“I ought to kill him for that.” Wade caressed her cheek. “It was wrong of me to give you the ring. I had no right. But I wanted you to have some reason to remember me.”
“As if I could ever forget.” She drew the ring from beneath the collar of her dress. “I wear it every day.”
He nodded. “How is your father taking this turn of events?”
“He is resigned to it, I think. But I suspect that deep down he still thinks it’s due to my imperfect understanding of Charles’s true worth.”
“Still, I believe your father had your best interests at heart. Everyone is worried about secession and what will come after it. I can’t blame him for wanting to be certain you will be as safe and protected as circumstances allow.”
“But none of us will be safe if war is declared.”
“That’s true.”
They grew quiet as the rain intensified. He drew her away from the railing and into the protected corner of the piazza. Abby wanted to lose herself in his arms, to rest her head on his chest and hear the steady beat of his heart. Instead she said, “Is there any news from Philadelphia? Will your article be published in the medical journal?”
“Yes. In the winter issue. We’re very pleased about it.”
“When will you leave Charleston again?”
“I’m not certain yet. Perhaps in September. At present I have one or two older patients who need constant looking after. And—” He broke off and took her in his arms. “Ah, Abby. Why do we speak of such things when there is only one thing that matters?”
She lifted her face to look at him, and in the pale spill of light coming through the tall windows, she saw the gleam of tears in his eyes.
“Do you love me, Miss Clayton?”
“I most certainly do, Dr. Bennett.”
“You’ll marry me then.” It was not a question.
A river of joy coursed through her, flooding her heart. She smiled into the darkness. She could afford to tease him now. “I will give it serious consideration.”
“Hmm. Serious consideration, you say? When may I expect your answer?”
Oblivious to the rain leaking through the roof of the old piazza, Abby stood on tiptoe and lifted her face for his kiss. “How about now?”
TO MEND A DREAM
Tamera Alexander
To everyone who ever made a perfect plan, then had God change it—for the better.
We can make our plans, but the LORD determines our steps.
PROVERBS 16:9 (NLT)
CHAPTER ONE
Nashville, Tennessee
June 13, 1870
WHAT SHE WOULDN’T GIVE FOR THE CHANCE TO BE BACK IN that house again. If only for a day . . .
Savannah Darby carefully refolded the stationery and tucked it back inside the drawer of her bedside table alongside the family Bible—and her impossible wish.
“This is my side of the dresser!”
“No! It’s my side!” The metallic scrape of her brother’s leg braces punctuated his frustration.
“I know it’s mine because—”
“Andrew! Carolyne!” Savannah pierced her younger siblings with a look, then lowered her voice by a degree, not wishing for the mothers and children on both sides of their room and across the hall to hear them. Again. They’d waited for months for an opening to move in here. She couldn’t afford for this not to work, in more ways than one. “I’ve already received two warnings about your arguing, and we’ve not been here three weeks yet. Please,” she added firmly, seeing Carolyne’s mouth fly open, “keep your voices down.”
Carolyne pouted. “At least in the boarding house we had our own dressers.”
“No, you didn’t.” Savannah gathered her sewing satchel. “In the boarding house you each had your own overturned crate.”
Guilt bowed ten-year-old Carolyne’s head. But Andrew, two years older and impatient to become a man, merely scowled.
“We all must share. And no more arguing.” Savannah kissed them both on the forehead, despite Andrew’s halfhearted attempt to dodge her affection. “I’ll see you back here this afternoon. Andrew, be careful with the deliveries. And remember, only one crate at a time.”
His frown deepened.
“Carolyne, when you finish your chores in the kitchen, read your lessons I outlined and study your French. Work the arithmetic equations I wrote out for you last night too. Andrew, see to your studies, including the reading in Macbeth. There’s a volume in the library downstairs. And remember you have a—”
“I know, Savannah.” He turned his back to her. “I’ve already said I’ll go.”
Hand on the doorknob, Savannah schooled a smile. “Next time, I’ll do my best to be excused from work to go with you, but—”
“I’m not a child. I can go by myself.”
“I know you can. I want to go for me, to hear what he has to say. Not because I think you’re incapable of going alone.”
His expression softened a fraction, and Savannah seized the momentary truce and took her leave, already late for work as it was. And dreading the price she would pay with Miss Hildegard.
She hurried down the two flights of stairs.
While she used to dream of getting married and having children, she’d never expected to become mother to a six- and eight-year-old at the age of eighteen. Now, four years later, her father and mother gone, along with her older brothers, there were moments when she thought she was handling the responsibility fairly well. The rest of the time she desperately prayed she wasn’t botching the job.
At a quarter past eight, the common room of the Nashville Widows’ and Children’s Home buzzed with life. Moving here represented a new start for them and was a great deal safer than where they’d been several blocks east. And not a rat in sight. Mice she could handle. But rats . . .
She shuddered, remembering what it had been like awakening at night in the boarding house to hear the rodents scurrying about in the dark. Or worse, when she felt one scuttle across the foot of her bed.
The succulent aroma of freshly baked cinnamon bread drifted from the kitchen and helped to banish the bad memories even as the homey scent encouraged her hunger, as did the promise of coffee. But the queue for breakfast was already twenty deep, and the clock on the wall insisted she keep moving.
Outside, the skies boasted a crystalline-blue color, and the sun already felt warm on her face. Summer had staked its claim.
Monday mornings always seemed busier somehow, both in foot traffic and on the streets. Scores of farm wagons and carriages vied for passage, with freight wagons only slowing their progress, the drivers pausing as cargo was loaded and unloaded. At every corner she was delayed. And the minutes rushed past.
She spotted the mercantile ahead and, once closer, saw Mr. Mulholland, the proprietor, standing just inside the doorway. Aware to the penny of how much she owed on her account, she thought of the bill she’d received last week reminding her of the outstanding balance, and a stab of guilt pierced her when she averted her gaze as she passed.
The man had been so kind to extend her credit. And though she had no idea how she would manage it, she intended to repay every penny. Someday.
Out of breath, she raced down an alleyway, her mind turning again to Andrew’s visit with the doctor. Determined not to borrow trouble until trouble left her no choice, she hurried inside the back entrance of Miss Hattie’s Dress and Drapery Shop, then down the hallway, hoping to get to her sewing station before anyone realized she was—
She ran headlong into a red-faced Miss Hildegard.
Savannah reached out to steady the older woman, then quickly realized it wasn’t Miss Hildegard who was about to go sprawling. Hand against the wall, Savannah managed to steady herself, only too aware of the veins bulging in her employer’s neck.
“Pardon me, Miss Hildegard! I didn’t—”
“Finally, Miss Darby, you see fit to grace us with your presence!”
Savannah’s face went hot. “My apologies for being tardy, Mis
s Hildegard.” She knew better than to try to offer an excuse. Nothing short of sudden death would satisfy this woman. And even then, Miss Bertha Hildegard would demand forenotice.
The woman huffed. “We are all in a state, Miss Darby! Betsy Anderson has taken ill and only now sent word, the slothful girl! So you must take her appointment this morning.”
Not yet trusting she’d escaped with so minor a scolding, Savannah nodded quickly. “Of course, ma’am. I’ll leave straightaway, right after I finish hemming the draperies for Mrs. Garrison’s—”
“Mrs. Garrison can wait! This appointment is for redecorating an entire house, Miss Darby. Draperies, bedcovers, duvets, pillows, window shades . . . everything. The patron also mentioned furniture, for which we’ll work with Franklin’s.” An odd look crossed the older woman’s face. “The newly arrived owner, a Mr. Aidan Bedford, and his fiancée, Miss Sinclair, are expecting you. Or rather, are expecting Miss Anderson. But you’ll have to do.”
Accustomed to the woman’s disparaging comments, Savannah found them easier to endure when remembering that the former owner, Miss Hattie, had held her work in the highest regard. Miss Hattie’s was the finest dress and drapery shop in town, and Savannah needed this job.
Miss Hildegard started down the hallway and gestured for her to follow. “The soon-to-be Mrs. Bedford visited the shop day before last and perused fabric samples. Our most expensive samples.” If it were possible for a woman to salivate over the sale of fabric, Miss Hildegard was doing just that. “The couple has moved from Boston, and Miss Sinclair—such a cultured, lovely young woman—made it quite clear they’re eager to make this house their home.”
Savannah was already making a mental list of what to include in her sewing satchel. At the same time she found herself assessing the earnings a job like this could bring. Andrew not only needed new leg braces, but she’d also read recently about a physician up north who had developed boots made especially for people born with clubfeet. The boots were expensive, as were the leg braces. But what a difference they’d make for her brother. Plus, both of her siblings had grown several inches since last summer, and though she could sew anything, fabric didn’t come cheaply.
She hated that Betsy’s illness—and therefore her coworker’s loss of this extra commission—meant personal gain for herself. But if Betsy couldn’t do the job, somebody else would. And it might as well be her.
“I’ll gather what’s needed, Miss Hildegard, and leave straightaway. What’s the address?”
Miss Hildegard’s dark eyebrows drew together. “Let me make myself clear, Miss Darby. I will not have you ruining this opportunity or making Mr. Bedford and his fiancée uncomfortable. The couple has every right to make that house their home.”
Savannah frowned. “Why would I ruin such an opportunity, ma’am? And as for the couple, I’ve not met either of them, so—”
“The house you’ll be redecorating . . . where they’re living? It’s Darby Farm.”
CHAPTER TWO
SAVANNAH FROZE, THE FRENZIED PACE OF HER WORLD SUDDENLY slamming to a halt. She felt certain she’d heard the woman correctly, and Miss Hildegard’s cautionary expression confirmed it. Yet somehow, she still worked to grasp the request.
Over a year had passed since her family home had been auctioned and sold. How many nights had she lain awake wishing she could get back into that house? Just that morning she’d reread the letter her father had written to her mother, even though she knew it by heart. She had hoped for this very thing.
But who was the new owner? A Yankee.
She knew better than to be surprised. Still, she’d prayed the family farm might remain in the Southern lineage instead of falling prey to one of those money-grubbing carpetbaggers who’d descended from the North like vultures, intent on making money and taking advantage of someone else’s misfortune.
“Will this be a problem for you, Miss Darby?”
Grateful the woman couldn’t hear the tone of her thoughts, Savannah shook her head. “No, ma’am. No problem at all, Miss Hildegard. I assure you.”
The woman eyed her as though unconvinced.
Savannah began gathering the needed supplies from the shelves. “If you’ll show me which fabrics piqued Miss Sinclair’s interest, I’ll pack my satchel and be on my way.”
And she was. In ten minutes flat. She hurried back across town, dodging wagons and carriages, oblivious to the blur of faces and storefronts she passed.
A legitimate reason to be inside her family home again. A chance to search for what her father had hidden in the house before he died in the war—something she would never have known about if not for the letter she’d found a few months ago following her mother’s passing.
Yet as determined as she was to make the most of the opportunity, she had an inkling that once she stepped inside the house, her deeply rooted sense of propriety would do its best to thwart her determination. Which meant only one thing . . .
She would have to keep propriety in its place—outside on the porch.
And considering the unfortunate fact that a Yankee now owned Darby Farm only emboldened that resolve. In fact, this newly acquired truth made her intended action seem almost noble. Like just retribution! She would succeed. She had to.
Because a chance like this wouldn’t come a second time.
She hastened her stride down the familiar dirt road, consumed by one thought: she would find what her father had hidden inside that house, or she would tear it apart trying.
Everything about living at Darby Farm was exactly as Aidan Bedford imagined it would be. Or at least it had been—until four days ago.
“Do you agree with me or not, Aidan? It’s important to me that you do. Surely you know that.”
The insistence in Priscilla’s voice all but drowned out the call of the lush green meadows and hills lying just beyond the open windows of the study. The meadows and hills he’d ridden every morning since arriving here a month ago, save the last four days since she’d arrived.
“What I know, Priscilla, is that whether I agree with the changes you’d like to make to the house is ultimately of little importance to you. Of that I’m certain.” Smiling, he turned, fully expecting the arched curve of her dark eyebrow. “And while I never had a sister, nor did my late mother gain pleasure from decorating a home, I realize the activity is generally one of immense pleasure for the female gender. So . . . alter a few things to your liking. Make the house your home.”
One . . . two . . . three . . . He silently counted, waiting. And there it was.
Her lower lip pudged. “But I want you involved in the changes too, dearest. This is our home. Yours and mine. Or it soon will be. And I want it to be a reflection of our combined tastes.”
He laughed, knowing better. “If that were truly the case, then half of everything in this home would stay precisely as it is.”
Her expression went from one of gentility to that of someone smelling something putrid. “But the furnishings are all so . . . quaint. And . . . Southern.”
“I find them full of character and warmth. And they’re called antiques, Priscilla. Surely you’ve heard of them.”
She scoffed. “Antiques are works of art, Aidan. Think of timeless pieces from the Elizabethan era, or William and Mary. Or Louis the Sixteenth.” Her sigh hinted at infatuation. “Admittedly, there are a few good pieces in the house. But the rest of the furniture”—she grimaced at the massive oak desk separating them, then at the matching breakfront bookcases across the room that shouldered a small but impressive library, including the leather-bound works of Shakespeare—“I’d categorize more eighteenth-century pioneer than heirloom.”
Accustomed to the woman’s expensive taste, Aidan overlooked her pretension and impatience and reminded himself of her finer qualities. Priscilla Sinclair was cultured, intelligent, beautiful, from one of the finest families in Boston, and their pending marriage—while not one planned since infancy—had most definitely been the object of both sets of their lat
e parents’ wishes for as long as they could remember. And with good reason. He and Priscilla were well suited to each other. The perfect Bostonian couple. Only . . .
They weren’t in Boston anymore. And things about her that had only niggled at him over the past three years now gnawed.
Likely the last fleeting thoughts of a man too long a bachelor. Or at least that’s what he hoped.
He ran a hand over the top of the desk, the object of her momentary disdain, and found the workmanship exemplary, just as he had the first time he’d stepped foot into this house. When business had brought him to Nashville a year ago, he’d seen this land, this house, and he’d known he would purchase it. Same as he’d known, somewhere deep inside, that he would live in Nashville. Someday. He simply hadn’t thought it would be so soon.
How a conversation with a complete stranger six years ago had so altered the course of his life, he couldn’t explain. A most unlikely exchange on a field in North Carolina during the lull of war. With a Johnny Reb, no less. It was a conversation—and battle—he would never forget.
He’d never told Priscilla about what happened that day. He’d never told anyone. But for sure Priscilla Sinclair, daughter to one of the finest families in Massachusetts, wouldn’t understand.
Since finally closing the door to the most prestigious law firm in Boston nearly two months ago, he’d not once looked back.
But she did.
Even now, as she studied the draperies framing the windows, the table and chair to the side, he sensed her longing for home, her thoughts undoubtedly returning to the handsome redbrick brownstone he still owned in Beacon Hill. He’d thought about selling the home in recent months but had held back, wanting to make certain he enjoyed living here as much as he thought he would.
And he did.
Darby Farm was exactly what he wanted, what he’d been searching for. The house was older, yes, but it was well built and full of character and had cost a fraction of what he would glean from selling his brownstone.
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