by Jacksons Way
“I think that Mr. Stennett has a plan of sorts formulated. I have no idea what it is, of course, but I feel it there under the surface of things. He was very firm and deliberate when he gave me the message. I can't help but think that he's given the trip a great deal of thought.”
“Do you think this plan of his centers around the proposal of a romantic affair?” Lindsay posed, deliberately trying to lighten her tone of voice.
“Does it matter which of you makes the first overture?”
As usual, Abigail had cut to the heart of the matter and left Lindsay with no other choice but to face the situation honestly and squarely. Her appetite gone, Lindsay laid down her silverware and pushed her plate away, saying gloomily, “I haven't been very discreet, have I?”
“I don't think it's so much a lack of discretion,” the older woman consoled, “as it is your lifelong inability to hide your feelings about anything.”
Lindsay sighed and turned in her chair to meet the housekeeper's gaze. “Could we pretend that we're in your room and sharing a pot of tea?”
Abigail smiled and got herself a cup of coffee from the silver pot on the buffet.
“I'm uncertain about what to do, Abigail,” Lindsay admitted as the housekeeper took a seat beside her at the table. “On the one hand, there's the expectations of propriety. And while my reputation isn't sterling in that regard, I can at least claim that my past stumble was both a single occurrence and the result of being young and naive. Society might eventually grant me a small bit of forgiveness for it.
“On the other hand …” Lindsay considered the tangle of feelings and thoughts ensnaring her and then sighed. “Oh, what a mess,” she declared. “It's easier not to think about it and just do what's expected of me.”
Gently, but firmly, Abigail countered, “But the easiest way out of a situation isn't necessarily the best course, Lindsay. Sometimes we need to consciously choose to muddle along on the rougher road.”
Lindsay couldn't believe her ears. “Are you saying that you think I ought to have an affair with Jack?”
“Oh, Lindsay, my dear child,” the other woman said, softly laying her hand on Lindsay's forearm. “Let's begin with an ugly and bitter truth: Society doesn't forget and it never forgives. You can live like a nun, hiding inside these walls and behind your office desk for the rest of your life, and it isn't going to earn you so much as a sliver of social redemption.”
“So what you're saying is that I might as well accept my fate and whatever romantic opportunities come my way,” Lindsay summarized, again surprised by Abigail's stance on the matter.
“You enjoy Jackson Stennett's company, don't you?”
“Yes, very much.”
“And if I'm not mistaken, you find him physically attractive,” Abigail pressed.
“I do indeed.”
“He strikes me as being a good man, Lindsay. I simply can't see him treating you as Charles Martens did.”
The memories surged to the fore, but she shoved them aside, determined to deal with the present situation calmly and rationally. “I can't help but wonder if perhaps he might not be using my attraction to his business benefit. If I'm consumed by thoughts of becoming his lover, it's time and effort I'm not expending in blocking any actions he wants to take.”
“It would be very callous, Lindsay. Mr. Stennett doesn't seem to me the sort of man who would use a woman that way. Maybe it would ease your mind to know that he was genuinely concerned for you after the dinner debacle last night. I believe his feelings for you are sincere and would be the same regardless of your particular circumstances.”
Lindsay remembered the way he'd come into her room, determined to keep her from stewing in self-pity and humiliation. She smiled and nodded in silent acceptance. “But an affair with Jack would end in essentially the same manner as the one with Charles did; we would each go our separate ways,” she pointed out. “Jack has no intention of remaining in New York. And I, of course, have too many responsibilities here to even consider the possibility of going to Texas with him. Not that he'll ever suggest it,” she hastily added. “Jack has too many ghosts, too many regrets to allow himself to be come emotionally attached to anyone.”
“You have your fair share of ghosts and regrets, too.”
“True, but mine don't haunt me as deeply as Jack's do him. He's a very complicated man, Abigail.”
“Just as you're a complicated woman.”
Lindsay chuckled dryly, remembering. “Oddly enough, Jack mentioned something along those lines last night.”
“Then I'm adding ‘perceptive’ to his list of other fine qualities.”
Jackson Stennett did indeed have a great many fine qual- ities. For some reason, that fact only added to her confusion.
“Why is this such a difficult decision to make, Abigail?” she asked. Not giving the woman a chance to answer, she went on, saying, “I'm perfectly capable of adding up the respective columns and it's plain to see that there's more to recommend being Jack's lover than there is in clinging to the tattered remains of my reputation. Why can't I bring myself to simply say that I'm willing to accept an offer should he make one?”
“Because,” Abigail said, patting her hand, “it's the course your mother would insist upon if she were sitting here instead of me.”
“But you've said I should take the chance if it presents itself,” Lindsay instantly countered, her frustration mounting. “What's the difference?”
“The difference lies in motives and well you know it,” the housekeeper rejoined, her tone that of a woman offering an opinion that had long been considered and was grounded on firm conviction. “Jackson Stennett is not Charles Martens and you are not—thank God—your mother. You tried to live as Lydia instructed and you failed miserably at it. Accept that you aren't capable of the cold, callous manipulation of other people and be grateful for it, Lindsay.
“Life should be lived on your own terms, not those others hold for you. As long as no one else is harmed, life should include all the things that make you happy. Some of life's wonders last forever and some don't. You can't know which will be which before you begin the journey. You have to act on faith, knowing that no matter what happens, it will all turn out for the best and as it should.”
Faith. That all would turn out for the best and as it should. If her life had turned out for the best so far, then she didn't want to contemplate what the bad might have been like. Lindsay shook her head. “How can you be so peacefully philosophical about life,” she wondered aloud, “when you've had so much heartache in your own?”
“It's all a matter of perspective, Lindsay,” Abigail replied cheerfully. “I'm no longer married to a man who mistreated me. I live in a lovely home. I eat well, my bed is comfortable, my days have purpose. And I've had the joy of helping a beautiful child grow into an even more beautiful young woman. I can't think of anything else in life I could have asked for.”
“Do you have any regrets?”
Abigail's gaze drifted to the windows overlooking the garden. After a long moment she sighed and looked back at Lindsay with a bittersweet smile. “One doesn't live without making mistakes, Lindsay. Of course I have regrets. But the decisions I made were the best I could make at the time and under the circumstances. If I could go back, knowing what I know now, yes, there are some things I would do differently. But, by and large, I'm content with the paths I've chosen.”
“You've never wanted to marry again?”
“No, I honestly haven't. Richard and I…” A shadow passed over her expression, making her seem older than Lindsay had ever seen her. Her gray eyes shifted focus and Lindsay knew that she was lost in the memories of another time and place. After a moment the housekeeper sighed softly and blinked.
“Richard was kind to me, Lindsay,” she said, her words and gaze now sharply focused, “and his courtship—as clandestine and improper as it was—saved me when I had all but given up the hope of life being anything more than one beating after another. But as kind
as Richard was, I felt no great physical passion for him and I had objections to the way he often used the people around him. The last time we were together, he asked me to leave my husband so the two of us could marry, and I had no choice but to be honest with him.” She paused, and when she spoke again there was a misty edge to her voice. “He was so horribly angry. Understandably. I hurt not only his heart, but his pride as well.”
Lindsay remembered and before she could think better of it, said, “The last time was—” She bit off the rest of the words, but it was too late.
Abigail nodded and finished the thought for her. “The carriage crashed and I lost my arm and Richard lost the use of his legs. It changed both of our lives forever.”
“For the better?” Lindsay asked gently, unbelievingly.
“For myself, absolutely,” Abigail assured her, her smile genuine and radiant. “My husband divorced me and, after a time, I came to live here. I can't speak with any certainty about Richard, but I think he discovered much about himself and the kind of life he'd been leading to that point. In some respects I think that he used the knowledge to become a better man.”
“I consider him to be good man,” Lindsay assured the woman, covering her hand with her own. Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, tears swelled Lindsay's throat. Before they made speech impossible, she hurriedly added, “And as you've been like a mother to me, he's been like a father. I don't know what I would have done without either one of you.”
“See? Life does work out for the best, doesn't it?” Abigail said, her smile beatific. She pulled her hand from under Lindsay's and rose to her feet, saying, “Now, shall we go upstairs and get you packed for your trip with Mr. Stennett?”
Lindsay rose and followed Abigail from the dining room. Her thoughts and feelings were slightly more ordered than when she'd come into the room, but she knew in her heart that she remained undecided as to how she'd respond if Jackson asked her to come to his bed.
Abigail was right; Lydia MacPhaull would be firmly in favor of a capitulation. As long, Lindsay silently qualified, as it came only after Jack had offered significant business rewards as compensation. And Richard …
Lindsay froze on the stairs, struck by a dark realization. Richard lay on Death's doorstep. If she were to be gone for almost a week, then it could well be that she'd return to discover that he'd passed in her absence.
“What is it, child?”
“What if Richard dies while I'm gone?” she asked, her voice a broken whisper.
“Do you think that remaining here will make him live longer?” Abigail gently countered. She didn't give Lindsay a chance to answer. “It won't. If you were to ask Richard whether he'd want you hovering at the side of his deathbed or seeing to business with Mr. Stennett, what do you think he'd tell you to do?”
Lindsay smiled sadly. “He'd tell me to have my bags in the foyer at ten-fifteen.”
Mrs. Beechum nodded then turned and resumed her way up the stairs. Lindsay went behind her, mentally framing the words she wanted to say to Richard before she left the house. She wouldn't be overly emotional, wouldn't tell him how much like a father he had been to her. Richard didn't like open displays of affection or demonstrations of feelings. She'd thank him for teaching her about business and about being stalwart through difficulties and challenges. She'd assure him that she'd exercise good judgment and make the best of the present situation, that he could pass to a better world peacefully and without worrying about her. And maybe, just maybe, as she left his side, she'd whisper that she loved him and that she would miss him terribly.
Tears welling in her eyes, Lindsay blindly made her way to her room and set herself to the task of packing her bags.
JACKSON RAPPED ON THE FRONT WALL of the rented hack, signaling the driver to stop. When it did, he disembarked, saying to the puzzled driver, “I've decided to walk the rest of the way. Keep the fare with my thanks.”
The driver tipped his hat and flicked the reins, setting the horses in motion. Jack stood on the sidewalk and watched him move away, thinking that he sorely missed his own hat. He'd never realized the integral part it served in everyday conversation until he'd had to go without it. If he had the time, he'd scour the city until he found one to replace it. That was, of course, assuming he could find a hat in this place that actually had a brim big enough to be of some practical use. Top hats and bowlers were fine. For other men. He'd rather be dead than be seen in either one of them.
It was all a pointless consideration, he reminded himself as he started down the sidewalk. He didn't have time to hunt for a hat. What he did have was a little more than thirty days to figure out a giant, very expensive puzzle. Well, he didn't have to figure out what had been happening with the MacPhaull Company assets over the last fifteen years. It was water under the bridge as far as his immediate situation was concerned. All he had to do was sell what properties were left and get the hell out of town with the cash. Who had been stealing the properties—and he was convinced someone had been—was really Lindsay's problem, not his.
But he owed Billy and he owed Lindsay. Finding out who had been thieving and getting the property back would go a long way toward repayment of that debt. Lindsay's financial existence would be more secure and he would have cleaned up the biggest mess of Billy's life. And he was beginning to think that Billy had had a pretty good idea of what kind of business disaster he was leaving behind.
Odds were, though, that Billy hadn't had so much as the foggiest idea about the kind of woman Lindsay had grown into. If he had, Billy would have never sent the likes of Jackson Lee Stennett to rescue her. He'd have sent Elmer; the bespeckled, shy, incredibly logical, unemotional, and safe little lawyer.
“Tough luck, Elmer,” he muttered, smiling and reaching for the door handle of the MacPhaull Company offices. “Finders keepers, losers weepers.”
“Good morning, Mr. Stennett.”
“Mornin', Ben. Hope you've got your pencil sharpened,” Jackson said, stopping at the clerk's desk. “I have some things for you to do.”
“At your service, sir.”
“First off,” Jackson said, producing the key to the Theorosa house from his pocket and handing it to the bookkeeper, “there's a house I'm buying north of town. I'll draw you a map of where it is and see that you have it before I leave here today. I want you to find a lady or two to go up there and clean the place from top to bottom. The furniture and the rugs need to be taken out and beaten to within an inch of their lives. The curtains and all the bedding should be washed and put back into place. Also, while you're at it, arrange to have the pantry stocked with nonperishables.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Second thing this morning,” Jack went on, “is a letter I want sent to Percival Little, of Little, Bates and Company, regarding the offer he's made on the St. Louis property. I'm sure there's an existing protocol for this sort of thing and I think it should be followed. Care to tell me what it is?”
“You tell me the gist of what it is that you want to say,” the man supplied crisply. “I then write the letter on company stationary and present it for your approval and signature. After that, I deliver the letter to Mr. Vanderhagen's office for his approval, and he mails it, usually on the same day.”
That was an unexpected twist. Casually, Jackson asked, “Why does Vanderhagen have to approve the letter?”
“As Mr. Patterson explained it to me years ago, it's as much a matter of professional courtesy as it is of making sure that the MacPhaull Company isn't in violation of either the law or the common sense of self-interest.” Ben shrugged. “I suppose, in essence, that Mr. Vanderhagen serves as another set of eyes and a detached point of view.”
“All right,” Jack drawled, “we'll do it as it's always been done. The gist of what I want to say to ol' Perce is that a new hand is at the helm of the company, that I find his offer insulting, and that I won't take less than what Lindsay and Richard Patterson originally asked for.”
“Yes, sir.” Ben shifted his weig
ht between his feet and then cleared his throat softly before asking, “Do you want those sentiments expressed that bluntly? Or would you mind if I stated it all a bit more diplomatically?”
Jackson smiled, thinking that it didn't matter one whit. There wasn't anyone named Percival Little. There wasn't any business in Boston known as Little, Bates and Company, either. “Oh, be diplomatic if you think you must, Ben. It doesn't matter one way or the other to me.”
“Very good. I'll have the letter for you within the next thirty minutes.”
“Much appreciated. Now for the third thing. What have you managed to find out about the properties that have been sold over the years?”
“It's been very slow going, sir,” Ben said. “Jeb spent all of yesterday at the city clerk's office, digging through the records. He found only two, but he'll return today and re- sume the search. I've prepared a report on the the two he did find. I also wrote the city clerks of Richmond, Boston, Philadelphia, and Charleston requesting the information available in their records. It will, of course, be at least a couple of weeks before we hear anything back from them— if we hear anything at all. There is, after all, nothing to compel them to assist us.”
“No milk of human kindness, huh?”
“I wouldn't count on it, Mr. Stennett. You'd be much more certain of their cooperation if it were demanded by a court order.”
But he needed proof of theft to get one. This was one of those situations, Jackson silently observed, where the law didn't do you any good until you didn't need it. “Well, then I guess we'll have to be content with what they're willing to give us and with what Jeb can dig out of the records here in the city. If there's a pattern, it might well show up just as clearly in the transactions close to home as it does in those farther away.”