Envy the Wind

by Anita Davison

  “You?” His mouth twisted. “I doubt that, ma’am. But should the property be of interest, perhaps you might refer your husband to me? I'm always open to new clients.” He flicked back one side of his open overcoat and delved into an inside pocket. “I have a card here somewhere.” He frowned, slapped several other pockets, though no card appeared. “I must have left them in another coat.”

  “I don’t see these clients of yours.” Grace gave the street a swift look in both directions, doubting both his claims. What genuine broker left his business cards behind?

  “They’ll be along in a while, I expect. Fine properties like this don’t come along often.” He tucked his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat, his chin raised to survey the street.

  “Not that fine. Unless of course you plan on fixing those shingles.”

  “Shingles?” He glanced up at the house, confused.

  “The ones below the little balcony have rotted.” She pointed to the upper story. “Most probably caused by the holes in the guttering. The whole building would also benefit from some new paint.” Though the roof had no tell-tale dips which revealed damaged purlins, nor did the tiles have any patches of moss.

  “Minor details, ma’am. None of which are serious defects in an otherwise sound property.”

  Grace smiled, confident in her own assessment.

  One of Angus MacKinnon’s passions in life, apart from the church, was buying up houses. He owned entire streets in Hampstead and Belsize Park which he rented out at punishing rates and one thing she learned from him was to always buy the worst house in the best street.

  “The garden needs clearing out too. Is that an old sink over there?” She nodded to where an overgrown patch of weeds half concealed a corner of thick white porcelain.

  “Er- It might be. This is a solid house, and I happen to know a gentleman brought up a family of nine here.”

  “Then it’s a pity he didn’t maintain it properly.” His presumption made her disinclined to be polite towards him. “But I’m sure you’re right, and I hope it sells soon. Good day to you.”

  “Now, there’s no need to be hasty.” He stepped in front of her as she went to move past him. “You strike me as a lady of discernment, Miss-?”

  “It’s Mrs. Mrs MacKinnon.”

  His eyes widened. “Of the Highfield MacKinnon's?”

  Grace returned his steady stare, but stayed silent, following John Cahill's advice to let people assume a connection to one of the Island's leading families.

  “Perhaps we could begin again.” He lifted his fedora briefly before replacing it. “Charles Keogh, at your service. I would be happy to show you around the house. “

  “I’m-I’m not sure” Instantly she regretted having goaded him when a refusal would make her look stupid. It couldn’t do any harm to look, and it was a lovely house, although larger than she would need. “All right. But only until your clients arrive.”

  “Excellent.” He pushed on the gate, which stuck so he applied some force to open it. He gave it a final shove, which produced an ear-splitting shriek as it scraped across the stone path. He unlocked a solid front door flanked with stained glass panels in an intricate floral design which threw long rectangles of color onto the tiled floor of an enclosed lobby.

  She hesitated, her triumph at having bested him instantly replaced by apprehension. What was she thinking to agree to enter an empty house with a strange man? Her experience with Mr Jardine had turned out well, but that had been more sheer luck than judgment. She ought to take more care, but her desire to see the house overruled her good sense.

  “Is there something wrong?” He frowned as he started to close the door behind her.

  “Um-no, not at all. However, would you mind leaving the door open?”

  “For the Millers of course. I should have thought of that. Then they’ll see it is ready to inspect when they arrive.” He strode into the hall, his hands splayed. “As you can see, this is an unusually grand entrance, not evident by the first sight of the house.” The wide hallway with its arched cornices and a slate tiled floor was indeed an impressive entry. “The main rooms are over here. Follow me.”

  The rooms were large, square and featured cornice and crown moulding, parquet floors and Adam style fireplaces in both wood and marble. A solid oak staircase curved to the upper floors. A layer of dust on every surface and a few tell-tale cobwebs in corners proved the property had not been lived in for a while. An overall mustiness lingered although there were no signs of damp. All trace of personal items had been removed, but the heavier pieces of furniture were still in place; most with ornamental carvings and dovetail joints indicating time and expertise, expended in their making.

  Her unease dissolved replaced by a sense of calm as she trailed through the rooms, each of which were flooded with light from full height windows, while Mr Keogh pointed out specific features in every room. During a stilted explanation of the function of the water closets, she bit her bottom lip to avoid laughing aloud at his flushed face. His stammered explanation put her more in mind of a nervous schoolboy than the arrogant man of business he attempted to convey.

  “How many bedrooms did you say?” Grace mounted the second staircase to the upper floor ahead of him, partly to disguise her amusement as he tried to replace a doorknob that came off in his hand.

  “Seven on two floors, plus an attic floor.” He bounded up the steps behind her, almost tripping on the last one. “There are servants' quarters at the rear of the ground floor.” He glared at the offending step for a second, recovering himself self-consciously.

  “Seven,” Grace mused, her mind working rapidly. Some of the bedrooms were very large and could easily be divided, while what he referred to as the servants' quarters were small, but could be combined to form an apartment. Removing a glove, she ran a finger across a mantelpiece. The cream marble shot through with streaks of chocolate was cool but smooth and soapy against her skin with no cracks or blemishes.

  They returned to the ground floor for a second look of the main rooms, all of which contained wide, square bay windows. Two rooms of equal size were at the front, while a third ran along the back of the house overlooking a neglected garden, where overgrown shrubs and waist high grass blurred any impression of size.

  With less dominant furniture, a row of French doors to replace the single half glazed one with cracked panes, and wall lights that washed pale painted walls with soft golden light, it would make a perfect dining area.

  With her head full of ideas, Grace left her companion to follow and wandered back into the main hall, the open front door visible through the lobby which threw rectangles of jewel colored light onto the tiled floors. Grace exhaled blissfully. It was perfect.

  “Er-Mrs MacKinnon.” Keogh cleared his throat noisily. “What do you think?”

  “There are some good features. A few bad ones of course.” She surpressed her growing excitement beneath feigned banality. Never show you want something was a mantra her father-in-law drummed into her through the years.

  Mr Keogh’s face showed disappointment as he approached the open front door. “I expect the Millers will arrive presently, so if you have-”

  “What does the owner want for it?”

  “I beg your pardon?” He halted, staring back at her over his shoulder.

  “I’m interested in buying it.” A flicker of unease crossed his features and Grace sighed. “Why should that surprise you? Because I’m a woman?”

  “You're serious?” He straightened, his gaze roving her face.

  She shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Well, um, in that case-” He quoted an amount, which, even after her rapid calculation into English currency, made her heart sink.

  She stood in the porch and tugged on her gloves. No matter how much she loved the house, she could never pay that much. “I'll have to think about it. Did you find that card, Mr Keogh, so I might contact you when I have considered the matter further?” She doubted she would do any
such thing but it struck her as the most business like thing to do.

  “Ah yes, of course.” Keogh patted his pockets again, just as a horse and buggy pulled up beside the front fence.

  A bull of a man in a baggy brown suit with unruly ginger hair, climbed down onto the road and tied the reins to the ‘For Sale’ sign. His head down, he barrelled down the path and onto the porch as if the route was a familiar one He only looked up for a second so barely avoided colliding Grace. Swerving to one side, his stocky frame bounced off the doorframe and stumbled, his sour expression dragging down a set of heavy jowls.

  “Mr Daly!” Mr Keogh bounced on his toes in front of the newcomer “I wasn't expecting you today.”

  “Have you sold the place yet, Keogh? You've had long enough,” he snapped, giving Grace a stern up and down look before dismissing her. “I told you last week if I didn't have an offer by today I would look elsewhere for a broker.” He was a man evidently uncomfortable indoors, as he carried the smell of fresh air and the stable about him.

  “I know what you said, sir, but as you see, I’ve been showing this lady round this afternoon. She's most interested in the property.” Belatedly, he performed a swift introduction, his eyes pleading with Grace to go along with him.

  “Well?” Mr Daly glared at her, apparently a man with no time for niceties. “Do you want the place or not?”

  “Actually, I do.” Grace looked from Keogh’s intense expression to Mr Daly’s sceptical one. “Though the asking price is somewhat ambitious.” She had no idea if this was true or not, but it was worth a try to see what he would say.

  Mr Keogh inhaled sharply and was about to speak, but Mr Daly interrupted him, his bottom lip lightly held between a thumb and forefinger. “How much are you prepared to offer?”

  Grace hesitated. Did she dare? But then what did she have to lose? He could only refuse her. She suggested a sum thirty percent less than the figure Keogh quoted.

  “I must protest, Mr Daly,” Keogh blustered. “I'm sure I could do better if you give me a little more time.”

  “You've had your chance, Keogh.” Mr Daly silenced him again with a look. “Something tells me you've been charging too high a price to inflate your commission. You haven't had a bite in months. If the lady wants it, and has the money, she can have it.”

  “Thank you, Mr Daly.” Grace's voice remained calm, but she had to resist the urge to throw her arms around the gruff owner. “If you would apply to Mr Hill at the Merchants Bank, he will confirm my financial situation and begin the paperwork.” She had no real idea of what was required to buy a house but was confident that Mr Hill would oblige with all the relevant details. “Do you have any objection to a swift conclusion of the sale?”

  “None at all.” Mr Daly sniffed. “I inherited the place and it's nothing but trouble. I live in Tignish, and what with having to pay taxes and such, I need to get rid of it so I can concentrate on running my farm.” He turned to leave, calling back over his shoulder, “I'll get the place cleared as soon as I can arrange it.”

  “Actually.” Grace halted him mid-step. “I would be happy to take the heavier furniture off your hands. I'll give you more than you'd have to pay to get it removed.” The beds, wardrobes and a handsome full-sized dresser that took up an entire wall in the rear reception room, were in excellent condition and would save her finding alternatives.

  “Er-Mr Daly,” Keogh bounced in front of the owner. “I have an associate who would sell the furniture for you.”

  Mr Daly ignored him, his grey eyes crinkled at the corners, his mouth lifted in a parody of a smile. He nodded. “I like you, missy. You’re smart. And you have a deal.” He jammed his crumpled hat back onto his head and stuck out a gnarled hand.

  Grace accepted his brief, brisk shake before her hand was abruptly released. His hat lifted in salute, he turned and loped along the path back to the buggy.

  Once the vehicle was out of sight, Keogh's ingratiating smile faded to an angry glare.

  “You've just cost me a considerable portion of my commission, Mrs MacKinnon. That isn’t a nice thing to do to a legitimate businessman.”

  “What are you complaining about, Mr Keogh?” Grace peered up at him, too delighted with her new acquisition to care. “You’ve sold the property, haven't you? Surely a lesser fee is better than none?”

  “I suppose so,” he conceded grudgingly. “But have I?” His eyes darkened. “What’s your husband going to say when you tell him you’ve bought a house? Will he allow the sale to go through, or shall I find myself accused of unreasonable coercion?” The way the words tripped off his tongue made her think he had used them before.

  “You don’t need to worry. I’m a widow. And before you ask, I do have sufficient money.”

  “A widow, eh?” He stroked his clean-shaven chin thoughtfully. “In which case would you care to celebrate your new purchase? With a fine dinner perhaps at Queen Hotel?” At her sudden start, he added, “To discuss our new business arrangement, of course.” He withdrew a key and locked the door behind them.

  “What about the Millers, Mr Keogh?” she reminded him. “The couple you were waiting for when I arrived?”

  “I’ll catch up with them later.” He gave a dismissive wave. “If not dinner, then how about tea? The Victoria is only a short walk from here.”

  Aware he referred to the large hotel in Great George street, she hesitated, suddenly nervous. She wasn’t sure why, but something about this man put her on her guard. Mr Keogh was handsome, even charming in a self-satisfied way. Perhaps it was his eyes, which could change from limpid appeal to hard speculation in an instant.

  His ingratiating smile made her suddenly feel foolish at having overreacted. After all, it was just tea, which would also give her an opportunity to see inside one of the town’s best hotels. Something she could hardly do alone.

  “All right. That would be nice, thank you.”

  Chapter 11

  The Victoria Hotel straddled the corner of Great George and Water streets, built like many of the buildings in the town, with a clapboard façade with an open timber veranda running around the three sides that formed the triangular front. The corner section resembled a turret, with a second, smaller veranda two storeys higher, all beneath a pitched red tiled roof.

  “What do you think of Charlottetown’s finest hotel?” Mr Keogh directed Grace to an ox-blood leather wing-back chair at the far end of the hotel lounge. A dark panelled room of polished wood, leather and a combined smell of beeswax polish and old cigar smoke that reminded her of a library. When he removed his hat as they sat down, she noticed his wheat-colored hair gleamed with a liberal layer of pomade.

  With an impatient click of his fingers, Mr Keogh summoned a server from whom he ordered tea for them both in a sharp, hectoring tone.

  The waiter’s eyes narrowed slightly, boring into Mr Keogh’s neck before he ducked his head and left.

  “So tell me.” Keogh unfastened the last button of his jacket and eased back in his seat, his feet crossed at the ankles. “What does an attractive young widow want with a seven-bedroomed house in Prince Street? Or do you have a brood of children to accommodate?”

  “No children,” Grace replied. “I have an idea for a business venture, however I need to formulate a more structured plan before I feel comfortable enough to discuss it.”

  “Cautious, eh? I like that in a woman.” Was it her imagination, or did his nonchalant grin mock her?

  Her initial enthusiasm abated, leaving behind a mild panic. She had just committed more than half her capital to a building which needed further investment. She would have to plan the next step carefully.

  “My plans are by no means definite, Mr Keogh. There is a lot to consider.”

  The waiter returned with a tray on which sat a china teapot, milk jug, sugar basin and two cups and saucers. He smiled warmly at Grace as he pushed the steaming cup toward her, but when he turned to her companion there came a tell-tale thinning of his lips before he bowed and withd
rew.

  “Do you know that waiter?” Grace asked once he was out of earshot.

  “He’s of no importance.” Keogh took a small silver flask from an inside pocket, unscrewed the lid and tipped a measure into his tea. In response to her start of surprise, he added, “Purely medicinal. I have a certificate.”

  Grace shook her head, the certificate remark incomprehensible. “I was surprised because it’s not yet four thirty.” She removed her gloves and laid them on top of her bag in her lap.

  “Never too early for a spot of rum.” He held the flask towards her. “Would you care for some?”

  Grace shook her head. In England, no one so much as opened a decanter until after six of an evening.

  Keogh returned the flask to his pocket, plucked three lumps of sugar from the bowl and dropped them into his cup. “Perhaps you could convert the house into a school? Teachers for the offspring of the local gentry are always in demand.” He flicked the bowl in her direction with a thumb and forefinger, so it rattled on the polished surface.

  “It’s certainly a consideration.” Grace stirred milk into her tea, an eyebrow raised at the wobbling sugar bowl. “From what I have seen of Charlottetown it doesn’t strike me as such.”

  “Then here’s to your new venture, whatever that is.” He raised his cup in salute, set it down again and rubbed his hands together.

  “Now, let’s get down to business. You’ll be needing a sponsor, Mrs MacKinnon.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Grace stared at him over the rim of her cup.

  “A sponsor,” he repeated with a shrug, as if she might have misheard him. “A financial advisor. An agent to act for you in matters of business.”

  “I didn’t know I needed one.”

  “Being new to the Province, you won’t be familiar with how things are done here on the Island. As a woman alone you’ll find it difficult to operate a business without any references to obtain credit. You’ll need help with the legal requirements and tax obligations of a property owner. I could sort all that out for you.” His brow cleared and he wagged a finger at her. “Ah, now I’ve got it. I knew there was something.”