Papa had looked so handsome in his suit and tie. She hadn’t realized, though, how much weight he’d lost until she saw him after Onnie had finished. Maggie shivered despite the morning’s warmth. She’d grasped Papa’s hand one last time, but only for a second. Because it hadn’t been his hand anymore.
Papa was gone. All that was left was a shell.
Cullen stood beside her, though not too close. She’d been grateful for the strength of his arm as they walked with Onnie, Cletus, Ennis, and Odessia to the family cemetery. And she would’ve welcomed his strength still, as she stood here, but the rain started right after they’d arrived, and she’d needed both hands to open the parasol. It had felt awkward, even a little presumptuous on her part, to slip her arm back through the crook of his arm again without him offering.
She was glad she’d insisted on a private burial. The last three days of well-wishers coming by the house to pay their last respects had exhausted her, even if the number of guests had been smaller than she’d expected.
The Hardings came, of course, as did Savannah and her siblings. Although Maggie and Savannah didn’t speak much. Nothing beyond the softly whispered condolences friends offered on such occasions.
What was telling to Maggie was the absence of so many of their family friends. Oh, a few came, including the Petersons, the Barnards, and the Samuelsons. But in the end, the majority not attending was fine with her, because she suspected that at least some of those who came had done so out of curiosity. They wanted to see the Irishman who had bought Linden Downs—and Margaret Linden along with it.
Accepting well-meant words of condolence was hard enough when they came from someone she knew had loved her father. But hearing them from people who hadn’t spoken to Papa or her since Linden Downs had fallen into financial demise . . .
Well, that was something she could have done without.
“Therefore we are always confident,” the pastor continued, “knowing that whilst we are absent from the body, we are present with the Lord . . .”
Maggie wished Pastor Boddy—the man who’d known her family, who had preached at Mama’s funeral and at each of her brothers’ funerals—had still been alive to preach Papa’s today. The man standing on the opposite end of the grave from her, the same one who’d officiated at her wedding, had met her father only a few times. The pastor hadn’t truly known him. So however nice a man he was, and however kind and true the words he spoke, they sounded hollow and empty.
Grateful when the service finally concluded, Maggie was all too familiar with the next ritual. She knelt down, the frayed hem of her black dress damp with moisture, and scooped a handful of freshly dug earth, now mud, into her hand.
She looked at the clump in her palm, remembering.
Look at the fields, Maggie . . . Can’t you feel the life flowing back into the place?
You got good land here, Missus McGrath. Dirt that’s dark and full’a life.
Maggie stretched out her arm, turned over her hand, and the soil landed with a soft thud on the coffin below.
Later that night, waking from a restless sleep, Cullen heard the sound of weeping. He lay in the darkness, listening, knowing the pain she was enduring, the darkness in the midst of darkness, and he wished he could help her. Or hold her. Wished that she would allow him to do both.
The doctor had given her something to help her sleep, but apparently it wasn’t working.
Twice he rose to go to her, and twice he lay back down.
He sat on the edge of the mattress and rested his head in his hands, knowing he’d never get that image of Mr. Linden out of his mind. The one from weeks ago, the afternoon he’d come upon Margaret’s father in the woods, kneeling by the graves, almost as if the man had been waiting for him.
Yet Cullen knew better. Didn’t he?
Margaret’s crying quieted, so he lay back down, and as he sometimes did, he could feel the deep rocking motion of the ship even as he lay still in the bed, as if the ancient rhythm of wave and wind had somehow seeped into his bones. He closed his eyes, and the winds and waves grew more pronounced, as did the memories. And in the space of a breath, he was back on the bunk in the belly of the ship.
He held Katie close to his chest and breathed in time with her shallow, failing breaths, not caring if he lived or died since his world was all but gone. Even as she breathed her last, her tiny hand stayed curled around his index finger. In the moments following he memorized the sweet curve of her nose, her rosy cheeks, the way her blond lashes lay feather-soft against her skin. So peaceful in death, as if she were only sleeping.
He turned onto his side in the bed—the bed in the farmhouse that stood on solid land—and he wished, as he’d done many times before, that he had a likeness of her to carry in his pocket. But he guessed he did, in a way. The picture was just tucked away inside of him.
Hearing Margaret again, he sat up. But no longer were her sobs soft and muted. He rose and went to the hallway. And knew where she was.
He stepped inside Mr. Linden’s bedroom and saw her curled up on the bed. Bucket lay by the empty hearth. A shaft of moonlight shone in through the open window, and the dog’s dark eyes looked mournful and confused in the pale light. Cullen had tried earlier to coax the collie to sleep in his bedroom, but in the end Bucket had trotted back in here.
Cullen eased down beside Maggie on the bed and stroked her hair. After a moment she gave a shuddered sigh and reached for his hand, squeezing tight.
“I miss him so much,” she cried.
“I know you do,” he whispered. “I miss him too. Your father was—” His voice broke and he tightened his jaw, forcing the emotion back down. “He was a very good man.”
After a while her grip on his hand lessened.
A few minutes more, and her breathing evened out.
He lifted her in his arms and carried her back to her own bed. He pulled the sheet up and leaned down and kissed the crown of her head.
“Thank you, Cullen,” she whispered, reaching for his hand.
For the longest time he sat on the edge of her bed and watched her sleep, wondering if she would remember any of this when she awoke.
And knowing he would never forget it.
Chapter
TWENTY-ONE
Oh—” Maggie stopped short inside the stable, surprised to find Cullen still here at this hour of the morning. And Levi, in the stall behind him. However, seeing Bucket glued to the man’s side wasn’t at all shocking. During the past month the collie had found his new master. “I thought you’d be in the fields by now.”
“And a good mornin’ to you, too, Margaret.” Cullen’s smile seemed to come easily and held the same warmth as his voice.
The same warmth he’d shown her without fail in recent weeks. And though she was doing nothing wrong today, she still didn’t want to tell him about her plans.
He gestured to the wagon out front. “An axle was comin’ loose, so I stayed behind to mend it. I was just about to leave.” He took a step toward her. “It’s good to see you out of the house. And on a day when you don’t have to give ridin’ lessons. Are you takin’ Belle for a ride?”
She hated to dash his hopes. “No, actually. I’m—” She didn’t know how to say it without causing him hurt.
He’d been so patient, so kind and attentive in the past month, and she sensed he would be even more so if she encouraged him.
But as much as she enjoyed his company, and was especially glad to have him there for dinner each night, she couldn’t bring herself to encourage him in that respect.
Because despite how moved she’d been when he kissed her—and how, even now, she would sometimes lie awake at night thinking about how safe and protected she’d felt in his embrace—she remembered what Oak had told her all those years ago about the direction of a man’s thoughts. And she couldn’t risk that Cullen might misunderstand her desire for companionship for a different sort of desire. Especially since they were alone in the house now.
She fe
lt far more vulnerable around him. And aware of him.
Whenever he was in the house, she knew exactly where he was. If he was in the same room with her, she found her attention returning to him repeatedly. And yet . . .
Despite sleeping long hours, she still felt weary. All the time. And so . . . alone. Onnie cooked her favorite dishes, but food held little appeal. Beginning last week, she’d returned to giving riding lessons at Belle Meade three days a week. Some people might criticize her for that, she knew, with her still being in mourning. But Cullen and Onnie had both encouraged her to do it. Somehow she felt it was what Papa would have wanted too.
And yet her heart wasn’t in it.
Sometimes in the evenings she would slip out of her bedroom and across the hall to sit on the edge of her father’s bed, and she would try to recall every conversation they’d ever had, until she could scarcely keep her eyes open. Then she would return to her room and lose herself in the brief but blissful oblivion of sleep.
Bucket had taken to sleeping on the floor in Cullen’s bedroom, which was a good thing, she knew—even though it hurt her to see it. It meant time was moving on, and she felt as though it was moving on without her.
She told herself it wasn’t true, but there were moments when it felt as though she was the only one who truly missed her father.
Aware of Cullen still patiently awaiting an answer, she cleared her throat and forced out the words. “I’m going into town today.” Already anticipating the frown on his face, she watched it swiftly form.
“Why didn’t you say so? I’ll be happy to take you.” He tossed aside the rag in his hand. “Just let me send word with one of the workers’ family members that I’m—”
“No,” she said a little too quickly. “I’m fine going by myself. Besides, I don’t want to bother you.”
He scoffed. “I was plannin’ on goin’ tomorrow anyway. This’ll just make my trip a far more pleasant one.”
The authenticity in his tone—in the man himself—made her feel even worse. “Cullen.”
He looked back, then stilled.
“I . . .” She truly didn’t want to hurt him. “I would prefer to go alone, if that’s all right.”
He held her gaze for a beat, then gradually his expression darkened. “Is that it, then? Still?” He looked away, the muscles working in his jaw. “Fine, then. Go.”
He shoved the latch to the stall door with more force than necessary, and Levi spooked, snorting and backing up a step.
“Cullen, that’s not the reason. Not this time. I simply want to go by myself.”
His expression told her he didn’t believe her.
“I’m going to see Savannah,” she continued, hoping that might convince him. “If she’s not at her work then I’ll need to visit her at home. So it could take a while, and . . . I may not be back until shortly before dinner.”
He led Levi from the stall, but stopped beside her, his face close to hers.
“You’re tellin’ me that no part of your desire to go into town without me is due to you bein’ ashamed of bein’ seen with me. Of bein’ known as my wife.”
She almost wished she could lie, if only to spare his feelings, but she knew he would see right through her. “I’m growing more accustomed to the situation, Cullen. If you’ll just give me—”
“A little more time,” he finished for her, his tone gaining even more of an edge. “Aye, I’ve heard it before. But the real truth, Margaret, is that givin’ you this time doesn’t change anythin’. Because the problem isn’t with us. The problem”—he exhaled, the set of his jaw communicating more hurt than anger—“is with you.” His voice dropped. “I’m not ashamed to ride down the street with you by my side. Or to introduce you as my wife. Can you say the same about me as your husband?”
Tears welling, she struggled to steady her voice before answering.
“No,” he said, his laughter holding no humor. “I didn’t think so.” He walked outside and hitched Levi to the wagon, Bucket sticking closer than a shadow.
Meanwhile, Maggie saddled Belle, the process far more taxing than usual. She heard the wagon pull away, and the weight in her chest sank like a stone to her belly. She stopped for a minute, wondering if she really wanted to go see Savannah after all.
She needed to, but what if her friend turned her away? Or what if—
“Margaret.”
Her breath catching, she turned to see Cullen standing just behind her.
“You’ll be back by dinner?” he asked softly.
Still seeing a simmer in his gaze, she nodded. “I don’t see why I wouldn’t be.”
For a moment he just looked at her. Then he stepped close and pressed a kiss to her forehead, firm and quick. “I hope you and Miss Darby have a good visit.”
Maggie opened the door to Miss Hattie’s Dress and Drapery Shop, and a tiny bell jangled overhead, announcing her arrival. The stagnant air inside the shop made her wish her only black dress was suited more for summer than winter. She debated on leaving the door open, but the glare from the woman behind the counter told her that was not advisable.
“Excuse me.” Maggie approached. “Is Miss Savannah Darby working today?”
The woman huffed. “She was supposed to be, but her sister got sick. Or so Miss Darby told me when she dashed in here this morning and then right back out again. So now Miss Darby isn’t sewing the draperies for my best client as she was supposed to do today. And if I lose this sale because of her, it’s going to cost Miss Darby her job.” The woman’s eyes narrowed. “And let me tell you something, even if she was here, I don’t pay her to sit around and gab with her friends.”
Nearly speechless at the woman’s reaction, Maggie grew sorrier for Savannah by the second. She’d read in the newspaper recently that Miss Hattie’s had been purchased by a new proprietor, but this . . .
The woman was beyond uncivil, and Maggie certainly didn’t want Savannah paying the price for her visit here today.
Maggie drew herself up and summoned her most authoritative voice. “I would hope you don’t allow your employees to sit around and gab, because I certainly didn’t come here to waste my money. I came here because I was told this is where Miss Darby is employed.”
In a blink the woman’s bravado disappeared. Her face went a little pale. “W-well, it is. She is employed here, Miss—”
“It’s Mrs., actually,” Maggie corrected. “Mrs. McGrath.” She watched the woman for any negative reaction to the last name, and seeing none, continued, her confidence bolstered. “I’ve seen Miss Darby’s handiwork. It’s the finest in Nashville. But if you’re telling me you’re not certain she’ll remain in your employ, then—”
“Oh, no.” The woman gave her a gushing smile. “I never said that. Of course she’ll remain here. Where else would she work? This is the finest dress shop in town. Now . . .” She grabbed a pencil and piece of paper. “If you’ll simply write down your name and what it is you’re interested in . . .”
Maggie exhaled pointedly to let the woman know she found the whole exchange tiresome. “I believe I’ll come back another day when I can speak with Miss Darby directly. Good day to you, ma’am.”
Maggie closed the door behind her and walked a good two blocks before stopping to take a deep breath. Oh . . . She didn’t know what she would do if Savannah lost her job because of her. Hopefully, she’d made certain that wouldn’t happen.
She stood for a moment and took in her surroundings. The squeak and creak of wagon wheels, the hum of conversation coming from the various shops and vendors along the street. Young boys hawking newspapers and a “spittin’ clean shine” for a penny. Mothers hushing babies while hurrying toddlers along.
Music played from somewhere down the street. A banjo and guitar, she thought. She could hear the chords but couldn’t make out the words that accompanied the upbeat tempo. A flyer tacked to a board outside the mercantile advertised a Fourth of July celebration—that had passed without her even thinking about the date.
>
For the past month, her world had all but stopped. Yet life kept right on going. No matter what happened to an individual, people never stopped.
She walked six blocks to the street where Savannah lived, located the boardinghouse, and climbed three flights of stairs. By the time she reached the third floor, she was winded and perspiring.
Wiping her brow with her handkerchief, she walked down the hallway, reading the numbers on the doors and thinking of her father. How grateful she was that they hadn’t had to move into a place like this. But even more, that he’d breathed his last at the home he’d loved.
Even thinking the thoughts, she felt guilty. Because this was Savannah’s life. Finding the right door, she dabbed her eyes and slipped the handkerchief back into her sleeve. Taking a deep breath, she knocked.
Footsteps sounded and the door opened.
“Maggie!” Savannah blinked as if making sure it was her. “W-what are you doing here? Is everything all right?”
Maggie nodded. She’d had plenty of time to think of what she wanted to say to her friend. And yet, standing here now, all she could think about was how much she and Savannah had been through together. And how much she missed her.
Maggie gestured. “May I please come in?”
Savannah hesitated, but Maggie recognized the humiliation on her face and understood.
“Of course you may.” Savannah stepped back to allow Maggie entry, then closed the door. Giving a nervous laugh, she gestured. “If you’ll follow me into the central parlor . . .” She motioned to two worn chairs situated only feet away in front of a window that was boarded up on one side. An unmade bed sat adjacent. “May I offer you something to drink?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.” Maggie took a seat, then saw the bundle of letters on the table between them. “Oh, I’m sorry, Savannah. I’ve interrupted your reading.”
Savannah glanced at the table. “No, no, it’s fine.” She picked up one of the envelopes. “Mother kept all of Father’s letters that he wrote to her during the war. I read through a few of them shortly after Mother died, but it was too hard. More time has passed now, though, so I decided to get them out again.”
To Win Her Favor Page 20