“Isn’t proper, my friend. Poor Miss Arbuckle would be mortified to hear her rigorous lessons haven’t borne fruit.” Chuckling, he yanked the door closed in Hominy’s face, sat back, and closed his eyes. Through the small window above his head he could hear Hominy’s grumbling. But it was all bark and no bite, and both of them knew it.
Hominy Hawes was the only person allowed to treat Ben with such familiarity—because nobody else remained alive who could claim that they’d changed Benjamin Daniel Walker’s wet nappies. Hominy’s mother had been a slave, one of their housemaids; her strapping son helped tend the horses, but from the beginning he and little Benjamin formed a strong, inexplicable bond. One of his earliest memories was of Hominy lifting him onto the back of a horse, holding him with such calm, capable hands that a tiny three-year-old boy had not been afraid.
He hadn’t understood then that the color of their skin signified a chasm that would tear a country apart. Hominy’s disappearance, along with most of the other servants, only intensified the agony he suffered over the disintegration and death of his entire family.
Just last spring, when his manservant confessed a yearning to clean up his rough edges, Ben had arranged for a private tutor in the evenings. A retired nanny with nothing to do but tend her garden, Miss Arbuckle gratefully seized the opportunity. Neither Ben nor Hominy was inclined to dissect the matter, though both of them knew that Hominy was determined to turn himself into a gentleman. A worthy goal for an ex-slave, one he’d never attained despite years of “freedom” up north. When he’d knocked on Ben’s door late one night years earlier, Hominy had been starving, so severely beaten Ben wouldn’t have recognized him except for the misshapen ear.
Their relationship with each other was unique, impossible to categorize. Friend as well as servant, companion as well as bodyguard, driver . . . nursemaid . . . over the past fifteen years Ben had given up trying to categorize. Hominy himself preferred the title “manservant.”
“Honored to serve you, Mr. Ben,” he’d once said. “Salary aside, you make me feel more of a man than anybody outside my pa.”
Ben moodily contemplated his muddy boots. Hominy’s father, like Ben’s, had died in the War. Strange how even after a quarter-century both sons felt compelled to honor their dead families.
Family . . . Other than an aging cousin, the Walker family with its once impeccable lineage and vast wealth no longer existed except in the memories of other Southerners whose way of life had been destroyed thirty years earlier.
But by all he cherished, Benjamin Walker vowed to maintain the shield of wealth he’d earned over the past two decades. Never again would anyone under his care have to suffer the barbarous cruelties inflicted on the poor and downtrodden.
Ah, well. No point in torturing himself with ancient history. It was 1890, dawn of a new era, cusp of a new century, and Ben had plans. Lots of plans, foremost of which was the development of Poplar Springs Resort, some six miles southwest of Winchester. The tourist economy was booming, and Ben was determined to do his share to usher in a brighter future for the Blue Ridge Mountains that had healed his soul. As soon as this issue of Preston Clarke was resolved, his latest dream could commence building its way to reality.
Head propped against the seatback, body relaxed in spite of the frequent bumps that tested the double-suspension springs, Ben’s mind returned to the placement of the main hotel building. His focus was legendary—Hominy once told him that when he was dreaming and scheming on site, birds could mistake him for a statue. But it was such a focus that ensured success.
And not just with his building projects.
Meredith Sinclair.
A slow smile spread over Ben’s face. As though she sat opposite him, he could see the glowing freshness of her face, with the lively dancing eyes and obstinate mouth, all framed by thick chestnut hair in a style that altered by the week. Chignon, twists, a new one she’d told him was a pompadour—his office manager tried them all. She was also a clotheshorse. Despite her limited means, Meredith managed to appear each day dressed up neat and pretty as a picture in a lady’s fashion magazine. And what Ben wanted more than he was willing to admit aloud was to thoroughly disarrange all that starched and coiffured perfection.
Wants, however, could be cudgeled into submission by a man’s will.
By the time he was twelve years old, Benjamin Walker had learned the value of patient endurance. He’d also learned caution. Not even for a fascinating woman would he compromise the decisions about his life he’d made two decades earlier. If he let Meredith see his interest, she’d break his heart into confetti-sized scraps.
Meredith Sinclair was unlike any woman Ben had ever known. She wasn’t calculating; in some nebulous way he couldn’t put his finger on she wasn’t even confident, despite the lethal combination of beauty, charm, and a quick mind. Yet his indomitable office manager was a world-class breaker of masculine hearts, because for some peculiar reason she was oblivious to the power of her charms.
Meredith, he acknowledged wryly as they reached the main road and Hominy urged the horses to a canter, promised to be more of a challenge than even the twenty years it had required to rebuild his family fortune. That he might fail never crossed his mind, because once he set his course he was unstoppable. He’d had to be.
In her own way, of course, Meredith was equally unstoppable, though if he compared their two wills, his would have the slow inevitability of a glacier, while Meredith’s more resembled a—he couldn’t decide whether a tornado or a volcano would be more accurate. The smile broadened to a grin. The girl had intrigued him from the moment she’d answered an advertisement for a dining room hostess.
“I’d make an outstanding hostess,” she announced, her gaze candid, the gamine face bright with life. “But I’m more interested in the other position you advertised.”
“Back office assistant?” He folded his arms across his chest. “Typing, filing papers? Why? I can tell by the look of you that you’d make a better hostess. You’re well-dressed, attractive.”
A look had flashed through her eyes then, one that blended bitterness, cynicism—and a flash of vulnerability. It was the vulnerability that had captivated him.
“I’m not flattering you.” He kept his voice calm. “I’m analyzing your qualifications. Well-dressed and pleasing to the eye are two prerequisites for the position. You also enjoy people. I watched you through the door, chatting with the other applicants, trying to put everyone at ease. I watched the way you darted over to pick up the handkerchief that fell out of Mrs. Stuebens’s reticule as she was leaving the dining room.”
“Anybody would have done that.”
“But not everyone would have been able to surprise a laugh out of a woman who recently lost her husband of fifty-two years.”
“Oh.” Her head dropped. Ben watched her swallow, watched the set of her shoulders square when she lifted her gaze again. “I do like people. But I’ll never know how I feel about working in an office unless I’m given the opportunity.” Her lips curved in a smile as her steady gaze threw down the gauntlet.
Because the novelty of hiring a woman for an office assistant appealed to his sense of omnipotence—he was wealthy and in charge, therefore he could hire anybody he pleased—Ben proceeded to interview her on the spot, instead of passing her along to the restaurant manager as he had done with the other women. He hired her as his office assistant three days later, after none of the other applicants met his expectations.
Outside, the snowflakes were hurtling past the window in a gray white blur. Dusk and speed transformed the passing scenery to pastel smears.
During the last months he’d come to rely on Meredith’s off-the-cuff observations more than he’d ever intended when he hired her. So much so that he’d promoted her to office manager. Oh, she was impulsive, and ofttimes as unpredictable as a honeybee darting from flower to flower. But her insights showed a rare perception.
Except with him.
Ben continued to be v
ery circumspect in his behavior. But Meredith was testing his control to a degree he found amusing as well as frustrating. For a woman who attracted men just by walking into a room and smiling, she seemed blind to Ben’s attraction to her. He planned to keep it that way, until he was ready to make a move of his own.
Meredith caught Mr. Walker as he crossed the lobby. He was wearing his gray frock coat and silk tie, with a single white rose attached to his lapel—which meant he must be entertaining guests for dinner. Meredith searched her memory, then hesitated, but the news she wanted to share would not wait. “Mr. Walker.”
He turned. “Miss Sinclair. I’d be delighted to hear the outcome of your visit with Clarke, but I’ve dinner guests. Tomorrow’s soon enough.”
“Mrs. Frobisher won’t mind waiting for a few moments. Gaspar’s serving her the oyster soup she gushed about the last time.”
“Mrs. Frobisher and her charming daughter have been waiting”—he glanced toward the huge grandfather clock standing next to the door to the gentlemen’s parlor—“for twenty minutes, I’m sorry to say.”
“I’ll walk with you as far as their table. That way you can volunteer my services if Mrs. Frobisher pitches her twice-yearly entreaty for you to join the Preservation Society.”
“I believe I can fight my own battles—oh, all right. Seeing as how you’ve latched yourself to my side. So tell me, will my next dinner guest be J. Preston Clarke?”
Meredith beamed at him. Mr. Walker was the most accommodating man, certainly one of the most even-tempered. No matter how much she blew and blustered, he never turned a hair. “Ten days, Thursday after next. I suggested seven-thirty. Lowell reminded me that you’ll be at a meeting in Strasburg until late that afternoon.”
She took a deep breath. “Mr. Walker, I’d like to tell you that I think your approach, over the matter of Mr. Clarke’s letter, I mean, was certainly more insightful than my own.”
“Oh?” The evening headwaiter approached, and Mr. Walker held him off with a slight wave. “I’ll be through with Miss Sinclair in a moment, Henry. Tell Mrs. and Miss Frobisher I’ll be there shortly. And—see if you can scrounge up some breads and a selection of cheeses, arrange them in a basket or whatever for them to take home. Sort of an apology for my tardiness?”
“Yes sir.”
“You’re practically doing a tap dance on my best patent leather shoes, Miss Sinclair.” His mouth quirked in a half-smile. “Go ahead, spit it out instead of softening me up with flattery. What is it? He wants green turtle soup, French caviar? Breast of antelope from Wyoming Territory?”
“Mr. Clarke requested that I join the two of you. Actually, he refused to come until I agreed.”
“I . . . see.” For a moment that stretched uncomfortably Mr. Walker stood unmoving with his hands clasped behind his back, his head ducked as though he were contemplating the patent leather shoes to see if Meredith had scratched them after all.
“At first I tried to dissuade him. This is business, after all, and since the letter was a slur against you, I felt my presence would be inappropriate. The two of you needed to work through the matter on your own, I thought. But I changed my mind.”
An indecipherable mumble issued from Mr. Walker’s throat. Meredith slanted him a severe look before continuing.
“We may have misjudged Mr. Clarke, as he misjudged you. He’s a most cordial gentleman and was pleased by your invitation. Since he did seem to indicate a—a desire for my presence as well, I took the liberty of agreeing. I didn’t think you’d mind too much. I can be smiling and silent, or charming and chatty, whichever role suits the occasion.”
She was talking too fast now and brought herself to an abrupt halt. “Mr. Walker?”
He had the most peculiar expression on his face, or rather the most . . . unnerving lack of expression. A wave of uncertainty smacked between Meredith’s shoulder blades, an odious sensation. She lifted her chin. “If there’s a problem, I apologize. Mr. Clarke was most insistent. If you’re concerned that I might be waiting for a chance to—I believe ‘gut and fillet’ him was the phrase—then let me reassure you. I think I was grossly mistaken about his motivation. I’m convinced Mr. Clarke was simply guilty of a lack of understanding of the kind of man you are, and dinner is a perfect—”
“What kind of man am I, Miss Sinclair?”
Bewildered, Meredith stared up into the unsmiling face. “What do you mean? As a hotelier, you have a reputation second to none throughout the Valley. If the correspondence I’ve read from out-of-state guests is to be believed, that reputation has spread far beyond state borders. Your plan to allow the dining room here at the Excelsior to remain open year-round is not only profitable, but a boon to the local economy. When Mr. Clarke meets you, I’m confident he’ll agree.”
Mr. Walker arched one eyebrow. “That wasn’t precisely what I asked, but we’ll let it go.” He studied her a moment. “We’ll try this one. What kind of man do you think Mr. Clarke is?”
Ah. That must be it. Her employer was wondering if she’d been seduced into the enemy camp, so to speak. Meredith took a calming breath. “I told you I found him to be charming. He’s willing to concede that his letter was a trifle inflammatory and that he should have investigated further before he wrote it. It’s . . . um . . . possible that he found me attractive. Some gentlemen do, you know.”
“From what I’ve observed, Miss Sinclair, most every man who meets you finds you attractive. Are you telling me that this attraction is mutual? Is that why you want to join us for dinner?”
His voice was mild, the tone pleasant . . . and yet for some reason a blush seeped into Meredith’s cheeks. She searched his face, noticing for the first time how very dark blue his eyes were. “I’m sorry if you find my character displeasing. I wasn’t aware that you thought of me as a—a hussy.”
A faint smile softened the line of his mouth. “I don’t. But if you’re drawn to an unprincipled shark like J. Preston Clarke, I might have to change my mind about your powers of discernment.”
“Apparently so. It never occurred to me that you would lower yourself to impugning the character of a man you’ve never met.”
“What do you consider Mr. Clarke’s letter?”
The flush deepened. “This is ridiculous. You have guests waiting. If you don’t want me to join you and Mr. Clarke for dinner, just say so. But you’ll have to meet him on some other ground. He was adamant that if I’m not included, he doesn’t plan to accept.”
“Miss Sinclair. As my office manager, it would have been appropriate for you to join us for the meal, had I so indicated. I don’t like being countermanded.” Something flashed in the blue eyes, like the glint of heat lightning in a cloudless sky. “On the other hand, it might be interesting. Very well. Go ahead. Primp yourself up with a fancy hair style and a new gown. Perhaps the distraction will keep Mr. Clarke so off balance he’ll agree to anything I say.”
He bowed, then sauntered into the dining room.
Thirty-Two
Swathed in one of her best friend FrannieBeth’s aprons, Meredith lifted the wet, giggling toddler out of the tin washtub. “Oh, you sweet little sugarplum!” She kissed the chubby fingers splayed across her face. “Be still, now. Auntie Merry needs to dry you before you catch a chill.”
“You’re going to need to dry yourself as well,” FrannieBeth commented from the fireplace, where she was sweeping up the cinders. “Oh, Meredith, no! Your lovely shirtwaist—here. Give me the squirmer.”
Meredith wrapped Jessup in the rough towel and hugged him close. “Not a chance. Besides, you’ll just make him sooty again. Stop fretting, FrannieBeth. I haven’t enjoyed myself this much in a coon’s age.” It was amazing, for their lives shared little in common anymore. Still, they’d known each other forever, over twenty years, and in many ways FrannieBeth was like another sister.
“Enjoyed yourself? I find that hard to believe.” Smiling and shaking her head, FrannieBeth finished at the fireplace and proceeded to attack the cookstove’s
ash pit.
Meredith played patty-cake with Jessup as she efficiently diapered and dressed his squirming form. It had been a long time since she’d been able to play with babies. “He’s growing so fast,” she said, finally depositing him on the floor with a collection of wooden spoons and empty thread spools to keep him occupied. “I can’t believe he’s walking now.”
“More work for me,” her friend grumbled with an indulgent smile. “I do appreciate your help today, Meredith. Though I still feel guilty, you coming over for a visit and spending more time taking care of my—Alice! What are you doing with Miss Merry’s hat?”
“She said I could play with it.” Alice’s bottom lip pooched out. “I’m a fancy lady, just like Miss Merry.”
Meredith swallowed a gasp of laughter. She snagged FrannieBeth’s arm before the outraged mother swooped down on her hapless child. “It’s all right, I did give her the hat. Let her be, Fran.”
“But that hat’s one of your favorites, Meredith. And it’s expensive. There’s one in the Sears catalog not half so nice, and it costs three dollars.” Her gaze narrowed. “And I ought to wash her mouth with lye soap, talking like that.”
The mirth bubbled out and over. Laughing, Meredith knelt on the floor by the bewildered Alice. “Here. Let me help you, darling. I’ll teach you how to adjust the angle the next time I visit.” She righted the black felt hat, perching it on Alice’s flyaway curls, then retied the velvet bow at the back that Alice had tugged apart. “Alice,” she whispered as she worked, “the reason your mama is upset is because ‘fancy lady’ isn’t a proper term to use.”
“Why not?” Alice whispered back. Her rounded eyes searched Meredith’s.
Nonplussed, Meredith tweaked the soft little nose. “Ask your mama after I leave.”
“But you’re a lady, and Mama says you like to wear fancy clothes. Why aren’t you a fancy lady?”
“Alice, I’ll explain later,” FrannieBeth told her daughter. “Now you go put Miss Merry’s hat back where you found it. You can pick the eye-sprouts out of the potatoes I fetched from the cellar, so I can peel the skins.”
Shenandoah Home (Sinclair Legacy Book 1) Page 26