For the first time in her life, Meredith couldn’t think of a single thing to say. The emotions jumping inside her were both too volatile and too fragile. “My father put it in there. I don’t know why.”
She tried to swallow, then moistened her lips. Temper building, she rounded the chair and thrust out her hand. “Give it to me. I might work for you, but that doesn’t give you the right to pry into my personal life. To take advantage when I’m worn out from worrying about my father.”
“You’re right.” But he didn’t hand over the dented tin gingerbread girl. Instead, he carefully laid it back in its nest inside the secret drawer. “There.” He closed it up and placed the chest in her hands, his fingers brushing against hers.
Meredith jerked, then turned and laid the chest back on the floor. When she straightened, Mr. Walker was in the hallway, removing his fedora from the hall tree.
“Thank you for stopping by. It was . . . very thoughtful.”
“You’re welcome.”
“If our old housekeeper Mrs. Willowby arrives in the morning as planned, I should be back by tomorrow afternoon. Assuming my father is completely out of danger.”
“Of course.”
“Mr. Walker . . .” She wished she weren’t so tired, wished she could organize her jumbled thoughts.
“Miss Sinclair . . .”
Suddenly he was right in front of her, and he was lifting her right hand, bringing it—was he going to kiss her hand? Transfixed, Meredith’s breath wedged in her throat while she watched his head dip and warm lips brushed the back of her hand. Her gaze jerked up to his face. “Why did you do that?”
He released her hand and stepped back. “Because I wanted to, Miss Sinclair.” He picked his hat back up. “And because you looked both defenseless and imperious. A captivating combination.”
He opened the front door, and Meredith trailed after him like an automaton.
Just before he climbed into the buggy seat he turned around. “By the way . . . one of these days I’d like to meet your father. I have a theory or two about your cookie cutter, and I’d like to discuss them with him. Good afternoon,” he paused, then added very softly, “Meredith.”
She peeked inside her father’s room thirty minutes later, relieved when his head turned toward her and he gestured with his hand.
Meredith sat down in the chair they’d stationed beside the bed. “Mr. Walker was just here, inquiring after you.”
“Oh, aye?” The bones of his skull stood out prominently, and the lines in his beloved face were deeper. But love burned unabated from his eyes. “Most considerate of him.”
“Papa . . .” She wanted to bury her face in her hands and weep, she wanted God to make him well, to restore his health . . . more than anything, she wanted—no, needed—to talk.
Instead she leaned over and gently smoothed back his thinning hair. “Sloan should be here soon, and Mrs. Willowby arrives tomorrow. I’d rather stay here myself—”
“We’ve been all through that, Merry-go-round. ’Tis best this way. You girls worry too much, instead of trusting the Lord. Mrs. Willowby’s one of His angels, don’t you know, and I’m looking forward to renewing our acquaintance.” A faint smile drifted over his face. “Remember what you did when she came to be our housekeeper right after your dear mother died?”
Resigned, she folded her hands. “How could I forget, with you reminding me at least once a season?”
“Standing at the door, rolling pin clutched in both hands and the light of battle in your eye, informing the poor lady she was neither welcome nor needed. You were the new mistress of the house, and you could care for everyone just fine.”
“And all the while I’m scorching the soup I’d made for dinner, Leah’s screaming at the top of her lungs, and Garnet’s tugging my arm to try and keep me from braining Mrs. Willowby with the rolling pin. Yes, Papa, I remember. I also remember that Mrs. Willowby was wise enough to tell you that we’d all recover best if we were left alone, with our papa, and to call her again in six months.”
“And we managed just fine until she did return, didn’t we, lass?” His hand fumbled across the counterpane. “As we’ll manage now. Mrs. Willowby was a dear blessing for all of us, those few years we needed her the most. But before and after, we still managed just fine. Never forget that, Merry-girl. Sometimes a board has to suffer an extra sanding or two, perhaps even the bite of the chisel. But the final result is a thing of beauty. Trust the Lord’s purpose, lass. Everything will be all right.”
For a while they sat, hands linked, Meredith every now and then dabbing the corner of her eyes, grateful when her father pretended not to notice.
“Papa?”
“Mm?”
“Am I a selfish person? Someone who thinks more highly of her own wants than she does everyone else’s?”
“Now why would you be asking is what I’d like to know.” He dragged her hand up over his chest, tightening his grip when Meredith would have freed herself. “You’ve been brooding for days. I’ve noticed, aye, even when the pain was gnawing at my vitals.”
“Papa, that wasn’t why—I mean, your condition . . . did I cause it?”
“No. No. Meredith, look at me. Don’t do this to yourself, lass.” He grimaced, and Meredith leaped to snatch up the sodium bicarbonate, her fingers trembling. “Stop it. I’m all right.” He grabbed her wrist. “Meredith Margaret Sinclair! I’m all right.”
Garnet rushed into the room. “Papa, Meredith! What is it?”
“He’s in pain. He needs—”
“What I need is for the two of you to stop leaping like fleas every time I twitch.” Jacob glowered at them. “Lord save me, but you’d think after a week you’d allow your poor father the luxury of a painful belch or two.”
Garnet laughed and hugged Meredith. “He must be better, to be fussing at us.”
Ashamed of her outburst, Meredith rose, pretending to straighten the bottles and the assortment of spoons on the rolling teacart Leah had turned into a bedside table. “It will be a relief to leave him to Mrs. Willowby. Someone new he can scold.”
“You are going back in the morning then?” Garnet’s gray green eyes assessed her with a shrewdness that caused Meredith to bristle.
“What of it? Papa himself is insisting. Besides, you’re going home tonight.”
“Only if Sloan convinces me that Papa’s out of danger and needs nothing but a few more weeks of bed rest.”
“Won’t do it,” Jacob interrupted. “Too much to do.”
“No, you don’t,” Meredith said. “Leah and I took care of that. We found the list of your orders out in the workshop, compared those to the ledger in your desk, and wrote to everyone, explaining the delay.”
“ ’Tis a sorry day when a father loses control of his own daughters.” He stirred, and Garnet moved to the other side of the bed, straightening covers, bending down to kiss his perspiring forehead.
Within moments he’d drifted back to sleep.
Meredith and Garnet tiptoed out, waiting until they were in the kitchen to speak.
“Are you sure you shouldn’t wait another day or two?” Garnet asked.
“Are you sure?” Meredith countered. “Mr. Walker has been more understanding than most employers”—far more than she deserved—“but it’s not right to take advantage of the situation when we all know that Mrs. Willowby is coming.”
Garnet busied herself washing the cups and saucers, keeping her back to Meredith. “You’re right,” she said. “I was being selfish. I miss Sloan, I even miss Phineas. But that’s not the same as your not being able to honor your job commitment.”
She glanced over her shoulder, and guilt crawled through Meredith at the sweetness of her sister’s smile. “So I’ll tell Sloan that I’ve decided to stay here another few days, at least until Mrs. Willowby is more familiar with Papa’s care.”
“I detest it when you’re a martyr.” Meredith moved to the sink and wrapped an arm fiercely around her sister. “Especially when you
’re better at it than I am.” They exchanged a laugh. “We’re being silly. Let’s wait for Sloan. If he pronounces Papa well along the road to recovery, there’s absolutely no reason why we both can’t leave him to Mrs. Willowby’s ‘angelic’ care, and our worries at the door.” She picked up a drying cloth.
“Meredith?”
“What?”
“Be careful, Thursday night.”
Meredith made a production out of drying a mug and hanging it on the spindle in the huge open-faced cupboard Jacob had made the winter she was twelve. One of the spindles was crudely finished, lacking in symmetry. She first rubbed its rough surface with her fingers, then the smooth one next to it, which was almost indistinguishable from all the others.
Full of confidence, Meredith had insisted on helping her father, but she had refused to listen to his patient instructions. Jacob fastened that first attempt in place on the cupboard in spite of Meredith’s pleading.
For her second attempt, she had carefully listened, carefully followed instructions. To this day those two spindles offered encouragement—and warning—whenever she entered the kitchen.
Meredith clung to the second spindle now, feeling as though she were somehow clinging to her father’s hand. “You’re trying to warn me away from Mr. Clarke, aren’t you?” she asked Garnet at last. “Why? I thought you of all people would understand.”
“I do. More than you’ve ever given me credit for.”
“Then why—Sorry.” Meredith lifted her hands, let them drop. “Let’s not quarrel. I wish you would believe that I’m trying as hard as I can not to make the same mistake I did with Lamar. But what if . . . what if Mr. Clarke is the man God has picked out for me? How will I know if I don’t take advantage of these opportunities?”
Garnet opened her mouth, closed it. Then: “I don’t know. I’m still learning how to listen myself. Just . . . be careful. I understand that you’re trying to free God’s hand. Until you know for sure, all I ask is that you remember to guard your heart.”
“I’ll try. Unfortunately, redbird, that’s always been one of your strengths, not mine.”
Thirty-Six
On Thursday gusts of wind buffeted the Valley throughout the day, and a March squall blew over the western mountains after lunch. But by sunset the sky shone a clear ice blue, washed with pink and lavender on the horizon.
“ . . . and make sure the waiters don’t bring out the salmon until Mr. Clarke has finished his soup.” Meredith scanned her sheet of notes. “About the hothouse melon from California. You are quite satisfied with its quality?”
“Mademoiselle, I am quite satisfied with everything.”
Gaspar turned, issuing terse instructions to a servant hovering in the background. The young girl bobbed her head and scurried off. Muttering to himself, Gaspar lifted the lid from a large pot and sniffed the contents before fixing an indulgent eye on Meredith. “I am satisfied with everything,” he said with a smile, “except my ability to be ready by the hour of eight o’clock if you persist in demanding an accounting of the preparations, non?”
Meredith blushed. Gaspar ruled his domain with a firm hand. Yet for some reason she’d never understood, the austere Frenchman had taken a liking to her. “Mr. Clarke plans to compare your culinary skills to those of his personal chef. Did I tell you?”
Gaspar furiously chewed the corners of his walrus mustache. “There is no comparison. I am . . . incomparable.”
“Of course you are. Mr. Walker wouldn’t employ you otherwise.”
They exchanged satisfied nods. Then Meredith whisked out of the kitchen, snatching a carrot stick from a stack of washed vegetables on her way. The laborer busily slicing turnips on a massive butcher’s block winked at her, and she waved in response.
A quick foray with the restaurant manager was next. “A word, Mr. Dayton?”
“Miss Sinclair, we’ve spoken four times since noon. What do you wish to know now?” Mr. Dayton’s narrow face—he reminded Meredith of a starving basset hound—was resigned.
Despite months of showering him with sunny charm, Meredith had never coaxed the poor fellow from beneath his shell of perpetual gloom. Today she was too nervous to try.
“I just wanted to remind you to make sure the napkins are folded in the Calais Douvres design. Mr. Walker told me it’s a new one, very popular in fashionable New York hotels. I’d hate for him to dash in from Strasburg at the last moment and find everything less than perfect. This dinner with Mr. Clarke is very important, you know.”
“I have had the privilege of managing this restaurant for many important meals, Miss Sinclair. Most of them before you arrived on the scene.”
“I know that. And of course you’re right. This is just the first one where I’ll be a guest as well as an office manager.” She offered a contrite smile. “Don’t worry. I won’t bother you again. I promise.”
Mr. Dayton stiffly inclined his head. “Has Mr. Walker returned yet?”
“Hominy told me his train’s due to arrive at 6:30. That won’t give him much time, which is why I’m trying to ensure that everything is under control.”
The mournful eyes studied her without expression. “Miss Sinclair, I believe everyone and everything is under control . . . but you.”
He was right, but Meredith wasn’t about to admit it. “It’s an important meeting,” she repeated. “J. Preston Clarke wields a lot of influence hereabouts. It’s vital to persuade him that Mr. Walker’s new venture is a worthy one that will boost the local economy instead of drain it. The ambiance of the meal can help to achieve the desired effect.”
“Mr. Walker doesn’t need the patronage of J. Preston Clarke.”
“Perhaps you think so. But it can’t hurt.”
Over the next several hours, while she prepared herself for the dinner, Meredith fumed over the hotel staff’s attitude toward Preston Clarke. She could appreciate their loyalty to Benjamin Walker. After all, he was the kind of man who inspired loyalty in everyone, from a scullery maid to the president of the Shenandoah Valley Railroad.
But Meredith recognized the advantage to be gained through establishing a favorable connection with Mr. Clarke, whose influence extended far beyond the Shenandoah Valley, perhaps even as far as the nation’s capitol. One of his uncles was reputed to be a lawyer with the ears of several congressmen. Why couldn’t everyone else comprehend the potential as well?
By 7:30, after thanking a parlor maid for fastening her corset stays and the buttons on her dinner gown, Meredith’s nerves were wound more tightly than corkscrew curls. After the admiring maid left, Meredith studied herself more critically in a cheval mirror. Good. The deep mauve color flattered without shouting. While the gown might not be from Paris, it was the best she could muster with less than three weeks to prepare—and half her monthly salary. Her share of Leah’s tuition, at Leah’s insistence, had been sacrificed.
For the past two weeks Meredith had struggled with the guilt. Now, faced with the daunting prospect of dinner with two wealthy gentlemen used to the company of equally wealthy society ladies, Meredith silently thanked her youngest sister. Next month she would live on bread and water so she could send Leah twice as much.
Chin lifted, she turned sideways, twisting her neck to view the back of her gown. The smaller bustle—one of the fashion statements of the season—was much easier to manage, so hopefully she wouldn’t make an idiot of herself when she sat down. And the grumbling seamstress had yielded to Meredith’s insistence, raising the neckline an additional two inches. Enjoying the company of gentlemen was one thing. “Advertising one’s wares” was an accusation Meredith was determined never to risk.
She fastened the necklace Garnet had given her for Christmas around her neck. It wasn’t expensive, but the simple locket reminded her of her family and helped counteract the jittery state of her insides.
For her hair, she’d settled on the classic elegance of a Roman knot, thankful that her naturally thick hair had never needed artificial switches. The style
suited circumstances perfectly, she decided, since this was after all a business as well as a social occasion. As she studied the result—still neatly in place because she hadn’t faced the six-block walk from her boardinghouse—she reminded herself to thank Mr. Walker. Before he left that morning, due to the inclement weather he had insisted that one of the ground-floor rooms be readied for her use. The night might have turned fair, but Meredith appreciated his gesture nonetheless.
After the meal, of course, she planned to return to her room at the boardinghouse.
Wouldn’t it be a divine sign of sorts, if Mr. Clarke offered to drive her home?
You’re stalling, Meredith, not to mention presuming on the Lord again. On the other hand, perhaps she was merely exercising her faith. A sort of Ruth, gleaning Boaz’s wheat, though Meredith had no intention of curling up at any man’s feet to sleep. A ride home in his carriage would suffice quite—
Impatient with herself, Meredith turned her back on the mirror, pulled on her long white gloves, and sailed out the door.
She pressed a hand to her fluttering stomach as she promenaded down the long hall to the lobby. Wouldn’t do to keel over into the salad from lightheadedness. All right then, focus on something else, say a prayer—no. Too easily distracted. She had to keep it something concrete, something she could see or touch or hear like . . . like the gentle sway of the lighter bustle. The elegant weight of its train.
For weeks Meredith had been preparing for this evening. Yet now that the moment had arrived at last, deep-seated insecurity assailed her along with excitement. What if she’d been mistaken about Mr. Clarke’s intentions? His regard? The hall narrowed, darkened to a tunnel that led not toward the hopeful answer to a prayer, but the inescapable dungeon of her most secret fear. God? I’m so lonely . . . so tired of pretending that I’m content being a professional spinster. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life alone.
Mr. Walker met her in the lobby. “Dressed for the kill, are we?” he murmured, bowing over her extended hand.
Shenandoah Home (Sinclair Legacy Book 1) Page 30