Nicholas stopped scribbling. The sawmill’s exterior door’s hinges whined, followed by footsteps too dainty to be a worker. He leaned to see through the open crack of his office door. A glimpse of pale yellow fabric and raven hair breezed past, then the footfalls stopped. He had to stop himself from smiling.
“I’m glad to see you, Miss King.” His secretary’s voice was barely audible, but Nicholas still heard the glimmer of merriment in his voice. “Mr. Lowe is eagerly awaiting this.”
Nicholas scowled. He’d told Gerald no such thing. His secretary better hold his tongue before he gave her the wrong impression.
“Am I supposed to wait for him?”
“He didn’t say so.”
“Then I’d best be going. Good day, Mr. Black.”
Nicholas doodled to look busy in case she peeked into his office.
After the door shut, he strolled into the front office. “Was that Miss King?”
“You know it was.” His secretary held out an envelope.
Nicholas took it and forced himself not to look. “Did you get the invoices for Peterson out?”
“Yes, two days ago.” Gerald voice was no-nonsense, but his eyes danced. “And yesterday when you asked me, it was one day ago.”
He grunted at Gerald, then let himself look at the paper in his hand. Her dark fluid penmanship tempted him to trace the letters in his name. He turned the envelope over so he couldn’t see the fine slant of her pen and snatched the letter opener off Gerald’s desk. Slicing through the pretty envelope with the dagger-like instrument, he released a fresh burst of floral scent from its confines. Was this what she always smelled like? He’d have to get closer next time—
No. He strangled the handle of the letter opener before stabbing the sharp end into the desktop.
Gerald skewed his eyebrows and yanked the opener from the wood. “Take it easy. Just because Mrs. Greene called you on the carpet doesn’t mean you have to kill my desk.”
“Mrs. Greene? What’re you talking about?”
“You didn’t see the editorial this morning?”
Nicholas shook his head, and Gerald winced.
“Guess I have to show it to you now.” Gerald pushed a folded newspaper across the desk and sat back. Way back.
The title, “Lowe’s Waste and Disregard for the Needs of the Community,” admonished him in large letters. He pressed his lips together before something unpleasant escaped, snatched up the periodical, and stomped back to his office.
“Mr. Lowe, if—”
The door’s slam cut off his secretary’s concerned voice. But at that moment, it was best that he be alone in his office, for who knew what he might be tempted to do with his secretary’s letter opener after reading this.
The Ladies’ Auxiliary was raising funds for a building and had stopped by last week asking for a donation. He’d offered to sell material to the group wholesale instead, but Mrs. Greene, the president, had expected more. She probably figured he should have financed the whole project.
His quick skim of the editorial made his heart palpitate, though his brain insisted he didn’t care. Seemed she’d discovered a surprisingly accurate figure on the cost of building his mansion and couldn’t contain her bitterness.
Nicholas trashed the paper and unclenched his jaw. He wouldn’t reply, no matter how tempting. God knew why he built the mansion. And Mrs. Greene hadn’t bothered to ask—not that he would have explained himself to her.
After Violet’s death, and the newest maid giving up and returning to “where she belonged,” guilt weighed heavy in his heart. He didn’t need any outside chastisement.
Nicholas took a deep breath and blew it out. God had forgiven him his past, and Violet’s death wasn’t his fault, so he wouldn’t let Mrs. Greene’s attack mess with his emotions. He picked up Lydia’s stationery and rubbed it between his fingers, the silky-smooth paper pleasantly feminine, much like her skin might—
He dropped the letter and made for the window. Shoving up the sash, he inhaled the fresh air, blinking against the image in his mind. How had he gotten so out of control? Anger one minute, desire the next? Fantasizing about a woman he didn’t know well had gotten him into trouble before. Big trouble.
And Lydia wasn’t even available to court.
He returned to his desk and yanked the letter from its bothersome scented envelope, which he threw in the trash, and unfolded the list. Lydia was a distraction. The faster he was rid of her, the better. He’d look at her requests long enough to turn them down.
No introduction was scrawled at the top of the paper, just a simple list.
Take care of the heating needs of three poor Teaville families this winter.
Make a donation to the church, preferably ten percent of your income.
Provide the town with a non-subscription library.
He sat and reread the list while the wind from the open window licked at his exposed skin. Was his absurd desire to keep her around clouding his judgment, or were these three wishes just right enough that he’d have to honor them?
He chuckled at her first request—an attempt to get him to fund the moral society’s blanket project?
Obviously the Bible told him to do number two.
And Lydia would personally benefit from the third wish, but hadn’t he often thought the town needed a library? He already lent his personal collection to anyone who asked, and his maid Josephine found solace in the silly novels he ordered for her through Harper’s Bazar. He had no desire to keep those books, so why not donate them to a library?
Nicholas let his head fall back against his chair. All week he’d dreaded having to deny Lydia her requests. Because if he did, how would he handle her returning to his office at least a dozen more times, complete with her hands on her hips and a sizzling glare, begging him to reconsider her three requests and the sewing machines.
But there would be no reason for her to come back and berate him anymore. He was going to grant her wishes. And that sparkle of triumph he’d craved seeing earlier would dance in her light blues.
He got up and closed the window, staring out at his workers carrying lumber from the yard to awaiting wagons. He’d prayed God would direct him to people who could help take over some aspects of his ministry, but maybe God wasn’t giving him someone who already cared, but rather someone to mold. Lydia certainly had a passion and concern for others.
Or maybe she wasn’t God’s answer at all, and his attraction was causing him to lose sight of what was important.
He returned to the desk and reread her list. The wishes were still sane and wise, and his word obligated him.
He crossed the room and opened the door. “Gerald.”
“Yes, sir?” Gerald dropped his legs from the top of his desk and had the decency to redden for being caught doing nothing.
“Make an appointment with Miss King to see me at her earliest convenience.”
12
Lydia sat in Mr. Lowe’s sawdust-free leather chair while he paced behind his desk, not frantically but meditatively. Since she’d not initiated this meeting, she’d let him speak first.
He sighed, his shoulders heaving with melodramatic exaggeration before he pivoted to face her. Legs spread wide, he put his hands behind his back as if he were facing a firing squad.
She tightened the muscles in her face so she wouldn’t let loose the tiniest hint of a gloating smile. She’d won!
“Miss King. It seems I can’t in good conscience ignore your wishes. All of them are things I’d consider doing myself without your prompting, so we will do them together.”
“Together?” She frowned. What did that mean? How on earth was she supposed to help him give money to the church? She could certainly help with the poor families. Maybe he meant he wanted to help with the quilt project! She moved to the edge of her seat and bowed her head to hide her smile.
Forgive me for doubting you’d come through for me.
“Have you spoken to anyone about these wishes?”
> At the shake of her head, Nicholas relaxed against his desk. “Wonderful. I will require that you not mention I’m involved with these monetary donations, though I suppose taking credit for the library cannot be helped.” He tapped the desktop, where her list sat. “But, beyond secrecy, you will agree to a condition for each wish.”
Her heart beat like a tightened drum. What could he possibly want from her? She had nothing. “I’ll reserve my agreement until I’ve heard what they are.”
“As to the first wish, you will go with me when I take supplies to the families.”
She nodded sharply. “I could be sure you did it, then.”
His eyebrows arched, as if surprised. “That shouldn’t have been a worry. I told you I would.”
She tried to relax her face, blink submissively. If she riled him, he might not follow through. “I didn’t mean to question your word.”
“As for the library”—he stood and crossed his arms—“you will run it.”
Her hand pressed against the flutter in her chest. “Truly?” She’d hoped to have volunteered some hours, but to actually run the library? To buy books without spending a dime of her own money, to decide how they were shelved, to get to read them first! Sebastian could afford a cook and a maid or two, so she could easily spend as many hours as she wanted . . . well . . .
“What about when I have children after I’m married?”
They’d drastically cut down on her availability. Would Mr. Lowe give her a say in running things if she couldn’t spend the entire day at the library?
His jaw moved back and forth, and his expression took on an edge.
She fiddled with the buttons on her shirtwaist. Had he forgotten a woman would have to see to such things? “I’m sure I could get someone to work while I’m unable.”
“If you so desire, but it’s not necessary.” He exhaled loudly and dropped onto his desk. “You’ll choose the library’s operating hours, so you can take time off or cut back if needed. I could always send one of my secretaries over to open it up if someone required something.”
She swallowed the giddy giggle swelling inside her and schooled her face into looking as serious as Mr. Lowe’s. “All right. So far, I agree.”
If she could never become a literature professor, head librarian sounded next to heavenly.
“Good. As for the church donation you requested, I’d like you to be there when I present the money, help me decide what funds should be bolstered.”
She gripped the armrests to keep herself from clapping. She wouldn’t even have to convince the pastor to use Mr. Lowe’s money for the quilting project, she could just tell Pastor Wisely to put money into their account the day Mr. Lowe gave it.
“By the look on your face, it seems you agree to that as well.” Mr. Lowe crossed his legs and his arms. “You asked that I give ten percent. I already do so, but I’m willing to give another ten percent this year—paid out in quarters.”
He already tithed? No, he couldn’t. She played with her gloves to hide the trembling in her fingers. She’d never once seen him put money in the little red velvet offering bags, and if he tithed, why did Pastor Wisely bemoan the church’s lack of funding? Surely Mr. Lowe’s tithe alone could fund the church. She pressed her jittery fingers against her lips. Maybe he didn’t make as much money as she thought.
“Are you having second thoughts?”
She shook her head. He’d chosen to accept her wishes, and he wouldn’t destroy his pocketbook to do so. She stood and offered her hand. “I agree, Mr. Lowe. I pledge my secrecy and my aid. Partners?”
He combed his fingers through his hair and stared at her hand. Sealing their deal with a handshake would bind a persnickety man like him.
All of a sudden his hand swallowed hers, and she forced herself not to wince against his strong grip. He looked at her so intently she could hardly breathe. Had she overstepped herself?
She pumped his arm and then tried to let go.
He cleared his throat and released her, then skirted around his desk to again take his chair. “I’ll have Mr. Black contact you when I’m ready to start on your list. It will take a bit of planning on my part, but you’ll have nothing to do but show up.”
None of his conditions put her out, and now he planned to shoulder all the responsibility? She crossed her arms. When things appeared too good to be true . . .
He riffled through his desk drawer and snatched a fountain pen. “Since we’ll be working together, you should call me Nicholas.”
“Lydia, then.” Though he’d used her Christian name twice already.
“And now, I must return to my work.” He gave her a dismissive nod and opened a folder on his desk.
“Of course.” She smiled at his disguised agitation, most likely already regretting having caved to her wishes. But that handshake would hold him. “A pleasure doing business with you, Nicholas.” His name tumbled out too soft, and he quit rolling the pen between his fingers and looked up. A gentle light hit his eye, much like a man enamored. Then he frowned and slumped back against his seat, instantly engrossed with the contents of his folder, chewing on the end of his pen.
She rolled her eyes at herself as she breezed out the door. Nicholas Lowe, enamored? With her? The thrill of getting a donation had addled her brain.
Mr. Black stood, and she couldn’t help throwing him a huge smile.
His mouth puckered along with his eyebrows. “So you actually got him to change his mind?”
“Yes.” She stopped in front of him and tapped his ledger twice. “I told you I would.”
He shook his head, a smile twitching the corners of his thin lips. “I stand corrected.” He mock saluted her. “You are my inspiration. I never thought I’d see someone out-stubborn him.”
“Well”—she leaned forward and gave a stage whisper—“maybe he’s growing soft in his old age.”
“Or maybe he’s going soft because of you.”
Her face muscles went slack, and she could only stare at Mr. Black’s merry eyes. He cocked his head as if expecting an answer.
Did Nicholas grant her wishes to win her affection despite his insistence that charity should be done without any underlying motives?
“That can’t be right.” Her and Mr. Lowe? Ridiculous.
He was too important to feel the need to impress some lowly girl. Lowe’s secretary was only teasing. He was a congenial fellow who’d probably rib her more if she protested too much. Mr. Black’s words weren’t worth pondering.
“Good day, Mr. Black.”
“Why are you practically skipping?” Evelyn frowned at Lydia, but an upward curl fought against her friend’s downturned lips. Evelyn hadn’t a grumpy bone in her body. Though she was half a head taller than most women, she never slumped, always holding her head high, yet never made anyone feel beneath her.
How Lydia wished she could share her victory with her friend! She’d squeezed more out of Nicholas than the moral society had ever dreamed possible. But she wasn’t even allowed to whisper her happy news to angelic Evelyn as they tromped behind the other moral-society ladies on Lydia’s very first serenade. Not even the sudden temperature drop could dampen her spirits.
“I can’t tell you now, but you’ll find out soon enough.” She tried to shuffle along piously, but since Evelyn kept shaking her head at her, she must be failing.
When the group crossed Eleventh Street, the far-off sound of riotous laughter and music increased, and her high stepping turned molasses slow.
She needed to have her head about her, be serious. Though something in her life had finally gone right by winning over Nicholas, this serenade was an echo of the part that was still wrong.
Lord, please let my father not be here tonight, especially if he’d choose to make a scene because I’m here.
The closer they walked to the blocks between Twelfth and Fourteenth and from Maple to Willow, the harder her heart beat, as if keeping tempo with each pounded note of the out-of-tune piano somewhere ahead of them. W
hen they stepped onto Thirteenth Street, otherwise known as The Line once it hit Maple, Mrs. Little called them to stop in front of an abandoned building.
Lydia shielded her face from the dying rays of the autumn sunset losing its battle against the light spilling out of brothels and saloons—ill disguised as inns and soda fountains to circumvent the law. Only yards away, more people than she’d ever imagined filled the sidewalks. She’d thought people in this section of town would skulk about in the shadows, not laugh and talk merrily, heedless of being seen in such a place.
Mrs. Little cleared her throat, and Lydia threw back her shoulders with the other women, ready to hear their commanding officer’s battle plans.
Please Lord, let us do some good. Get my heart right. As Nicholas has shamed me into admitting, I haven’t been involved in this group for the right purpose. Let me take our actions seriously, so we can be effective in showing these people their folly.
“Since Lydia and Abbie have never been on one of our serenades, I’ll remind everyone of how we should behave.” Mrs. Little stopped pacing and clasped her hands behind her. “We’ll start at the Red Star. Recently, they’ve added a lean-to to give them more room for gaming, and it’s rumored the owner wants to start a dance hall.”
The woman beside Lydia tsked, echoing the others’ censuring murmurs.
Mrs. Little paused until they quieted. “We will shame them with the words of righteousness. If you can’t read music, beseech God in silent prayer until you’ve learned the tune. Pray He will use the words of our songs to bring them into repentance. If a drunkard shouts at us, don’t flinch. If an owner threatens us, don’t stop singing. If a woman of the night glares at us, don’t make eye contact. Only speak to those who ask how they can be forgiven and cleansed of their iniquity. If you don’t feel ready for such a task, send them to me or Bernadette.”
Lydia stood tall. Tonight Mrs. Little would be watching her, sizing her up, and she didn’t want to show any signs of weakness.
“With the help of my son and the concerned women of Teaville, we shall eradicate our town’s blackest blocks through passing stronger laws and awakening the sinners’ guilt.”
A Heart Most Certain Page 8