To Mend a Dream

by Tamera Alexander

  After all, a home belonged to the people who lived in it. Not to the world.

  But she’d also learned in recent years that a house didn’t necessarily make a home. People did, and the love they shared. Wherever Carolyne and Andrew were, that was where her home was now, and she was determined to be grateful, however challenging that was at present.

  Certain she’d heard someone on the stairs moments earlier, she crossed to the door and peered up and down the hallway. But the corridor was empty. Apparently she’d been mistaken. Seizing the opportunity, she combed the room for loose floorboards or ill-fitting bricks in the hearth, just as she’d done in most of the other rooms in the house. She even reached beneath the larger pieces of furniture to see if her father had somehow secured the box to the underside of—

  “Miss Anderson?”

  Hearing Aidan Bedford’s voice, Savannah froze on all fours in front of the wardrobe. Then she did the only thing she could think of: quickly tossed her measuring tape underneath. The round cylinder rolled clear to the back.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SAVANNAH LOOKED UP, HAVING NO NEED TO WONDER IF HER face was flushed. “Good afternoon, Mr. Bedford! How are you, sir?” And why on earth was the man home from work so early?

  Still in his suit, and looking quite the successful young attorney, he tilted his head as though to better match the angle of hers. “I’m well, Miss Anderson. Question is . . . how are you?”

  “Fine. Other than my measuring tape having gone for a little stroll.”

  “Oh, please, allow me.” He crossed the room and knelt, facing her, then reached beneath the wardrobe. Just as swiftly, he grimaced and pulled his hand back out.

  Savannah winced. “A spider?”

  He shook his head, then grinned. “A joke.” He reached beneath the wardrobe again and a second later dropped the measuring tape safely into her palm.

  Savannah laughed, finding his humor a little off center. And liking it.

  He offered his assistance as she stood. His hand was warm and strong. And spoken for. Startled by the thought, she tucked the measuring tape into the pocket of her skirt and her hand along with it. Then she realized . . .

  She’d never had a man visit her room before. At least not one who wasn’t a family member. It felt a little . . . impolitic. Especially when all she could think about at the moment was how striking Aidan Bedford was. With his dark hair cropped close, just above the collar, and his jaw closely shaven yet showing signs of tomorrow’s beard, he had an air of sophistication about him. Some might even say arrogance. Which fit with what she knew of Northerners.

  Yet he seemed polite enough and had a perceptiveness about him that must certainly aid his profession. An attorney-at-law, the man was no doubt good at what he did.

  Which, thinking of what she’d just been doing, only intensified her unease.

  His gaze moved about the room, briefly catching on the nightgown before he looked back at her. His expression sobered. “May I ask, Miss Anderson, what you’re doing in this room?”

  She eyed him. “I’m measuring for draperies and carpeting, sir.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I was under the impression that my bedroom was the only room receiving alterations on this floor.”

  She opened her mouth, then quickly closed it. It wouldn’t be the first time a wife—or almost wife—had been caught redecorating a bit more than she’d admitted to her husband. Which made her wonder if Miss Sinclair had told him yet about the stonemason or the marble fountain to be situated in the front courtyard. Once the courtyard was designed and built.

  Mr. Bedford smiled. “I’m sorry, Miss Anderson. Please forgive the statement. It’s clear you’re only doing as you were instructed.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Seeing the tension behind his eyes, she heard it in his voice, too, which prodded her uncertainty. She might have been tempted to let it pass if not for the order she’d told Mrs. Hildegard to place for fabric last Friday. An order worth several hundred dollars. Savannah felt sick inside.

  Miss Sinclair had guaranteed the order with Mr. Bedford’s name, and Savannah had accepted. But if for any reason the woman changed her mind, Savannah knew it would cost her her job. And Andrew’s leg braces. And her ability to pay the outstanding debt at the mercantile.

  “Mr. Bedford . . .” She tried to soften her query with a smile. “All the fabric for the draperies Miss Sinclair commissioned has been ordered. Which means the shop will be responsible for the bill if—”

  “Don’t worry, Miss Anderson. I’ll guarantee whatever obligation Miss Sinclair has made.”

  Savannah breathed a little easier. “Thank you, sir.”

  “But in the future, I would prefer all orders be paid for in cash.”

  Understanding his meaning, Savannah nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  He turned to go, then paused. “And just where is Miss Sinclair at present?”

  Savannah hesitated. “She left awhile earlier, sir. She said she was going into town.”

  He stared, waiting, as though certain there was more.

  “To do some shopping,” she added quietly.

  He nodded, and she noticed then the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes, as though something were weighing on him. Or had been for some time. But Aidan Bedford’s business being none of hers, unless it involved fabric or carpet of some sort, she offered a quick curtsy, gathered her notebook and pen, and took her leave.

  She barely reached the stairs, however, when she heard her name—or Miss Anderson’s name. She paused, again feeling the nudge to tell him the truth about who she was. But the anonymity was alleviating some potentially awkward moments. And she couldn’t risk anything taking her off of this assignment.

  “Thank you,” he said, his voice gentle, “for the work you’re doing here. Miss Sinclair is quite pleased thus far.”

  Which is no small feat, Savannah heard faintly in the subsequent silence. “Thank you, Mr. Bedford. And on behalf of Miss Hattie’s shop, I’m most grateful to you for engaging our services.”

  He smiled then, the ease of the gesture and warmth in his gray eyes telling her this smile was natural. The effect it had on her was heady. But when his gaze lowered from her eyes to her mouth, Savannah was certain the house shifted beneath her.

  To say she knew a lot about men was like saying she knew next to nothing about sewing. She’d had a beau. Once. Before the war. But she’d scarcely been thirteen years old. And he’d died in battle along with all the other boys she’d known.

  But Aidan Bedford was no boy. And she got the distinct feeling he wasn’t looking at her as an employee anymore. Which sent a simultaneous shiver—and shudder—through her.

  He broke their gaze a heartbeat before she did, and the seconds lengthened as they purposefully looked anywhere but at each other.

  Finally, he cleared his throat. “So . . . the fabric for the draperies has been ordered.”

  “Yes.” She nodded as though telling him something he didn’t already know.

  “And I believe you said the project should take six weeks?”

  “Perhaps a little less, based on the number of seamstresses we have assigned to your order. And, of course, contingent upon any changes that might yet be made.”

  “Of course.” His eyes briefly grazed hers. “And here I thought I was buying a house that was already homey and ready to move into.” He sighed, then smiled, or tried to. But the expression didn’t hold. “Things without all remedy,” he said quietly, finally looking at her again, “should be without regard.”

  Savannah tried to follow his meaning, thinking she should be able to, yet fell shy. “I . . . beg your pardon, sir?”

  He blinked then ducked his head, his manner suddenly elusive. “I beg your pardon, Miss Anderson. I’ll leave you to your work. Thank you again for your service.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE KITCHEN AND STUDY. TWO ROOMS SAVANNAH HAD YET TO search.

  She’d been here over two weeks, yet every time she visited the k
itchen, Mrs. Pruitt was there. The housekeeper, kind though she was, might as well just drag her bed down the hallway and set it up by the stove.

  Savannah peered down the corridor to her right and, even now, heard the clang of pots and pans as the older woman sang softly to herself. Then she looked back toward the left to her father’s study.

  No, Mr. Bedford’s study.

  How was she supposed to legitimately search in there when he’d expressly requested that nothing be changed? But he wasn’t home right now, and Miss Sinclair was in the central parlor with a fresh pot of tea perusing the latest issue of La Mode Illustrée, with several past issues of Godey’s beside her on the settee.

  Savannah checked the time on the grandfather clock and knew Mrs. Pruitt’s schedule well enough to hope the woman would be occupied with dinner preparations for at least a little while. With the rush of a thrill up her spine, she sneaked inside the study, then turned and pushed the door just shy of closed. She stood in the silence and breathed in the scent of old books and cigar smoke, the aroma of her father’s favorite tobacco thicker in her memory than in the room. Still, amazing how the aroma lingered in the carpet and draperies after all these years, as though clinging to his memory just as she did. Comforting didn’t come close to describing being in here again—the sun slanting through the windows, falling across the desk and the bookshelves, bathing the familiar room in a golden hue.

  She gave herself a moment to drink it in, then hurriedly set about checking every nook and cranny, starting with the floor, then the bookshelves. But . . . nothing. Knowing anyone moving in to the house would’ve checked the drawers of her father’s old desk, she didn’t even bother looking.

  She spotted a pipe on the desk and lifted it to her nose. The aroma bore a faint scent of vanilla and something else woodsy and sweet, and she wondered why the scent seemed so familiar to her, then realized she’d caught the scent on Mr. Bedford’s clothes before. Something else familiar to her returned: “Things without all remedy should be without regard.”

  What he’d said days ago had stayed with her, and on a whim she crossed to the bookshelves and the familiar leather-bound copies, hoping her hunch was correct.

  But now to find the right one.

  Three volumes, four comedies, and two tragedies later, she happened upon the passage as she skimmed the pages. She wanted to throttle herself when she realized to which Shakespearean tragedy the phrase belonged.

  She read the passage aloud softly, trying to give Lady Macbeth the Scottish accent the woman, however guilty, deserved. “ ‘How now, my lord, why do you keep alone, of sorriest fancies your companions making.’ ” Impatient, she skimmed. “ ‘Things without all remedy should be without regard: what’s done is done.’ ”

  She lifted her gaze. What’s done is done.

  She stared at the words again. She was familiar with Lady Macbeth’s tenuous circumstances, but what had Aidan Bedford meant by quoting the literary character? Unless, of course, he’d murdered someone and was having trouble sleeping. She laughed to herself.

  Then her smile faded. Not because she thought the man a murderer. Rather because she knew the meaning of the passage. It ref lected a heart of regret. One of frustration. And she wondered what he’d been regretting in that moment when he’d quoted it. Was it giving Miss Sinclair permission to redecorate, perhaps? Understanding all the money the woman had spent? Or . . . was it another kind of regret entirely? What if he’d been referring to something far more personal?

  That possibility caused her to go still inside. What if he’d been referring to—

  “Mrs. Pruitt!” Miss Sinclair called out, the sharp staccato of fashionable boots approaching.

  Savannah hastily returned the leather tome to the shelf and raced to stand behind the door in case Miss Sinclair looked inside the room. But the footsteps continued on toward the kitchen, and Savannah leaned her head back against the wall and allowed herself to breathe again.

  The last three or four days, Miss Sinclair had seemed bent on accomplishing everything she’d planned and more, and with good reason. She was set to return to Boston later that week.

  At the woman’s insistence, Savannah had brought her sewing machine last week and had set it up in the boys’ old bedroom upstairs in order to sew decorative pillows to the woman’s precise specifications. And Savannah had sewn a dozen so far, with another dozen cut out and ready to be sewn. Where visitors were going to sit when they came calling, she didn’t know.

  But there was a new desperation to Miss Sinclair’s efforts to make this house her home, and Savannah didn’t have to wonder long as to why. Even she sensed the distancing between the couple. She wasn’t privy to details about the pending nuptials, which was just as well. She got a sinking feeling in her gut every time she thought about it. Which she tried not to do.

  Listening for footsteps and hearing none, Savannah opened the door as Mrs. Pruitt’s voice carried toward her from the kitchen.

  “Yes, Miss Sinclair. Last I saw Miss Anderson, she was upstairs sewing the pillows you requested, ma’am.”

  Peering down the hallway and seeing the back of Miss Sinclair’s dress, Savannah made a dash for the stairs and raced up, avoiding the risers with the worst creaks and half deciding that whatever box her father had hidden was gone. Or perhaps . . . Heart pounding, she slipped into the boys’ bedroom and took her seat at the sewing machine. Perhaps it had already been found.

  Miss Sinclair’s steps sounded on the stairs, and Savannah picked up one of the partially sewn patterns, trying not to appear as guilty as she felt. It had been hard enough to be in Priscilla Sinclair’s company before. But with what had happened with Mr. Bedford—

  But what had really happened? After all was said and done? Nothing. He’d looked at her. That was all. And as she and Maggie and Mary—her closest friends—had said in younger years, “It doesn’t take much to get a boy to look. It is getting him to look at the right things that matters.”

  The same was true for men, she guessed. Even though she wanted to believe Aidan Bedford was different. But in the end, how much did she really know about the man? Other than that he’d purchased her family’s farm, he was searching for a haven, and he held an appreciation for Shakespeare.

  As well as a tiny part of her heart.

  “Miss Anderson?” Miss Sinclair peered through the doorway, breathless. “Quickly! I need to discuss something with you in the central parlor. Posthaste! It’s about the furniture!”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “—AND EVERY PIECE OF FURNITURE IN THIS ROOM MUST GO. Surely you’re in agreement, Miss Anderson.”

  Aidan overheard Priscilla’s voice as he opened the front door. His interest more than piqued, especially after the day he’d had, he paused in the foyer. The door to the central parlor on his right wasn’t quite closed, and he spotted Miss Anderson, her back to him. But he couldn’t see Priscilla.

  “Do you know of an establishment in town that will take such pieces, Miss Anderson? Passé though they may be?”

  Miss Anderson glanced about the room as though taking inventory of its contents, and Aidan sensed her hesitance.

  “Yes, Miss Sinclair. There’s a . . . Widows’ and Children’s Home in Nashville that might be able to make use of the furniture. I could speak with the home’s director, if you wish. But are you certain Mr. Bedford doesn’t wish to retain any of it?”

  Aidan’s appreciation for the young woman increased tenfold.

  “There’s no need to mention any of this to Mr. Bedford, Miss Anderson. I’m still choosing the last of the pieces, but I’d prefer the new furniture be a surprise for him. Do you understand?”

  Aidan rubbed the back of his neck, the muscles taut. Oh, it would be a surprise all right. Or would’ve been. If she’d managed the purchase. Which she certainly wouldn’t now.

  Work in recent days had been unrelenting. Regardless of the personal grudge people in this town held against Northerners—to date, he’d been called arrogant, aggress
ive, and brutish—it appeared they desired those traits in an attorney. His desk was piled high with files, and his satchel bulged.

  He’d finally left the office a little early in hopes of getting some work done in his study this afternoon. He sighed. Returning home was supposed to be a man’s respite. But since Priscilla’s arrival, it had been anything but. Between his attempts to avoid Miss Anderson while also trying to spend time with Priscilla, he felt a little like a prisoner in his own home. When Miss Anderson was in a particular room, he tried to avoid going in, while doing his best not to make it look intentional.

  The young woman had done nothing wrong. It was his mistake. He was the one who had overstepped his bounds. Yet, if her behavior when he did see her was any indication, she seemed to have forgiven him completely, for which he was grateful.

  And also not.

  Because even as fleeting as those moments had been with her, and as silly as it sounded to him even now, he’d felt more of a connection with her in that brief space of time than he’d felt with Priscilla in months. Perhaps ever.

  Which left him feeling like an entirely different kind of prisoner.

  He glimpsed Priscilla briefly through the open doorway, her back to him. He’d told her she could redecorate, and it had seemed fitting since the house was going to be hers as well. But she was going far beyond anything he’d imagined. Replacing entire rooms of furniture? Furniture he liked?

  “I found a borne settee this morning,” Priscilla continued, her voice overly dramatic as though she might swoon. “Rococo Revival period with rich damask fabric. I bought it immediately, of course, and believe it will work best right over . . . there. What do you think, Miss Anderson?”

  The grandfather clock beside him ticked off the seconds.

  “A borne settee?” Miss Anderson finally answered, her tone polite but clearly questioning. “That’s a rather large and formal piece for a central parlor, Miss Sinclair.”