“That isn’t necessary. A reimbursement—”
Mr. Price waved him off. “Of course you will be reimbursed. I’m truly horrified by this. I shall look into the matter at once. I pray you are the only one of my customers who has been affected in such a way.”
Jeffery stood. “I thank you for your time.”
“Pleasure, and my apologies. And I shall be making that cabinet for your bride.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Mr. Price escorted him out to the front door. Within seconds Jeffery was working his way down the stairs and toward his house. He pulled out his grandfather’s pocket watch beneath a streetlight. It was nearly eight o’clock, and he’d told Tilda he’d be home at six.
As he entered his home, he marveled at the thought that this was now his home. He had a wife and one day would have children of his own. Amazing how life could change one day to the next.
Tilda paced. She didn’t know where her husband was. She certainly wasn’t going to endure a marriage where she was treated as a second-class citizen. She’d heard about how slaves had been treated in the South. Apparently, Mr. Oliver felt that way toward his wife. She looked at the now dry, cold food on the dinner table. She’d lost her appetite by seven. The food had lost its appeal not too long after that. She’d cleared the table and brought their meals into the kitchen, where she covered his dish and dumped her own, too upset to eat. It was hard enough considering a marriage bed with a man she didn’t know, but now… It was unthinkable. Going to the parlor, Tilda went to a chair and tried to pray to calm herself down for the hundredth time. It was no use.
The back door opened and closed. Footsteps echoed off the hardwood floors.
She folded her arms across her waist.
He stepped into the parlor. “Hellooo…” His word drifted off.
She met his gaze; his sparkling eyes lost their cheer. “Your supper is on the table in the kitchen.”
“Thank you,” he muttered, and left her.
She marched into the kitchen. “I’m sorry it’s dry and cold. You said you would be home at six.”
He sat down at the table and spread the cloth napkin across his lap. He bowed his head for a moment, then picked up his fork and knife. He sawed his knife back and forth across the overcooked pork chop.
“I am a good cook,” she said in defense.
He chomped on the tough, dried-out meat, struggled through a second piece then moved to the potatoes. The grease had congealed. “Would you like me to heat that up?”
“No, thank you.” He wiped his mouth with the napkin and sipped his beverage. His face contorted. “What is this?”
“Iced tea—without the ice, obviously.”
“This is not iced tea.” He plopped his glass down on the table and stood. “You said you could cook in your correspondence.”
“I can. You said you’d be home at six. It is nearly nine.”
“Fine. I’ll expect a better dinner tomorrow. I think before I say anything regrettable, I shall say good night.” He stepped away from the table, away from her, and left the room. His footsteps fell like exclamation points on the stairs.
Lord, what have I done. Tilda sobbed as she picked up her husband’s plate and tossed the uneaten food into the trash. She washed the dishes and hung up her apron until morning.
Rolling her shoulders, Tilda took in a deep breath. It was now or never. She left the kitchen, turning down the lamps as she made her way through the house, and headedtoward the stairs. After Mercy, the woman he’d hired to help her settle in, had left for the afternoon and said she would return later in the evening, she had explored her new home, prepared a delicious meal, and waited for her husband. Now, her hand on the bannister, the house felt so empty.
At the top of the stairs, she turned down the hall to her room. She placed her hand on the marble doorknob, tried to settle her breathing and the knot in her stomach, and gave a gentle twist. The door opened quietly to reveal soft, moonlit curtains of lace lifted on a summer breeze toward the bed.
Jeffery Oliver was not there.
She stepped back. Had she entered the wrong room? She looked down the hallway. No, this was definitely the room the servant had said was hers. Tilda stepped inside. Her carpetbag was right where she had left it. Puzzled, she poked her head out into the hall again just as Mercy appeared in the passageway between her room and who knew where. “May I help you, miss?” she asked in polite, hushed tones.
“Yes, thank you.” Tilda didn’t wear corsets often but today she had, and having someone help her untie the contraption would be helpful.
“The tub is warm, if you wish. I tried to anticipate your needs. Tomorrow we shall get to know one another, and you can give me your list…” The servant prattled on.
Tilda stepped out of her dress. Mercy was perhaps twenty years her senior. “Thank you for your help, Miss Mercy.”
“’Tis my job, Miss. Mr. Oliver, he hired me to help you for today as your chambermaid.”
“Thank you.”
So, her chambermaid was not a permanent servant. Which was fine. She’d taken care of herself most of her life. But if wearing fancy ball gowns was expected for attendance at important social events, well then she would need the assistance of a chambermaid. Tilda turned and Mercy undid the lacing. “Most women wear these tighter.”
“I am aware. But I was traveling and didn’t want to be uncomfortable.”
“I have no use for those contraptions myself. Thank the good Lord, I don’t have to attend social events that require them.”
Tilda giggled. She liked Mercy. “Mercy, I am going to depend on you to help me learn this new city.”
“It will be my pleasure, Miss. Now, shoo, and git into that bath. It is your wedding night!”
Two hours later she fell asleep in her bed, alone. She had waited, prayed, and read before finally falling asleep. It was becoming clear that Jeffery Oliver was not interested in having a “real” wife, just someone who could fulfill a role. But what kind of role?
The next morning, she woke feeling worthless. She grabbed her Bible and reread what she’d read the previous night. “Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favour of the Lord” (Proverbs 18:22).
“What about the wife, Lord?” Tilda prayed. “What’s the ‘good’ for her? Was there favor for the wife to find a husband? How is a wife supposed to behave when the husband doesn’t want or respect her?”
Tilda threw off the bedcovers and dressed for the day. Tonight she would cook a supper that—no matter what time of day or night he should come home—would be fine. Fried chicken was good hot, cold or even room temperature, she reasoned. However, coming from the North and cooking a southern dish… Tilda hoped it would be good enough for her husband.
That night, however, he came home even later and went straight to his room. Not their room but his. This pattern repeated night after night. At the end of a week, Tilda packed her bags and ordered a ticket to return home.
Jeffery came home earlier than normal, surprised to find James with the carriage waiting to take her back to the train station. “What’s going on here?” he demanded.
Chapter Three
Jeffery had left work early to speak with his wife. He didn’t know what to do. He knew she wasn’t pleased with him coming home late and not sitting down to dinner with her. And admittedly the fried chicken had looked and smelled quite good. But he’d eaten a large meal with the Frederick & Miller associates while going over their investments. The next night he’d come home so late she hadn’t even been up. Since then, he’d come home to no plate of food on the table or wife in the parlor waiting for him. Instead, she holed up in her bedroom with the door locked. So much for marriage.
She stood ramrod straight on the back steps, dressed for travel, as he approached. James was loading her trunk on a hand dolly.
“I’m leaving,” she said as she stared him down. “I’ll have my attorney draw up an annulment.” Tilda secured her bonnet with a n
eat bow.
“Leave,” he repeated, stopping in his tracks as if the word were an invisible barrier. “You can’t leave,” he ordered. “You’re my wife.”
She stepped to the edge of the porch and lowered her voice. He felt frozen to the driveway beneath her icy stare. “I am not your wife. I don’t know why you even want a wife. You certainly don’t want me to cook for you. You have servants to clean for you. You don’t need a wife.”
“Of course I need a wife.”
“No, Mr. Oliver, you do not. A man who has a wife wants to come home to her. He wants to spend time with her. I don’t know anything about you except what you wrote in your letter. And as I’ve reflected on that letter for the past week I’ve realized you didn’t reveal all that much about yourself.”
Jeffery paused. “I came home to speak with you.”
“Well then, speak!”
Color inflamed her soft cheeks. Tilda made a pretty picture when she was riled up. He grinned.
“What?” she demanded.
“You are a beautiful woman, Tilda Oliver.”
“That’s Tilda Green. We may have said our vows in front of a judge, but we have certainly not become married.”
James fidgeted nervously, the trunk still unloaded. Jeffery pulled two dollars out of his wallet. “Forgive us. We won’t be needing your services today.”
Tilda placed her hands on her hips. “Yes, we will. You can’t dismiss—”
Jeffery took the steps up the porch and stood as close as humanly possible withouttouching her. “Tilda,” he whispered. “Give me the afternoon and evening to discuss the matter. If you feel the same, then I will not prevent you from returning to your home.”
She closed her eyes. A small tear rolled down her cheek.
He lifted his hand and brushed the tear away. “Forgive me, please. Give me a chance.”
Her rigid shoulders sagged. She nodded, her eyes squeezed shut, her lips tight and flushed. He leaned in until a wisp of her hair brushed his face. “Thank you,” he whispered into her ear. “Forgive me. I am new to marriage. My parents told me so this very morn, and I invited them to dinner to meet you.”
“Today?” Her eyes popped open.
“Yes,” he nodded, taking half a step back. “I can send a messenger and let them know you are a bit under the weather.”
Her rich green eyes moistened and pulled at his heart.
He’d never meant to hurt her. “I know we—I mean, I—haven’t been a good husband. I want to try and be a better man but…” He glanced around. “Let’s retreat into the house and discuss this in private, please?”
She gave him a curt nod and turned back into the house. He gathered her carpetbag and carried it in. He’d come back later for the trunk. He found her in the parlor, a figure of feminine beauty and strength, with her back turned to him. If only she knew how to cook! Cooking lessons he could provide, he’d decided earlier. For now, he had a bigger problem on his hands than inedible meals.
“Why did you want a wife?” Tilda whispered.
Jeffery cleared his throat. “I wanted a companion to grow old with and have children with. However, my business takes up most of my time. As you could tell by the late hours I’ve kept this past week.”
She turned and faced him. “Were you honestly at work? I’ve known men who would go out all hours of the night and return to their wives under the influence of spirits.”
“I do not drink, other than an occasional glass of wine with a client over a meal. But I’ll hardly drink more than a sip or two.”
“What is your business?”
“Investments. I help my clients manage their investments, as well as invest in some opportunities myself.”
“I know a little about investing in real estate and such. Business closes down by four or five in the afternoon. You’ve come home as late as nine and ten o’clock and without so much as a word that you would be late.”
Frustration and fear washed over him. Should he be honest about his fears? “It’s been a difficult week.” He sat down on the sofa. “The night we married, my employee, Max, discovered that I’d been double billed by a contractor I had hired to get this house ready…” He glanced at his soiled boots. He wanted to wipe the smudges off but knew he would appear to be indifferent about their conversation. “To get this house ready for my bride,” he finished, not looking up. “After I went through all the receipts, I went to the contractor’s home and addressed him about the matter. He claimed to be unaware and said he would take care of it. But he took three days before getting back with me andthen claimed some of the charges were not overcharges but simply bad bookwork from his filing clerk. Since that time I’ve learned of other cases in which this contractor has other—shall we say—unsatisfied customers.” Jeffery jumped to his feet and paced. “It’s the principal of the matter. I will not be cheated, nor do I wish to pay more for a service than is proper, but—”
“I’m sorry. What can you do?”
“I will have to take the man to court if I am to see my money returned. But I also learned that he’s been caring for some ill family members. It doesn’t excuse the man from cheating others, but—”
“You’re certain he was aware of this?”
“I don’t know. He seemed genuinely horrified at the prospect when I first brought it to his attention.”
She came up beside him and placed a loving hand on his arm. He could smell her perfume, a delicate blend of some unknown flowers. He squared his shoulders against the unexpected reaction her close presence ignited. Determined not to show any impropriety toward his wife, he placed his hand upon hers and tapped. “I’ll figure it out. I wouldn’t want to worry your pretty little head over such business matters.”
She pulled her hand away and stepped back.
Tilda closed her eyes and counted to ten. “Women can, and do, understand business.”
His forehead bunched together in the center, as if she’d grown two heads. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but—”
“Don’t, or I certainly will be gone in the morning.” She walked back to the window and looked over the garden. She’d spent her days weeding out the neglected soil, getting it ready for plants. What little she’d gathered from others was that the planting season here differed considerably from up north. She nibbled her lower lip, then turned around. “I know some men do not consider women to have as much intelligence as a man. But I was an only child, and my father saw fit to educate me in various fields of study. I am proficient in French. I have a good hand for painting and a flair for poetry. I also have a mind for business and accept that a woman’s opinion is not highly regarded in business matters. As your wife, however, I’d like to think you would be interested in my opinion. I will understand if you disagree with me, but at least show me the courtesy of speaking to me as an adult and not a child.”
Jeffery leaned back on his heels. The shock on his face at being so caught off guard presented an almost boyish innocence. He was incredibly handsome, she realized, with his square chin, chiseled cheekbones, and blue eyes so vibrant a woman could get lost in them. “Your issues with this contractor were not the only reasons you have not come home early this week, are they?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “If we are being truly honest with one another, then no. He provided a convenient excuse the first night. In truth, I was not certain you were ready to be… um… well… a married woman. And I believed it would be best if we got to know one another better before…” He nodded his head toward the upstairs.
“But why not discuss the matter? I—I—” How could she tell him she had bathed andprepared herself in anticipation of their wedding night without sounding foolish? “When I agreed to come, I accepted that as part of our marriage arrangement.”
He folded and unfolded his hands three times before he spoke. “Tilda, you are a beautiful woman, and it is my sincere desire to consummate our marriage. However, I believe it would be best to wait until we get to know one another.”
“Touché. I will try to come home earlier.”
Tilda rolled her upper lip under her teeth for a moment. “For dinner? I really can cook. You just come home so late.”
Jeffery smiled and came beside her at the window. “I am no good at personal relationships. I never have been. I understand business. I excel at closing deals and maximizing profits. I get along with my clients just fine as long as I stick to business. Put me in a social setting and I’m a puddle of confusion. Tilda, I want our marriage to work. Can you give me some more time?”
“I will try.”
“That’s all I ask.” His smile lit up his countenance and warmed her right to the center of her heart. She might just be falling in love with her husband. “Let me have your trunk put back in your room. What would you like to make for my parents tonight? I can run to the butcher and get some fresh seafood for dinner.”
Her eyes widened. “Your parents?” He had mentioned them coming over—even suggested canceling with them.
“Would you like me to postpone to another night? I can send a messenger.”
“No,” she replied. Her mind drifted to what she had in the cabinets. “Do you like pasta?”
“Sure. What are you thinking?”
“I could make a white sauce for the fish and serve it over a bed of fresh pasta. We have flour and eggs, so I can make some.”
“What else do you need?”
“Lemon, for the fish. And what about a vegetable or salad? I don’t know what is in season down here right now.”
“I’ll find some summer squashes.”
“Wonderful. I’ll go change and start making the pasta. You go ahead and get the fish and vegetables.”
Jeffery smiled. He gently touched her shoulder, turning her, placed a hand on each of her arms and faced her. “Thank you. And I’m sorry. I shall try to do better.”
Tilda swallowed the tears that threatened to fall. Perhaps we have a chance.
Once he had gone, she ran up the stairs and opened her carpetbag, pulled out a work dress and changed. She had decided not to wear her corset for travel. It had left too many bruises on her ribs after days on the train. Jeffery had opened up—not all that much, but enough to give her some hope for the future. Father, God, please make it so.
The Rails to Love Romance Collection Page 28