“You sure you don’t need me to come along with you, Mr. Ben?” Hominy asked again after the ticket transactions.
“I’m a big boy now, Hominy. I reckon I can find my way around without getting lost.”
“Still don’t look right, you not having a driver, or a—”
“If you say ‘servant’ I’ll have to fire you.”
“Don’t get uppity with me, Mr. Ben.” They exchanged mock glares. “A man in your station ought to have himself a valet. Miss Arbuckle said so.”
“Perhaps I’ll fire Miss Arbuckle instead.”
Ben hefted his traveling case onto the loaded cart, waving aside the overworked station agent. “There. See how efficiently I took care of my bag? I don’t need a valet, and ‘station’ has nothing to do with it. Be that as it may”—he clasped Hominy’s massive shoulder—“I’m still going to Sinclair Run. Don’t worry. I have something in mind to keep you occupied, so you won’t go to worrying about me.”
“Ah.” The deep chocolate face relaxed. “You want me to find out more ’bout why folks is leaving here? Why the county poorhouses are busting at the seams?”
“No. What you’ve unearthed was enough. I’ve made my decision.” Ben gestured toward the end of the platform, where fewer people milled about. “I need you to do something back in Winchester.”
He explained in careful detail. When the train pulled up moments later, a determined glint had replaced the doubt in Hominy’s eyes.
Once the train was in motion, Ben set aside the matter he had discussed with Hominy, along with the Jeffersonian Hotel in Luray, and focused his thoughts on Meredith Sinclair’s latest difficulty. Sometimes he wondered if his office manager’s middle name was Drama.
Last summer it had been the sister, he remembered. Some kind of an accident. The family had suffered its fair share of trials, right enough. But at least they were still a family, able to pull together for support even though the mother had died years earlier, Meredith once told him. Ben hoped they wouldn’t have to pull together for another funeral, this one for their father.
He debarked in Woodstock, which was only a few miles from Sinclair Run, and rented a hack. The owner of the livery provided directions to Sinclair Run.
“But this ain’t a good time, if you’re after ordering furniture.” He cast an experienced eye over Ben’s well-cut three-piece tweed suit and stylish fedora. “Ah . . . Jacob’s feelin’ right poorly, from what I hear.”
“I know. I’m paying a call to find out how he’s doing.” But the man had given him an idea. “He makes good furniture, does he?”
“The best. Couldn’t afford any myself, but I seen a sideboard he built for Judge Milstead, some years back. I hear tell Jacob’s new son-in-law’s got him fashioning a whole bedroom suite. Keep Jacob in clover the rest of his life.” The loquacious fellow spat a stream of tobacco juice in a spittoon and rubbed the expanse of his belly. “Assuming the doc can keep him alive, so’s he don’t end up pushing daisies instead of living in the clover.”
Ben thanked him for the information and climbed into the two-seater road wagon. Several miles later he turned left onto a winding lane that disappeared behind a hill crowded with cedar and hardwood trees.
His first impression of the Sinclair home was a surprise. He hadn’t expected anything this large, nor so finely crafted. Wood siding, with steeply pitched roofs and a dormer that provided whimsical asymmetry. Beautifully turned ornamentation. Ben wondered when it had been built—sometime after the War, no doubt, except where had Sinclair procured the funds?
Meredith and her family were fast becoming an obsession, but Ben shied away from the implications. He did, however, make a mental note to inquire about the builder at some appropriate time in the future. The man would definitely be worth pursuing as an addition to Ben’s cadre of highly skilled professionals.
After securing the reins, he pulled out his watch: 4:27. Without warning, memories swelled, clamoring against the tightly locked door of the past. His mother’s quiet voice murmured in his ear, her frail fingers pointing to a large brick house that to Ben’s seven-year-old eyes was the size of a castle. “That was your heritage, Benjamin. If God had willed it, we would be inside now, entertaining callers for afternoon tea.” She’d patted his head. Even now he could almost feel the boneless pressure of her cold fingers. “I tried . . . I lost it. Perhaps . . . it was never meant to be. But I want you to see it. Remember it because it is your heritage, whether or not you ever run up and down the stairs again.”
Ben crammed the watch back in his pocket and mounted the porch steps. He knocked, but after several moments with no response, he turned away, vaguely uneasy about the depth of his disappointment. Then the door opened behind him, and Ben swiveled back around.
“Mr. Walker?” Meredith’s incredulous gaze scanned him from head to toe, as though afraid her eyes were playing tricks on her.
“Good afternoon, Miss Sinclair.”
He schooled his face to remain expressionless, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks. In all the time he’d known her, Meredith Sinclair’s appearance had been a point of pride to her. Never a hair out of place, shirtwaists always starched and pressed, accessories always appropriate. Her costumes, though not expensive, were always elegant, always the height of fashion.
The woman who faced him now more resembled the laundress after a hard day. The contrast delighted Ben, but all he said was, “Mrs. Biggs told me that your father was very ill and that you had taken emergency sick leave.”
“But . . . why are you here?” Faint color climbed into her cheeks, and her hand patted ineffectually at her disheveled hair, behind her in a long braid. “I beg your pardon. I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just . . . I’m . . . I know I look—”
“You look like a devoted daughter,” Ben interrupted. He stepped forward, forcing Meredith to make way for him to come inside. “How is your father? Don’t fret—I won’t stay long. But I wanted to know.”
“Sloan—Dr. MacAllister, my sister Garnet’s husband, says Papa’s passed through the crisis stage.” Her red-rimmed eyes glistened with fresh tears, and she waved an apology. “Sorry. It’s just . . . for the past five days we haven’t known if . . .” She took the handkerchief Ben handed her. “But he’s going to be fine. Fine.”
Her head went back, and she took a deep breath. Ben watched while she composed herself, trying, he knew, to distance herself from the unexpected intimacy of her employer’s presence in her home. “I’m very relieved to hear that,” he said. “Are you taking care of him all by yourself?”
“I’m as good a nurse as either of my sisters.”
“I’m sure you are. Calm your ruffled feathers. The question wasn’t intended as a criticism. Candidly, I admire you, whether or not you had help.”
“Meredith?” a low musical voice softly called. “Who was—oh.” The middle sister, the one with red hair and haunting eyes Ben remembered from the previous summer, descended the stairs. “Aren’t you—?”
“Benjamin Walker. Yes.” He smiled. “Sorry to drop in. Obviously you’re not receiving callers. But you don’t own a telephone, and I wanted to find out how Mr. Sinclair was doing.”
“That was thoughtful of you.” The redhead—what was her name?—smiled. Her gaze slid sideways to Meredith. “Please. Come into the parlor. Unlike us, it’s quite tidy. Thanks to our younger sister, Leah, it received a thorough cleaning before she had to go back to school. Meredith, Papa’s asleep, so you can entertain Mr. Walker while I fetch some refreshments.”
Ben watched her give Meredith’s hand a squeeze, a look of understanding deepening her fine gray green eyes. Then she whisked through a doorway.
“In spite of what she thinks, Garnet’s the beautiful sister,” Meredith said, making Ben wonder what mistaken interpretation she’d applied to his expression. “Leah got all the brains.” She gestured to a comfortably worn sofa covered with finely crafted throw pillows. “As you’ve learned, I got all the brass. It’s a bit
tarnished right now, but I promise to polish myself back up before I return to work.” She hesitated. “I . . . do I still have a job, Mr. Walker?”
“Don’t be absurd. Of course you do. Mrs. Biggs and Lowell can muddle along for a while, but we all look forward to the return of my office manager.”
Some of the gray fatigue lifted from her face. Ben stood by a parlor chair next to the sofa until Meredith sat down, and for a moment he rested his hand on her shoulder. A tremor rippled through her determinedly erect frame. Ben stepped back, though not before his fingers tucked a limp strand of chestnut hair behind her ear.
“Mr. Walker!”
Unrepentant, he dropped onto the sofa. “Stop fretting about your appearance when it’s irrelevant to the circumstances. How you look is important only when you’re on the job, not when you’ve spent the past five days fighting off death in your father’s behalf.”
“I wasn’t fretting.” He quirked a brow, waiting without comment until she made a face. “Oh, very well. I was. I suppose you’re right. Over the past week I haven’t cared a straw what I threw on, so I shouldn’t now. I should thank God that death has been banished from the door, so to speak. Actually, most of the credit goes to Sloan. We just did what he told us to do.”
“Here we go.” Garnet Sinclair returned with a tray. “It’s only tea and day-old biscuits, I’m afraid. The cook we hired for our father quit, which was more of a blessing than a burden. Because she couldn’t cook.” She and Meredith exchanged wry glances. “Leah made these before she went back to school yesterday.” After everyone was served, she told them she needed to pack, that when her husband returned to check on his patient that evening she planned to go back home with him to Tom’s Brook. She would have her tea while she worked, and keep an eye on their father.
After she vanished up the stairs, Ben and Meredith sat quietly, drinking their hot tea. For a few moments he chewed over Garnet’s behavior. Discretion, or indifference to propriety? Finally he shrugged and focused his attention on Meredith, debating whether to broach a potentially volatile issue, or just wait for events to unfold.
Meredith, not for the first time, took the decision out of his hands.
“I plan to be back by tomorrow, at the latest, since the dinner with Mr. Clarke is Thursday. What have you been up to?”
“Been in Luray for three days.” He didn’t elaborate. “I’ll return to Winchester this evening, since my office manager hasn’t been there to mop up any spills. No, Miss Sinclair. Don’t apologize.” He laid aside the cup and leaned forward. “You’re a vital member of my staff. But I don’t want you to return until you’re satisfied about your father’s condition, even if it takes another week.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? If I’m not present for dinner Thursday evening, Mr. Clarke will be placed in an awkward position.”
Impudent baggage. Unfortunately, Ben couldn’t deny a degree of truth, even if it wasn’t the whole truth. “What makes you think my motives are completely impure, Miss Sinclair? Your family, not your job, should be the most important part of your life.”
“I haven’t noticed much evidence of that noble sentiment on your part. In the almost three years I’ve known you, you haven’t even mentioned your family, much less paid them a visit.”
“I don’t have any family. They’re all dead.” He waited until her horrified gaze met his. “My father and my three oldest brothers died in the War. My mother lingered two years after that before dying herself, her health as well as her heart broken. My only sister contracted pneumonia while I was searching for work in a burned-down city. Since I was all of nine years old at the time, I didn’t fare too well. There was no money for a doctor. My sister died in my arms. She was six.”
Silence filled the parlor.
“I’m so sorry,” Meredith said, her voice stifled. She leaned forward, her fingers skimming his clenched knuckles. “Mr. Walker . . . I’m sorry. I had no right. What I said—I was rude. Insensitive.”
Ben scraped up a smile. “It was a long time ago. Hominy’s the closest thing to family I have left. He . . . used to help take care of me, when I was a toddler.”
“I know. He told me some months ago.”
“So you see, it has nothing to do with J. Preston Clarke.” Of course, some of it did. He’d do everything in his power to keep his naive office manager out of the clutches of the man. But his next words came straight from the darkest corner of his soul. “Jobs can be lost, Miss Sinclair, new ones secured. But if you lose your family, it’s forever.”
Thirty-Five
For the first time since she was a gawky thirteen-year-old, Meredith didn’t know what to say. Not even in her most impractical dreams had she ever conjured up Benjamin Walker in the family parlor. Even if she had been so foolish, certainly she would have imagined far different circumstances.
Yet there he lounged, relaxed and at ease. The upholstered sofa, accustomed to slighter feminine bodies, seemed made to accommodate his broad shoulders and six foot-plus frame. His large hands handled the plain stoneware mug with the same delicacy with which he’d sipped Brazilian coffee from a translucent Haviland cup in the posh surroundings of Excelsior’s dining room. He looked around the room as though he had nothing on his mind beyond a congenial social visit.
Yet the words about his family still burned Meredith’s ears. She couldn’t wrap her mind around it, couldn’t find the words to tell him how ashamed she was of her impetuous accusation.
In the space of two heartbeats, Benjamin Walker had turned from a sophisticated, imperturbable employer to a vulnerable, flesh-and-blood man. And Meredith wasn’t quite sure how to reconcile the two.
“My mother died when I was seven.” Restless, she gathered the empty mugs and stood. “Until this past week when I thought I would lose my father, I’ve never felt so alone and scared in my entire life. Um . . . I’ll just take these to the kitchen.”
“Leave it.” The quiet words were spoken with his usual half-smile, but the order was unmistakable. “Relax. Sit back down, why don’t you?”
“It won’t take—all right.”
His smile deepened. Meredith’s mouth twitched in response because, for some reason, she was able to relax.
“Tell me about your father,” he said. “He really is out of danger?”
She nodded. “For years he’s suffered from what I understand is called a duodenal ulcer. Sloan said this particular episode was so dangerous because it was complicated by some condition whose name I can’t begin to pronounce. I have a feeling our old family doctor wouldn’t have even heard of it.” She picked up her half-eaten biscuit and nibbled, talking between bites. “Not that it matters. Sloan’s the most amazing doctor I’ve ever known. I’m convinced he has God’s ear, twenty-four hours a day. My brother-in-law is half-physician, half-priest, the way he talks to the Lord all the time.”
“Regardless of who was responsible, I’m very glad your father’s better.” He regarded her with a peculiar twist of his lips. “I can’t remember the last time I talked to God about anything.”
“Oh.” She blinked, uncertain how to respond.
Mr. Walker shrugged. “You needn’t worry over my immortal soul. I accept all the childhood tenets of my Christian faith and yes, I’m grateful for Jesus’ sacrifice. But as far as I’m concerned, what I accomplish with my life is my responsibility. Not God’s. So why talk to Him?”
For a moment there was silence, not quite comfortable. “I’d better go,” he said.
“You . . . you’re welcome to stay for supper, if you like. It’s not much—Papa’s diet is very restrictive right now, and for simplicity’s sake Garnet and I eat pretty much the same thing. But you’d be welcome.”
She was talking too fast. When she caught sight of her steepling fingers, she thrust them into her lap.
“Thank you, but I think company’s the last thing you need, especially when it’s a man who makes you as nervous as I seem to.”
“I am not uncomfortable.”
At least, not any longer, she promised herself. “This is my home, for goodness’ sake. Besides, you’ve seen me looking my worst and haven’t run screaming back down the lane.”
“It was close.” His gaze fell on her heartwood chest, sitting forgotten beside the chair. “That’s an interesting piece. What is it—a legless footstool?”
Annoyed, Meredith leaned over and picked up her chest, hugging it close. Her nose caught a whiff of the fresh coat of shellac her father had applied a week earlier. He’d looked so disappointed the day she’d brought it home covered with dust and sheepishly handed it to him. He hadn’t uttered a word of reproach, just cleaned it up until the wood shone like glistening satin again.
She glanced at Benjamin Walker, her fingers curling protectively around the edges. “It’s my heartwood chest. Papa made it for me when I was a girl. He made one for each of us . . .”
The words trailed into awkward silence when Mr. Walker reached for the chest and sat back down with it balanced on his knees. “Nice work. Finish is as soft and smooth as”—he looked across at Meredith—“as your hands.”
“Mr. Walker!”
“What’s this?”
Unbelievably, his fingers had located the secret drawer. Without thought Meredith snatched the chest back, then retreated behind the back of the sofa. “I thought you had to leave.”
“So I do.”
He stood easily, then swiveled on his heel and reached her in two long strides. The chest was plucked from her grasp again, and Benjamin Walker returned to his seat.
Belated indignation sputtered forth. “That was rude. It’s none of your concern. I don’t want you to see—”
It was too late. She watched with her hands digging into the sofa’s tufted velvet back, while the man she had catalogued as congenial and easygoing opened the drawer nobody but her family had ever seen.
“A cookie cutter?” He held it in strong-looking, blunt fingers, a look of intense concentration on his face. “There’s a story here, isn’t there?” He paused. “I’d like to hear it, Meredith.”
Shenandoah Home (Sinclair Legacy Book 1) Page 29