by Tracy Sumner
Charlie honestly didn’t know what to think of his behavior. He was distant and detached, yet he seemed to be acutely aware of her. For the first time in her life, she felt spoiled. Pampered.
Although, it presented a problem when the person doing the pampering was barely speaking to her.
* * *
A soft knock on the door drew Charlie from her restless slumber. She had tossed and turned all night, tangling the sheets about her. Foolish dreams, feverish and unattainable. She shook her head and turned to her back. A quick glance at the window showed the sun was up, high and bright in the sky.
“Miss Whitney? Are you awake?” Mrs. Peters asked from the other side of the door.
Charlie sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest. The dutiful chaperone come to wake her recalcitrant charge. “Yes, Mrs. Peters, I’m awake. You may come in if you like.”
The door swung open slowly, Mrs. Peters’ head peeking around it. When she saw that Charlie was indeed decent, she pushed the door wide and walked in. What had she expected, to find her naked?
“Miss Whitney, I know how tired you must be from our arduous journey. A breakneck pace Mr. Chase set for us, I will say.” She patted the knot at the back of her head and sniffed in a thoroughly ladylike fashion. “We have tasks to complete today, so I suggest you rise, wash up and eat something light to settle your undoubtedly nervous stomach.”
Charlie smiled. “My stomach isn’t nervous.” It wasn’t anything but empty. Nothing light would fix that.
Mrs. Peters clicked her tongue. “Well, it will be. With all the travel and excitement, any well-bred young woman’s stomach would be apt to become a bit restless.”
Well-bred? What had Chase told the woman? Mrs. Peters obviously had not lived in Edgemont long enough to hear the facts. Also, what tasks could they possibly have to complete?
“Tasks?” Charlie asked as she twisted the cool sheet between her fingers.
Mrs. Peters nodded and strolled to the window. The yellow silk curtains danced, influenced by a gentle breeze. Sun poured in around her chaperone, casting her in dark contour. Charlie supposed this was a gesture to allow her—in all her maidenly, well-bred modesty—to crawl from the bed and slip into whatever a well-bred young maiden slipped into upon rising.
Mrs. Peters threw her a tight glance, suggesting she should get on with it.
Charlie slid from the bed and just missed the stool placed next to it, her feet hitting the floor with a thump. She grimaced and hurried to the wardrobe, where Mrs. Beard had insisted upon placing her meager possessions. As Charlie opened the doors, she noted her dresses, looking rather pathetic dangling there, taking up so little space. Peeling off her nightdress, she slipped one of the two clean dresses remaining—this one blue—over her head. She was pulling the sleeves into place when Mrs. Peters executed a graceful rotation.
She approached Charlie, her scrutinizing gaze sweeping from head to foot, at last falling to the nightdress puddled on the floor. She sniffed for the second time that morning. “Thank goodness I have connections. Mrs. Follette will be here within the hour, and I must say” —with another look thrown to the rumpled nightdress, then another to Charlie’s simple attire— “she is desperately needed.”
Her chaperone’s disdain did not trouble Charlie. She had endured that her entire life. “Who is Mrs. Follette?” She picked up her nightdress and began to fold it, something she rarely did at home.
Mrs. Peters frowned, took the nightdress from her and folded it with quick efficiency. “Only one of the finest seamstresses in Virginia. I will have you know that she had a waiting list for appointments. She is a personal friend. I can assure you an appointment without my reference would have been impossible. Even with Mr. Chase’s adequate funds.”
Charlie’s took a step forward. “A seamstress? Mr. Chase’s funds? I don’t need a seamstress, and I don’t need Mr. Chase’s funds!”
“My dear, he is being most generous sponsoring a mere employee of his. Why, you are not even distant family.”
“I don’t—”
Mrs. Peters thrust the folded nightdress into her hands, promptly ending her rebuttal. “Miss Whitney, for a two-week visit, your apparel needs are simple. But my dear, you have three dresses, if I am not mistaken, hanging in this wardrobe. Three basic, inappropriate dresses.”
“My dresses are fine. I made them, thank you very much.”
Mrs. Peters’ eyebrows lifted at that. “Well, they are indeed suitable for Edgemont,” she amended. “Richmond, though, requires a finer level of attire.”
“I don’t know what Chase, um, what Mr. Chase told you...” She felt her temper rise. Just thinking of Chase’s high-handed tactics. Oh! She had reminded herself again and again that Chase believed he was doing the right thing.
While she was at it, she should set her chaperone straight. It would certainly simplify matters for the remainder of their stay in Richmond. “Mrs. Peters, to put it plainly, I’m here because Mr. Chase was afraid to leave me alone in Edgemont. With the newspaper. He feared I would cause trouble. More than I have already, I mean.”
Charlie watched a sly smile cross Mrs. Peters’ face. Either her chaperone had heard the gossip and didn’t believe it, or she discounted someone’s motives. Chase’s? That was impossible, considering his conduct during their travel. It was obvious, from his distant manner that he wished she were anywhere but where she was—with him.
Her chaperone continued to stare at her, as if Charlie had never spoken. “The dresses I have are quite suitable. There will be no parties or social gatherings. I avoid those as studiously as possible in Edgemont, why would I attend them here? Besides, Mr. Chase has no intention of taking me anywhere but to his office one afternoon. Oh, and a short tour of Richmond, at best.” Chase could hardly stand to look at her. She was sure soirees were not on his list of events.
“You must be mistaken. It makes no matter.” Mrs. Peters nodded toward the wardrobe. “Your clothing is not appropriate for even a simple tour of the city.”
“I cannot possibly let Mr. Chase furnish my clothing. I will not.”
Mrs. Peters softened her tone. “My dear, I am arranging this affair; there is absolutely nothing improper. Plus,” she whispered, “for Mr. Chase, this expenditure amounts to mere pocket change.”
Charlie had nothing to say to that. She had known, of course, from the way Chase lifted a glass to his lips to the way he held a pencil, that he was a refined man. His education and breeding spoke for themselves, as those things tended to do, but perhaps she hadn’t realized how very wealthy he was. His house definitely spoke volumes. “I can’t accept, Mrs. Peters. Really, I don’t want to cause you to worry. It’s not the impropriety.” She laughed at that. “It just feels wrong to me somehow.”
Mrs. Peters patted her shoulder. “Go and have breakfast. We can talk later.”
Charlie went down to breakfast, unable to shake the feeling that she was being outmaneuvered by her chaperone.
* * *
Only moments later, another of Mrs. Peters’ soft knocks sounded on the oak doors leading into the library. Mrs. Beard had told Mrs. Peters she would find Mr. Chase there, as he refused to use his study as a study.
Mrs. Peters, after years of owning a business that served an aristocratic clientele, could attest to the strange behavior of those with money. Like Mrs. Beard, she observed—often with great interest—but never commented. Which she advised Mrs. Beard, who was none too happy to hear it, to do in the future.
“Mr. Chase? It is Mrs. Peters. May I have a brief moment of your time?” He did not answer, so she knocked again.
Papers shuffled, then his deep voice called, “Please enter.”
The room, a magnificent mixture of dark wood and leather, lit by sunlight spilling in the floor-to-ceiling windows, fit such an imposing man. “I’m sorry to disturb you.” She halted as she encountered his cool expression. “You must be very busy. Yet, I have run into a small problem.”
Adam exhaled and rubb
ed his eyes. “Let’s get this over with. What has she done?”
She blinked in the sharp sunlight, which for a moment obscured Adam’s face from her vision. “How do you know—”
He leaned back in his chair with a laugh. “After spending even one hour with her, how can you ask that?”
Mrs. Peters stepped further into the room, stopping behind the chair sitting closest to his desk and resting her hands on the back. “She is a willful young woman, I will concede.”
Mrs. Peters also found her to be warm and friendly, and quite beautiful, though abysmally unpolished.
He laid his pen on the desk, still smiling. He appeared to be waiting for her to continue. She cleared her throat, trying to avoid the strength of his gaze. “Actually” —she squeezed the chair and rushed into her prepared speech— “Miss Whitney needs proper clothing, which she does not have. She has no dressing gowns, no walking dresses, no morning dresses, no evening dresses. Not to mention a bonnet, gloves, slippers.” She sighed long and hard. “Those boots of hers are without a doubt the ugliest things I have seen since my dog had the mange.”
He laughed into his fist. “The boots are hideous.”
“Mr. Chase, this is hardly amusing. How can you possibly present her in public looking like a ragamuffin?”
His smile softened. “Miss Whitney has her own sense of style.”
Mrs. Peters sniffed and pursed her lips. “Yes, I suppose. But she must have—”
He picked up a paper from his desk, prepared to dive back into his work. “Do whatever is necessary. Just send the invoices to me.”
“That is the problem.”
“The invoices?”
“Miss Whitney does not think it is right, as she terms it, for you to pay for her clothing. I told her it was entirely proper. Apparently, that was not the aspect of the situation she was concerned with. I believe it is a matter of principle.” She rolled her eyes. The idea of a young woman reflecting upon her integrity was an absurd notion. An absurdly masculine notion. “I have sent for the seamstress.”
Adam shifted in the chair, his head falling back as he ejected a bark of laughter. “You mentioned propriety? To her?” He laughed again and wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand.
Mrs. Peters glared at him as she gripped the chair. “I fail to find any humor in this situation.”
He unsuccessfully tried to contain a smile. “When is the esteemed seamstress supposed to arrive?”
Mrs. Peters released a held breath. Mr. Chase was finally going to cooperate. “In less than an hour.”
“Too late to cancel the appointment then.”
“Cancel the appointment?”
“How about this? I’ll talk to your charge” —he laughed as he said this— “on my way out. You handle the rest. I have too much to do to play nursemaid.” He gave her a look that clearly stated, That is what you are here for.
Mrs. Peters dusted her hands together, closing the discussion. “Miss Whitney is simply more tenacious than I would have imagined.”
He shrugged and turned his gaze—and his attention—back to the work upon his desk. “I warned you.”
Mrs. Peters circled back, cleanly dismissed. Mr. Chase had stated that Miss Whitney was headstrong and determined. That her upbringing had been...exceptional.
But he had omitted a significant ingredient of the recipe. That she, Mrs. Jeffrey Peters, formerly Alice Fripp of the Richmond, Virginia Fripps, was in attendance not only to chaperone an impulsive, spiritual young woman, but to serve as a barrier between two people she suspected were in love with each other.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Longing
Strong persistent desire or craving, especially for something unattainable or distant.
Adam left his bedroom, tugging impatiently at his neckpiece. God, he hated the damn things. He longed for an unbuttoned shirt and a pair of trousers that did not chafe. He had conveniently forgotten the impracticality of Richmond’s formalities: appropriate dress for morning and evening, parties and socials, meetings and appointments. Now here he was, off to recruit another hapless soul into the world of tasteful fashion and refined protocol.
He paused at the bottom of the staircase as warm laughter met his ears: Charlie’s laughter. He would recognize hers in a room filled with a hundred others’. Not to mention her scent, her smile, her body, her walk. Shoving aside a strong pulse of longing, he followed the sound.
The dining room was empty, he noted as he passed through the archway. The nut brown sideboard, filled with a vast array of muffins, juices and pastries, looked undisturbed. He turned his head as another burst of laughter cut into his skin as sharply as sand in a driving wind.
Pushing forward, he walked into the kitchen, the door propped open with a large, red brick. Again he paused, catching sight of Charlie, her round bottom indelicately planted atop an enormous chopping block that had been in his family for three generations. His kitchen staff of two surrounded her.
Mrs. Beard and Miss Cameron stood there smiling and laughing as Charlie told some undoubtedly captivating tale. She flipped her hands as she talked, eager and free. Her feet hung far from the floor, her legs swaying in a two-rhythm beat to her own music as usual.
He laughed—he could not stop it—and came into the room. This was the young woman Mrs. Peters hoped to reform with a few scraps of silk and a bonnet.
Charlie looked up as he crossed the room. She smiled, forgetting for the moment that they were trying to keep a healthy distance between them.
He stopped before her, returning the smile. Her knees brushed lightly against his hips. He lifted a hand to wipe a stray crumb from her chin. Her skin burned his fingers.
He made no move to withdraw. She made no move to withdraw.
“We made flapjacks, Mr. Chase,” Mrs. Beard said as she pulled a tray of biscuits from the oven. A brawny, strapping woman of sixty, Mrs. Beard had been the cook for his family since he was a boy.
Adam dropped his hand and stepped back, tearing his gaze from Charlie’s. So much for firm resolve. His heart felt as if it was near to bursting from his chest. And all because she had brushed her knee against him. Pathetic. He made a mental note to send Marilyn a message that he was in town. Perhaps she had time to see him tonight.
“Miss Whitney likes flapjacks for breakfast. Not all those fancy pastries. No breakfast trays for her.” Marilyn always insisted on a breakfast tray.
He sent a frown Mrs. Beard’s way, through it was difficult to intimidate a woman who had seen you in short trousers. He glanced back at Charlie, but she was staring at the floor. He shifted from one foot to the other, the heat in the kitchen suddenly soaking through his crisp cotton shirt. A bead of sweat trickled down his back. “Mrs. Beard, if I could just have a moment with Miss Whitney.”
Mrs. Beard nodded, whisking her assistant into the dining room with her.
Wondering why he was going to touch her again, Adam placed his hand beneath Charlie’s chin, tilting her head up. Her face revealed a mixture of confusion and an odd little glimmer he did not care to define. “You don’t have to hide in the kitchen with my staff.”
She puckered her brow, a thoughtful expression entering her eyes. “I have more in common with the kitchen staff, Chase, whether you comprehend that or not.”
He dropped his hand and sighed, realizing all at once that she wanted to keep herself from him as much as he wanted to keep himself from her. She was even desperate enough to bring up class distinctions, for God’s sake. He supposed he should be grateful. “In regard to this seamstress...”
Charlie hopped off the chopping block, her ugly, black boots choosing that moment to peek from beneath her skirt. She walked past him to the cast iron stove where cornpone sat in a tin pan. Breaking off a piece, she popped it into her mouth. “No,” she said, chewing. “You’ve spent too much money already. Besides, I don’t need any clothes. What are you and Mrs. Peters trying to do? Turn me into Lila?” She looked over her shoulder, her gaze catching his
as he looked over his shoulder.
“This is ridiculous, Charlie. I have two women in this house, two more than I need, and I’m trying like hell to please them both. Just order the dresses. Mrs. Peters is right. We may go to dinner in town one night.” He threw up his hands in disgusted resignation. Did he imagine the calm reflected in her expression? He pushed a little harder. “I forced this decision on you. You would still be in Edgemont if it were not for me. Think of it that way.”
She shrugged and took another bite. “I don’t know much about seamstresses.”
“You just stand there with your spine straight and your arms raised. They measure, you pick colors and fabrics and styles.”
She did a slow turn, her bright blue gaze centered on him. “How do you know?”
Ah, she was much more courageous than he. She didn’t need him. He was not even sure she wanted him. But she was curious. Curious about the emotions that constantly jumped between them. She was courageous enough to tread where he was not.
He walked away from her, through the dining room and across the entrance hall to the door. He heard her follow. There was no way to be quiet in those boots. He smelled flour or cinnamon—not the usual scent of roses—following him, too.
“Wait,” she whispered from behind.
He stopped and tilted his head to the ceiling, then drew a breath and half-turned, still facing the door, ready to flee at any moment.
The sight of her in his home, surrounded by possessions he neither loved nor coveted, shook him. He coveted her, her body, her mind, her soul. If only he could devour her, then cast her aside when he was appeased. But he liked her too much to do that. Besides, he had never been that kind of man.
Better to stick with the ones who cast you aside.
“Thank you,” she mouthed across the few feet separating them. Her lips opened and closed, her tongue peeking for a moment between her teeth.