“Mrs. Biggs, my nerves would be fine if I were given some explanation, no matter how meager.”
“I can appreciate that, dear, but I’ve worked for Mr. Walker longer than you have.” She slid a look upward at Hominy’s impassive face. “If he sent Mr. Hominy to fetch you instead of coming himself, it must be important enough for you to obey without question. Have a little faith, and scat. I can finish up here.”
Outflanked, Meredith hurriedly pinned on her hat, threw the shawl over her shoulders, and followed Hominy into the bright May sunshine. Mr. Walker’s carriage waited at the curb.
“Hominy . . .”
“Mr. Walker will tell you.” He opened the door and waited.
A shiver darted along her spine. The antagonism she thought she had glimpsed before he shuttered his eyes was mirrored in his voice. What was wrong? Meredith climbed into the carriage, wincing a little when the door shut behind her with an ominous thud. In moments she deduced that the carriage was heading out of town, roughly southwest. Oh. For some reason, Mr. Walker must have changed his mind and needed her presence at the site where he planned to build the Poplar Springs Resort. It didn’t explain Hominy’s inexplicable antagonism however. Meredith settled back against the seat, unwrapped a lemon drop, and spent the next half-hour trying to fortify her wits.
She told herself there was nothing wrong with her nerves.
Several gigs were scattered about the small clearing at the end of the grassy lane. Wooden stakes marking construction sites had sprouted along with spring flowers. Meredith stuck her head through the window but couldn’t see anyone. Hominy swung the horses around, the carriage came to a halt, and Mr. Walker stepped forward to open the door.
Meredith automatically started to give him her hand, chastising words on her lips. Then she caught sight of his face, and snatched her hand back. The jesting reproof died unspoken. “Mr. Walker?”
“Miss Sinclair.” He backed up, proffering a sweeping bow rife with mockery as she descended to the trampled meadow grass. “I trust you enjoyed a pleasant trip . . .”
“It was fine. If you wanted me to accompany you, it would have saved Hominy a—”
“ . . . because the way I feel right now, I can’t vouch for the return.”
Meredith’s mouth dropped open then snapped shut. She clutched her shawl and spared a quick sideways glance at Hominy. But he turned his back and went to do something with the horses. “All right,” she said, anger flicking to life. “If you’re trying to confuse and intimidate me, you’ve succeeded. But you’re also annoying me. I don’t like it, and I want an explanation. Who do the other buggies belong to? Where are they?”
“I imagine they’re staying out of my way right now.” His voice frosted the mild spring air. “But to answer your question, two of the buggies belong to a couple of surveyors. One of them hired by me. The other . . .” He stepped closer to Meredith, and though she instinctively wanted to retreat, she stiffened her spine and tilted her head, “ . . . was hired by your dear suitor.”
“My suitor? Are you referring by any chance to Preston?”
The pupils of Mr. Walker’s eyes seemed to contract to needle points. “First name basis now, are we?” he said, very softly. “In that case—Meredith—yes. I’m referring to Preston.”
“What does that have to do with his hiring a surveyor? Perhaps you forgot to tell him that you’d already hired one.” She glared back. “I never thought you could be such a bully. Stop this, for mercysake, and just tell me what’s got you in a snit. Surely you’re not changing your mind about working with Pre—with Mr. Clarke. He told me . . . that is to say, I was given to understand that he wanted to be a—a partner, in the Poplar Springs venture.”
His silence was far more ominous than her own blustering. This time, when he took another step toward her, Meredith did retreat, until her spine bumped into the side of the carriage. Before she could dart sideways, his palms slammed against the lacquered surface on either side of her head. Muscled forearms trapped her between an unyielding object—his carriage, and an immovable forceful male—himself.
“What promises did Clarke make to you to purchase your silence? Your compliance?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She’d never been afraid of a man in her life, and she wasn’t about to admit to fear right now. But if Mr. Walker’s chest moved one inch closer, Meredith was going to make her father proud. “Mr. Walker . . . stop this.”
“Call me Ben. When you stab someone in the back, you may as well call him by name. Just to make sure you don’t forget.”
“I’ll call you a lot more if you don’t stop trying to frighten me.”
The corner of his mouth curled in a sinister smile that tripled Meredith’s heartbeat. “My dear Meredith, I don’t have to try. You’re already frightened out of your pretty little hat.” His gaze flicked over the red silk poppies mounted to the crown, then speared into Meredith’s faltering gaze. “So . . . tell me, when exactly did you find out that J. Preston Clarke purchased all the land adjacent to Poplar Springs Resort so that he could build a resort of his own?”
Thirty-Eight
Hominy’s stolid face appeared over Mr. Walker’s shoulder. “The two surveyors and Mr. York are headed this way. You want me to . . . delay their approach?”
“Not at all. In fact, I’d like the two-faced, unprincipled pettifogger Ellis York to deliver a message to his equally unprincipled client.” His gaze remained on Meredith’s. “He can deliver Miss Sinclair along with it.”
“Stop talking as though I’m deaf!” Meredith lifted her hands to shove against Mr. Walker’s forearms. She might as well have tried to shift the stone pilings of a railroad bridge. “Mr. Walker, if you don’t move, I’m going to hurt you.” Shocked confusion swept all caution aside. “My father taught all of us how to defend ourselves against mashers, brigands, and bullies. I never thought that would include you.”
“I never thought my office manager, a young woman whom I respected, an employee I trusted”—he hurled the words with arctic softness—“would betray me.”
“What? I don’t understand. Betray you? I told you I don’t know—”
“Keep your voice down, unless you enjoy making a spectacle of yourself.”
“You’re the only one making a spectacle,” Meredith flung back, but she lowered her voice.
“I’ll . . . ah . . . persuade the three gentlemen to remain where they’re at,” Hominy murmured. He walked off.
A stark sense of abandonment quelled Meredith’s outrage, until Hominy turned back around after only a few paces. Relief caused her knees to tremble. Hominy after all was coming to her defense. She wasn’t alone . . .
“Remember that whatever you say she’ll likely as not report back to Mr. Clarke,” he said.
Hot tears burned the backs of Meredith’s eyes. For some reason, this terse condemnation hurt almost as much as Mr. Walker’s irrational claims of betrayal. Over the months she had come to value Hominy’s friendship as much as his respect. His quest for self-improvement taught her much about dignity; the hilarious exchanges they’d dubbed politeness practices helped her understand why Hominy was more friend than manservant to Mr. Walker.
This monumental misunderstanding loomed over her like Mr. Walker, with the same unnerving aura of threat.
It must be her deepening attachment to Preston. Despite Meredith’s scrupulous attempts to keep her personal life separated from her job, Mr. Walker and Hominy must have been nurturing a growing ill will. Instead of openly confronting her, however, they had chosen to confuse and humiliate her with trumped-up charges directed at both her and Preston.
But—why?
“Your tears are crocodile tears,” Mr. Walker said. “I’m not moved. You knew this morning, before Hominy and I drove out here. Didn’t you?” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “You were smiling—laughing. And I thought you’d finally—” He stopped, and the banked emotion radiating from him caused Meredith to press back against the
carriage. “Yet all the time you were lying.”
Abruptly his hands fell away, and he swiveled on his heel. “If you hadn’t laughed, I might have been able to forgive you.”
Laughed at what? She vaguely remembered smiling at him . . . He wasn’t making any sense. “I haven’t done anything. And the tears,” which she despised, “are because I-I’m angry.”
Warm sunshine poured over them, but Meredith shivered, hugging her arms against the feeble lie. She stared at Benjamin Walker’s broad back. His icy rage was all the more potent for its control. Until this moment, she would have vowed his deepest emotion was aggravation. “Mr. Walker . . . I’ve been very candid with you about my feelings for Preston Clarke. But they have nothing to do with my position as your office manager. I even asked you, remember? Your—contempt, or whatever it is, is completely irrational.”
Her voice was rising again. She took several calming breaths. “You told me that whatever I chose to do in my private—”
“Spare me.” He turned back around. “I asked you a question. You still haven’t answered it. That’s all I’m interested in hearing right now.” His hand rose, and in spite of herself Meredith flinched.
A strange expression flashed across Mr. Walker’s face. He ran his hand around his crumpled collar, drawing Meredith’s attention to his equally untidy appearance. Like Hominy, Mr. Walker looked as though he’d spent hours tramping about the woods. When he spoke again, his voice was shorn of any emotion at all. “I apologize for scaring you. I wasn’t going to strike you. I’ve never hit a woman in my life, and I won’t—no matter how great the provocation.”
He glanced toward the meadow to their right. “After you tell me what I need to know, you’re free to leave with Mr. York.”
“I certainly don’t want to ride back with you.”
“The feeling is mutual. Just tell me two things. I want to know when Clarke first brought you in on the scheme. And . . . tell me why. If you did it because you’re in love with him, well, you wouldn’t be the first person blinded by the emotion. But if you did it for money, or”—his chest rose and fell—“because you feel as though I’ve wronged you somehow, tell me. I deserve that much, Meredith.”
A thick silence descended. For the first time Meredith looked fully into his face without the screen of her temper or the shield of their respective roles. His naked contempt struck her more painfully than a blow. The rage shocked her.
But it was the hurt lurking beneath those darker emotions that stole all the breath from her lungs. The imperturbable Benjamin Walker was . . . hurt. Hurt because he actually believed that Meredith was privy to some supposed plan of Preston’s. It was a misunderstanding, of course, one that she would untangle as soon as possible. She thrust aside her own emotional pain. The depth of Benjamin Walker’s reaction told Meredith more graphically than words that she had been equally mistaken in her perceptions about this man.
Meredith wasn’t the only one hiding behind a facade.
“I haven’t betrayed you.” Her throat felt as though sand had been poured into it. “Mr. Walker—Benjamin. There’s been some kind of monstrous misunderstanding. But you must believe me. I haven’t betrayed—”
“Stop lying to me!”
He might as well have slapped her. “I’m not lying!” Meredith shouted back. Her hand lifted as though with a mind of its own and pummeled his chest. “Don’t you ever call me a liar again!”
He captured her fist and held it away. “I could call you a lot of names.” Abruptly he turned, fingers vising around her wrist. “Since you insist on playing games, we’ll do it the hard way. Gentlemanly fool that I am, I was trying to spare you added humiliation.” He hauled her away from the concealing bulk of the carriage and marched her across the grass toward the cluster of men.
Meredith’s choices were unpalatable: allow him to manhandle her or kick his shins and bolt for the carriage, an equally immature solution. Or she could shore up her pride and—bluff.
His hand cupped her elbow, preventing any escape while maintaining the illusion of courtesy. “Miss Sinclair, allow me to introduce Mr. Desmond Hill and Mr. Oliver Johnson. You’re of course well acquainted with Mr. York.” At last, the burning pressure of his hand fell away, releasing her.
Meredith aimed a polite smile between the two surveyors, but her attention was riveted on Preston’s lawyer. She focused on the red dianthus he always wore fastened to the lapel of his suits. “Mr. York, I’d appreciate it if you could explain to Mr. Walker that he has misunderstood.”
“Certainly, Miss Sinclair.” He tucked his chin, his light gray eyes chilly. “Pray enlighten me as to the nature of Mr. Walker’s misunderstanding.”
“He seems to think that Mr. Clarke is guilty of some scheme, undercutting Poplar Springs by purchasing the adjacent property to build his own resort.”
Mr. York exchanged glances with Desmond Hill, a spindly man with a dripping nose, then turned to Benjamin Walker. “Ah . . . Miss Sinclair. Your completely erroneous allegations against my client are both inflammatory and egregious. I am a trifle confused by them myself.” He removed his narrow spectacles and made a production of cleaning the lenses. “This is highly unorthodox. Most inappropriate.”
“I agree,” Benjamin said. “Regrettably the circumstances are unorthodox and the timing inappropriate. But an explanation from you would be helpful—with all appropriate discretion, of course.”
A hard-edged smile bared his teeth. When he looked down at Meredith, it was as though he’d politely skewered her with an ice pick.
Mr. York replaced his glasses and looked at her with equal distaste. “Very well. As you know, for the past two weeks, Mr. Clarke has been heavily involved in final negotiations involving the construction of a venture he plans to call Healing Springs Hotel. He told me himself that you had encouraged the development, that you were the one who brought him the results of the water analyses, which indicated the salutary qualities of the alkaline-calci-chalybeate springs.”
“What are you talking about?” The sky seemed to be pressing down upon her back, its weight buckling her knees. “I don’t know about any analyses, or . . . a healing springs hotel. I did encourage him, yes. But I thought he was talking about h-his joint venture with—” She couldn’t say Mr. Walker’s name. Her lips felt numb. Rubbery. “I thought he was referring to Poplar Springs,” she finally managed. “Mr. York . . . you’re mistaken.”
A curious buzzing revolved in her head. She shook it, then forced herself to turn toward Benjamin. “I don’t know what he’s talking about.”
The dripping-nosed surveyor wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “She must’ve been in the sun too long. She’s the one who showed me that report. She was in the room with Mr. Clarke when he hired me to do the survey. He was most specific that I note the location of every one of those springs. All but one of them is on the properties he’s purchasing.”
Benjamin Walker was staring at her. Everyone was staring. She backed up a step, tried to speak, but the thoughts refused to form themselves into words. Tried to move, but she couldn’t feel her feet inside her shoes. The others were talking, but she wasn’t sure whether they were speaking to her or among themselves. She heard Mr. Walker’s name, and Preston’s.
Preston. That was the solution. She must go to Preston. He needed to know that for some reason his lawyer and surveyor were conspiring to slander—no. That couldn’t be right. She lifted her hand to her forehead.
“Are you all right?” Benjamin asked, the words spoken close to her ear so that Meredith understood they had been addressed specifically to her.
“No. I’m not all right.”
What a hypocrite he was, asking the question when his tone of voice indicated nothing but grudging reluctance. Meredith refused to look at him again.
Only when his hand tightened did she realize he had taken hold of her arm, and she was all but leaning against him. Every movement stiff, she pulled herself free and twined her numb fingers together. �
��Mr. York, may I have a lift back to town, please? I’m going to see Pres”—she caught herself—“Mr. Clarke. He’ll straighten everything out. This has all been an appalling lack of proper communication.”
“I will drive you into town, Miss Sinclair, but I must warn you that I’m not inclined to discuss this matter any further until I myself have had a conference with Mr. Clarke.” He cleared his throat. “Shall we go?”
It took the last of her shattered dignity to risk one final glance into Benjamin Walker’s stone-cast features. “I’ll save us both the awkwardness of your firing me. You’ll have my letter of resignation in the morning. I cannot work for a man who”—her voice broke, and she swallowed repeatedly before regaining control—“a man who thinks I’m a liar and a traitor.”
Thirty-Nine
Ben watched the buggies until they disappeared, swallowed up by afternoon shadows and forest.
“I’m going for a walk,” he told Hominy, hovering at his shoulder like a brooding guardian angel. “Don’t worry, I’m all right. I just want to look around.”
“Mr. Ben—”
“Leave it be, Hominy.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and scraped up a semblance of a smile. “Give me”—a month, a year, the rest of my life—“an hour. If I haven’t returned, then you can fetch me.”
“I know what you’re thinking. Don’t do it, Mr. Ben. She’s not worth it.”
“Possibly.” He glanced over his shoulder. “An hour,” he repeated as he strolled across the meadow.
It was a perfect spring day. Enamel blue sky, thickets of creamy mountain laurel, a soft breeze that bore the intoxicating scent of moist woodlands. Birds warbling. Ben’s hands fisted as he walked, because right now the beauty of the afternoon jarred his raw senses. His mind seethed with storm clouds instead of sunshine, and the only scent filling his nostrils was the fading aroma of lemon drop candy.
Shenandoah Home (Sinclair Legacy Book 1) Page 32