At Love's Bidding

by Regina Jennings

  “I apologize for Grandfather. If you want a more formal apology . . .”

  “Your dress looks nice.”

  Slowly she lowered the apple doll. She’d decided to stop hiding, after all. “Since I’ve been back, I’ve tried to wear colors besides brown,” she said. “And maybe I’ve had more courage for other things, too.”

  Although how she could talk to him standing there in a perfectly tailored suit, looking every bit of the dashing catch the Herald proclaimed him to be, she couldn’t fathom. Then the dread returned. “How are you finding Boston?”

  “It ain’t like home,” he chuckled. “I got chewed out something fierce by the driver for giving the newspaper boys rides in the buggy.”

  Miranda blurted out a laugh. “You did?”

  “It was raining. I had empty seats.”

  Despite her nervousness, she couldn’t stop the smile from breaking out. She’d rather hear about that than the fine parties he was attending. And just maybe this was one wealthy man who would understand the barriers the poor boys faced.

  “You do have a lot of treasures,” he said. “Almost as many as Mrs. Rinehart.”

  “But none from Montgomery Wards.” She found herself gazing up at him as a warm contentment covered her. They hadn’t changed him. Even if she didn’t see him again, there was satisfaction in knowing that he was every bit the man she’d thought he was.

  Miranda walked Wyatt through the warehouse and back toward the front entry. Along the way, they strolled between the tall rows of shelves. Clocks, lamps, candlesticks, paintings—the treasure from one hundred homes, and she could only think of the man at her side.

  “You don’t mind if I keep this catalog, do you?” He slowed before a Boucher of a couple embracing on the banks of a creek. “When I read it, I’ll hear your voice.”

  Why did he need something to remember her by? Was this a farewell? “Take it,” she said. Then on impulse she shoved the doll toward him. “And this, too. It’s something to remind you of home.” And then, just in case he thought she was being sentimental, “We have crates of them.”

  Gently he took the doll out of her hand. He turned it over, as if inspecting the work. “Seeing you here, I realize how dumb I was to think . . .” He rubbed his thumb against the wrinkled apple face.

  To think? To think . . . what? Miranda searched his face, but with his tailored clothes and clean-shaven jaw, he once again felt unfamiliar.

  “I should go. Corinne is taking me to dinner . . . I mean lunch . . . But before I go, I wanted to apologize to you.” He lifted his eyes to hers. “I shouldn’t have accused you of stealing the painting from me. I had no reason to think you’d do that.”

  “You had plenty of reasons to suspect me. But I accept your apology.” She heard Father take the stage and knock the gavel against the podium. The sale was recommencing.

  “I have an apology to make, too,” Miranda said. “I was so focused on the consequences to my family that I didn’t consider how that painting could change your life. If I’d understood, I wouldn’t have expected you to hand it over.”

  “Thank you,” Wyatt said. “I didn’t want to leave any misunderstanding between us. It’s nice to have that settled.”

  But nothing was settled, least of all her heart.

  Chapter 32

  She understood why he had to have the painting, but did she understand why he needed her? Wyatt wasn’t sure. She hadn’t agreed to marry him in Pine Gap, and now that she was home with her family—and that uptight doctor, Cornelius—she might never take him seriously.

  Wyatt spotted the door he’d entered and followed the long corridor of furniture to the front. Seeing her again, the first familiar face in this strange land, was too much for him. If he wasn’t careful, he’d blurt out another proposal here in the storeroom.

  A man didn’t go begging a woman. If she turned him down flat, he ought not bring it up again, but she’d asked for time. How long was enough? Besides, there were a million reasons Miranda would turn down a poor sale-barn manager in Missouri. He only hoped the reasons that mattered didn’t apply to a millionaire in Boston.

  But he wouldn’t waste his only chance here and now. Wait until one of them fancy dance parties they kept promising him. That would be a good place. Ladies were supposed to get all sentimental about such events.

  They came to the end of the warehouse portion of the building, and who should be waiting for them but Cornelius. You could roast a duck over the steam coming off his ears.

  “You’re leaving?” he asked.

  “I’ll call on you soon, Miranda.” Wyatt wasn’t going to ask for permission, especially in front of that tonic-swiggling fool.

  “I’ll walk you out,” she said.

  “That’s hardly necessary,” Cornelius said.

  “But extremely pleasant,” Wyatt answered, then leaned toward Cornelius and whispered, “By the way, I did my own examination of her skull and found her to be remarkable in every way.”

  Then before he could respond, they scuttled past and into the salon. Directly into the path of a strangely agitated Mr. Stuyvesant.

  Compulsively wiping his hands on his suitcoat, Mr. Stuyvesant’s cheeks glowed an angry red.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  Wyatt shot a glance at Miranda, but she looked as puzzled as he felt.

  “Mr. Stuyvesant,” Wyatt said. “How can I help you?”

  “You can board the next train out of Boston and never return. To think my own precious daughter entertained a charlatan like you. I hope the LeBlancs prosecute you to the full extent of the law.” His voice had gathered strength until it echoed off the high ceiling in the salon.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” but he understood it to be an insult. “You’d better have a good reason for your accusations or be ready to eat your words with a fist-fork.”

  “Wyatt,” Miranda pled, “I’m sure Mr. Stuyvesant doesn’t mean to cause an incident on our premises. Once his meaning is clear—”

  “My meaning is this,” Mr. Stuyvesant said. “The hearing has concluded, and the LeBlancs have prevailed. The judge has decided that this man has no evidence to support his claim. We don’t know who he is, but he is not a LeBlanc.”

  The sight of the furious man blurred before Wyatt’s eyes. It couldn’t be right. Hadn’t Frederic recognized him immediately? Hadn’t Corinne found his parents’ marriage certificate? Suddenly his new collar felt like it was strangling him. His stiff new shirt chafed his skin.

  Who do you think you are? Who do you think you are?

  Those words had haunted him his entire life. In his stronger moments he could combat the uncertainty, but not now. Not in this room full of rich men, raising their monocles to inspect him, murmuring behind their sales catalogs, shaking their heads in disapproval.

  Ignoring Miranda’s pleas, Wyatt marched out of the building.

  He didn’t know who he was, but evidently he wasn’t the man for her.

  “Wyatt, where are you going?” Miranda trotted two steps before Cornelius grabbed her by the arm.

  “Didn’t you hear? He’s an imposter. You knew they’d find out soon enough.”

  “Let go,” Miranda said as Cornelius dragged her back into the warehouse and away from prying eyes. “He needs me.”

  Cornelius spun her around and grasped her shoulders. “What he needs is a stern lecture about the impertinence of impersonating a gentleman. And I won’t have you making a fool of yourself chasing after him. . . .”

  Pulling backwards, Miranda earned a foot of space between them before lunging forward and using all her momentum to crash her thick, submissive skull right into Cornelius’s nose.

  “Oww!” He released her and shielded his nose, which was spouting blood profusely. “You broke my nose.”

  “With my lump of cautiousness,” she called over her shoulder as she raced through the crowd of startled bidders.

  She hit the doors at full steam, nearly plowing
over a rotund man who’d been in the unfortunate position of opening one of them. Bounding to the street, she stopped and looked both ways but didn’t see Wyatt anywhere.

  Frantically she waved Connor and Ralphie over to her. They dodged carriages as they scurried across the busy road.

  “Did you see a man leave just now?” she asked. “A tall man with blond hair?”

  Connor adjusted his cap. “Large man, walks like an admiral?”

  How long would he keep his swagger? Gulping, she nodded. “That’s him.”

  “We know him,” Ralphie said. “He gives us rides sometimes. He jumped in his buggy and took off. You can’t catch him now.”

  Again, she looked down the crowded street, but the traffic was rolling too quickly. She couldn’t get ahead of him, even if she knew where he was going.

  But another buggy pulled up to the front of the auction house. The jet black buggy, the horses, the swaying velvet curtain could only be one family’s. Expecting to see the elegant woman who’d commissioned the purchase of the LeBlancs’ painting, Miranda had to do a second look when the man disembarked.

  “I know you.” Miranda narrowed her eyes and followed his path back to the carriage. It’d been a few months, but she remembered. “You were the one who bought the LeBlanc painting for that lady, weren’t you?”

  He dipped his head in shy acknowledgment. “William Sears, also known as the horse buyer from Arkansas who came to observe the two of you, but I’m afraid my efforts were in vain.”

  “The Calhouns’ friend?” Miranda gasped. “And the man in the barn? You look so different here.”

  William shrugged. “You didn’t look beyond my ragged clothes to see the person.”

  Evidently Miranda made that mistake more than she’d care to admit. “Where’s Wyatt?” she asked.

  “I had hopes that you would know.”

  “He was here, but someone ran in and said something about a hearing, then he left.”

  William frowned. “I wanted to reach him with the news first. Frederic should’ve never let King take it before his hand-picked judge. We believe Wyatt’s claim is true, but a court needs hard evidence—evidence we didn’t have. The judge threw his case out.”

  They didn’t believe him? As much as she’d ridiculed Wyatt, she was surprised to realize that she had every confidence in his story now. “So what happens? What will become of him?”

  “His prospects aren’t promising. Mr. King is allowing him enough money for a train ticket to his home and, ironically, the judge ruled that the painting was his, as it was given to him by a member of the family.”

  “After all the hullaballoo, the court decided the painting was his after all?” Miranda’s eyes stung. “But acknowledgement from the family was really what he was after. This aunt of his, she’ll be able to help, won’t she?”

  “I’m afraid not. Her funds are limited to her allowance, which after this fiasco will be curtailed by the financial manager.”

  “Monty King?” Miranda asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Again her eyes traveled the street. He was going back to Missouri? At least while he was being courted by Boston society, she knew he was being looked after. What about now? Would Isaac welcome him back after he’d given up his place at the sale barn? Did he even have a home any longer?

  The giant oak door thudded closed behind him. Wyatt shifted the awkward gilt frame into his left arm and pulled his hat on. Stupid bowler. He shouldn’t have let them get rid of his slouch hat in the first place. He was who he was—a LeBlanc who had the benefit of growing up a Ballentine. Because of that he knew how to take care of himself—something poor Uncle Frederic had never learned.

  Uncle Frederic hadn’t realized that Monty could manipulate the law just as he manipulated those account books. Now, seeing no end in sight for his mismanagement and the exploitation of his weakness, Frederic was nearly having an apoplectic fit.

  Two ladies decked out like parade horses slowed as they passed him still standing on the LeBlancs’ steps. Out of habit he tipped his hat. They giggled and hurried on past, throwing a second glance over their shoulders. They hadn’t heard. By morning it’d be in those papers his young friends on auction house corner were hawking.

  The auction.

  Miranda.

  What was he going to do? He was a stranger in a strange land. His train fare would buy him a few weeks of lodging, maybe meals to last half that long if he didn’t go home . . . and he wasn’t going.

  He didn’t have the foggiest notion of where to stay, but he knew this neighborhood wouldn’t shelter him. Instinctively he headed north toward the rougher areas he’d passed through. He didn’t know why God had led him to Boston, but he’d said good-bye to Missouri. It was the past. His future was here.

  He strode down the sidewalk, drawing amused looks. How could he forget the painting tucked beneath his arm? Yes, he probably did look crazy, but Grandpère LeBlanc was staying with him. He’d keep him until he had his own home where he could hang him proudly.

  Tilting the frame so he could get a look at the man, he muttered, “It’s just you and me now. But you’re a good reminder that if anyone can make something of themselves here, I can. Just wait and see.”

  I didn’t come here penniless. You have some catching up to do.

  “Well I’m not wearing silky short pants, either, and that’s one factor in my favor.”

  “Hey, mister.”

  Wyatt skidded to a stop and pulled the picture around to face him. Had he just heard that aloud?

  “Excuse me?”

  He turned to find two of the newspaper boys who frequented the Wimplegates’ corner, watching him warily.

  “Sorry, mister. We wouldn’t have bothered you, but we’re walking home and thought if you had a buggy available, you might want to share a ride.”

  Wyatt studied their scuffed shoes and tattered woolen britches with renewed interest. He needed to get some work clothes and put his fancy clothes away for the time being—just as soon as he had a room to keep clothes.

  “Sorry, fellas. I’m down on my luck. Kicked out with nothing but the clothes on my back and this humdinger of a painting.”

  The tall one whistled. “Tough break. Well, you might as well walk along with us. Where you staying?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  The boys exchanged glances as they fell in together. “If you’ll be needing a place, we can show you where to lease a room. We’d let you stay with us but there’s not an empty space on the floor.”

  Wyatt had come from humble people, but he’d always had space, even if he had to sleep outside. “I think I can pay for a room, but not for long. I need to find work.”

  The little one piped up. “You’re too big to sell papers.”

  “Big enough to do a lot of work, though,” the tall boy said. “Anything you’re good at?”

  He’d given up his gavel, but he still knew a thing or two about animals. “I can handle livestock, horses, that sort of thing. I don’t know how much call you have for that in the city, though.”

  The two boys stepped aside. Wyatt stopped and watched as they consulted each other. The smaller one chewed his fingernails, then with a grin made a suggestion the older boy approved of. A slap on the back and they returned to him.

  “You helped us out when you could, now it’s our turn.” The kid’s face widened in a confident grin. “You just stick with Connor and Franklin, and we’ll take care of you.”

  Chapter 33

  One week later

  “It’s about time someone acknowledges the years I’ve spent honing my taste.” Grandfather held the door open for Father before entering the warehouse. “The curators at the Athenaeum know art when they see it.”

  Miranda looked up from her notes on a man’s leather and gold nécessaire traveling kit to watch the men enter.

  “Once again you’ve proven yourself a connoisseur of the first rate.” Father winked at her.

  “What’s this
about the curators?”

  Grandfather fiddled with his cufflink. “I was just telling your father that the Athenaeum, the pinnacle of style and taste, is going to display my apple dolls in an exhibit on American craftsmanship. Miranda, you must prepare for another trip. Everyone will want one of those dolls, and the only way to ensure their production is to oversee it ourselves. If we take the morning train to New York tomorrow . . .” He stopped to frown at her notebook. “Aren’t you finished yet? Your mother sent us to bring you home for dinner.”

  “Just this one last item.” She drew a deep breath over the gold-fitted jars and bottles for a last whiff of the colognes they formerly carried.

  “Well, I’ll meet you at the house.” Grandfather reversed course. “I have to get Patrick to pack my bags if we’re going to be ready in time.” He exited as if he were trying to get out of the way of an oncoming train.

  She’d just put the finishing touches to the catalog description and closed the notebook when Father spoke.

  “Don’t you want to accompany Grandfather back to Pine Gap, Missouri?”

  Miranda’s fingers turned as numb as ice cubes. The lid to the nécessaire fell shut.

  “Are you really letting him go?”

  “Careful there, Miranda, let’s not destroy a Betjemann case over a joke. No, Grandfather isn’t going anywhere, but I thought you might miss your friends.”

  One friend in particular. Somehow knowing that he was no longer in Boston made her lonelier than ever.

  “He’ll write once he gets settled,” she said. “Getting over the court’s decision will take him some time.”

  She pushed the drawers of the nécessaire closed. They slid like they were floating on air. The drawer for the shaving tools was the last she closed as she wondered if Wyatt had allowed his beard to grow back. Her fingers traced the smooth knobs on the nécessaire. He should have a case this nice, with pomander and cologne and . . .