor’s distinguished heritage.”
Eula fidgeted with the lace bow at her throat. “Well, I declare....”
“And Justine’s going along with this?” Patrick asked. “She had nothing good to say about him after Rachel’s service.”
“And who does she like?” Katherine replied with a roll of her eyes. “She expresses her regrets for not joining us, as she’s preparing Mr. Frye’s . . . quarters.”
Silence. Celesta took her aunt’s cue and stood faring their flabbergasted guests with her most polite smile, until she could stifle her laughter no longer. “I’ll get our tea,” she murmured, and quickly left the room.
Bless her, Katherine had yanked the rug from under Patrick and his mother, and it was the funniest thing she’d seen in weeks. By tomorrow, everyone in Hannibal would know about their unorthodox arrangement with Damon Frye, because Eula couldn’t keep this scandalous news to he
rself. Her aunt had also implied that she was staying on here during the redecorating and after, preparing them to look for a different domestic.
Celesta glanced at the tea tray and went to the dining room for the silver sugar bowl and creamer. She was glad the ice had been broken concerning her employment, yet she had to be even more careful dealing with Patrick now: he’d want her back, if only to keep her away from Damon Frye.
The sugar bowl was nearly empty, so she squatted to find the correct container in the dark cupboard ... spice jars, oatmeal, a lard tin, a sticky honey crock. She opened a jar of white crystals and quickly replaced the lid when she smelled a peculiar almond odor, then finally spooned sugar from their everyday bowl into the silver one. Then she poured boiling water over the tea in the china pot and let it steep while she thought of what she’d say to Patrick.
From the cellar came the sound of heavy furniture being dragged across the floor ... a futile effort, because Frye wouldn’t be content to stay down there. Voices drifted in from the music room, and Celesta held her breath, listening. That was Justine fussing at somebody—yet she was in the cellar! She hurried through the dining room with the loaded tray to see what was going on.
She was greeted by the ladies’ high-pitched giggles as Patrick turned to face her, his fist on his hip. “Slow as you were, we thought you had to harvest those tea leaves,” he quipped. “Surely Eula Perkins didn’t tolerate such tardiness.”
Celesta flushed but couldn’t help laughing. She’d forgotten his talent for imitating voices, and her spinster aunt’s was his latest achievement—one of his best. “She didn’t tolerate making fun of one’s elders, either,” she replied, “but you could always make your mother and her friends laugh with that trick, couldn’t you?”
Patrick’s auntlike frown became a subtle smile. “You enjoyed it, too, Celesta. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how I used to read fairy tales to you, with a different voice for each character.”
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