That’s when she offered an apologetic grin. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
And she was.
Chapter 6
Fiddling with the middle button on the black waistcoat he wore over a white shirt, E.V. sat in the chair across from Mrs. Whitworth as they waited for Larkin to join them in the formal parlor decorated in holly, ivy, myriad red candles, and bundles of fragrant cinnamon sticks. The union suit he wore kept his chest modestly covered, so he wasn’t sure why Mrs. Whitworth had given him the waistcoat. The dress shirt with his denims and work boots was absurd enough. If he’d buttoned the upturned collar, the contrast would have been even worse.
He was thankful Mrs. Whitworth omitted giving him a tie.
E.V. looked around the oversized parlor that was really more of an elaborate Victorian salon, with its five distinct sitting areas and Steinway square grand piano in the far corner. Two years ago at Larkin’s birthday party, he’d gazed about the empty room, from the handcrafted fireplace mantel to the crystal chandelier hanging from the middle of the fourteen-foot ceiling, and debated if talking to Larkin—whom he’d only known as the pretty Whitworth girl at the time—was worth enduring an evening of dancing in a home that reminded him so much in appearance to the mansion he’d spent his childhood in.
Each home after that one had grown significantly smaller. Now he lived in a one-room apartment next to his office.
Having gone from riches to rags and having learned to enjoy freedom from the trappings of wealth, he hadn’t been too sure he wanted to follow the attraction he felt for a young woman used to a life of luxury. Her beauty drew him in, but her passion for Jesus and for graciously serving others had caught him hook, line, and sinker.
Two years later, he’d turned his sawmill into the most profitable one in Tumwater. Beyond marrying Larkin, E.V. had no grander ambitions.
He didn’t want to own businesses and companies throughout the Pacific Northwest that consumed his every waking hour. He merely wanted to prove himself to Larkin’s wealth-focused father so he could begin a life with the woman he loved. After an honest day’s work, he wanted to spend his evenings and weekends with his wife and children. Not in his office mulling over stock reports.
Yet here he was, sitting in Patrick Whitworth’s chair, in Patrick Whitworth’s grand parlor, wearing Patrick Whitworth’s shirt and waistcoat, while waiting to share tea and crumpets with the man’s beloved wife and daughter, while his own scrubbed-clean shirt and vest hung next to Larkin’s cape to dry beside the kitchen stove.
It wasn’t that he disliked Whitworth.
He merely didn’t want to become him.
The ornate grandfather clock in the front foyer bonged once.
Mrs. Whitworth glanced over the shoulder of her red taffeta gown to the two doors on the east wall—one led to the library and the other to a water closet, but which was which E.V. couldn’t remember. Truth be told, since moving to Tumwater, he couldn’t remember exchanging more than a dozen words with Larkin’s mother.
“I suppose we can begin without Larkin.” Mrs. Whitworth’s hands shook as she filled E.V.’s teacup. “Why is it I find conversation easier in a crowd than with one person?”
Empathizing, E.V. admitted, “I’d say it’s because with one person there is an invitation to intimacy which is often intimidating. In a crowd, there’s freedom for obscurity. I’ll admit I’ve sought the safety of anonymity.” He knew Larkin did as well.
Mrs. Whitworth’s head tilted in a manner much like Larkin’s. Whereas her face was leaner and more rectangular than Larkin’s oval face, E.V. could imagine the children he and Larkin might eventually have looking like her. Only their blond hair could be natural, unlike Mrs. Whitworth’s chemically altered color.
“Are you in love with my daughter?” she finally asked.
He leaned forward in his chair to claim his teacup and saucer off the marble-topped coffee table. “You already know the answer to that, don’t you?”
The edges of her wide mouth curved. “Patrick has told me of your conversations. Two years is a long time to remain faithful despite the rejections. My husband is less inclined to view your behavior as romantic.” With a sad smile, she motioned to the crumpets. “Eat.”
While he did, she told him stories of Larkin’s childhood. She asked him if he knew who’d contracted the construction of the large house Willum Tate was building, and E.V. answered vaguely. From there, they spoke of politics, the due date of the Tuckers’ baby, the approaching anniversary of his parents’ deaths, the Pearson-Corrigan wedding she missed attending, church socials and the quilt auction she was organizing in the spring, the growing popularity of baseball (and how much both despised the sport), and finally the family’s upcoming Christmas soiree, which E.V. did not have an invitation to. If he had, he’d have to shave and, well, that was that.
She had laughed easily.
He had laughed as much as he did when he was with Larkin.
Then she vowed to call him Eric.
He grimaced. “I prefer E.V.”
“I realize sharing your father’s name is something you wish to forget.” All amusement left her tone. “Your heritage made you who you are but doesn’t have to define who you will be. Besides, I like Eric better.” She gave him a look that said it was pointless to argue.
That’s when E.V. realized this was likely a test to win her approval. More importantly, he realized from their conversation how passionately Mrs. Whitworth loved her husband and daughter … and how much she still grieved the loss of the son whose name she never mentioned.
“I won’t take Larkin from Tumwater,” he promised. “I won’t take her away from you.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
Since Larkin still hadn’t returned to the room, E.V. lowered his voice and whispered conspiratorially, “How about a pact? You call me Eric until your first grandson is born, then I go back to being E.V. That way I can honor my heritage by giving the world an Eric Valentin Renier IV, and still honor you.”
She raised a hand to cover her mouth, and though she said nothing, he knew her answer.
“What’s this?” barked a voice E.V. knew all too well.
As Mrs. Whitworth wiped the tears off her cheeks, E.V. looked to his right.
With the extravagant angeland-golden-feather-decorated Christmas tree in the foyer behind him, Patrick Whitworth stood in the parlor’s arched entrance beneath the mistletoe. He clenched his black Bowler hat in one hand and his greatcoat in the other, rain from both items dripping on the wood floor. His red tie was the lone bit of color on his lean frame. Contrary to their meeting yesterday morning, the few strands of brown hair that remained on the top of his head were not neatly combed to the side.
He tossed his wet items to a silent, hovering manservant who quickly scurried away.
Clearly Whitworth had gotten word about E.V. carrying Larkin home. And though his cheeks were rosy, he looked not a bit jolly over the news.
Chapter 7
Hearing Papa’s voice, Larkin woke with a jolt. She’d fallen asleep against the library door as she’d waited for Mama and E.V. to stop talking. She scrambled to her feet then smoothed the navy fringe on the bodice and three-quarters-length sleeves of her pale yellow gown. Thankfully her stomach had settled, her eyes no longer burned, and the vertigo was gone. However, the mortification she felt over what had happened—
Only a man blindly in love would still wish to court a woman who’d spewed eggs and broth on his chest.
“I cannot believe I did that,” she groaned.
Knowing the embarrassment she felt added needed color to her cheeks, Larkin gently opened the door leading to the parlor.
Papa, E.V., and Mama immediately looked her way from where they sat in the west end of the room.
Only E.V. stood.
With a slight grin strained by the tension she felt in every nerve, she tried to think of a logical excuse for having left Mama and E.V. alone for the last—she glanced at the clock—oh dear—hour and tw
elve minutes.
Sometimes the best explanation was no explanation.
She hoped.
As slowly as she could traverse the large rectangular room without making it look like she was stalling, Larkin moved toward the sitting area nearest the double-door entrance to the front foyer.
With one leg crossed over the other, Papa sat in the second chair opposite Mama’s place on the settee. The angle at which he sat gave him a clear view of E.V.—whose chair was a good three feet from Papa’s—without having to turn to look at him. While the elbow of Papa’s left arm rested on the curved armrest, two of his fingers on his right hand tapped his chin. His thinking position.
His you’re about to get a lecture on decorum position.
Because of the heavy brown mustache covering his upper lip, Larkin couldn’t tell if Papa’s handsome face held a frown or a grin. Not that she expected a grin.
While E.V. wasn’t smiling either, he didn’t seem intimidated by Papa’s presence, but neither was he as at ease as he’d been talking to Mama.
“Oh, how nice, tea and crumpets.” Larkin sat on the empty side of the settee, smoothing the fringe on her skirt while E.V. resumed his seat.
Mama filled a teacup and handed it to her. “How was your nap, darling?”
Not at all surprised by her mother’s forthrightness, Larkin casually took a sip of her tea while raising her eyebrows as if to say—nap?
“Your cheek has the imprint of the carvings on the library door.” Mama lifted a plate off the tea tray. “Crumpet?”
Larkin shook her head. She shuddered at the thought of putting anything into her stomach for the next twenty-four hours.
Mama put the tray down. “They’re here if you change your mind. Eric enjoyed them.”
At Mama’s use of E.V.’s given name, Larkin looked at E.V. He hated being called by his father’s name. E.V. shrugged as if the usage was of no import.
Papa cleared his throat.
Dreading the lecture but knowing Papa would wait until they were alone because he would never—never—air their conflicts in public, Larkin met his gaze and smiled softly. She said nothing. This was the moment where E.V. would show himself to be the true hero he was and ask Papa for her hand in marriage. Right here. In the parlor. In the very room where she and E.V. had met over a tray of spilled cookies.
Papa would then agree to the marriage because he loved her, and he wanted her to be happy. Mama would cry yet be happy. And Larkin would cry, too, because she was finally going to marry the man she loved.
All was about to be well with the world.
Papa stopped tapping his chin. “Larkin, are you in love with this man?”
Realizing her hand trembled with nervous anticipation, she rested her teacup and saucer on the tea tray. “Yes sir.”
“Have you been cavorting with him?”
“No sir.”
“Would you elope with him if I refused to allow you to marry?”
Confused by his line of questioning, Larkin looked to E.V., who leaned forward in his chair, his fingers steepled together, his eyes intent on her face. What did he want her to say? Yes? No? Maybe? It depends? Give me time to pray over it?
Panic welling within, she looked to Mama.
Her mother’s dark eyes pleaded with her to say no.
Could she?
Help me, Lord. How do I choose between love for my parents and love for E.V.?
“Stop.” E.V.’s voice was so soft, Larkin wasn’t sure she’d heard him. “Stop,” he repeated, rising to his feet. “I won’t let you force her to choose. I’ll carry the burden.”
Papa’s jaw shifted yet he said nothing. He didn’t have to. The narrowing of his eyes conveyed his dislike of E.V., which confused Larkin all the more. How could Papa despise someone he barely knew? Someone he’d barely had half a dozen conversations with?
E.V. inclined his head to Mama. “Mrs. Whitworth, thank you for the hospitality.” His gaze settled on Larkin. “Miss Whitworth, I pray all will go well with you in your future endeavors. Merry Christmas to you all.”
With that, he strolled from the parlor and out the front door, allowing a chill to steal into the room.
Larkin stood. “Papa. Why?”
“Renier only cares about your inheritance.”
“He loves me. Me!”
“Has he ever told you?”
She opened her mouth but didn’t answer. He had never said the words, but—
“You’re money to men like him,” he said coolly. “He’ll forget you soon enough.”
She shook her head. “No. E.V. is faithful and kind and patient and … I will never stop believing God will work out things for us to be together.”
Papa’s fingers tapped his chin again. “So you choose him?”
“I—”
Mama grabbed Larkin’s hand, silencing her. “Patrick, please. Don’t do this to our family. I can’t bear losing another child—I can’t. Please make this right.”
Papa stood and, without another word, followed E.V.’s path out the front door.
Willum was right. He should cut his losses. Rain soaked through every layer of clothing as he walked away from the Whitworth mansion.
Hearing a door slam somewhere behind him, E.V. stopped in the middle of the street, turned around, and rolled his eyes. Wind gusts were the only thing he could think of that would make the moment worse. Or an audience. Actually that would be worse.
Whitworth approached with the fervor of a man on a mission. “Stop proposing!”
“What?”
“You heard me.” Whitworth halted before E.V. and looked him directly in the eye—an easy task since they were nearly the same height. “I will never give my permission,” he growled.
“Why not?” E.V. growled right back, having simply had enough of being patient with the man he’d thought would be his father-in-law someday.
“You don’t have the character to be faithful to her in the tough times.”
“I don’t—” E.V. bit back his angry retort.
Knowing yelling wasn’t the way to bring peace between them, he drew in a breath. Jesus living through me, Jesus living through me.
Focused and calm, he said, “After all the conversations we’ve had, how is it you still don’t know my character? I know yours. I know that Patrick Whitworth has one of the most astute financial minds in the country. He is loyal, fair, judicious, yet will take educated risks and selflessly help his business associates prosper, too. You love your family, routinely ignore advances from other women, give generously to the community and charities throughout the Pacific Northwest, carry guilt over your son’s death, work too much, and are too self-possessed and arrogant to humble yourself before God.”
Whitworth’s mouth clamped into a thin line. In anger? Shame? Resentment that E.V. knew all that about him?
E.V. wasn’t sure and, to be frank, at that moment he couldn’t have cared less. “What do I have to do to prove myself to you?”
“You are your father’s son.” Whitworth gave him a slit-eyed look. “You can’t change that.”
E.V. flinched. How many times had he accused himself? Were it not for his friends’ intervention and determination to pray him to salvation, he would still be following his father’s path of debauchery and greed. Yet, as the rain poured down on them, he suddenly saw his past more clearly. Mrs. Whitworth was right.
“Sir, my heritage made me who I am today, good and bad,” E.V. said with a peace that could only be God-supplied, “but Jesus living in and through me, not my heritage, defines who I am and who I will be. My sawmill has grown. I’m on the verge of securing a large supplier, and I don’t need Larkin’s inheritance. I can provide for all her needs.”
Whitworth stared in silence. Then he slowly shook his head. “This isn’t about money.”
E.V. gaped at the man. Whitworth lived and breathed money. “For two years, I worked day and night to build my mill and prove my work ethic to you. For two years, I’ve allowed you to
harass me with questions about my past, and I’ve respected your demands and honored your rule of not telling Larkin exactly how I feel. If money is not the issue, then what’s this about?”
“God may have changed you,” Whitworth answered furiously, “but He can’t—won’t—hasn’t changed my wife. And now, like her brother, Larkin is showing the same weakness for—” His shoulders slumped, his voice lost its intensity. “I don’t hate you. I love my daughter and wife too much to risk trusting you to protect our family honor when your reputation is on the line. They’re mine to protect.”
“Give me a chance to prove—”
“No, Renier. This is my burden to carry alone.”
Unsure of how to respond—how could he when he had no idea what weakness Whitworth was alluding to—E.V. wiped his brow, which did little good because the rain continued to run down his face.
“I don’t hate you,” Whitworth repeated. “Saying no to you is easier for me.” With that, he turned and walked back to his house.
E.V. turned as well. Each step back to his mill took him farther away from Larkin.
Cut his losses. That’s what he should do.
Chapter 8
You and a guest are cordially invited to …
In the solitude of his office, E.V. stared at the gold letters on the embossed invitation to the Whitworth’s annual Christmas soiree on Saturday, December 20. Three days away. Music. Dancing. Food.
Larkin.
Not everyone in Tumwater attended, because not everyone was invited, and the list varied each year. To receive an invitation put one on the People Significant to the Whitworth Family list that included business associates, local clergy, politicians, law officials, close friends, family. No one under the age of sixteen allowed.
Dress: formal.
His first year in Tumwater, E.V. attended at the personal invitation of Mr. Whitworth to Tuck, Frederick, Willum, and himself as they were leaving Larkin’s nineteenth birthday party. By the time the date of the soiree arrived two months later, he’d already asked Whitworth twice for Larkin’s hand in marriage. At that time, Whitworth had still been cordial to him.
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