“Meredith, sit down, close your mouth, and take a deep breath. Better yet . . . take a dozen deep breaths.” He rose, pointing to his huge leather office chair.
“Don’t coddle me. I want to know, as your office manager, what you plan to do about this. I don’t need to—” She broke off with a startled squeak when Mr. Walker’s large hands closed over her shoulders and plonked her down into his vacated chair.
As always, the cyclone of emotion abruptly fizzled. She sat, now feeling chagrin instead of anger: She’d done it again. No matter how many times she promised herself that she’d be sweet tempered like Garnet, or at least as disciplined as Leah, somehow circumstances always tripped her up. And more often than not, in front of her employer.
If she were Benjamin Walker, she’d fire herself.
“Under control now?”
“I was never out of control.” Defense was automatic. Meredith hated admitting she was wrong.
Benjamin Walker was the most annoying man she’d ever known. Just once, she’d like to see him lose the indefatigable control that surrounded him like a medieval suit of armor. He stood over her, arms folded, propped against the edge of his desk, looking as relaxed as if they’d just exchanged pleasantries about the weather. A look of polite amusement crinkled the corners of his eyes. It was a look he directed upon her a lot, and it never failed to irritate Meredith.
Irritate . . . and intimidate. Other than her father, she’d never met a man so comfortable with himself that he seldom raised his voice, seldom hurried—and never yielded an inch to anyone. Including Meredith.
“After working with you for almost a year, I’ve learned to value your astuteness about people,” he said. “I also admire your integrity. But Miss Sinclair,” he said, leaning down until he was so close Meredith felt the warmth of his breath against her ear, “the concept of control has never been one you seem able to grasp.”
He straightened, picked up the paper, and began to read as though he were alone in the room.
Strangely flustered, Meredith pushed the chair back and stood. Was that last remark a veiled censure or just one of those mild quips he was fond of tossing her way, almost as though he enjoyed watching her response? No, definitely not the latter, which implied flirtatious overtones. Over the last months she’d noted the manner of woman that interested Mr. Walker, all of them beautiful, all of them cosmopolitan ladies with pedigrees that made plain ol’ Meredith Sinclair more of a scruffy alley cat surrounded by pampered Persians. Her love of fashion did not include the resources to compete with such women, had she been so inclined. Which of course she wasn’t. Neither was Benjamin Walker. After all, he was her employer.
“I think I’ll invite Mr. J. Preston Clarke for dinner,” Mr. Walker said.
“What?”
“Here, at my private table in the Shenandoah dining room.” One eyebrow quirked. “Blink if you understand, Miss Sinclair.”
Simmering, Meredith tugged the starched cuffs of her shirtwaist down over her wrists. “One of these days, Mr. Walker, your condescension is going to cost you the best office manager you ever hired.” No longer uncertain, she whisked sideways around the other side of the desk. “I’ll discuss appropriate menus with Gaspar—haggis, perhaps? An overstuffed sheep’s bladder seems appropriate for both of you.”
He chuckled and reached the door before Meredith, blocking her exit. For such a large man, he moved with surprising speed. “A novel concept. Unfortunately, Gaspar is likely to object to such a delicacy. To my knowledge he’s never attempted haggis and therefore might be reluctant. So how about if you and Lowell make arrangements to pay a call on Mr. Clarke? Issue the invitation and find out his favorite choice for a meal. You’ve read your scriptures, I daresay. Let’s try treating our enemy with kindness, hmm?”
“Yes, Mr. Walker.”
“And Miss Sinclair?” He paused, and Meredith tensed, not trusting the smooth face and narrowed gaze. “Try not to gut and fillet the poor fellow until he’s had a chance to defend himself, all right?”
“Certainly, Mr. Walker.” She smiled. “I’ll even extend the same courtesy to you.”
She sailed through the door without looking back.
J. Preston Clarke lived on the outskirts of Winchester in an imposing stone mansion that resembled a castle, complete with a corner tower. His family had lived in the northern end of the Valley for over a hundred years, and their influence, Meredith knew, was powerful. She’d heard of them most of her life, of course, with Sinclair Run only an hour’s buggy ride down the road, but until now they were just an old family who had somehow managed to survive the War with their wealth intact. According to her research over the past week, the present Mr. Clarke stirred a lot of pots with his very sticky fingers. Mining. Agriculture. Banking.
She’d come to visualize him as a miserly king, lording it over the starving peasants. Most folk in the Valley, at least where she had grown up, lived in simple clapboard houses and eked out a hand-to-mouth subsistence. On the other hand, perhaps the Clarke family boasted a man like Jacob Sinclair. Her father’s financial stability resulted from a fortuitous combination of skill and Scottish savvy. Meredith supposed she and her sisters had grown up sheltered and a trifle spoiled: Life had not dealt so kindly with most other Southern mountain folk.
The railroads had helped some in recent years, and men like Benjamin Walker had contributed investments in local economies. But to Meredith’s way of thinking, Mr. Clarke’s penchant for buying whatever struck his fancy just because he had the money was the attitude of a covetous mercenary.
It would be interesting, this coming battle of the minds between her employer and a man who thought himself impervious to consequences.
An officious colored servant dressed in livery—ridiculous because this was Winchester, Virginia, not New York or Boston—ushered Meredith and Lowell Kingston, Mr. Walker’s secretary, into a dark room full of mounted trophy heads and leather furniture.
“Must not be a Mrs. Clarke,” Lowell observed. “A lady would never have callers wait in here.” He adjusted his spectacles over the bump in the middle of his nose. “I wonder if Mr. Clarke’s a hunter or if these are for show.”
“They’re disgusting either way. I feel as though they’re all staring at me. And there was a Mrs. Clarke. She died three years ago, giving birth. A son. The baby didn’t survive either.”
She tried to quash the instant swell of compassion that bit of research had produced. Meredith had no intention of feeling sorry for the man who had grossly maligned her employer. Instead she prowled the room, her fingers trailing over the slick surface of a carved ebony table, the chilly marble statue of a roaring lion. A stereopticon with a stack of scenes beside it caught her attention.
“Look at this, Lowell.” She shuffled through the cardboard photographs. “All views of spas and hotel resorts, from White Sulfur Springs to some place in Colorado.”
“That would be the Cliff House, in Manitou Springs,” a smooth voice said behind her. “Excellent accommodations, first-rate amenities.” J. Preston Clarke strolled across the room to Meredith. He stopped in front of her and bowed. “Welcome to my home.” He ignored Lowell.
Her first impression was that J. Preston Clarke didn’t look at all like the sort of man who would write a slanderous attack on a man he’d never met or furnish a room with animals’ heads. He was fashionably slender, with thick, sandy hair parted in the middle and a neat mustache. Brown eyes studied Meredith with a flicker of interest.
Tiny pins danced along her nerves, but Meredith resisted the urge to make sure all the buttons on her basque were fastened. “I’ve not had the opportunity for much travel,” she said. “But the Cliff House appears to exemplify the sort of establishment my employer plans to build. I take it from these photographs that you’re interested in a similar pursuit?”
“Ah. You’re a very forthright young woman, Miss—Sinclair, that was the name on the letter you wrote to me last week?”
She nodded. “And
this is Mr. Walker’s secretary, Mr. Kingston.”
“May I offer you some refreshments?” He gestured toward a collection of decanters on a sideboard, but his gaze never wavered from Meredith. “A fine mineral water from one of my own companies. A nice little business in France. The water’s one of my personal favorites.” His voice assumed an amused tone. “No poisons added, I promise.”
“No thank you. We won’t be here long enough for refreshments, Mr. Clarke.”
“A pity. I’ve never met a female office manager before. I’ve been looking forward to getting to know you.” He paused. “My objections to Mr. Walker and his schemes do not extend to you, of course.”
Lowell cleared his throat.
Meredith’s chin lifted. “As I am Mr. Walker’s office manager, I’m afraid I disagree. At any rate, my employer builds hotels. He does not ‘scheme.’ Now. The reason Mr. Kingston and I are here is to invite you personally to join Mr. Walker for dinner at his private table in the Excelsior Hotel.”
“I see.” Mr. Clarke rocked a little on his heels, hands pressed together beneath his chin as though contemplating the invitation. “I’m to be wined and dined—bribed, so to speak.”
He laughed out loud when Meredith went rigid. Behind her, Lowell sputtered an incoherent objection. “Please, sheathe your swords,” their host finished. “Merely a small joke—a play on words, as it were.”
“You should be more careful with your words, Mr. Clarke.”
“I’m very careful with things that matter the most to me, Miss Sinclair.”
His head tipped sideways as his gaze roved over her in undisguised approval, and Meredith realized he was flirting with her. Intrigued she tried to decide how best to respond. This particular wrinkle had not occurred to her in spite of learning from Mrs. Biggs that J. Preston Clarke was a sought-after widower, only thirty-one years old. Certainly she was flattered, but she was not about to succumb to the smooth-voiced blandishments or appreciative glances of any man. Especially a man like J. Preston Clarke.
“Ah . . . Mr. Walker has instructed us to inquire as to your favorite dishes. His chef will prepare the menu of your choice.” Deliberately she turned to Lowell. “Mr. Kingston will make careful notes to ensure that the meal meets your expectations.”
“Thoughtful. Thorough. I’m impressed,” Mr. Clarke said. “Excellent. I much prefer a challenge. Won’t sway the inevitable outcome, of course.” He waved a long-fingered hand. “However, I’d enjoy the opportunity to compare the culinary expertise of your hotel chef to my own. So long as your company at the table is included, Miss Sinclair, I’ll accept the invitation with pleasure.”
Lowell stepped to her side. “Sir, your brashness is offensive.”
Mr. Clarke’s head swiveled toward Lowell, whose complexion after a protracted moment turned a dusky rose. Only then did Mr. Clarke turn to Meredith. “Miss Sinclair doesn’t agree with you. Do you?” he murmured.
Oh, he was a smooth one, all right. The challenge was irresistible. “Don’t worry, Lowell.” There wasn’t a man alive she couldn’t handle, when she put her mind to it, Meredith assured herself with a cool nod to J. Preston Clarke. “No,” she told him, “I don’t find your brashness offensive. Inappropriate, certainly. This is a business call, after all.” She paused, then added, “But as long as you remain a gentleman instead of a boor, I wouldn’t find your invitation . . . offensive.”
“I’m relieved to hear it.” He executed a shallow bow. Admiration shone from his warm brown eyes. “I promise to remain on my best gentlemanly behavior.”
Meredith’s heart skipped a beat. She had prepared herself for a difficult, unpleasant misanthrope, not this handsome charmer. His blatant disregard for propriety seemed so contradictory under the circumstances that Meredith wondered if he was actually telling the truth.
If so, perhaps her initial outrage had led her to make a monumental error about J. Preston Clarke. Perhaps the letter to the editor was based on a similar snap judgment, precipitated by hearsay and ignorance. Written out of righteous outrage instead of malice.
Meredith knew her Bible, had memorized whole passages when she was a child. She knew all too well that it would be a sin for her to judge the splinter in Mr. Clarke’s eye, when there was a log in her own in need of extraction. Mr. Walker’s instinct to respond with Christian charity had been more astute than she realized.
Was it possible? Instead of dueling pistols at dawn, so to speak, Mr. Clarke and her employer would reach some congenial arrangement, even form a working arrangement of some sort. Mr. Clarke had shown an interest in resort hotels—he might invest in Mr. Walker’s newest venture.
Sparks of anticipation crackled through Meredith. What if . . . what if this was God’s plan, arranging circumstances to bring her into contact with an intriguing, attractive man? Certainly the Lord wanted to teach her a lesson, reminding her not to jump to conclusions about someone she’d never met. But if Mr. Clarke chose to pursue her . . . Wouldn’t it be an answer to prayer if he turned out to be for Meredith what Sloan MacAllister was for Garnet?
Stay calm, she reminded herself. Cordial but aloof. “The invitation was extended by Mr. Walker,” she said. “It was my understanding that dinner would include only the two of you.” She allowed the hint of a smile to reach her eyes. “I can inquire about modifications, if you like.”
“Do so. Then I can look forward to seeing you again very soon. And meeting Mr. Walker, of course.”
Was it wishful thinking, or was the responding gleam in Mr. Clarke’s eye for her, instead of the coming battle of wills between two strong-minded men?
Thirty-One
Apersistent bone-chilling wind buffeted Benjamin Walker as he prowled the edge of an airy glade, empty except for a few bare-branched trees. Absently Ben tucked the flapping end of his wool muffler into his coat, then stroked a slender beech’s smooth bark before stuffing his hands back in his pockets. He didn’t notice the cold. His mind was filled with images of leafy trees, clear blue skies, and summer sunshine.
Over there, under that tulip tree, the bandstand. This glade will be a park, with bridle paths and promenades . . . Main building needs to be centered halfway up that hill, with paved lanes leading to the men’s and ladies’ swimming pools . . . over there, off to the right where fewer trees will have to be sacrificed. Have to call Cade Beringer to handle the botanical details. And we’ll definitely have to grade the earth a tad, make it more level for carriages. Now for the spring house I’ll—
“Mr. Walker? Sir? Starting to snow. We need to be heading back, afore we end up food for a hungry bear.”
“Be there in a moment, Hominy.”
. . . cover it with a Grecian temple. No. Too pretentious. A pagoda? No. These ancient mountains simply don’t lend themselves to pseudocultures. All right, shelve the design for right now. Picture the hotel. Porches, with doors to each room opening onto—
“Am I going to have to hoist you over my shoulder like a bale of cotton?”
Hominy’s paw of a hand clamped over his shoulder and administered a mood-breaking shake. Resigned, only mildly annoyed, Ben let himself be herded back toward the brougham, whose gleaming navy panels and roof were dusted with white. “Hey, you should have told me it was snowing. We need to head back before we’re lost and some hungry wild animal makes a meal of us. Not a bear though. They’re still hibernating.”
“If you’d listened to me hollerin’ at you for the last five minutes, cast your eyes toward the sky—” Hominy stopped, the smooth ebony face cracking into laughter. He tugged on the cauliflower ear Ben had never been able to persuade him to have examined by a reputable physician. “You sorry scamp. Slicker than spit, aren’t you, Mr. Ben?” He whacked his back hard enough to cause Ben to stumble. “Heard every word I hollered. Just couldn’t be bothered.”
“You know me so well.” Ben twisted for a last look around the secluded valley, but the snow was falling thick and fast now, shrouding it in a swirling veil. “This is going to be a
good hotel, Hominy. I can feel it, all the way in my bones.”
“My bones is so cold they quit feeling half-hour ago.” Hominy’s crooked-tooth smile flashed white as the falling snow. “Now don’t start fretting over me. I’m just funning you a bit, Mr. Ben. Got enough bulk to this old carcass of mine to warm the both of us.”
“Good thing I sent Lowell along to chaperon Miss Sinclair. Sure to have ruffled his hidebound feathers some, hearing you speak so disrespectfully to the man who puts bacon in your larder so you can expand the bulk.”
Hominy snorted. “That boy needs to have somebody roll him around in the dirt a time or two, take the starch out of his spine as well as his shirt.”
“He’s a good secretary.” Unperturbed, Ben opened the carriage door before Hominy could. “Besides, he’s supporting his mother and invalid brother. I can put up with a bit of posturing.”
He’d put up with a lot more, if he had to. Ben knew firsthand the dry-as-ashes panic that hollowed a man’s stomach when he was the sole barrier between his family and starvation. He also knew the soul-shriveling desolation of failing.
Hominy unfolded the lap robe and deftly draped it over Ben. Only then did he step back to shut the door and climb into the driver’s seat. Suddenly the door yanked open again. “What time is it?” he asked Ben.
Ben obligingly dug beneath the folds of thick wool to tug out his watch. “Six minutes to four. We’ve plenty of time. Mind the horses if the track is slippery. I’d rather keep my dinner guests waiting than risk breaking one of the horse’s legs. And, Hominy?”
“Sir?”
With an equally deft flick of his wrist he whipped off the lap robe and tossed it into Hominy’s face. “You need that more than I do. No, don’t bother arguing the matter. The longer you do, the later I’ll be. Then we’ll both have to listen to Julianna Frobisher and her simpering mother complain about my poor manners.”
“Ain’t proper.”
Shenandoah Home (Sinclair Legacy Book 1) Page 25