by Jacksons Way
Pulling the papers from the valise, he willed himself to focus on the flat, emotionless words of the correspondence.
LINDSAY PAUSED AT the housekeeper's door and drew a steadying breath. Before her resolve could desert her, she knocked and called, “Mrs. Beechum? I'm sorry to disturb you, but I need a few moments of your time.”
“One moment, dear,” came the instant reply.
The door was thick enough to prevent Lindsay from hearing small sounds from the other side, but she didn't need to. Mrs. Beechum was desperately trying to compose herself so that neither one of them would be forced to acknowledge their grief over Richard Patterson's collapse. Lindsay shook her head and smiled wryly. Richard Patterson was the only matter on which Abigail Beechum kept her silence. Everything else was fair game.
A hard metallic click instantly brought Lindsay back to the matter at hand. The door swung open and, taking her cue from her housekeeper, Lindsay pasted a serene smile on her face and pretended that she didn't know that Mrs. Beechum had been crying.
“As I said,” Lindsay began, “I'm sorry to disturb you, but I'm afraid that matters simply won't wait. May I come in?”
“Oh, dear, do forgive my lapse in manners,” the middle-aged woman said in sincere apology as she stepped back. “My mind is so scattered this morning. I just brought a pot of tea down to settle my nerves a bit. Would you care for a cup, Miss Lindsay?”
It was a comforting ritual they'd shared over the years; a little ceremony they both used to erase the formal boundaries that normally separated employer from employee. Relief surging through her, Lindsay stepped into the room, saying, “Gladly, and thank you. Shall I pour?”
As was the custom, Mrs. Beechum closed the door, replying, “That would be most kind of you, dear.” And as Lindsay fully expected, she added, “While you do, you can tell me about Mr. Stennett and how you happened to have made his acquaintance.”
“Satan sent him.”
Mrs. Beechum chuckled as she settled into her rocking chair. “Well, I must say that he does indeed have the dark good looks of a true rogue, but he doesn't strike me as being malicious in nature. I found him to be quite respectful and well mannered during our conversation.”
“You've met the proverbial wolf in sheep's clothing,” Lindsay countered, beginning the ritual of tea.
“Miss Lindsay, I'll respectfully remind you that you tend to view all men as having wolfish tendencies. Perhaps you're misjudging Mr. Stennett?”
“I'll tell you a story, Abigail, and then you can tell me if I'm off the mark.” She placed the tea set on the table between the rocker and the wing-back chair. Before them, the fire cracked and popped. “Stennett is from the Republic of Texas and—”
“I was trying to place his accent. I knew it sounded Southern.”
“Apparently my father considered Mr. Stennett a son. The favorite son.”
“Oh, dear me.”
“Abigail, please let me get through this as quickly as I can,” Lindsay said, exasperated. “I don't relish having to say it all in the first place and I'd just as soon get it over with.”
“I'm sorry. I'll reserve my comments for when you're done.”
“Thank you. Now, the important part of it all stems from the fact that my father died recently.” Abigail Beechum made a sympathetic noise, but Lindsay didn't give her a chance to offer condolences. “In his Will he left everything to Mr. Stennett, who has come to New York to claim his prize.”
“Well, leave it to your father to upset the apple cart. What, precisely, does ‘everything’ entail?”
“As Mr. Stennett has so delicately put it to me: every bit of property, from the business holdings to the clothes on our backs, to the pots and pans in our kitchen. Which, in terms of our daily lives, makes me your former employer.”
“Miss Lindsay …”
She heard the hesitation in the woman's voice. Abigail Beechum never hesitated unless what she wanted to say was well outside the bounds of her role as housekeeper. It was always a healthy dose of something Lindsay would have preferred not to hear. “Go ahead and say whatever you're thinking.” She leaned forward to pour the tea as she added, “I honestly don't think I can be any more deeply bruised than I already am.”
“Whatever the formal nature of our relationship, Miss Lindsay, I'll always think of us as being more than employer and housekeeper. We've shared far too many pots of tea over the years for things to change between us now.”
The spout clanked hard against the edge of a teacup. Lindsay quickly set the pot down and checked for a chip in the rim. A nod was all she could permit herself in acknowledgment of Abigail's words. She forced the tightness in her throat to ease and then said, “You know that I can't fight him for control.”
“Of course you can't. It would be foolish to try, dear.”
“I can't very well let him run around the city loose, either,” Lindsay explained, setting a teacup on the table, within easy reach of her housekeeper. “I need to keep him where I can influence his decision-making. It's the only hope we have of coming out of this fiasco with anything.”
Abigail Beechum nodded slowly. “So he'll be staying in the house with us. I'll prepare a room for him.”
“Now, tell me, Abigail…” Lindsay sipped from her own cup. “Have I truly misjudged Mr. Stennett?”
The silence was deafening.
Lindsay looked over to see her housekeeper looking decidedly resolute. “Oh, Abigail! Really!” Lindsay cried, dismayed. “The man's willingly taking something that he has no right to take! Oh, yes, he has a conveniently desperate tale of why doing so is unavoidably necessary, but that doesn't alter the fact that what he's doing is wrong. He hasn't poured his life into the MacPhaull Company.”
“Dear sweet Lindsay,” Abigail said softly, with a slow shake of her head. “Life is seldom fair or kind. You can only make the best of what it gives you and go on. You know that.”
It had been just that attitude with which Abigail had faced the loss of her arm. Lindsay wasn't, however, in the mood to be stoic or resigned. “Just once in a lifetime,” she riled at her teacup, “it would be nice to have something go right, to have something happen that produced just the tiniest bit of happiness. I wouldn't even care how long it lasted. To be free of worry and able to smile for a small part of a single day would be so welcome.”
Again the silence hung between them. Lindsay slid a glance at her companion; Abigail arched a brow. “What?” Lindsay asked petulantly.
“Are you finished with the self-pity?”
“It's not self-pity. It's anger.”
“Call it whatever you like, dear, but it's inappropriate.”
“I'll remind you that Stennett could toss us out on the street before luncheon, if he's of a mind to do so. I think a bit of anger is quite justified.”
“Mr. Stennett isn't going to do any such thing. He's a gentleman.”
“He's a man without a conscience,” Lindsay shot back.
“Hear me out, dear,” Abigail said, her hand raised to forestall any further comment. “Your world has never been idyllic or happy. Both your family and business circumstances have been deteriorating for quite some time and well you know it. Perhaps Mr. Stennett's intervention will change things for the better. He seems to be a man quite capable of taking charge.”
Oh, yes indeed. Lindsay sipped her tea again, tamping down her anger and deliberately taking refuge in the structure of business affairs. “I forgot to tell you the most important part.”
“That's not like you at all.”
“My mind's a bit scattered this morning as well,” she admitted with a tight smile. “Stennett intends to immediately liquidate the MacPhaull holdings, taking some fifty-two thousand dollars out of the proceeds to pay off the debts on the land my father left him in Texas.”
In the stunned silence, Lindsay added the last brick of painful truth. “Things aren't going to change for the better, Abigail. We've been living in a house of cards for years. And Stennett's
determined to bring it down around our ears.”
Abigail sighed and then quietly said, “And would it not have happened anyway? It's now a matter of sooner rather than later. And I'll be honest and tell you that I think that the company passing into Mr. Stennett's hands is better than it passing into Henry's. And if you were in a mood to be honest, you'd have to agree, wouldn't you?”
Yes, dammit. “You can see silver linings in the blackest clouds.”
“It's a gift. I'm thankful for it.” Abigail picked up her teacup and took a sip. “And I'd suggest that you might try cultivating a bit of the ability yourself. You'll be a happier person for making the effort.”
Lindsay nodded, not because she had any intention of buying herself a pair of rose-colored glasses but because civility required some sort of positive response from her.
Apparently satisfied, Abigail set her cup onto the saucer and then rose to her feet, saying, “Now, I'm off to prepare a room for Mr. Stennett. One for Havers, too. I assumed that Mr. Stennett would be at least staying through lunch and instructed Primrose to cook accordingly. Is there anything else you'd like for me to do?”
“If you see me going for Mr. Stennett's throat…” Lindsay said, rising and heading toward the door.
“Stop you,” Mrs. Beechum finished.
“No,” she corrected. “Turn your back.”
JACK SORTED THROUGH the papers yet again, his amazement no less than it had been the first three times through the stack of correspendence. Henry was having renovations done to his house. Agatha wanted to buy some land on Long Island. He knew about western land values, but still… At that price there had better be a gold mine on the acreage. Payment on a warehouse in St. Louis was overdue. The MacPhaull Coal Company looked to have all but washed away in a recent flood. And the Todasca Canal Company had collapsed, leaving the investors holding the bag. Jesus. What a mess.
“And there's more.”
He looked up to see Lindsay in the doorway, her shoulder against the jamb and her arms folded over her midriff. “How much more?” he asked, tossing the letters aside.
“There was a run, five weeks ago, on the Two Rivers Bank in Frankfort, Kentucky. We had to close the doors when the money ran out. We're trying to call in the outstanding loans to meet depositor demands, but it's trickling at best.” She smiled tightly. “And then there's the Macon and Charlotte Road Company, which encountered a not-so-dry creek bed and is having to be rerouted. The investors have been asked to put in another ten thousand apiece. We're in for twenty-five thousand already.”
Jackson sagged back into the chair. Deciding he could only take the bull by the horns, he asked, “What's the total net worth of the MacPhaull Company? In today's market.”
“In today's market and under today's circumstances …” She shrugged. “If you were going to sell off everything by sundown, I'd guess that you'd net something in the realm of two hundred thousand dollars. That would include both houses—Henry's and this one—and all the personal property. And, of course, it's assuming that you can find buyers for any of it.”
It was a huge assumption. One he wasn't willing to make. “What was the estimated value of total assets before the Panic?”
“Close to seven hundred thousand,” she supplied, coming into the room. She took the seat directly across the desk from him and added, “Our biggest single income source is the mining operation in western Virginia. It's the most reliable as well. If you're willing to consider advice, I think it would be worth whatever it costs to put it back into operation.”
Jackson pulled the letter from the mine manager from the stack and considered the figures. “Is this man, Snyder, pretty accurate in his estimates?”
“I usually add another twenty percent and come closer than he does.”
“Have you got the forty-eight thousand to put it back to rights?”
“Not in hand. But we can come up with it if we sell off some properties. Richard and I were discussing the possibilities when you and Mr. Vanderhagen arrived.”
Jackson studied her, not making any effort to conceal the appraisal. She met it just as squarely as she'd answered his rapid-fire questions. God, the woman had backbone. He wondered how many men had seen only the petite, well-curved package and not bothered to discover the interesting woman underneath all the silk and lace and bows. He'd lay down money that her curves owed precious little to a corset.
Business. Clearing his throat, Jackson rose and put the correspondence back into the valise. “The first order of business needs to be a full accounting. I need to see a list of all the property owned by the company. For each property, I'll need its estimated pre-Panic and current value as well as a profit-and-loss statement. Where do I get my hands on that information?”
“At the office,” she replied, rising smoothly. “Benjamin keeps the accounts and he's very thorough. May I accompany you?”
He cocked a brow. “You're asking for permission?”
“You haven't defined the manner in which you expect me to conduct myself.”
He was being baited and he knew it, but it was ground they needed to cover anyway. “Are you planning to legally oppose your father's Will?”
She smiled ruefully. “Have you ever heard the expression ‘cutting off one's nose to spite one's face'?” When he nodded, she further explained, “Since it would cost more in legal fees to fight you than it will to let you have what you want, I think there's more to be gained in cooperating than in opposing. You promised to take only what you need to retire my father's debts in Texas. I'll believe that you're an honest man until proven otherwise. However, if you give me even the slightest reason to suspect that you're not a man of your word, I'll see that you sincerely regret the day you ever thought to come east.”
They had a formal truce. How long it would hold was anyone's guess. But an adversary in constant sight made for a more secure peace. “All right, Miss MacPhaull, if you want my expectations of you defined, I'll oblige,” Jackson declared, coming around the end of the desk to stand right in front of her. “You're to consider yourself my aide-decamp. Where I go, you go. You're to supply me with whatever information I require. What information you don't possess, you're to find for me. When asked for your opinion, you'll render it honestly and completely. Once I've made a decision, you'll support it—no matter your personal feelings on the matter—and see to its execution in a timely and efficient manner. Most importantly, you're not going to sabotage my efforts to bring some sort of order to this chaos. Is all that acceptable?”
Her chin came up. “And if it isn't?” she countered.
“Don't push, Lindsay,” he said quietly. “I'll push back. And you might not like where it takes us.”
She studied him a long moment, fire flashing in her eyes. “Then it's acceptable,” she said tautly. “Do you want to go to the office now or after luncheon?”
It wasn't what she'd wanted to say; he could sense it. For whatever reason, she'd made a calculated decision to back down and he was grateful for it. Having won the first—and a crucial—round in their contest, Jackson decided that he could be a bit gracious. “It makes no difference to me. Which would you prefer?”
“After luncheon. Primrose has it ready now,” she said firmly, turning and walking away. “Although, truth be told, I'd much rather go now and get it done. Patience has never been one of my stronger virtues.”
He followed her out of the study, watching the seductive sway of her skirts and thinking that her confession didn't bode well. Two impatient people all but tied wrist and ankle was bad enough, but two impatient people locking horns over something they both wanted … Jackson knew to the center of his bones that it was just a matter of time before Lindsay MacPhaull decided to see if he'd meant what he said about pushing back. He did, of course. And where they ended up at the end of the match all depended on just how much tolerance she had for risk. Something told him she liked dancing on edges and that the idea of falling didn't frighten her all that much.
F
or him, though … There were certain kinds of falling that he didn't ever want to do again.
CHAPTER FOUR
LINDSAY LOOKED OUT THE CARRIAGE WINDOW they ade their way back across town, acutely feeling both the confines of the vehicle and the tension in the silence stretching between herself and Jackson Stennett. He didn't seem disposed to do anything about breaking the latter and she couldn't think of a thing to say that wouldn't come out as a tacit admission of her discomfort in the situation. Better to maintain the appearance of poise, she told herself, than to provide evidence of lacking it. Her predicament was bad enough already without surrendering what little advantage she had. Damn her father. Jackson Stennett would like to kill him? Well, the Texas cattleman would have to wait his turn. All things considered, she had suffered longer and deeper for her father's decisions than Jackson Stennett had or ever would.
The real suffering she'd have to endure hadn't yet begun, though, and she knew it. If Stennett was even half as intelligent and business-wise as she thought, he'd take one look at the books and the true nightmare would begin. He'd ask questions and in the end she wouldn't have any choice but to answer them honestly. By the time they sat across from each other at dinner tonight, she wouldn't have a scrap of pride or a remnant of illusion left to hide behind. If there was a God and He was indeed benevolent, Stennett wouldn't finish shredding the already tattered facade of the MacPhaull public appearances. If God didn't intervene, then she'd have to. And if she failed … No, failure simply wasn't an option.
“Got your course plotted?”