by Jody Hedlund
Still the room was silent. The noise from the busy street drifted in through the windows, which were already wide open on the June morning to allow the coolness of the early hour inside before the heat of the day became unbearable.
“Mrs. Watson?” Miss Pendleton smiled at the tall woman, who was standing a short distance away at the head of one of the tables. “I’m sure you’ll be glad to have someone of Miss Neumann’s experience join you. Oh, and her sister will be working with us too.”
Mrs. Watson didn’t return the smile. Instead she glanced at the redheaded woman again, who had focused her attention on the shirtsleeve in front of her, busily dipping her needle in and out of the linen.
Miss Pendleton’s smile wavered, but she reached over and squeezed Elise’s arm.
Mrs. Watson cleared her throat. “Miss Pendleton, I am afraid we do not have any room at present for more workers. Perhaps when the workshop across the hall is ready . . .”
“I’m sure we can squeeze in two more temporarily.”
“There are other women already waiting to work here, women we have had to turn away.” Mrs. Watson’s voice dropped to almost a whisper.
Miss Pendleton gave Mrs. Watson a sharp look. “I’m well aware of our problem of having to turn away women. And it breaks my heart every day. I want to help everyone and eventually I hope to assist many more.”
Mrs. Watson fixed her attention on the floor, which except for a few loose threads was surprisingly clean.
“In the meantime, Mrs. Watson, I pray for God to guide me to those He wishes me to help, which I believe includes you and all the women in this room. Hereafter it also includes Miss Neumann and her siblings.” Miss Pendleton raised her chin as though daring anyone to defy her.
No one spoke.
“They are the first boarders here,” she continued. “And soon I hope to open the doors to many more who need a safe place to live.”
From the few rapid glances some of the women exchanged, Elise had the foreboding that they would see the news as favoritism and would like her even less.
“So, Mrs. Watson, can I count on you to welcome Miss Neumann and her sister into our workroom?”
Mrs. Watson nodded. “Yes, ma’am. We shall do our best.”
“Good. I’m very glad to hear it. After all, we want to extend the same grace and love to others as has been extended to ourselves, don’t we?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mrs. Watson said again.
Though Miss Pendleton seemed satisfied with her answer, Elise couldn’t shake the feeling that her new job was doomed from the start. As much as she needed the help of the Seventh Street Mission, she suspected sooner or later she would have to find her hope and help elsewhere.
Chapter 2
“I’ve called you both home today to tell you I’m dying.”
Thornton Quincy stared at his father’s blue lips. Dying? No. He started to shake his head, but Bradford spoke first.
“You’re only having another fit,” Bradford said from the opposite side of the bed. “The pleurisy will pass like it did last time.”
“It won’t pass.” Father’s hoarse whisper ended in a fit of coughing that brought the doctor and his assistant scurrying from the corner.
Thornton stepped back to give them room to tend Father, but Bradford didn’t budge. He grasped Father’s hand tighter. His twin’s lean face, the distinguished taper of his jaw and cheeks, his perfect nose—they were all a mirror image of Thornton’s own features. They shared the same dark wavy hair and equally dark-brown eyes. They were both five-foot-seven, one hundred fifty-five pounds, and built with a wiry strength that had held them in good stead during plenty of scrapes growing up.
In their younger years, they’d easily been able to trick their nursemaids regarding their identities. During school they’d fooled more than one tutor. Even their friends had fallen prey to their tricks. But now, at twenty-four, they’d grown slightly more distinct from each other.
“You’re not dying,” Bradford said again with an authority to his voice so like their father’s. “I predict you’ll be out of bed and back to normal within the month.”
The doctor and his assistant were hefting Father upward onto a mound of pillows. The taut lines in Father’s face spoke for themselves. He was in an inordinate amount of pain. “Time for opium, Mr. Quincy,” the doctor said.
At the center of the enormous bedroom, Thornton felt suffocated. Every inch of the room was wallpapered in a maroon fleur-de-lis pattern, including the ceiling. The thick tapestries were pulled tightly against the daylight, and several wall sconces provided flickering amber light that served to make Father’s bluish skin look gray and waxy.
Sweat made a steady trickle down Thornton’s backbone beneath his shirt and suit coat. He wanted to toss off his coat and roll up his shirtsleeves, but he forced himself to remain the refined gentleman his father expected him to be.
When Father was breathing easier and the opium had taken the edge off the pain, he motioned for Thornton to return to the bedside. He reached for Thornton’s hand and clasped it just as he did Bradford’s. For a man rarely given to displays of physical affection, the grasp, though frail and clammy, was unexpected. It was the desperate grasp of a man who saw the end of the race and wasn’t ready to reach the finish line.
“Sons,” Father started, “I’m convinced I need to prepare for my death.” Bradford began to protest, but Father silenced him with a shake of his head. “I invited my most trusted advisor, Mr. Morgan, here today so he could help me explain my last wishes.”
As if on cue, a short, rotund man in a tight-fitting black-and-white-striped suit entered the room, wearing a tall black hat that was likely intended to make him appear a much larger man but instead highlighted his diminutive size.
“There’s no need to share any last wishes, Father,” Bradford said. “Not when you’ll be here for years to come.”
“Let’s stop pretending I’ll live forever,” Father retorted in a tone that retained some of his strength. “If the doctors are wrong in their prognosis, then we’ll count ourselves blessed to have had more time. But since it appears I may not recover, I need to make some decisions regarding the future of my business.”
Mr. Morgan slipped a paper from his inner coat pocket and began to unfold it.
“I’ve laid out my plans with Mr. Morgan,” Father continued. “Now I’d like him to read my wishes.”
With his belly protruding and serving as a podium, Mr. Morgan rested the paper there and began to read in his usual straightforward manner. “In order to determine which of my sons is worthiest to inherit sole control over all my investments and companies, I am issuing a six-month challenge. The two conditions are as follows. First, each son must build a sustainable town along the Illinois Central Railroad. And second, each son must get married to a woman he loves. Whoever succeeds in doing both by the end of the six months wins the challenge and becomes owner of Quincy Enterprises.”
Mr. Morgan folded the paper and returned it to his pocket. All the while Thornton could only stare at the man in disbelief.
For a moment, the announcement left Bradford speechless too. Thornton met his brother’s dark gaze across the bed. In the shadows of the room, he tried to figure out what Bradford was thinking. Did he like the challenge? Or was he disturbed by it? When they were younger, Thornton had always been able to read his brother’s thoughts. But in recent years, a veil had dropped between them.
“This is quite a surprise,” Bradford said slowly as though measuring each word.
Thornton wanted to blurt out that it was ludicrous, but instead he kept his voice as even as Bradford’s. “Have you considered dividing the assets equally between us?”
His father gave a derisive snort. “Of course not. And weaken the business by having it parceled off? No, it stays together. The winner of the challenge owns it all, is president and sole proprietor of the enterprise. And the other of you will have to settle for vice-president.”
�
��That makes sense.” Thornton tried to infuse confidence into his response, yet inside he felt like the twin who could never say the smart thing, who was forever falling short of being able to please Father.
“I don’t like the idea of competing against Thorn for something with such big stakes,” Bradford said. “It’s one thing to wager in a game of bluff or a yacht race. But this? This is our future.”
“I don’t like it either,” Thornton admitted.
“If you don’t want to compete, then abdicate.” Father looked directly at him—not at Bradford—and his eyes contained an unspoken challenge. It was the challenge to prove himself.
But wasn’t that what he’d been trying to do his whole life? Prove himself to his father? Prove himself as worthy as Bradford? And hadn’t he always failed to measure up in his father’s eyes no matter what he did or how hard he tried to be like Bradford? What would make this time any different?
Bradford quirked one of his brows, revealing a determined gleam in his eyes. His brother loved challenges, thrived on competition. He wouldn’t back down, and their father knew it. If anyone would abdicate for the sake of peace, for the sake of maintaining good relationships, Thornton would.
But what if this was his last chance to earn his father’s respect and show him that he was the kind of man he could be proud of?
“Six months isn’t enough time to build a town,” Thornton finally said. It wasn’t like land development was anything new to him or Bradford. They’d been in business with their father for several years and had already been working to sell off and develop land grants in Illinois along the new railroad. Once eastern farmers were convinced to buy the land and resettle in Illinois, the profit was used to pay for the cost of building the railroads. Then companies like Quincy Enterprises planned how to build towns along the railroad at strategic locations where the prospects for additional profit to the railroad were thought to be high.
“True,” Father answered, still grasping both of their hands. “That’s why you’ll finish developing two areas that already have a substantial number of farms and can sustain a town. The work is already started, and now you need to make it succeed. If I die before the end of six months, then Mr. Morgan will be the ultimate judge of your towns.”
“What are the stipulations that will quantify growth?” Thornton asked at the same time that Bradford posed a similar question.
Father started to answer, but then closed his eyes, weariness creasing his face—a face that had once been regally handsome and refined but now was aged beyond his years from the stress and demands of building his fortune. “Mr. Morgan, would you answer?”
The advisor pushed up his spectacles and glanced first at Bradford and then at Thornton. “We’ll be taking into consideration things like population, revenue, land sold, number of businesses, and the usual kinds of development—houses, churches, schools, mills, hotels, and all the other amenities necessary to attract and keep new settlers.”
Bradford gave a curt nod, the matter settled.
But Thornton had a dozen other questions. “If we’re busy developing our towns, how will we have time to fulfill the second requirement, to get married? Especially considering the fact that neither of us is currently in a relationship?”
His father’s eyes remained closed, but he released an exasperated sigh. “I don’t think it’s too much to ask that my sons finally get serious about carrying on the Quincy name, is it?”
“It’s not too much,” Bradford quickly reassured their father. “We both know plenty of young ladies here in New York.”
“You can’t just marry any young lady,” Mr. Morgan spoke up. “Your father’s written wish is that it be someone you love.”
“And how will you measure love?” Thornton asked before he thought to hold back the question.
“I loved your mother,” Father said. “I think I’m qualified to know what love is and what it isn’t.”
Thornton swallowed his growing frustration, especially when Bradford’s lips quirked into a confident smile. His twin had always liked one woman or another. And they liked him in return.
Of course, women liked Thornton too. He’d never lacked companionship or ladies vying for his attention. But falling in love wasn’t something a person could make happen, was it? Not within such a short time span.
“The point of adding the stipulation of loving the woman,” Mr. Morgan said, “is to prevent a hasty marriage of convenience simply for the sake of winning the challenge.”
“In other words,” Father said in a caustic tone, “I want you to learn to love someone besides yourselves.”
The words stung Thornton. Couldn’t his father see that he loved him, that he loved Bradford, that he’d adored their mother? Even though she’d been gone for over a decade, a day didn’t pass without him thinking about her.
Didn’t his father realize he’d had no time for romantic inclinations over the past years because he’d been dedicated to helping Quincy Enterprises thrive?
Before he could voice any further concerns or questions, Father dismissed them, and then the doctor ushered them from the room indicating that Mr. Quincy needed to rest if there was any hope of survival.
Once the door closed behind Thornton, he paused in the wide hallway and released a deep lungful of air. Bradford raked a hand through his wavy strands and blew out a breath too. They both stared at Mr. Morgan as he strode away on his short, squat legs. The plush carpet that formed a runner down the hardwood floor muted the man’s choppy steps. When he disappeared around a corner, Bradford spoke first.
“That was delightful, wasn’t it?”
“Thrilling,” Thornton replied.
Bradford stepped toward the opposite wall and straightened one of the many paintings that lined the halls of the Quincy New York mansion—originals purchased by their father during his travels in Europe.
“You know I don’t want to compete for the company any more than you do.” Bradford eyed the painting and adjusted the gilded frame a fraction of an inch more before stepping back.
“Come now, Brad,” Thornton said. “Let’s be honest. There isn’t another person alive who relishes a challenge as much as you.”
Bradford grinned, revealing his straight white teeth. It was a crooked smile that could so easily disarm, one that could work magic when needed. Thornton knew because he’d wielded that very same smile himself over the years to get what he wanted.
“You know me too well,” Bradford said.
“What do you expect?” While they’d seen each other less in recent years and had both been busy traveling and doing business for their father, Thornton liked to think they still shared a camaraderie whenever they were together.
“I don’t suppose you want to admit I’m the better man for taking over the company and prevent us both from having to live in Illinois out in the middle of nowhere for the next six months?” Even if Bradford spoke the words lightly in jest, something sharp in his eyes pricked at Thornton.
“Are you the better man?” Thornton tried to keep his tone equally light.
Bradford shrugged nonchalantly and glanced at one of the pictures, likely in an effort to keep Thornton from reading him. “We may be identical in many ways, but you can’t deny I’m more business-minded. And Father knows it.”
“If he knows it, then why is he issuing this challenge?”
“Because he doesn’t want to hurt your feelings any more than I do.”
Thornton wanted to deny Bradford’s words, wanted to believe his father considered him a worthy opponent and competent enough to run the company. But old insecurities rattled inside him like loose pistons in a steam cylinder.
As though sensing the sting of his words, Bradford reached out and squeezed Thornton’s shoulder. “You’re a good man, Thorn. And you have a bright mind. But I think we both know I’ve always been better at company affairs than you.”
Thornton’s mind jumped back to the time when he and Bradford had been ten years old, only
months after their mother had died. Father had traveled more often that year, leaving them home for weeks at a time in the care of their nursemaids. But on one of his weeks at home, he’d given them each a bonus allowance to spend however they desired. Of course, Thornton had purchased the rare copy of Euclid’s Elements that he’d wanted, along with a special edition of Poor Richard’s Almanac.
“Books?” His father’s brows had risen in surprise, revealing disappointment as he questioned him. “Don’t we have enough of those already?”
“Not like these,” Thornton had replied eagerly, attempting to explain to his father how special the books were.
His father cut him off. “Did you know your brother invested his allowance in the stock market?”
At the pride emanating from his father’s eyes as he glanced at Bradford, Thornton’s excitement over his new books had deflated until there was nothing left but a dusty layer of embarrassment. He’d wanted his father to look on him with pride too, to be pleased with him the same way he was with Bradford. From that moment on, Thornton tried to be just like his brother.
Although Thornton had spent years emulating Bradford so that his father would love them equally, he never quite felt as though he’d accomplished the feat. Thornton may have been able to fool everybody else into thinking they were identical, but somehow he’d never been able to fool his father.
“Listen,” Bradford said, pulling Thornton out of his morbid thoughts. “We can go through with this challenge if you want. But it seems like a waste of time since I’m better at it. And I don’t think you really want to run the company anyway. You’d be happier as vice-president.”
Would he? Thornton pictured his father’s stern eyes daring him to abdicate. His chest expanded with the need to prove that his father could be proud of him. He tossed Bradford a grin. “I can’t deny you the chance to compete, now, can I?”
His brother was still for a moment before returning the grin. “I guess not. A little friendly competition never hurt anyone, did it?”