She tripped on an uneven pavestone, and Mr. Yates’s arm tightened about hers.
“Be careful, Mrs. Oliver.”
“Sorry about that.” She needed to get her head out of the clouds.
Though if she’d learned anything from watching Neil these past few days—meeting his business partners, looking over his books, seeing every bit of property he’d acquired, getting her name added to paperwork—the man made sure everything that needed to be done was done, and done properly. Including sealing a marriage deal with a kiss.
She was stupid to think the kiss meant anything to him beyond what needed to be done to finalize the marriage. Maybe because she’d never been kissed before, she’d been surprised into feeling it meant something more. Maybe all kisses felt that way.
Yet, lately her mind betrayed her and dredged up the dreams of her youth where a rich, handsome man could actually love a woman like her. Drat that kiss. She’d have been better off if he’d sealed their marriage with nothing more than a handshake and his signature on the license.
Maybe after a few more weeks of companionable silence, her memory would give up the longing he’d created for something she’d never believed she was going to get.
The kiss was short, really, just a few seconds, it couldn’t take that long to forget … if she could stop dwelling on it.
But really, how many old, unsightly women got kissed by a man so handsome?
She let out a frustrated growl. If she didn’t stop thinking about that kiss, the memory of it would never go away.
“Are you all right?”
She blinked at the door in front of her and glanced up at Mr. Yates, still holding on to her arm. How could she have been so deep in her traitorous thoughts that she’d not even felt his arm around hers?
“I’m fine.” She needed something to talk about—something that had nothing to do with kissing. “Some of the tenants today seemed surprised by Mr. Oliver’s appearance. Does he not visit them often?”
“Not much. He completely trusts me, just like he did Mr. Cannes, who used to take care of things and report to him. He’s making these rounds for you.”
She took out her keys. Over the last few days, she’d pieced together that Mr. Yates had expected to take over Mr. Cannes’s position, but she’d be the one to do so now. “I hope you aren’t too upset that he’s chosen me to oversee things when you’re clearly more knowledgeable than I.”
“No, ma’am. I’m flattered with the wholehearted trust Mr. Oliver has in me, and yes, I’d assumed after Mr. Cannes died that I’d take over—but the amount of time he spent doing his job is more than I care to work. My only child just left home, and I’m looking forward to spending time with my wife. I’m content with a good boss, a decent salary, and a lovely woman to go home to.”
Helen swallowed at the thought of a man more focused on a woman than his business. If this man hadn’t already proven himself by answering her silly business questions with the utmost patience when Neil was busy, she’d have put her trust in him right now.
Of course, Neil seemed extremely good at selecting only the most upstanding associates—who all seemed incredibly loyal to their reserved employer.
She’d always assumed she was the only person willing to debate theology with him, but over the last week, she’d seen more than one man converse with Neil. He was always polite and seemed genuinely attentive, giving advice when needed—good advice, too. His words were always few and to the point, though he somehow managed to never sound curt.
But he never started a conversation on his own. Not even with men under his employ for years like Mr. Yates.
“Why did Mr. Cannes work so many hours?” Neil seemed plenty capable of handling the work he was showing her. Or maybe he hadn’t yet shown her all of what he expected her to do.
“Mr. Oliver always chastised him for the time he spent working, but your husband, well, he’s so short on words that Mr. Cannes spent a lot of time listening to the complaints his employees didn’t bother Mr. Oliver with, in an effort to respect his time.”
“But he seems quite willing to listen to them.”
“He is, but a boss so standoffish is a bit intimidating to talk to. Sometimes it’s hard to know if we’re pleasing him.”
Try being that man’s wife.
Mr. Yates let go of her arm and cleared his throat.
She plunged the house key into the keyhole. “Can I get you lemonade or tea before you go?”
“No, thank you, ma’am. I should be heading home now.” He doffed his hat and stood waiting for her to go in.
“Thank you for escorting me home, Mr. Yates.”
Once the door shut behind her, she headed to the kitchen and opened the icebox. She plunked chipped ice into a pretty blue glass and pumped some water before lowering her achy body onto the sofa in the parlor.
Her feet thanked her for sitting, though they begged to be released from the pretty, but tight-toed boots she’d never had problems with before. Neil had given her permission to redecorate. Maybe she could order a slipper chair. She’d always wanted one of those low, wide chairs to take off her shoes with grace and ease, and Neil could afford it. But where would they put more furniture in this little house? She sighed and settled for extending her legs and wiggling her toes.
Her sister would be the sort of person who’d enjoy spending Neil’s money and figuring out what furniture would work in his small house. But Helen wasn’t about to let her sister see where Neil slept. As if she needed to hand Margaret another reason to belittle her.
Leaning her head back, Helen closed her eyes and thought over all she’d learned about Neil’s work in the past week. Nothing she couldn’t handle, as long as she could ask him for help when a sticky situation came up, and since his deteriorating vision wouldn’t keep him from having a long life, there shouldn’t be any problems.
But she didn’t want to spend those long years in silence. She’d have to figure out how to draw him out—without getting her hopes up for much more than an extended friendly theological debate.
She pulled one of the books he scattered about the house closer to her. So back to debating theology she would go. And surely discussing the lofty things of God would help keep her mind from wandering back to that one kiss she’d need to be content with.
Chapter 4
The carriage swayed to a stop, and Neil pressed his fingers against the throbbing at his temple. As if trying to walk without stumbling like an oaf wasn’t enough, all the conversations he’d had with his tenants, employees, and Helen today hurt his jaw—and now he had a headache.
Mr. Ferguson opened the carriage door. Bright orange highlighted the darkening sky behind him. “Here we are, Mr. Oliver. Home at last.”
His driver had never sung such a cheery greeting when he’d delivered him home before. Then, of course, maybe he had at first but soon realized superfluous talk wasn’t needed. Maybe he was cheery for Helen’s sake.
He glanced over at his wife gathering her notebook and shawl. Why hadn’t she said anything on the way home? Over the last several days, she’d asked him questions in the carriage. Perhaps she’d noticed the pain written across his face this evening.
Hmmmm, he was gritting his teeth against the throbbing. Maybe that’s why his jaw ached.
Trying to relax, he followed Helen out of the carriage but nearly tumbled down the steps. Thankfully, he caught the door.
He pulled out the carved cane he’d started to use to walk. With attempted confidence, he strode toward the house despite knowing he could not see that one uneven pavestone. He needed to hire someone to fix that.
Mr. Ferguson’s cologne grew stronger, and Neil looked up from his attempt to watch his feet and nodded at his approaching driver.
“If you have no more need of me, sir …”
“None, and tomorrow, take a holiday. I intend to stay home.” If he didn’t talk to anyone for twenty-four hours, he might actually get rid of his headache. How did Mr. Cannes deal with
so many people every day?
“All right, sir.” The movement and swish of air indicated Mr. Ferguson had doffed his beat-up felt hat as usual, then he walked past whistling.
Helen cleared her throat. “I suppose you don’t want me going out on my own then?”
“I’m sorry.” He’d forgotten to take Helen into account when he’d dismissed Mr. Ferguson, but surely she’d want to rest as well. “Did you want to go out? I think we deserve a respite.”
“If that’s what you wish.”
Did he note a bit of frustration in her tone? But the doorway was now an empty rectangular hole, so he marched forward, slowing where he knew there was a step, and went in after her. The smell of garlic and rosemary made his stomach rumble. His insides pinched with the hunger his headache had helped him ignore.
“Smells good, Mrs. Winthrop,” Helen said from somewhere inside.
The robust older woman had never made a meal that disappointed, though he’d have eaten almost anything. Some days he had to wait an extra hour for dinner when she’d decided her first attempt was a failure, but she made sure he was fed only the best she could make.
Shrugging out of his coat, he followed his wife to the kitchen table, where Mrs. Winthrop hummed contentedly. For some reason, his cook seemed happier cooking for two.
“Just let me get the butter crock, and you two can eat.”
He heard his chair scrape in front of him, and he grabbed the back. He could do that himself; he wasn’t quite an invalid yet. Plus the scraping … ugh, he grit his teeth again. He took a deep breath and tried to lower himself in the chair without accidentally bumping anything on the table.
“Good night, you two.” And the powdery smell of Mrs. Winthrop passed him and dissipated.
“I feel rather unnecessary.”
Neil stilled his attempts to find the knife that should be beside his plate. “Come again?”
He looked across the multitude of candles between them. Why had Mrs. Winthrop started burning so many? Did she think that would help him see? Thankfully, he could afford to burn as many as she chose to light, otherwise he’d have to give up reading at night. Someday he’d have to give up reading all together, so he was determined to read as much as he could before then.
“Mrs. Winthrop does the cooking. Mrs. Giles does the cleaning. I follow you and Mr. Yates around, doing nothing but feeling like a third leg.”
“Soon you’ll be able to take over the weekly rounds, if you wish.” Not that he’d force her to do so while he could still get around. However, whenever she felt ready to take over the talking, he’d certainly let her do that.
“I just feel wrong about not doing the things I’m actually capable of doing. Like making dinner.”
“You can if you want to.” He didn’t relish the idea of firing Mrs. Winthrop, but if his wife wanted to cook, he hoped she was good at it.
After praying, he scooped potatoes from the roasting pan and pulled Matthew Henry’s commentary closer. He felt around for the big magnifying glass he’d just received in the mail yesterday, then he pulled a few candles closer and … there, he could see words. Not too many at a time, but enough to read. He sighed and plopped a few potatoes into his mouth.
After a minute or two of steady clinking of silverware, Helen sighed and grumbled something.
Was the roast not to her liking? He wouldn’t have minded more pepper.
“I feel like a piece of furniture.”
“What?” He brought his hand up after realizing he’d talked with his mouth full. Did she say something about furniture?
“Nothing.”
“All right.” He went back to reading, even though his head throbbed more. After a week of frustration with his other magnifier, he’d breathed easier with yesterday’s post, thankful that reading had yet to be stolen from him. Too soon, he’d have to ask Helen to start reading to him. Maybe tonight’s headache was more from long reading with his new magnifier last night than the talking he’d done today.
Maybe he should limit his reading time.
He let out a small sniff of amusement. No, he’d cram in as much reading as possible. It wasn’t as if his eyesight had improved when he’d tortured himself last year by not reading for two months.
“Did you read something funny?”
He startled. “I—uh no, I was just talking to myself and realized I shouldn’t bother to listen to my own advice.”
“So you’re over there talking silently to yourself while I’m right here?”
“Do you want me to talk to you?” He set down his glass.
“No, I want you to want to talk to me.”
He straightened in his seat. Though he couldn’t quite see Helen giving him a biting glare, he could feel it. Back when his sisters and mother were in a huff, he’d simply disappeared from the room and let his father deal with it.
Maybe he should’ve stuck around back then and paid attention to how his father diffused the situation.
“I suppose that’s more than you’re willing to give though.” Her silverware clinked and the ice in her glass rattled.
Confound the stupid candles, he couldn’t see anything but movement behind them.
More than he was willing to give? Did Helen doubt his loyalty? Hadn’t she said right before the wedding she trusted him? “I vowed to you my life—as expected by God. If you want to talk—”
“Your life?”
He cocked his head. Doubt completely underlined the tone of her voice. “Yes, not that my life is worth much, seeing that I’m going blind.”
“Your life is your books, Neil.”
He felt the bend of paper under his palm, his fingers still near where he’d stopped reading. He pulled his hand away.
“Oh, go back to your reading. I didn’t mean to intrude upon your life.” She stood. “I have a headache anyway.”
Had she finished eating already? How long had he been reading?
And a headache made her want to leave? So had she wanted to talk or not?
She dumped her plates into the wash bin then glided past him and shut the door to her room.
He picked up his fork and pushed around his cold dinner. His pursuit of knowledge and business had consumed his time for decades. Did she really want him to abandon reading when he’d soon be forced to anyway?
Did she truly expect him to become as talkative as the late Mr. Cannes or as congenial as Mr. Yates, when she’d known he was neither before she married him? Could people change their personality?
He’d not been lying about being prepared to lay down his life for her. Death did not scare him. But did he have to give up his studies for her?
The food he’d been chewing became suddenly difficult to swallow. Giving up his books would be far harder to do than flinging himself in front of a train.
He pulled his Bible over to find the fifth chapter of Ephesians. He’d read the verses many times while contemplating proposing to Helen. Had he missed something?
“So ought men to love their wives as their own bodies. He that loveth his wife loveth himself.”
And if his wife wanted him to talk during dinner instead of read as was his habit, was that all it’d take to prove he truly did love her as he did himself?
But did he love her?
He’d assumed laying down his life was biblical love, all that was truly required. But loving a wife as he did himself seemed much more … involved.
He closed the leather cover of his Bible and stood to take his dishes to the sink. Scraping off soap into the water, he started washing the dishes for Helen since she refused to let them sit overnight for Mrs. Giles to clean in the morning.
With each item he washed and rinsed, with each tick of the clock that told him Helen would not return before he retired, the more he wished she’d come and spend the quiet evening hours with him.
Never before had he wished for someone to disturb his solitude. He’d always felt more energized when alone.
He’d have to lay down his books.
Maybe not forever, hopefully not. But he’d have to leave behind the solitary habits he’d developed over decades of bachelorhood until he spent enough time with Helen to figure out what she really wanted from him.
He couldn’t use his personality as an excuse to keep from following the Word of God.
If his attention and conversation were what she wanted, he wanted to give her that and anything else she asked for. Just as he wished to be understood by her, he also longed to understand her.
I do desire to care for my wife as much as I would care for myself.
I do love her.
So what was he going to do about it?
“Oh, how I’ve missed your apple pie, Aunt Helen.” Jeffrey rubbed his hands together as he took an exaggerated sniff of his dessert, his eyes shut tight. “When they’d told me you were moving out, I shed a tear or two.”
“I haven’t left the state. You can always come over to get—” Helen licked her lips. She hadn’t baked anything since moving in with Neil, whose cook outshone her completely. Though she’d informed him she could cook, why would he want her to?
She scraped at a burnt piece of crust. “Well, if you want apple pie, give me notice before dropping in, since I’m not baking anymore. Mrs. Winthrop leaves us with a dessert every other day. Yesterday we had blueberry crumble.”
“But you don’t like blueberries.” Margaret wrinkled her face as if she’d tasted something foul.
Helen rubbed a hand under her nose, masking the desire to tell her sister she never cooked with blueberries because Margaret didn’t care for them, not because she herself was averse.
“If he’s going to marry a woman and not expect her to cook, he should at least make sure his cook makes stuff you want to eat.” Margaret dolloped some whipping cream onto her pie. “Don, now that we don’t have Helen, I really think we need a cook. I just can’t handle the stove’s heat on days that aren’t at least fifty degrees or colder.”
Helen cut through the pie to serve herself a second piece. As if it had been pleasurable for her to cook in ninety-degree weather while seeing to her sister’s children as well. “I’m surprised you haven’t hired a cook already.”
The Convenient Bride Collection: 9 Romances Grow from Marriage Partnerships Formed Out of Necessity Page 23