The Rails to Love Romance Collection

by Brandmeyer, Diana Lesire; Cabot, Amanda; Carter, Lisa

  “A trip?”

  Jeffery blew out a pent-up breath. “Father, I’ve made a mess of my marriage, of everything. There won’t be a trip now anyway.”

  “What’s the matter, Son?”

  “Tilda’s leaving and will be seeking an annulment.”

  “Annulment? Not a divorce?”

  “Yes, an annulment. I wanted us to get to know one another before we… You always said to treat my wife as if she were fine china.”

  “Son, you haven’t?”

  “No, we haven’t. When I met Tilda, I was overwhelmed by how attracted to her I was. I felt it best not to let my passion get the better of me, so after the ceremony with the judge I left her off at the house and I went to the office. I came home late. In fact, I made excuses to come home late that entire first week. She was about to leave the night you and Mother came to dinner, but we managed to work out a truce and decided to get to know one another. All was well until her father’s solicitor came from New York, saying her father had arranged for him to marry Tilda. Tilda made it clear she wasn’t interested in him. In fact, she believed he was only interested in her money. And now, knowing the true extent of her wealth, I believe she was correct. Her estate is far more substantial than I imagined.” Jeffery gripped the counter, his knuckles white. “I didn’t handle the knowledge well. I was hurt that she hadn’t confided in me. But I hadn’t confided in her, either.”

  His father placed his hands behind his back and stepped back. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Jeffery chuckled and looked away. “Tilda has pointed out some shortcomings in my upbringing. Do you know that her parents shared the same bedroom—the same bed—and that most married people do? That was not the case in our home. Mother had her room, you had yours, and I had mine.”

  “But that doesn’t mean we were not affectionate, not intimate with each other. Your mother can’t sleep with my snoring. So we spent time together every evening before I retired for the night in my room.”

  Jeffery looked up in shock.

  “Son, perhaps our family is not as… tactile… as some, but I love your mother very much, and I know she feels the same about me. The question is, do you love Tilda? Do you want her to be your wife?”

  Did he love her? “I have great affection for her… and yes, I do want her to be my wife.”

  “Son, if you love her, let her know. Saying I love you—and meaning it—defuses a lot of anger. At least, that’s my experience with your mother.” His father tapped him on the shoulder. “Admit you’re wrong when you are. Listen to the words she’s not saying. Now go! Fix this.”

  Jeffery closed his eyes. How do I listen to the words she’s not saying? He didn’t have a clue. I should have never buckled to my family’s wishes. I’m no good with relationships, and now I’ve hurt a beautiful woman who has had more than her share of heartache. Father God, help me. I don’t know what to do.

  After a few moments to collect his thoughts and get a handle on his emotions, Jeffery went upstairs and faced the closed door to her room.

  “Tilda,” Jeffery knocked on the door. “The train does not leave until Thursday for New York.”

  He heard her sniffles. His heart cinched in his chest. “Forgive me,” he whispered.

  “I’ll stay out of your way until I can leave,” she said.

  He fought the desire to bust open the door and take her into his arms. “I’ll fetch us some dinner,” he said instead. She needed him, and he’d failed her, again. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled and ran away from her door, away from his commitment and his desires to love her the way she wanted. The way he wanted, he had to admit. She’d made it clear she wanted to become his wife, so why couldn’t he allow that to happen? What was holding him back?

  Truth be told, he knew his parents spent time alone before his father left his mother’s bedroom each night. He’d never really thought about it. And all his growing-up years his father’s snoring could be heard down the hall. So it made sense his mother would want to get some sleep at night. But it was also true that his parents had never been openly demonstrative in their affections toward one another. He’d never once seen them hug or kiss in his presence. If he were to open up to Tilda the way she wanted—a smile emerged at the thought—he’d have her in his arms constantly. He’d kiss her every chance he got. Her kisses meant more than baiting passion; they were a seal of affection, a warm promiseof their love. Jeffery closed his eyes. He did love her. More than anything else in this world, he loved her. He loved his wife, and now it was too late. She was leaving, and he couldn’t prevent it.

  He collapsed on a chair in the parlor, covered his face with his hands, and wept.

  The next morning, Tilda waited until after Jeffery left for the office before opening her door and leaving her room. He never had returned with food, not that she could have eaten anything. She’d spent the night pacing, crying, and praying.

  She headed down the stairs into the kitchen.

  “Good morning, Miss Oliver,” Mercy called over her shoulder. Then she turned. “How can I—what’s the matter, child?”

  Tilda collapsed in Mercy’s outstretched arms. “My marriage is over,” she bawled, surprised she had any more tears to shed. “I’m returning home on Thursday’s train to New York.”

  “Gracious, child! You sit right there and let Mercy fix you a batch of Grandma’s tea. It will lift you right up.” Mercy ushered her to a chair at the kitchen table and hustled back to the stove, where she removed the teakettle, filled it with water, and returned it to the stove.

  Tilda closed her eyes. She could get through this. God never gives more than we can handle, she reminded herself, as she had all night.

  Mercy blanketed Tilda’s hands with her own. She felt the warmth and compassion from her new, old friend. “Now, why don’t you tell me what’s troubling you? It has something to do with that awful man from the North, doesn’t it?”

  Tilda gave a weak chuckle. “You could say that. Reginald had it all worked out that I should marry him so he could have access to my parents’ funds.”

  Mercy nodded in understanding. The laws were the same in the North and the South. A woman owning property was a rare thing, and while she could own property, her husband possessed legal oversight of all assets. He couldn’t sell the property without her say-so, but he could use up all the funds, leaving the woman with nothing, forced to sell her home as a last resort if she couldn’t find a way to make those assets work for her. Tilda had heard several stories along those lines over the years.

  Oddly enough, Jeffery had made no attempt to gain access to her funds following Reginald’s visit.

  “I hadn’t informed Mr. Oliver of my inheritance,” she explained to Mercy, “or rather, how substantial it is, prior to Reginald’s inappropriate visit.”

  Mercy held her tongue. The kettle whistled. She tapped Tilda’s hands and stood up, somehow not scraping the floor with her chair—a curious mystery to Tilda since day one—then went to the stove and poured the hot water into the awaiting teapot. She dunked the silver tea ball into the pot and let it steep, then joined her back at the table after setting it for tea. “What can I do to help?” she asked.

  “Nothing. Mr. Oliver does not want me as his wife, and I will not stay in a marriage where I am not wanted.”

  “I think, if I may say so, Mr. Oliver does want you. He looked horrible when I passed him on the street this morning.”

  Tilda made no comment. She wanted to hope but couldn’t. There was nothing left. She’d put everything into trying to make this courting marriage work. Jeffery simply wasn’t interested in having a genuine wife, only someone to bear the title. He didn’t want to open his heart and let someone in.

  Mercy sat in silence and poured them cups of tea.

  Tilda’s fingers wrapped around the fine bone china and savored the warmth the heated cup offered. She took a sip. The refreshing liquid touched her lips and awakened her hunger.

  “How’s ’bout I fetch you a
biscuit to go with the tea?” Mercy asked.

  Tilda nodded. She ate the biscuit, still warm from the oven and lathered in melted butter, but it brought no joy. Life had lost its flavor. “Thank you for the tea and biscuit, Mercy. I’ll be upstairs packing.”

  Tilda spent the rest of the day and the evening in her room. The next morning, her trunk already packed, she put the last few items in her bag, having decided to leave her corset off. The trip south had bruised her ribs, and she didn’t need any more pain in her life. Last night, Jeffery had made one more attempt to speak with her, but she had refused to answer. She had reached her limit. The five o’clock train could not come fast enough. The cab came at noon. She wasn’t going to risk having Jeffery come home and stop her from leaving again. She’d tried. She really had. Fresh tears welled in her eyes.

  The taxi took her on a slow route around the city. She saw the sights she never had enough time to see. It wasn’t much of a trip, a few mentions of various places. Where Sherman made his headquarters, the various houses that hosted many of the social balls. Oddly enough, history and historic homes often piqued her interest. Today she could do little more than quickly scan them. She had no desire to know the ins and outs, to feel the polished stonework, the rough stones. She wanted to go home. She wanted her parents back. She wanted her life back.

  She arrived at the station. The cab driver dropped off her trunk. She handed him a dollar, then headed toward the ticket office.

  The man behind the counter looked at her for a moment then asked, “Y’all wouldn’t happen to be a Mrs. Oliver, would ya?”

  “Yes.” Fear gripped her heart. Had Jeffery told them not to sell her a ticket?

  He smiled and handed her a boarding pass. “Here’s your ticket, ma’am. The train will be leaving in thirty minutes.”

  “My ticket? I haven’t paid for it yet,” she protested.

  “Ah, but your husband did.” He smiled. “Next.”

  A porter came up. “Is this your trunk, ma’am?”

  “Yes.”

  “You leaving on this train?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll take care of it, ma’am.”

  She nodded again as he lifted the trunk and headed for the train. She looked at the sleeve for the ticket: Pullman 526. She followed the porter to the caboose, where he carried her trunk through the door at the back into the car. He reappeared shortly after and exited the train. “Have a pleasant journey, ma’am,” the porter said with a tip of his hat.

  She felt numb, her feet momentarily glued to the platform. How could her life change so dramatically in such a short period of time? She looked back toward the beautiful, bustling city of Savannah. It would have been nice to get to know the town.

  With a sigh, Tilda took the few steps up into the car and glanced once more at her ticket. To her left was the necessary room, to her right, storage. She walked down the hall, checking room numbers on the doors. The first was not hers, the second—No, not this one—and stopped in front of the third. Yes. She opened the door and stepped inside.

  “Jeffery? What are you doing here?”

  Chapter Seven

  Jeffery greeted her, standing at attention, with flowers in his hands. “Tilda, I’ve come to apologize.”

  She glanced around the room. He’d rented the master bedroom suite.

  “The entire car is ours,” he explained. “We have the car to ourselves all the way to California for our honeymoon, if you agree.”

  “You made it clear—”

  He cut her off. “I’m not saying this right. I didn’t know what else to do. Tilda, I’m sorry. I love you. I want you to be my wife.”

  Tears glistened in her wonderful green eyes. She shook her head. “I can’t.”

  He came up beside her and wrapped her in his arms. She stiffened but did not pull away. “I’ve been out late every night,” he whispered against her ear, “because I was planning our wedding trip. The night I came home and snapped at you I had just lost another client—one of several. It seems that letting them know I was taking this trip shook their confidence in my ability to manage their investments. I was angry—not at you, but them. Please, Tilda. Please forgive me. I want us to become man and wife.”

  She sniffled. He kissed the top of her head.

  “I’ve rented this entire car for our trip out to California, or any place you would like to go. I will change the tickets. I don’t care. I only want to be with you. You’ve shaken up my life, Tilda, and I’m a better man for it. Please say you’ll be my wife and travel this country with me.”

  She pulled away enough to wipe her eyes with a dainty white handkerchief.

  He stepped back a bit as well to better read the expression on her face. “Please tell me I’m not too late.” He searched the green pools of her eyes for any sign of interest.

  She looked down at her ticket. “California?”

  “Yes. I’m guessing you have not been there. I know I haven’t. And, well, you brought up some interesting points about California investments, and I thought—”

  “You’re going to be working?”

  “Well, yes… No, not really.”

  She marched to the window and held her sides.

  He came up beside her and reached out for her. “Tilda, my sweet.”

  She lowered her shoulder and slipped out of his embrace. “You’re working. I don’t understand. Just a moment ago you tell me you want to take a marriage trip, but in the very next breath you tell me this is another excuse to build your business. It’s always work for you, isn’t it?”

  She didn’t give him a chance to reply. “You have no idea how to do anything butwork, do you?” He felt himself wilt inside as she started to pace, her eyes riveted on his.

  “A woman wants more. I understand the place for hard work, for a man to provide for his household. I understand we are all under Adam’s curse from the Garden of Eden, that the man would have to toil and labor for his survival. But this preoccupation, this—”

  She was all together beautiful when she was riled, and suddenly he knew why. She was not an angry woman, a tinderbox ignited by the slightest spark of irritation. Tilda was passionate—passionate about life, about right and wrong, about what was good and just and fair.

  She turned and faced him.

  “What?”

  The whistle blew. The train started to move.

  “Great, now I can’t get off!” She found an overstuffed armchair and sat down.

  “Tilda, let me convince you.”

  She held up her hand to him and shook her head.

  Jeffery sucked in a breath and held it. He could feel the pulse of his heartbeat against his vest. He took off his suit coat and hung it on the specially designed rack. He removed his cufflinks and plopped them on top of the dresser, then rolled up his sleeves.

  He turned and was startled by a look of fear written all over her face. She glanced at the bed then back to him. “After all these days of unconsummated marriage, you want to…” She gestured toward the bed.

  “I would like to, of course. But I would never force myself upon you, Tilda. I am an honorable man. Perhaps ignorant in the ways of love, but I am honorable.”

  She relaxed.

  “I rented the entire car for privacy. We are alone. No one will disturb us. The porters will come with our meals when we order them, or we can join others in the dining car. It is up to you. If you wish, I shall stay in one of the other staterooms. I will not pressure you. If nothing else remains between us, you should at least know that about me.”

  She nodded.

  “Good. Now with regard to my business in California, I thought we could take a look at some of the companies my clients might wish to invest in. Also, I received the final papers on your father’s estate. He still has holdings in California, albeit not of much value, according to his records. But wouldn’t it be nice to check out this business of your father’s that has shown such poor returns on his investment?”

  “You have a
ll my parents’ paperwork?”

  “Your father’s, yes. It appears your mother’s earnings from some of her paintings have not come in yet. I thought we could finish our trip in New York and take care of all your family assets. I’m also hoping that your mother’s work is not all gone. I would very much like to see some of her artwork.”

  Tilda smiled.

  “I also thought we could use our many free days on this trip to discuss our hopes and plans for the future. We had begun discussing the matter of children before Mr. Murphy so crudely came to my—correction, to our door.”

  Tilda shook her head no. “I’m not certain I can open my heart again.”

  Jeffery’s heart stopped. Tears pooled in his eyes, and he turned away. “I understand,” he said, his voice low and polite, and exited to the hallway to leave her alone in theirroom. His body shuddered, wave upon wave, as a lifetime of self-control cracked and gave way. The restrained tears now streamed down his face. He’d ruined it. He’d hurt her so badly she could not recover.

  He pulled out his handkerchief, wiped his eyes, and headed to the private living and dining areas at the front of the car. He plopped down on the plush sofa. Only Tilda could make him do something so foolish as to put off his customers for a month and spend a ton of money on private accommodations. He shook his head and rubbed his hands over his face and through his hair. Dear God, please help me. I don’t think I can recover from this.

  Tilda wanted to jump up and run after Jeffery. But she found herself unable to move, stunned by the fact that he’d rented the entire car, stunned that he’d planned a long wedding trip without consulting her. That, perhaps, was a little less unbelievable since he’d done the same with regard to purchasing the house before her arrival. The first thing she had noticed about Jeffery Oliver was his talent as a planner. It was a part of who he was. If—and she did mean if—she agreed to continue in their marriage, he would need to change. She needed to be a part of the decision-making for the household.