Nicholas hadn’t bought these for the moral society—he’d bought them for her.
But according to him, he’d never bent his will for his late wife, Gracie.
Lydia tried hard to imagine Gracie as a woman who failed to love him despite his stubbornness and Nicholas as a man with a stone-hard heart—but she couldn’t quite do it.
Settling around the quilting frame, the ladies joyfully attacked their almost-finished quilt. Mrs. Little kept vacillating on what pattern they should piece together next, and the conversation turned to how to spend the surplus money they’d collected since Lydia’s donor had come through.
“I say we make campaign flyers for my son, detailing how he’s the best candidate for freeing our towns from immorality.”
“But our donors believed their money was going toward helping the poor stay warm this winter,” Evelyn said without looking up from her sewing. “Perhaps we should spend it on some charitable venture along those same lines.”
“That’s a good idea, Evelyn.” Lydia folded her hands in her lap and pressed them together. She didn’t want to see the money Nicholas had saved them from spending go toward something he’d cringe at more than the quilt project. “Perhaps wool blankets for the ones who aren’t receiving quilts this year?”
“We’ll always have the poor to deal with. Isn’t that in the Bible somewhere?” Mrs. Little shrugged and then looked at the ladies around the quilt. “We have a limited window of opportunity to persuade voters to stomp on the people bent on destroying our towns.”
Lydia’s heart kicked. Did she have the strength to say what Nicholas would have her say? Could she make them see the world differently? Her mouth felt chalky and leaden, but she couldn’t sit and say nothing. “Who’s intent on destroying our towns, exactly?” She jabbed her needle into her block, trying to look as if the question wasn’t meant to affront Mrs. Little’s authority.
“What do you mean?” Mrs. Little stiffened. “It’s rather obvious every brothel and saloon flouts our laws. We need more regulations, bigger fines.”
“Is that what Sebastian wants to do? Regulate?”
Mrs. Jones, an elderly woman who rarely made the meetings, cleared her throat. “They’re the playhouses of the devil. They should be eradicated, not regulated.”
“But where will the people go when we’ve torn down their businesses?” Lydia could barely hear herself over the thumping in her ears.
Mrs. Jones’s face grew hard.
Lydia forged on. “They, ah, the saloon owners would rebuild elsewhere and the ladies will follow, unless we . . .” She closed her eyes and willed her breath to support her. Would they kick her out for saying what she was about to say? “Unless we help the women, teach them a suitable trade, accept them into decent society—”
“Nonsense.” Mrs. Little snapped. “The presence of those women in our homes, in our gatherings, would threaten the virtue of our own young women and entice our young men into unholy thoughts. Most of those women are criminals and drunkards. They’re better off handled by the police.”
Lydia licked her lips, then clamped them shut. She couldn’t change their minds in an hour, and she wasn’t certain she knew what she believed anymore. Both Mrs. Little and Nicholas made sense. But those two weren’t her ultimate authority. She ought to petition God more fully, take more time in His Word to find out—like Bernadette was doing. Lydia knew the Scriptures Mrs. Little liked to recite, so she could look those up. The next time she saw Nicholas, she’d ask him what Scriptures bolstered his position, and then prayerfully read all those verses and pray God would help her sort things out.
Because if she was going to defend Nicholas’s opinion in future meetings, she would be a lamb bleating among wolves. If she didn’t have a strong Shepherd at her side, she’d be devoured before she could tuck her tail and run.
27
Lydia slowed as she watched Miss Georgia Renfroe follow Nicholas out of the Mining and Gas Company office.
The pretty blonde laughed at something Nicholas must have said, his smile charming and bright as he turned back to hold the door open for her.
Carrying a small briefcase, Mr. Renfroe, Georgia’s father, came out of the office, shaking his finger at Nicholas before giving him a wink.
Lydia stopped a half block away. Maybe she shouldn’t bother him today. He’d donated the machines anonymously, though the company had left the invoice on the box, so he likely didn’t want to be thanked.
She pressed a hand against the upset in her middle. Her stomach shouldn’t be curdling over the scene in front of her. Nicholas had every right to have a pretty woman on his arm.
And Georgia was certainly that, along with being tall and elegant. She was the only Renfroe daughter left unmarried, likely holding out for a man wealthy enough to keep her in the style her father had accustomed her to. He’d been plenty successful before Nicholas moved to town, but after Nicholas had bought out some of Mr. Renfroe’s properties and hired him to oversee a few others, the Renfroes’ wealth had only increased.
Georgia swiped a long blond curl the wind had blown into her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. She looked back at her father with a smile and caught sight of Lydia. She gave her a small wave.
Nicholas looked toward where Georgia was waving, and instantly his face turned serious.
Ever since she’d met him, their conversations were typically troublesome, argumentative, and stubborn—in other words, the essence of vinegar. He likely feared she’d butt in and ruin his afternoon with a woman who was making him laugh.
If anyone was as sweet as honey, it was Georgia.
Oh, why had she ever thought he’d fall for her, a contentious pauper? Of course he wouldn’t. She’d been the opposite of endearing the whole time he’d been trying to make her into a better person. And if her looks and her love of books had been her only hope of snagging his interest, then Georgia would be just as likely to win him considering her gorgeous blond hair and the fact that she loaned Lydia her books after devouring them herself.
Nicholas raised his brows as if waiting for her to approach.
Why hadn’t she pretended not to have seen them and turned down the alley?
Forcing herself forward, she tried not to look down at her long coat or the pretty blue skirt peeping out from under it. Georgia had given these to her only a month ago. She’d had to replace the coat buttons with cheaper ones after discovering how much the missing button would cost to replace. And since Georgia was almost as tall as Nicholas, she always had to shorten the skirts, which required cutting off almost all the beautiful ruffles and lace this time. Georgia would likely consider her alterations appalling.
She’d never felt awkward in front of Georgia before, but considering the gray wool walking suit the woman wore was embellished with the prettiest velvet stripes, her feathered hat was the smartest thing she’d ever seen, and that Nicholas now knew Georgia was gracious toward Lydia’s family without him having to chastise her into being so . . . well, she rather wished she wasn’t here to let him compare them side by side.
“Good evening, Ni . . . Mr. Lowe, Georgia. Mr. Renfroe.” She cleared her throat and plunged on. “I just came by to thank Mr. Lowe for his generous gift to the moral society.”
“Our church’s moral society?” Georgia straightened, then turned to take Nicholas’s elbow, barely having to tilt her head to look into his eyes. “Why, I don’t believe I’ve heard you say anything positive about that group, so I hadn’t bothered to think of joining them.”
Lydia stared at Georgia’s gloved hand wrapped so effortlessly and comfortably in the crook of his elbow.
He cleared his throat but didn’t step away from Georgia. “Well, perhaps I’ve been a little too rough on them. Seems I can’t always see past my own prejudices.”
Lydia wrung her hands, trying to think of a way to leave without being rude. “Anyway, considering I know how much that cost you, I figured I should thank you in person.”
“How much
did you spend, Nicholas?” Mr. Renfroe perked up. “I didn’t know they needed anything much.”
Nicholas kept his eyes on hers. “Enough for two sewing machines and some cloth.”
“Oh, not so much, then.” Mr. Renfroe turned to Lydia and smiled. “Do you need more cloth? I think my wife has a bolt of discarded fabric in the wardrobe. She bought the wrong color or something. I’m sure she’d donate it if it fits your needs.”
“As long as it’s something that would work in a quilt.”
Georgia smiled. “It’s a cotton print—should be perfect.”
“Thank you.” She nodded at Nicholas to let him know she’d said all she needed to say. “I won’t keep you.”
“Miss King.” Nicholas rubbed at the back of his neck. “Before you leave, I want you to know I put money into an account at Reed’s for your moral-society ladies. The cloth I ordered was purposely plain and utilitarian, but after our last conversation, I figured something more beautiful might be appreciated. I wanted to tell you myself, and since you’re here . . .”
A lump stuck in her throat, but she squeezed out a thank you.
“I’m sorry to interrupt.” Mr. Renfroe snapped closed his timepiece. “But I do have a meeting with Mr. Cardmon at seven fifteen, so if we’re going to have dinner and not rush, I’m afraid we better get moving.”
“I hope you two—I mean, three—have a nice dinner.” Lydia put on a bright smile, waved, and turned before she said anything more awkward.
Around the corner, she slowed and gritted her teeth against the ridiculous flopping inside her chest. She wasn’t worth his romantic attention anyway.
Besides, he’d given her enough—a job that would give her plenty of opportunities to talk about books with people who cared.
But what if that position fell through, or didn’t last?
Wrapping her arms tightly about herself, she hurried home to curl up in bed and whimper over how much of a goose she was for wanting to cry at the sight of another woman’s arm tucked around Nicholas’s.
After slogging down her street, she fumbled with her gate’s little latch. The moisture pooling in her eyes and the mittens encasing her hands made it difficult.
Oh, mittens. She’d forgotten to ask Nicholas about her stopping over to give the children their presents. Well, they had a month before Christmas, but could she just show up at the mansion now that her wishes were over? What if he actually attended Christmas parties? The Renfroes were said to throw a rather grand party—not that her family had ever been invited, considering who her father was.
Once the gate mercifully let her in, she pulled up short at the sight of Sebastian sitting on her porch steps, tapping some papers against his knee.
“Lydia.” His smile was warmer than normal as he grabbed the handrail to pull himself up. “I thought I might have to leave without seeing you.”
She sniffed, thankful the cold weather could account for sniffles. “I’m sorry.” She pulled out a handkerchief. “Did I forget you were coming over?” Though if he had indeed been waiting long, she couldn’t imagine he’d look so at ease right now.
“No, but I had good news to share before I went to Mother’s dinner thing.” He rolled his eyes.
At least she wasn’t the only one who dreaded eating with her.
He held the papers out to her and smiled. “I was able to draw up a new mortgage for your parents. Reduced interest, and I cut out a few penalties and clauses your parents never should have agreed to.”
Her hand shook as she took the papers. “How . . . how much do we owe you for this?” Hadn’t Papa stormed out of the house this morning grumbling about somebody demanding he repay a three-dollar loan immediately? This surely would cost more than that.
“Nothing, I did it on my own. The banker owed me a favor.” He shrugged. “Thought it would ease things in the long run after we marry.” He looked toward the house and lowered his voice. “I’m sorry, but I’d rather not have to take your father in after your mother . . .”
Neither did she. “I understand.”
He stooped over and snatched a book off the steps. “And I brought you this.”
A pale blue ribbon fluttered out from between the pages of a dark green book with a man silhouetted against a windowpane. The Return of Sherlock Holmes.
She took the book with a shaky hand and ran her finger against the indented title. “This is the new collection, where he returns from the dead.” She raised a brow. “But I thought you were against me reading.”
He shook his head like he was chastising himself. “I’ve never been clever with women. Forgive me.” He clasped his hands behind his back and puffed his chest. “I’ve never had a relationship last long. Women—let alone pretty ones—never seem to make it past a second dinner with me or they bow out after meeting my mother. And I wasn’t sure I’d stand a chance with you despite . . . Well, I figured since you’ve stuck around, I should exert more effort to keep you, because I would like to.” He put his hand in his pocket and produced a small black box.
Oh no, this was too fast. She put a hand against her mouth. Not too fast for him, surely. This was about the time they should be getting engaged, but she’d just started rethinking that.
He put out a hand as if to stop her from advancing, though she hadn’t budged an inch. “Now, don’t get too worried. I still want an engagement party, like we’ve discussed, throw a big to-do and have a reason to wine and dine a few campaign backers at the same time. However, I wanted to make sure my great-grandmother’s ring was acceptable ahead of time. If not, I’ll need to shop for another.” He wiggled the lid off and held it out to her.
She glanced at the ring, a pretty white opal surrounded by diamonds. Her lungs decided to completely deflate. Her parents had never been able to afford even simple bands. He might as well buy her parents’ house with the money that ring would bring. “It’s fine.” She cringed at calling an expensive heirloom just fine. “I mean, it’s beyond lovely.”
“Good.” He closed the box and shoved it into his pocket. He stepped closer, and his hand came up hesitantly.
He tilted her chin back, and she had to look up at him instead of his tie tack, probably worth half their house, considering the three little diamonds embedded in the gold bar.
His smile was uncertain, and he seemed to be searching for something as his gaze roamed her face. “We have more in common than you know and will do better together than you might think.”
It was hard to swallow with her head tilted back, but she had to in order to speak. “Like what?”
“Being passed over.” He dropped his hand and rubbed at his jaw. “I’m at the age people feel compelled to ask me if I’m going to ‘settle down,’ and I’m sure you’ve had people act like they’re in fear for your life if you don’t snag a husband soon.”
“Some.”
“I’d given up on ever having a satisfying answer for the busybodies, but not anymore.” He smiled, put his hand back up to cup her chin, and gave her a peck on the lips. His breath smelled of mint this time instead of beet soup, but she couldn’t respond to his kiss when all she wanted to do was step away.
He pulled back, his smile not quite complete. “Are you still coming to dinner tomorrow?”
After a good cry, some tea, and yanking her dreams back down into the atmosphere, surely she could endure a Little family meal by then. It wasn’t as if she’d have to decide on whether or not she’d accept that gorgeous ring right there at the table. “I’ll be there.”
28
At the mansion’s front door, Lydia thumped the knocker a few times, then waited, watching her puffy white breath get blown away by the wind. For the past several days, she’d knitted until her hands ached, and her brain had ached as well. What was she to do? The heirloom ring Sebastian had shown her last week and his solicitousness toward her the day after at dinner had jumbled her resolve. No matter how many hours she’d let her mind wrestle with what to do about Sebastian and her feelings for Nichola
s while her needles clacked, all she was certain of was uncertainty.
An unfamiliar maid’s head peeked out the door as if unsure she’d heard a knock.
“Is Mr. Lowe at home? I hope I’m not interrupting his dinner.”
The woman’s big dark eyes seemed leery, and she started to back up into the house. “No, he went out.”
Lydia glanced back behind her to where the maid seemed to be looking but saw nobody coming up the drive. Why would the maid be scared of her?
“That’s all right.” Lydia pulled a paper-wrapped present from her bag. She was just here to give the children their hats and mittens, since the weather seemed to be starting to stay cold and they could be of use. Her ridiculous longing to see Nicholas needed to be stuffed away until the desire dissipated anyway. Sebastian was more important than him . . . or he should be. “Do you mind if I come in? I’d like to give the children some early Christmas gifts.”
The maid simply stared at the package and frowned.
Maybe this woman’s mind wasn’t all there. “The children Mr. Lowe brought home a few weeks ago: Pepper, Angel, and Robbie. May I see them?”
She shook her head as if that were the strangest question she’d ever been asked.
With the amount of money Nicholas had, couldn’t he hire more mannerly servants? “Are they not here? Did Mr. Parker take them somewhere this evening?”
“No.”
“Would the head housekeeper know where they are?”
“No, I mean they ran off. Good day.” The woman slammed the door.
Ran off? When had that happened? Her throat closed up and her limbs turned heavy. Why would they run away? Even if they had to live in Nicholas’s stables, they’d be better off with him than where they’d lived before.
She stuffed the present back into her bag and stared out to the west, where the red-light district sat hidden behind several factories and the train depot.
If they hadn’t been happy living in a mansion, where would they go?
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