Lisa Plumley - [Crabtree 01]

by The Matchmaker

  Groaning, Molly rolled her gaze to the ceiling. She didn’t have the heart to correct him now, but soon she would have to. Right after she amazed him with the very best cinnamon bun he’d ever tasted.

  Chapter Twelve

  At the end of the workday on Friday, Marcus stood in his office with his foreman Smith, reviewing the week’s timber yields. When they’d finished, he hastily drew out his cash box and counted out a stack of currency.

  “For the men,” he told Smith. “For next week’s baked goods from Molly’s supply.”

  As he’d done for several weeks now, Smith scooped up the money. He would take it, Marcus knew, and distribute it evenly among the lumbermen and mill hands. They, in turn, would use it to buy “delectables” from Molly.

  Given his new knowledge that she was indeed the matchmaker, Marcus should have found such subterfuge unnecessary. But having helped her once, he found himself wanting to keep doing so. For Molly’s sake. Being surrounded by eager customers made her so happy.

  The foreman nodded his thanks, turning to leave.

  “Warn the men to be more careful,” Marcus said sternly. “The first one I see ramming cinnamon buns under a crooked table leg to steady it earns a week’s worth of sweeping duty.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “No using Molly’s pies to prop open doors.”

  Smith looked pained. “Yes, boss.”

  Reminded of something, Marcus asked, “Has Fergus recovered from his injuries?”

  “Yes, boss.” Smith shuffled toward the office door, plainly eager to be gone. “He’s fine now. Doc Williamson eventually pried out that apple fritter splinter.”

  “Good. That’s all for tonight, then.”

  “Right, boss. Good night.”

  Marcus watched as Smith passed through the open doorway, then made his way slowly down the hallway beyond. He remembered something else.

  “Smith?”

  His foreman paused. “Yes, boss?”

  “How’s—” Marcus hesitated, feeling uncommonly awkward. He cleared his throat. “How’s that ingrown toenail of yours?”

  Smith paused, his expression befuddled. Anyone would have believed Marcus had asked him to waltz, instead of having merely asked him about his welfare. Had Marcus really been so callous a man as that?

  If he had, he was no longer, thanks to Molly’s example.

  “Did Molly’s plaster help?” he prompted. “Because if you need to spend part of the day sitting—”

  A wide grin spread over his foreman’s grizzled face, making his whiskers jut outward.

  “Aye, I’m better now.” He clomped to Marcus’s side and clapped his hand heartily on his shoulder. “I begin to believe you’ll be fine, also. With Molly’s care.”

  Then, with that inexplicable damned grin on his face, Smith turned and left. Marcus stared after him. With Molly’s care? ’Twas he who meant to care for her, and not the other way around. What the hell had Smith meant?

  Obviously Molly’s remedies had addled the poor man’s thinking. There was no other explanation for it.

  Comforted by the notion, Marcus left the office himself, for dinner at the Crabtree household.

  “Oh, Grace, no!” Molly cried. “Tell me you don’t truly intend to play battle marches on the harpsichord tonight.”

  “Not just any battle marches,” Grace said, settling at the pianolike instrument with clear purpose. She practiced a few notes. “These are suffragette battle marches, used to work up the ladies’ stamina during long marches on the capitol. With a few temperance hymns thrown in, of course.”

  Molly groaned. On tonight of all nights, Marcus was to be greeted at the Crabtree’s front door with rousing feminist tunes. Well, it was unlikely Marcus would recognize them, she reasoned, and she had other things to worry about. Like the menu for dinner. Molly headed for the kitchen.

  “Cook, is everything coming along according to plan? Are we on schedule for dinner?”

  “Yes, Miss Molly. Although I can’t make any promises about how this menu will turn out.”

  The cook wrung her hands, casting a skeptical glance toward the stove. There, several large pots bubbled and steamed. Befuddled, Molly looked in the same direction.

  What was that unusual aroma?

  Her mother passed by, obviously having overheard the conversation. “Don’t worry, dear.” She rearranged Molly’s hair, then smiled beatifically. “Mr. Copeland will no doubt appreciate our care for his health.”

  “His health?” Molly asked. “What do you mean?”

  But Fiona Crabtree had already drifted away, saying something about her husband’s dress for the evening. Molly turned to the cook for an explanation.

  “Your mama read an article in Harper’s about Dr. Sylvester Graham’s dietary reformation. She decided we were all becoming vegetarians.”

  “Tonight?” Molly covered her face in her hands. “We are becoming vegetarians tonight? Why can nothing be normal in this household?”

  Fiona humphed, passing through the kitchen with two neckties and a hat in hand. “As promoted by Dr. Graham’s regimen, proper and regular bowel movements are—”

  “Mama!”

  “—certainly normal,” she said, brushing lint from the hat. “You’ll thank me later, after a lovely meal of fruits, vegetables, grains and nuts.”

  Molly groaned. “But Marcus will be expecting a nice roast beef, with gravy and boiled potatoes.”

  “I daresay his bowels will be expecting the same thing,” Fiona rejoined with a gleam in her eye. She thrust the hat upward, like a conquering Valkyrie with a sword in hand. “Tonight, we strike for good health!”

  Before Molly could remove that disturbing notion from her mind, Adam Crabtree meandered through, wearing a rumpled shirt and an abstract expression. He held an opened book in hand. His mouth worked silently as he read.

  Fiona saw him. “Adam, you’re not wearing that! And where’s the hair tonic I ordered for you from the apothecary? If you’d only apply a little bit of it like I told you to…”

  Her voice faded as she hustled Molly’s papa upstairs to get dressed. Breathing a sigh of relief, Molly leaned against a dry-goods cupboard in the kitchen. “Could you possibly prepare a small side of beef without Mama knowing about it?” she asked the cook.

  “And risk another lecture on the state of my insides? No, ma’am.” Cook whisked the lid from a nearby pot, releasing a burst of odorous green steam. She stirred. “If Mrs. Crabtree says we’re eating bark and berries for dinner, then that’s exactly what we’re doing.”

  Molly sighed. Perhaps she could convince Marcus the strange foodstuffs were foreign in nature.

  Footsteps thudded downstairs. An instant later, Sarah entered the room.

  “Thank heavens. Sarah! Did you have any luck convincing Papa not to initiate his usual Friday night game of charades this evening? I doubt Marcus would take well to imitating a lovesick rhinoceros.”

  Her sister shook her head, not the least bit daunted by the mention of their father’s unusual made-up parlor game. In it, Adam combined one adjective and one noun, drawn from slips of paper in separate hats, then compelled the players to pantomime the resulting combination. He’d always avowed that typical charades weren’t challenging enough for a Crabtree.

  “I forgot,” Sarah said blithely. She removed one of the pots from the stove, wrapped it in a thick towel, then made to carry it out of the kitchen. “Good luck, though.”

  “Wait. You’re not staying for dinner? Where are you going?”

  “To Daniel McCabe’s. He’s invited me to dine with him and his nephew tonight.”

  “He’s invited that pot of soup to dinner, you mean,” Molly said, indignant on her sister’s behalf. “What are you about, bringing him his meals this way? Are you his nanny, as well as his lackey?”

  Sarah’s eyes flashed. “Stay out of it, Molly. It’s my business if I want to bring Daniel a bit of beef stew.”

  “Beef stew! Wait!” Molly lunged for the pot
, visions of having something normal to offer Marcus dancing in her head.

  Sarah proved too fast for her. In a wink, she was out the door. It slammed shut behind her, putting an end to Molly’s hopes of having another ally in her quest to make a favorable impression upon Marcus.

  The crashing sounds of a hymn burst from the parlor. Molly jumped. When Marcus saw the insanity brewing in her household, he’d no doubt run for the safety of Jack Murphy’s saloon. And he’d never be back for her.

  “This is an interesting meal, Mrs. Crabtree,” Marcus said later, chewing thoughtfully. “I’ve never experienced its like.”

  Fiona looked pleased. So did Adam.

  Across from Molly at table, Marcus beamed, handsome in a dark suit and four-in-hand necktie. His dark hair was combed neatly from his face, his jaw was clean shaven and, although the man was the very picture of charm, Molly couldn’t believe her mama and papa were so gullible. During their time together, she had become wise to Marcus’s double-talk.

  “‘Never seen its like.’ Humph,” she piped up, letting her spoonful of grain and vegetable stew linger over her bowl. “That’s not a compliment, you know. He said the same thing about my bookkeeping system.”

  “Molly!” her papa objected. With an apologetic look at Marcus, he patted her hand. “She’s sensitive about her lack of bookkeeping ability,” he explained.

  “Poor dear,” her mother agreed.

  They all gazed pityingly at her. Even Grace, who despite her uncanny organizing ability, everyone agreed, could hardly tally anything beyond three digits. Grace’s mathematical failings weren’t discussed in the family, but they were common knowledge.

  As though sensing her discomfort, Grace spoke up. “Let’s talk about something else, shall we?”

  Molly cast her a grateful smile. No matter their disagreements, she could always count on her sister to come to her aid. Relaxing a fraction, she spooned up more stew.

  In the momentary silence that followed, Grace pinned Marcus with a merciless, sham-pleasant look. “Tell me, Mr. Copeland, when will you embrace the equality required of the coming century, and hire female workers for your lumber mill?”

  Molly choked on her stew. Grace the Inquisitor merely folded her hands next to her chamomile tea, waiting.

  To his credit, Marcus did not so much as flinch. “When a woman can fell a fifty-foot pine as well as a man. When a woman can feed two hundred pounds of lumber into the splitter I installed, and do it safely. That’s when I’ll hire a woman.” He savored another bite of stew. “The way I see it, equality is a matter of ability, not gender.”

  Grace’s hand tightened on her soupspoon. Impossible as it was to believe, she seemed at an actual loss for words. Molly gawked. No one had silenced her opinionated sister this thoroughly since…well, never.

  “I…I agree,” Grace stammered.

  “Fine,” Marcus said.

  A stunned moment passed. The whole family stared at the man who’d done the impossible—satisfy Grace on a point of female equality. More, she was even now gazing at him with grudging respect. Remarkable.

  In the lingering silence, Fiona spoke up. “Dr. Sylvester Graham says that conversation is good for digestion,” she offered. As though casting about for that good doctor’s remedy, she turned to her daughter. “So in that spirit…Molly, I thought you’d decided on the blue gown for tonight?”

  Oh, not this. Not tonight. Molly smoothed her pink bodice. She’d chosen this gown with Marcus in mind, hoping he’d find her appearance pleasing. “I changed my mind.”

  Her mama tsk-tsked. “You know blue suits you better.”

  “I prefer the pink.” Likely, her cheeks were blushing to match it. Molly felt them heat and resisted an urge to fan herself with a slice of Cook’s wholesome Graham flour bread. “It suits me perfectly well.”

  “I paid good money for the blue,” Adam announced.

  “I prefer the blue, also,” Grace put in.

  “Me, too,” Cook said, bringing in another course.

  Molly sank lower in her chair. Surreptitiously she sneaked a glance at Marcus. He seemed bemused…or perhaps thoughtful. At the realization of what he was witnessing, she wanted to bury her face in her bark and berries and never emerge. It was impossible that he could respect her, while viewing with his own eyes the patronizing way her family treated her.

  “I find the pink delightful,” Marcus announced to the table at large. His gaze swept over Molly appreciatively, proving the truth of his words. “It almost does justice to your beauty, Molly. A wise choice.”

  Molly could happily have kissed him for standing up for her. Despite the awkward silence that followed, a warm, grateful feeling embraced her almost as surely as did Marcus’s next look, when he met her gaze over the table. He winked.

  Embarrassed and relieved and thrilled, she returned her attention to her stew, dreading the rebuttals that were sure to come from her opinionated family. Molly had long been the subject of well-meant lectures in this household. That wasn’t likely to change merely because of one man’s interference, however heartfelt, however wonderful, that interference had been.

  Several throats were cleared. Tension filled the dining room, thick as the boiled barley that accompanied the stew.

  “Of course,” echoed around the table.

  “Yes, yes. I believe you’re right.”

  “Naturally. The pink.”

  Molly was thunderstruck. Hardly daring to believe her ears, she sat straighter.

  “We’re sorry, my dear,” her mother said, reaching from her end of the table to pat Molly’s hand. “Mr. Copeland is right. You look absolutely lovely. It’s high time you were allowed to dress yourself without our opinions to influence you.”

  “I am dreaming,” Molly said.

  “Let’s not be hasty, Fiona,” her papa interrupted, looking concerned. “Molly is our youngest. We can’t simply abandon our responsibilities to her.”

  “I have a feeling those responsibilities might soon be shared,” her mama said, rising elegantly from the table. Her gentle smile seemed to rest on Marcus especially, then moved on to her eldest daughter. “Come, Grace. Let’s see if Cook is ready to serve Dr. Graham’s special wheat-berry porridge for dessert.”

  “Yes, let’s,” Grace agreed, also standing. She grinned, as though Fiona’s smile had communicated something both meaningful and amusing. “Then I really must be off to my ladies’ aid meeting. If I arrive early enough, I can waylay that dastardly Jack Murphy and his interfering nonsense.”

  “Wait!” Adam protested, waving one arm imperiously. “I’m not finished. What about Molly’s bakeshop? What about her tendency to flit between hobbies like a hummingbird in a garden? That won’t be cured by sugared porridge.”

  “Adam, give over,” Fiona suggested. She paused behind his chair at the head of the table and squeezed his shoulder in a wifely gesture. “My eyes have been opened tonight. Let yours be, too.”

  “What? What nonsense is that? My eyes are open!”

  But Fiona and Grace merely went on their way, their skirts rustling faintly as they headed for the kitchen. The lamps flickered as they passed, then settled. Molly couldn’t help but feel something momentous had just occurred, but she wasn’t quite sure what it was.

  Obviously, neither was her father. He went right on as he’d begun, turning next to Marcus. “My daughter once professed an urge to perform on stage, in one of Shakespeare’s plays. Another time, she begged me to teach her sharpshooting, so she could find a place on the range. Since she was small, she’s been from one thing to another.”

  “Perhaps she hadn’t yet found what she was looking for,” Marcus interrupted with calm surety, stirring his stew. “Perhaps now she has.”

  Adam scoffed. “With baking? Have you tasted those cinnamon buns of hers?”

  Molly flinched. Her papa’s words hurt. Even with the knowledge that he was simply overwrought at the moment. Still she’d yet to put her new, precise baking methods, learned from Mar
cus’s example, into widespread practice. Her papa was probably correct on this score, much as she hated to admit it.

  Exactly how long had he known of her ineptitude?

  “Papa, let’s just finish dinner,” she urged, eager to change the subject. “Afterward, we can play charades in the parlor!”

  He perked up interestedly. Sweet heaven, what had she volunteered for? Molly loathed charades. It would be worth it, though, if mention of the game diverted her father from his tirade.

  “An excellent idea, daughter.”

  Her papa patted her hand. Molly’s skin was becoming nigh worn raw with the condescending gesture. She’d never noticed before just how often her family employed it with her, but now she did.

  Marcus did, as well. His attention lingered for a moment on Adam’s patronizing pats, then rose to Molly’s face. He frowned.

  “But first, I really must make clear to Mr. Copeland exactly what he’s getting himself involved with,” Adam insisted. “I know you two have joined into a business agreement of some sorts. He ought to know about your bookkeeping failures—”

  “I understand Molly’s accounting practices,” Marcus said blithely, wiping his mouth with one of the linen napkins laid at each place. “I approve of them.”

  “You—you—approve of them?” As though the notion were unthinkable, her papa blinked. Quickly enough, though, he was back on course. “Mr. Copeland certainly ought to know that you’ve only been a baker for the past eleven months or so—”

  “Longer than I’ve tried any other endeavor,” Molly pointed out. “I will make this work, Papa. I will.”

  “Yes, but still.” Another pat. “It’s only a matter of time before you’re off to whatever fancy grips you next. We all know that, my dear.”

  “There’s the Chautauqua, too,” she protested, desperate not to be made a fool of in front of Marcus. “If I obtain a booth there…”

  “Ah, Molly.” Her papa rolled his eyes good-naturedly. He tore off a piece of Graham bread, then considered its nourishing whole grains with suspicion. “If it weren’t for the fact that your sister is arranging the event, I’d never have allowed you to try securing a booth of your own. Knowing Sarah will be there to oversee things, to help if you get into trouble, reassures me.”