Her father cleared his throat. Miranda looked up, startled to find him watching her.
Her mouth popped open. “But, but the gallery . . . are they really displaying the dolls?”
He raised an eyebrow before answering, but she couldn’t read his thoughts. “They are. Those dolls aren’t as worthless as we’d assumed.”
“Aren’t you afraid that’s going to encourage him?”
“Your grandfather needs some encouragement. The road ahead isn’t going to be easy. Much like another, much younger fella you’re worried about.”
Silently she moved the nécessaire to its place with the other auction items. If only she’d hear from Wyatt, but when he was a poor man before, she hadn’t been much help to him. When he’d asked for her love back in Pine Gap, she’d rejected him. He had no reason to think she’d do differently now.
But would she if he asked?
They left the building together. Miranda tied her bonnet ribbons into a half-hearted bow and took her father’s arm. Ralphie saw her from across the street, but instead of merely waving, he dashed through the traffic.
“Miss Wimplegate! Miss Wimplegate!”
“I do wish he’d be careful,” she gasped as he darted around a fire wagon.
Ralphie doffed his hat as he skidded to a stop before her. “Miss Wimplegate, I saw your friend.”
“My friend?” She looked at her father, whose eyes twinkled like Grandfather’s used to with Betsy.
“Mr. Wyatt—the rich bloke who got kicked out of his family. You told me he’d gone back home, but he’s here. He found himself a job around the corner from me in West End. Got himself a room there, too, but he doesn’t have that fancy carriage anymore.”
“He’s here? In Boston?” The air tasted like dust. She couldn’t catch her breath. She knew Father was leading her to the steps, but until she felt the cold of the concrete seeping through her skirt, she didn’t realize she was sitting down.
Father sat next to her, patting her hand as her view cleared. Her eyes fell on Ralphie, twisting his hat as his chin trembled.
“Now, now,” Father said. “No use in getting upset, young man. Miss Wimplegate is recovering quickly. You did her no harm.”
Wyatt hadn’t left and he was living in the tenements? So many emotions—relief that he was near, sorrow that his circumstances had been so reduced, disappointment that he hadn’t called on her.
“What’s he doing?” she asked. “Why is he here?”
“He’s working at the livery stable,” Ralphie answered, “taking care of the horses. Mr. Fillmore even took him to the country when he went to buy new stock. Said Mr. Wyatt was a good judge of horses and a fair barterer.”
Wyatt, who threw the Stuyvesant parlor into a tizzy, was back to dirtying his hands at the livery stables?
“Fillmore’s Livery?” Father said. “I know it well.”
While Father asked for more particular information, Miranda’s thoughts reeled. No longer an Ozark auctioneer, no longer a Boston heir, Wyatt was still who he’d been all along—an honest, hard-working, and loyal man. Miranda never could imagine living in Missouri, and she would’ve felt like a hypocrite seeking him when he was wealthy. But now she could appreciate him for the man he was—and that man was wonderful.
“Thank you for the information,” Father said.
Ralphie slapped his hat against his thigh before pulling it back over his head. “I didn’t mean to scare her. Just thought she’d like to know.” His young eyes were still filled with concern. Miranda reached up and grasped his grimy hand.
“Thank you, Ralphie. Your news means more than you can know.”
He beamed at her before skipping away, his newspaper bag bouncing against his hip.
Wyatt was here. She could find him.
A calm determination settled over her. What would her parents think?
Her father cleared his throat. Miranda’s eyes lowered as she waited for his pronouncement.
“I’ve never seen you quite so overcome,” he said. “I take it that the news holds more significance than one might suspect?”
Miranda pressed her lips tightly together. Would Wyatt want to see her? She realized it didn’t matter, he was going to. She would find him and see if there was any way she could . . . help him. And maybe his little room wasn’t so bad. Maybe she’d find a simple charm about the tenements. Maybe she’d learn that it was possible to keep a level of civility even in those dark alleys.
“I’ve watched you grow up, Miranda,” Father said, “always wishing that you felt more confident expressing yourself. Yet here you are, and I’m afraid the next words out of your mouth are going to mean that I’ve lost my little girl.”
Miranda laid her head on his shoulder, unconcerned about the questioning glances of the pedestrians streaming by. “I’m always your girl, Father, but I think I’m done being little. It’s time for me to grow up. If it means facing heartbreak, then that’s just the cost of being brave.”
He nodded, his chin sagging against his chest. Then, with a sigh, his head popped up. “Taking care of your grandfather is growing more and more taxing. I don’t know how I’ll manage him in addition to all my duties at the auction house. I’ve been thinking about hiring a new partner.” He squeezed her hand and his face broke into a grin. “You wouldn’t have any out-of-work auctioneers among your acquaintances, would you?”
Miranda smiled so big her cheeks hurt. She threw her arms around her father’s neck and squealed.
“Easy there, child. Don’t assume he’ll want to work for us—the man has his pride—but as for the matter of your heart, if I’m not mistaken, he’ll take any opportunity to settle that issue as soon as he’s able.”
“But, Father, what about the LeBlancs? Won’t they be furious if you hire a man they’ve publically denounced?”
He shook his head. “They’ve done no such thing. Cornelius reports that Frederic himself bemoans the fact that the court couldn’t reach a satisfactory conclusion. The way is still clear should he uncover any evidence. No, I’m not concerned about the LeBlancs learning of his employment—I’m more worried about what your grandfather will say.”
Passing through the stalls, Wyatt did a last tally of the horses. Only the bay and the dun were left. The rest had been rented out, but it was time for him to grab a bite to eat before the carriages began returning.
More thirsty than hungry, he took a long pull from the dipper that rested in the bucket outside his room. Inside this barn, he felt at home. The teeming streets outside were as foreign to him as the bottom of the ocean, but the smell of hay and horses comforted him. The dipper landed in the bucket with a splash, then he pushed through the rough wooden door beneath the hayloft. As always, his eyes landed on Grandpère LeBlanc first, hanging over the head of his metal-framed cot. The bright colors of old Grandpa’s fancy clothes glowed like a lantern in the simple room, but he didn’t seem to mind.
I do hope your employer doesn’t see me in here. He won’t appreciate you consorting with unsavory characters.
“Unsavory? You flatter yourself. There are men on the other side of this wall that’d sooner kill me than say Gesundheit when I sneeze.” He smeared a thin pat of butter over his day-old bread. That and some jerky would have to tide him over. He was saving every penny he could for a better future.
Wyatt sat on his bed, leaned against the wall, and hung his heels off the side. This wasn’t so bad. He’d made friends, was appreciated by his boss, and saw new opportunities for advancement every day. No longer tied to his father’s dreams for him, he was free to try his hand at any task that caught his eye—any job that brought him closer to winning Miranda.
The strict discipline it took to only buy the cheapest vittles was nothing compared to the struggle of staying away from her. Every time he stepped out of the barn, his boots seemed to carry him away, often getting him as far as the State House before he caught himself and turned back to his new home. She would be fine without him for a little lo
nger, but he was wasting away from longing. If only he could see her, talk to her, without having to explain his situation. How tempting to don his fancy duds and act as if nothing had changed. Just march into her auction house and pick up where they’d left off, but that would be dishonest. And to present himself in his ratty work clothes wasn’t an option. She didn’t want to see him like that. He couldn’t offer her enough.
The knock on his door came completely unexpected. His boots thudded to the ground, and the metal frame creaked as he rose. As far as he knew, Mr. Fillmore had never entered the room since he’d moved in. What would his boss think of the bewigged gentleman hanging from his wall?
He slid the door fastener over, swung the door open, and came face-to-face with Miranda. His slice of bread tumbled out of his fingers. He tried to catch it, but only succeeded in getting butter all over his hand before it landed face down in the dirt. He wiped his hand on his pants and lifted his eyes to see if he’d made a mistake. But no, she was still there, just as fetching as ever. His eyes traveled up her poofy emerald skirt, hungry for the rich color that reminded him of his mountains in the spring. With her closed parasol she tapped the door.
“May I come in?” Her face sported the dearest blush, but even if she was made uncomfortable by the request, he was proud that she’d dared.
He looked over his shoulder, already knowing how pitiful the room was. He should’ve gone to her. Anything would’ve been better than her seeing him like this. But he wouldn’t send her away.
He pulled the door open wide, then bent to smooth out the blanket covering his bed. “Sorry. I don’t have a decent place to visit. If you want I can ask if Fillmore will cover for me and we could take a walk to the river.”
But she didn’t seem to notice the room. She sat on the cot and took to studying her folded hands. “This is fine. I don’t mind.”
He nodded. Then, having nowhere else to rest his sorry hide, he sat on the cot, but as far away from her as possible.
Her scented rose powder tickled his nose. He hadn’t realized how he’d missed it. How her calm attitude soothed him. Then again, she didn’t act very calm. Her hands trembled, her chest rose in quick, short breaths. He wanted to encourage her, to assure her that he wasn’t down, that he could make this work, but he didn’t want to rush her. He’d rather wait until he had proven himself.
“I’m so sorry, Wyatt.” She wrapped her reticule with both hands. “I know how much coming here meant to you.” Her lashes dusted her cheeks.
“I’m still here, aren’t I? Maybe it’s not what I was hoping, but I’m no stranger to hard work. Don’t worry about me.”
“But—” she bit her lip. Her gloved hands tensed. “When I didn’t hear from you, I thought you’d gone back to Missouri.”
“I told you Isaac is running the sale barn now. There’s nothing for me in Missouri.”
She picked at the ties to her reticule. “If you’d been on the train, I’d understand why I went so long without a letter, but you were here, not five miles away. It wouldn’t have been difficult to post a note.”
Wyatt raised his eyebrow. If he didn’t know better, it sounded like she’d hunted him down, traveled into the slums, and interrupted him at dinner to scold him for not writing. Her behavior was downright shocking. And Wyatt couldn’t be happier.
“Why are you here?” he asked. “Surely you didn’t come all this way just to school me about my manners.”
Her hat bobbed. “I do have a purpose.” With her finger, she outlined a strangely shaped bulk in her reticule. “As you know from your visit to our auction house, Grandfather hasn’t improved. He won’t be able to help Father any longer.” As she spoke, her words came faster. “Father needs assistance running the sale. I know you aren’t very educated about art, furniture, and jewels, but you do know how to call an auction.”
Only after Wyatt had reached the pinnacle of Boston society had he understood Miranda’s fears for him. He’d leapt and crashed as spectacularly as any mountain climber, just as she’d warned. And yet . . .
“We’d provide you with the wardrobe and housing in the beginning, but Father is convinced you’ll soon be earning enough to live quite comfortably.”
“He said that?” Her skirt had spread across the blanket, and Wyatt couldn’t help but run his finger lightly over the satin edge that almost reached his leg.
“I told him about your sale barn—how you knew your customers, how you cared that they got the best price for their items, and that everyone was treated fairly. I told him how you were well-respected, treated Grandfather with patience, and took care of me. He believes that those are the most important qualities for a partner—”
“Wait.” Wyatt leaned forward. “Your pa is offering to make me his business partner?”
Miranda stood. She turned so only her profile was visible. “Not specifically a business partner, just a partner in general. You know, someone you can trust for a . . . permanent relationship.”
Wyatt stood. Ever so slowly he took her hand, pulling it away from the handbag she’d been twisting since she’d arrived.
“About this partnership . . .” He ran his thumb over her knuckles. “Does this primarily involve your father, or might you be the main party?”
Slowly she pulled out of his grasp. Fumbling with her reticule, she loosened the tie, fished in its depths, and presented him with his gavel, the one he’d given her the day they’d parted.
“I know you thought you’d given up on auctioneering, and if you don’t want to go back to it, we’ll try to carry on without you, but I thought you might want this. I even cleaned it up a bit, oiled the wood, and polished up that gold band.”
Instead of taking it from her, he wrapped his fingers around hers, growing more and more confident that her visit meant exactly what he hoped it did.
“Miranda, do you believe that I can make it on my own?”
Finally, finally, her brown eyes met his, and how they shined. “Absolutely. Even if you keep working here at the livery stable, I have no doubt you’ll be managing the place before Christmas.” Then the warmth faded into doubt. “But does that mean you won’t accept our offer?”
“And give up the chance to see you every day? Are you crazy?” Then he sobered. “But you are crazy. Before we go any further, Miranda, I have to remind you that I have less than when you rejected me the first time. If there’s no hope for us, tell me now. I can’t accept a position that would mean watching you and Cousin Cornelius . . .”
“I would say there’s hope.” She touched her collar, and her next words were more than a little breathless. “About as much hope as Widow Sanders has rhubarb.”
Wyatt’s heart filled. He felt like falling to his knees and kissing her hand, but there really wasn’t room. Instead, he grinned like a lovesick fool until they both giggled. Miranda released the gavel into his care. Wyatt couldn’t help but notice that it looked completely different all scrubbed up. The wood was richer, the metal band shone with a swirly design etched into it that he’d never seen before.
Miranda had turned and was studying Grandpère LeBlanc.
“It’s good for him to be in these humble surroundings,” she said. “Maybe he’ll appreciate your new rooms after this.”
The gavel had represented so much to Wyatt. His future, his father’s expectations, his one bit of legacy that’d been handed down to him, but it was something more. Something that danced just past the lantern light and couldn’t be grasped. Much like the painting, it was all he had of his family, and it seemed fitting now that they should be in the room together.
“Such a snooty Frenchman,” she said. “He needs to sleep in a livery stable, him with his powdered wig, satin breeches, and signet ring.”
Wyatt’s heart skipped a beat. His eyes narrowed as he stepped closer to inspect the painting.
There it was. A gold band on Grandpère’s finger. The same gold band that was warming in his grasp that moment.
He stumbled backwards. On
his deathbed, Pa had placed this gavel in his hand and told him never to lose it. It was his legacy.
Miranda took his arm in both hands. “Careful there,” she said. “If you knock yourself out, I won’t be able to get the door open for help.”
It was here—the missing proof that Aunt Corinne had been searching for all along. Unbelievable. All Wyatt could do was take Miranda by the shoulder and hold her firmly before him.
“Are you sure about this? Even knowing how everyone has ridiculed me? How people have called me a fraud? Even knowing that everything I own wouldn’t fill a slop bucket?”
She grinned. “I’ve been sure for longer than you know.”
He gestured to the room around him. “My life might not always be this fine. What if things get worse?”
She surveyed the tiny space with a twinkle in her eyes. “As long as you don’t change, I won’t complain.”
“Oh, I’ve changed,” he said. “I always had to prove myself. I had to prove I was above my shameful birth, but now I know the truth. Instead of dreaming about my birth family, I met them and found that they have their own struggles. And while I’d still be proud to join them, I’ve changed. I’m free now. Free to make new commitments.”
Of course he’d changed, but what was important hadn’t. He’d always been responsible and fair, determined and trustworthy, but he no longer had the fear of undisclosed shame hanging over him. Wyatt had been through the worst—she dearly hoped he didn’t read the papers—and he’d come out the stronger for it. And so had she.
“I shouldn’t stay,” she said. “Father is waiting on me outside. What should I tell him? You never gave me an answer.”
Wyatt turned the gavel over in his hands as if seeing it for the first time. “I’m afraid I can’t guarantee that I’ll auctioneer for you. There’s a situation that isn’t quite settled yet that could tie me up for some time.” Wyatt stuffed the gavel through his belt. She couldn’t help but notice that his trim waist had perhaps gotten a little leaner. With a touch to her chin, he raised her face to his. With eyes that kind, that sweet, how had she ever thought him fearsome? “I don’t know about the job offer,” he said, “but I’m certain on that other issue. As soon as I’m finished with work today, I’m coming to find you, and I’ll keep pestering you every evening until I can snatch you away from there and make you my own.”
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