by Lisa Plumley
If she could ensure that their togetherness would grow, simply at the price of sticking to her usual upright behavior, then that was what she’d do, Olivia vowed. She would refuse to dance. She would try harder at sewing. She would keep her most divergent opinions to herself. She would be the most respectable woman she could possibly be, and she’d prove her marriageability to Griffin in the process...no matter how much fiddle music might play or how many temptations might fall in her path in the meantime.
Chapter Twelve
A half hour early for the Morrow Creek handicrafts show, Griffin ducked into the designated venue—a two-story brick house located at the far end of the town’s main street—with his mind on Olivia. He’d agreed to meet her for another of his getting-to-know-Morrow-Creek sessions, but the intent of those sessions felt largely superfluous by now. Griffin had already met and—with surprising ease—befriended most of the town’s residents. He guessed that ease came hand in hand with the residents’ lack of familiarity with the Turners of Boston. Here, Edward Turner’s nefarious business tactics and coldhearted abandonment of his family were as irrelevant as the travails of streetcar travel and the touring playhouse schedules at the Howard Athenaeum. No one in Morrow Creek looked at Griffin’s face and saw in it the curse of the Turner men. No one saw pitiable Hook Turner.
They only saw him, Griffin, alone. And the woman who had instigated that welcome change was waiting for him to meet her.
If not for Olivia, Griffin knew, he’d never have realized the fresh chance awaiting him in Morrow Creek. If not for her, he’d likely still be sequestered in his suite at The Lorndorff, lost in self-pity and whiskey and darkness, wondering why success, money and hard-earned respect had not made him happy.
Today, he felt happy. Walking through the show-hosting household’s spacious hallways and past its finely decorated rooms, Griffin surveyed the hustle and bustle of preparations for the show and knew that his newfound happiness owed itself to Olivia. He may have failed to seduce her into letting her feet dance them both into carefree enjoyment of the musicale’s fiddle music a few days ago, but today would be different, he vowed.
Today he had a surprise that even Olivia, with all her grit and tenacity and dedication, would not be able to resist.
First, though, he had volunteered to help Olivia set up the displays for the handicrafts show. Spying the set of rooms where he’d been told she would be, Griffin felt his heart race faster.
Grinning at his own sap-headed sense of romanticism, he picked up speed. His boot heels rang against the polished oak floorboards. His coat billowed behind him, lending him an imposing appearance as he strode onward. Catching a glimpse of himself in the hallway’s gilt-edged mirror, Griffin hesitated.
He stopped.
For the first time in years, he took a good look at himself. He wasn’t sure he liked what he saw. Not because of his nose—although that detestable feature was still fully accounted for—but because of his forbidding black clothes. Above his inky collar, dark coat, midnight vest and plain black trousers, his own rugged countenance frowned back at him, framed by the wide brim of his equally dark hat and the omnipresent tangle of his tied-back dark hair. Even his thick, dark eyebrows looked menacing.
Damnation. How was he supposed to endear himself to a lighthearted and fun-loving woman like Olivia when he most resembled a hulking, oversize, expensively dressed undertaker?
Newly mortified by the thought, Griffin turned. He peered at his profile as best he could, noting his perfectly turned-out collar, his jet cufflinks and his rough, masculine stance. He did appear threatening. No wonder, it occurred to him, Olivia had not wanted to cut loose and dance at the musicale.
She hadn’t wanted to dance with him.
Confounded, Griffin delivered his image a scowl. Until now, he’d largely strived for invisibility. But here in Morrow Creek, with Olivia, such measures might not be necessary. Here in Morrow Creek, he might get away with a more female-friendly set of clothing. He might even dare to try not tugging his hat low.
The very idea left him chockablock with trepidation. Did he dare? For the sake of winning Olivia, did he dare to step fully into the light and risk letting everyone see him without his armor of dark clothes and face-hiding hat? Getting new suits of clothes would be easy enough, Griffin mused. Palmer could issue an order to his tailors in Boston and have custom garments delivered on the train within weeks. Maybe in medium gray...
“Griffin! There you are.” Olivia approached him with a smile on her face. She held out her arms, took both his hands in hers then squeezed. “If I could, I would spend time just staring at you, too,” she teased with an affectionate nod at the mirror. “You have an arresting array of features, Mr. Turner.”
Griffin wanted to believe that she truly liked the way he looked. Hard experience—and his own mind—told him she could not.
All the same, he felt his whole heart give way at her touch. He couldn’t help grinning. Olivia made him feel...joyful. Absurdly so. Doubtless he was making himself a fool, even then.
“You have an arresting way of fibbing outright. My features are nothing but problematic, and both of us know it.”
“Pshaw.” Eyes sparkling, Olivia levered upward. She gave his cheek a hasty, private kiss. “They are yours, so I love them.”
Caught by that, Griffin inhaled. Did she...? Could she...?
He wished he did not want her approval so much.
But he did. Worse, it felt tantalizingly close.
Feeling overcome, Griffin cleared his throat. Pointedly, he glanced around the hallway. From other areas of the house came the sounds of things being moved, of conversations going on, of workers performing last-minute tasks to prepare for the handicrafts show. “What do you want me to do first?”
“Nothing. I’m essentially finished, in fact. You’re simply here to keep me company. And to meet people, of course.”
“That can’t be true.” He frowned. “There must be heavy things to maneuver. Displays to set up.” Willingly, Griffin shucked his long coat, then his suit coat, leaving them both to the coatrack. He rolled up his sleeves, loving the way Olivia’s eyes widened at the sight of his bare forearms. “I’ll manage the difficult tasks. Just point me in the right direction.”
Standing there, Olivia merely stared at him. She seemed hypnotized by his forearms. She seemed...approving.
“As you can see,” Griffin added, unable to resist performing a subtle flexing movement to win even more of her approval, “I’m strong enough for anything you’d have me do.”
For a moment, all Olivia seemed to want him to “do” was pull her into his arms and hold her there, the way he’d done so many times over the past days. Then, abruptly, she blinked.
“Right. Yes. Of course!” A ladylike titter burst forth from her. “I’ll just introduce you to Miss Violet Benson first. She’s the daughter of my very good friend, the minister, Reverend Benson. I probably have told you how very God-fearing I am.”
Confused, Griffin gazed back at her. “No. You haven’t.”
“Well, I am.” With effort, Olivia swerved her gaze away from his forearms. She smiled. “I am also well respected and decorous. Very like Jonas’s mother, whom you met the other day?”
Vaguely, Griffin recalled the woman from the musicale. “I wasn’t impressed with her inattentiveness to her own child,” he said bluntly. “If that’s what you find admirable about her—”
“I thought you found her admirable! You conversed for a long time.” Olivia’s brows lowered. “You seemed engrossed.”
“I was making damn sure she would pay better attention to Jonas next time.” Memories of his own mother’s negligence poked at him, making him scowl anew. “I was making sure she wouldn’t turn her neglect to abuse and blame Jonas for getting lost.”
“Who would blame a child for getting lost?
”
Darkly, he gazed back at her. “My mother, for one. She had an uncanny ability to make every difficulty my fault somehow.”
“Oh.” Olivia’s compassionate gaze met his. Her hand raised gently to his shoulder. Her touch worked like magic to soothe his troubled mood. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. That honestly never occurred to me. I saw you talking with Jonas’s mother and thought you were impressed by all her good qualities.”
“I might have been. If I’d seen them.”
Olivia seemed perplexed. “She’s very admired in town.”
“If that’s so, give me a less-regarded woman any day.”
At Olivia’s crestfallen expression, Griffin belatedly recalled her efforts to be admired in town for her own ladylike behavior. Although that was the very behavior he was trying to staunch—because it made her so unhappy—he amended his words.
After all, he could not give her bravery by scorning her efforts—misguided and unhappiness provoking though they were.
“Not that I don’t admire efforts toward respectability, as well,” he said, feeling out of his depth all of a sudden. “For instance, women with children should strive to be as good as they possibly can. That will benefit their children.”
Olivia appeared hopeful. “And their husbands?”
Griffin had no idea. After his calamitous proposal to Mary, he’d given up hope of matrimony for himself. At least he had for a while. But lately, he’d indulged more than his fair share of fantasies about coming home to a modest Morrow Creek house with Olivia there waiting for him, brandishing a broom with comical ineffectualness and serving him bakery-bought pies by the dozen. He’d pictured Olivia coming to him on their wedding night, looking beautiful and giddy and wonderfully naked.
He’d even wondered what sort of husband he might be.
But that didn’t mean he was prepared to admit any of it.
“Naturally, their husbands would benefit, too,” he told her agreeably. “Doesn’t every man enjoy an amenable wife?”
“Amenable. Yes.” Olivia’s pert face took on an alarming sense of purpose. “That is a very achievable quality!”
He frowned. “You’re wearing that mulish expression you get sometimes,” he observed. “You know...the one that keeps you persisting when you’ve clearly lost a game of chess with me.”
“The game is never lost until it’s over with,” Olivia announced with a newborn sense of vigor. She tucked her arm in his, then directed them both toward the rooms where the displays were set up. “That is one of my guiding principles.”
“You don’t have to ‘achieve’ any particular quality with me,” Griffin reminded her as they passed through the doorway into the first room. Worryingly, his words seemed to pass right through her. “What would I know about what husbands prefer?” he asked reasonably. “I’ve never even been married.”
“I know. But that might change.” Blithely assured now, Olivia steered him in the direction of a plainly dressed, plain-featured, dark-haired woman. She was clearly directing the volunteers’ efforts. Just before they reached her, Olivia winked up at Griffin. “If the circumstances are just right, you might find yourself wanting to propose to a very special someone.”
Feeling increasingly wary, Griffin let himself be led.
Purposefully, Olivia stopped. “Mr. Turner, I’d like you to meet Miss Violet Benson.” She cast him a meaningful look. “Miss Benson is sponsoring today’s handicrafts show along with the Territorial Benevolent Association. It’s going to be...”
She continued speaking, but Griffin couldn’t quite listen. All his attention was suddenly directed at what Olivia had said moments ago, about him changing his mind and proposing to “a very special someone”—and at the wink she’d tossed him, too.
Even as he politely shook hands with demure Violet Benson and said hello, Griffin couldn’t help wondering...was Olivia angling for him to propose marriage to her friend? Was that why she’d mentioned her father, Reverend Benson, in such glowing terms? Was that why she’d given him that wink? Why she’d probed his attitudes toward marriage and family life and children?
No, no, no. This was all wrong. His simple mission to help Olivia break free of her self-imposed restrictions was becoming ever more complicated. He didn’t want marriage to just anyone!
He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted marriage to Olivia. As much as he wanted to be with her, Griffin still had doubts. He had doubts he could win her. Doubts he deserved her. Doubts he could be a good husband, given everything in his past.
The only thing he didn’t have doubts about was that he wanted Olivia in a way he’d never wanted another woman before.
Fraught with unease, Griffin nonetheless mustered a smile for both women. He had never been a man who was unduly thrown by changing circumstances. He could handle this complication in the same way he handled everything—with dogged resilience, ruthless exactitude and an unfailing attitude of positivity.
Positivity? Struck by that, Griffin hesitated. Then he realized, to his amazement, that it was true. He did possess a determination to see the positive in life. If he had not, he never would have survived. He never would have succeeded. Right from the moment when he’d stood up to his mother at the age of fourteen and sworn she’d be proud of him someday, Griffin had possessed a gritty positivity. He’d known he could succeed.
Just because he sometimes succumbed to the darkness didn’t mean he stopped expecting the sunrise. And just because things seemed thorny with Olivia didn’t mean he intended to give up.
For her sake, Griffin told himself, he would persevere.
He glanced up to find Miss Benson in midconversation.
“...a few additional items,” she was saying in polite, measured tones, “that we received just this morning.”
“Additional items?” Olivia looked baffled. “I thought everything for the handicrafts show was already here. People have been talking of little else except getting their items finished and brought here to the display house.”
“That’s true.” Miss Benson shot Griffin a tentative glance. Then, as though expecting to get no further responsiveness from him, she returned quickly to Olivia. “But these are crated items. They’re labeled specifically to your attention, Olivia.”
“My attention?” She puckered her brows. “All I’m set to display is a single cross-stitched sampler, as usual.”
Miss Benson shrugged. “Perhaps someone knew that you’d volunteered to help me organize the exhibition and decided to make an anonymous contribution. Not everyone is as fearless as you’ve always been.” A bashful smile enlivened her dowdy features. “That time you dressed down the medicine-show man is practically legendary in town. Remember? I was so awed by—”
“Oh! I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone reminiscing,” Olivia broke in, a skittish look on her face. She aimed a pointed glance at the room’s stately grandfather clock. “It’s so late!”
But Griffin was having none of it. He buttonholed Miss Benson. “Legendary? Olivia?” he urged. “What happened?”
Clearly eager to tell, Miss Benson inhaled. “Well—”
“Look!” Olivia interrupted again, pointing. “There are three crated items near my sampler display. Let’s open them!”
Griffin joined Miss Benson in frowning at her.
“Oh. Right.” The minister’s daughter gave a faltering gesture. Reticence appeared to come naturally to her. “Yes, I know we should. Only I was about to tell Mr. Turner about—”
“The crates can wait,” Griffin said. After all, he knew full well what was in those crates. Their construction and delivery had been his doing. He smiled at Miss Benson. “I’m keenly interested in your story, Miss Benson. Please, go on.”
At his urging, she flushed mottled red. She waved away his invitation, staring down at her shoes. It occurred to Griffin, to
o late, that Miss Benson was a woman unaccustomed to male attention. No wonder she’d looked at him glancingly, if at all.
No wonder she’d dismissed the possibility he’d listen to her when they’d been discussing the arrival of the crates.
He understood that sort of defensiveness. He’d lived it.
Miss Violet Benson deserved a man who would recognize her unique charms and appreciate them, Griffin knew. She deserved a man who would see past her drab appearance—a man who would enchant and confound and love her completely. Unfortunately, Griffin would not be that man. His heart was already spoken for...
...by the selfsame woman who was glaring impatiently at him at that very moment. He looked at Olivia, knew both that she was demanding and that he loved her for it and grinned effusively.
Miss Benson, as observant and insightful as only the sometimes overlooked could be, spotted his grin immediately.
“Go!” She shooed them away, smiling at them. “My gossip can wait.”
“Thank you.” Wearing a look of pure gratitude, Olivia grabbed Griffin’s hand. With him in tow, she all but careered across the room to her waiting table and its three crates—one size small, one medium and one large. “Here we are!”
“We’ve got to stop traveling places that way,” Griffin groused with a grin. “You nearly pulled my wrist out of its socket.”
Olivia tossed him a skeptical look. “Little ole me? Never.”
He laughed. “‘Little ole you’ has the might of an elephant when provoked by a mystery—or by a need to escape some gossip.” He offered her an inviting look. “So, tell me...what about the medicine-show man? This isn’t the first time I’ve heard tell—”