by Delia Parr
‘‘Wait! You can’t just leave me here without offering me a hint of what you’re planning to do.’’
Pausing, Emma turned to face her. ‘‘If my plan works, this will be Mr. Langhorne’s last visit.’’
‘‘And if it doesn’t?’’
‘‘I rather doubt that.’’
‘‘And if it doesn’t?’’ Mother Garrett repeated.
Emma shrugged. ‘‘I suppose if it doesn’t, then he might come back . . . to see you.’’
6
BY THE TIME EMMA APPROACHED her office, her mood had changed from annoyed to determined. Depending on the nature of the business to be conducted, she had learned there was a time to be conciliatory, a time to be forceful, and a time to be coy. Since Mr. Langhorne had not responded as she had wanted to either of the former, she chose the latter as her strategy—to a point.
She entered her office and urged her caller back into one of the chairs facing her desk with a wave of her hand. Wearing a polite smile, she planted herself in the chair behind her desk. ‘‘Forgive me for keeping you waiting. We’re still trying to recover. We had almost double our usual number of guests for the week of Founders’ Day celebrations. Now, how can I help you this time, Mr. Langhorne?’’
A relative newcomer to Candlewood, Langhorne was one of several eastern investors who had come here within the past couple of years to link their fortunes with the building of the Candlewood Canal. Like many others, he underestimated the lifelong residents and their ability to protect their own economic futures against the fast-talking, better educated, and more experienced investors who had no interest in establishing roots within the community.
Unlike the others, however, Langhorne had taken up residence at the Emerson Hotel nine months ago with the express intention of moving here permanently. Since then, he had already purchased three warehouses built along the canal and continued to seek new ventures, although he had yet to purchase a home.
He pushed his spectacles back up the long ridge of his nose and squared his shoulders. ‘‘On the contrary, Widow Garrett. I’ve come to offer my help to you.’’ With a flourish, he pulled a large packet of papers from his coat pocket and laid it on top of her desk. ‘‘My final offer,’’ he announced. ‘‘I believe you’ll be quite pleased.’’
She furrowed her brow in mock confusion, leaned against the back of her chair, and laced her fingers together before resting them on her lap. ‘‘Offer?’’
He cleared his throat as if swallowing his annoyance with her. ‘‘For the land at the intersection of Main Street and Hollaway Lane. The last time we met to discuss the matter some months back, you said you wouldn’t sell the land for anything less than the ‘unattainable.’ Well, consider it done.’’ He smiled broadly. ‘‘I’ve done it for you. The ‘unattainable’ is no further away than your signature.’’
She held a tight rein on her temper and smiled. ‘‘My dear Mr. Langhorne, I . . . I believe I said I regretted that I would not be able to sell that parcel of land to you under any circumstances. I believe that was not long after I had to decline your kind offer of marriage, which, regrettably, I was not able to accept.’’
Just the memory of his audacious proposal started her blood to a simmer. Even in her loneliest moments, when she truly considered the possibility of remarrying someday, she never once considered this obnoxious man. Never.
Unlike many women, she was no novice when it came to her rights or how to protect her rights under the law. As a single woman and now, later, as a widow, her rights to do business or own property were equal to any man’s. During her marriage, a separate legal estate had kept her assets under her control. Without one, everything she owned would have become her husband’s property once she married.
Her dear Jonas had not objected to the existence of the separate estate when they married, and he had been perfectly content with Emma in full control of their financial affairs. Mr. Langhorne, on the other hand, was quite a different type of man. He either assumed she had no knowledge of how to protect her assets if she married him or that she would have been so flattered by his proposal, since she was now fifty-one years old, she would have learned, too late, that he had acquired the parcel of land on Hollaway Lane he truly wanted and much more.
He paled. ‘‘It was presumptive and very foolish of me,’’ he admitted in a rare display of honesty.
She nodded and lowered her lashes. ‘‘And I accepted your gracious apology. I also recall declining not one but two different sums of money you offered for the parcel of land you apparently still want.’’
When his spectacles slipped down his nose again, he removed them, wiped them dry with a handkerchief, and put them back on. ‘‘Quite so. Quite so. But you did suggest there might be a way I would be able to convince you to sell me the land,’’ he countered and spread out the papers he had placed on top of her desk. He rifled through them for several moments before handing one to her. ‘‘You should be very excited about this. I have further documentation to verify that everything in the letter is true and factual.’’
Curious, she skimmed the letter, then read it again more slowly. When she finished, she moistened her lips and cleared a lump of disbelief from her throat. She had been wrong about this man after all. He was not merely stubborn or persistent. He was devious beyond measure and apparently willing to go to amazing measures to guarantee his own success—assuming the document he had given to her was valid.
Still determined to emerge victorious in their battle of wills, she drew a deep breath, met his gaze, and held it. When she spoke, she chose her words carefully and kept her voice gentle, if only to make sure she would learn the full extent of his efforts before ushering him out the door for the last time. ‘‘I’m afraid I’m simply overwhelmed by your offer. I’m quite certain it took a man of considerable talent and determination to make this possible.’’
For the first time during their conversation, he relaxed his shoulders. The glint of confidence and superiority she had detected when he first arrived returned in full force. ‘‘As you know, until recently when I relocated to this area, I conducted most of my business in New York City. Regardless of what you must think of me, I am a man not without influence, both here and abroad. I simply made a few inquiries on your behalf,’’ he replied.
He paused to flick a bit of dirt from his trousers. ‘‘I have no interest beyond playing an important role in the fascinating development of this region, but I have no doubt that a woman of your grace and stature would find living abroad among those of similar means far more, shall we say, suitable? It would mean liquidating the rest of your holdings here, but I would be willing to assist you in any way you might allow.’’
She clenched her jaw and set aside the outrageous notion he had spent the past few months investigating her circumstances or that he had done anything on her behalf without her knowledge. At the same time, she remembered he was now putting himself in a position to gain control of much more than one parcel of her land.
His assumption that simply because she was one of the wealthiest residents of the county she would be vain enough to be tempted by his offer sent her pulse into a gallop. Struggling for self-control, she braced both feet flat on the floor. ‘‘Are you quite sure this is legal?’’
‘‘It’s all explained in the letter. There is proper documentation, as well, in the rest of the paper work.’’
She cocked a brow and fingered the letter. ‘‘I wasn’t aware that titles in England were for sale.’’
‘‘There’s little in this world that’s not available, given the right price,’’ he noted confidently.
She nodded. ‘‘I’m sure you’re aware that my grandfather came to this area from England as a young man and that he spent five years of his life fighting against England in the War for Independence, are you not?’’
His eyes widened. ‘‘I’m not sure that I—’’
‘‘And that I lost my eldest brother, Samuel, when he gave his life for the same cau
se in the second war against England?’’ she asked as she placed the letter back onto her desk.
His cheeks reddened.
She sighed and shook her head. ‘‘My family’s dedication and loyalty to this country have always been beyond question, just as our loyalty to the people of Candlewood has been a valued tradition. If I agree to your proposal, accept an English title, and move to England, I’m afraid I’d be turning my back on everything my family has worked so hard to achieve. I hope you understand that I must honor my family, regardless of how fervently I might wish to claim the life you’ve offered to me.’’
She folded the papers together into a neat parcel again and held them out to him. ‘‘I’m so sorry. I wish you had discussed this matter with me in advance. You see, even if I did want to accept your offer, I could not. For the truth of the matter is, the parcel of land you so desperately want to buy is no longer mine to sell.’’
He pitched forward so abruptly his spectacles slipped and landed on his lap. ‘‘N-not yours to sell?’’
She dabbed at a tear she forced in the corner of her eye. ‘‘I’m afraid not.’’ She left the papers on her desk, rose, walked to the door and opened it, then turned to face him again. ‘‘I’m afraid I do need to get back to work. I trust you’ll find some way to change the tenor of your day, just as I must try to forget that I let the opportunity to become Lady Garrett slip through my fingers.’’
He snatched the papers from her desk as he got to his feet. ‘‘Might I inquire as to who the new owner might be?’’
She sighed. ‘‘You might inquire, but I’m not sure divulging that information to you will do much good. You see, there was a bit of a restriction attached to the sale. Given the price I was offered, I had no choice but to agree.’’
‘‘Restriction?’’
This time she did not have to force a smile. ‘‘The land itself has been placed in trust for twenty years. Until then, the land cannot be sold or developed or altered in any way. It’s all perfectly legal, which I’m certain your lawyer will confirm when you consult him. In the meantime, I’m sure you’ll find other ventures far more interesting to occupy your energies.’’
Langhorne grabbed his hat from a peg on the wall, plopped it on his head, and stiffened his back. He left without saying another word.
The moment he stepped out onto the porch, she shut the door, latched it, and leaned back against the solid wood before closing her eyes and whispering a prayer of gratitude that once and for all, Mr. Langhorne was gone.
‘‘He’s left? Already?’’
Emma’s eyes popped open and she smiled at her mother-in-law. ‘‘Yes, he’s gone.’’
Mother Garrett narrowed her gaze. ‘‘What’s that you said about maybe he’d be back to see me?’’
‘‘If he comes back, it won’t be until . . . let’s see, 1861.’’
‘‘I’d be ninety-six by then,’’ Mother Garrett countered with a snort.
‘‘And I’ll be seventy-one. Don’t leave quite yet—this will take just a moment.’’ Emma returned to her desk. ‘‘If I pen a note to Mr. Breckenwith to expect the two of us tomorrow morning, Ditty can take it to him this afternoon. While she’s gone, I’ll explain it all to you.’’
‘‘I can’t see any reason for me to go with you to see your lawyer.’’
‘‘You need to write a will,’’ Emma countered, refusing to even consider how her lawyer would react when she handed him this primitive bill of sale.
‘‘A will? Why would I need a will? I don’t own much of anything.’’
Emma pulled the paper that Mother Garrett had signed earlier from her pocket and held it up. ‘‘You do now that you’re a landowner. Or you will once you pay what you owe me.’’
Mother Garrett tilted her head a bit and frowned. ‘‘You sold me the land he wanted, didn’t you? Don’t bother to deny it; I had a notion you were up to something like that. While you were with Mr. Langhorne, I had a very long chat with Frances. Go on. Write your note. By the time you finish up and get to the kitchen, I’ll be finished, too.’’
Emma cocked her head. ‘‘Finished with what?’’
‘‘I’m not sure. I’ll have to decide after you explain yourself.’’ Her eyes began to sparkle. ‘‘I might be peeling potatoes. Or I might be packing my bag. If Frances can run away from home, I suppose I can, too, assuming I don’t like what you have to say,’’ she teased.
Emma was too stunned to reply before Mother Garrett turned and left the room, convinced Widow Leonard might have brought more, perhaps, than blessings to Hill House.
7
IF EMMA HAD NOT BEEN BORN FEMALE, she would have spent her life studying and practicing law. If she had not been widowed, she would still be operating the General Store instead of Hill House. More importantly at the moment, however, if she had not been in such a rush to be on time, she would have been sitting in Zachary Breckenwith’s office wearing her finest bonnet.
Instead, she was resting on the sofa in the east parlor with a poultice propped against a goose-egg bump on the back of her head under the watchful gaze of Reverend Glenn and his faithful companion. She had no idea what Mother Garrett had used to make the poultice. She was as stingy with revealing her remedies as she was with her receipts.
Emma had no control over being born female or being widowed, but she did fault herself for ruining what should have been a productive and satisfying day taking care of a few legal matters and shopping in town. Her little mishap this morning had little to do with becoming as clumsy as Ditty, as she had first feared, and everything to do with being hasty, pure and simple. Instead of taking her time to get ready, she had foolishly rushed about her room. Unfortunately, she had gotten tangled up in her petticoats, tripped, and hit her head on the corner of the chest at the foot of her bed.
Though her head still ached, her vision was clear. Offering him a weak smile, she looked at the minister, who sat in an upholstered chair at the far end of the sofa near her feet. ‘‘I’m truly feeling much better. You really don’t have to stay and keep me company.’’
‘‘Then what would I do with myself?’’ he teased as he massaged the back of his weakened left hand.
‘‘I believe you might be keeping Widow Leonard company. Instead, she’s . . .’’ She let out a sigh and tried not to worry about the fact that Mother Garrett had insisted on keeping the ten-o’clock appointment with Emma’s lawyer on her way to ordering supplies at the General Store and taking Widow Leonard with her to get the sewing thread she needed.
‘‘They’ll be fine,’’ he offered, as if able to read her thoughts. ‘‘It’ll do them both good to be out and about for a spell.’’
When Emma tried to shift her position to catch more of the morning sun that was pouring through the windows, she put too much pressure on her head and gritted her teeth. ‘‘As a point of fact, I was looking forward to being out and about myself. I don’t often get a full day to spend as I please, especially not a day as glorious as this one. The sun is bright and warm, there’s a bit of a breeze, and yet here I sit with a lump on my head and my day ruined, all because I was in such a rush.’’
Reverend Glenn moved his hand up to massage his weakened forearm. ‘‘It’s not easy for any of us to accept disappointments or troubles of any kind, even little ones, regardless of how strong or how weak our faith might be.’’
Her cheeks flushed. Whining about a minor fall to a man who had lost both his pulpit and his independence to a stroke was truly insensitive. The notion he might be struggling to accept his infirmity and his reduced circumstances was completely foreign to her perceptions of him. ‘‘I’m sorry. I don’t believe I’ve ever told you how much it means to me—to all of us—to have you here at Hill House. I never realized how difficult it might be for you, though.’’
‘‘There are days when I wonder why I’ve been given such a heavy cross to carry,’’ he admitted as he leaned down and patted the sleeping Butter on the head. ‘‘Other days I’m content e
nough to set my disappointments aside and enjoy the blessings I do have. Like you,’’ he said. ‘‘For all the days and months I’ve been living here, I can’t remember the last time we had the chance to spend time with each other without distractions.’’
A loud crash overhead told her Ditty had apparently knocked something over or dropped something while cleaning, and she sighed. ‘‘Obviously, we’re not without any distractions today. Not with Ditty around,’’ she teased.
Chuckling, he pulled on his chin. ‘‘Even so, I can’t say I’d be happier to live alone again. After Mrs. Glenn died, the parsonage was very . . . quiet.’’
‘‘We don’t find quiet here at Hill House very often, at least not during canal season, do we?’’
‘‘Indeed we don’t. We do have a lot of good conversation, companionship, and laughter. Great blessings all,’’ he murmured. ‘‘I’m a bit curious, though. You don’t make much mention of the General Store. After operating it all those years, I assume you must miss it—at least occasionally.’’
She cocked her head. ‘‘I think I do. Sometimes. But the older I got, the more I realized that I wouldn’t be able to operate the store forever.’’ She chuckled. ‘‘My grandmother and my mother warned me I would feel that way one day. Working six days a week from dawn to candlelighting can wear a body down. I tried to explain that to Ralph Iverson when he bought the General Store. I only hope he fared better after he sold the store to Wayne Atkins.’’
She looked around the parlor and smiled. ‘‘Here at Hill House, my life has a different cadence. During the season, I’m still working as long and as hard as I always did at the General Store, even though I have a lot more help here. But come November, I can look forward to a good five or six months of slowing down a bit. I’m not sure how many days Mother Garrett has left on this earth, but I like the idea she doesn’t have to work as hard as she’s had to, working alongside me all these years.’’