The betrayal struck afresh, brutal as fists pounding his unprotected flesh. Ben focused on a large flat boulder halfway up a gentle hill covered with wild rhododendron. Over the months he’d sat on that boulder and dreamed, picturing the resort in exquisite detail, down to the rows of tulips he’d planned to import from Holland, which would line the driveway every spring.
Why? He thought about hurling the question at heaven, but he hadn’t prayed since he was a boy, so the gesture seemed futile. God seldom provided answers. The Lord made provisions for people’s ultimate reconciliation, then left them to flounder their way through a wretched mortal existence. Jesus’ resurrected presence offered scant consolation, limited as it was to a noncorporeal Spirit more arcane than His controversial walk on earth as a man. It seemed pointless to depend on the naive faith of his mother or on the teachings of the elderly cousin who had raised Ben.
Ben sat on the rock, leaning back with his palms braced against its rough granite surface. He wished he could harden his heart like the boulder. A bitter laugh escaped, the sound obscene in this sylvan cathedral. After all these years—years when he would have sworn he’d learned every lesson there was to learn about human greed . . . depravity . . . selfishness—he’d still been caught off guard.
He closed his eyes, hearing his mother’s gentle voice as though she were sitting beside him. “Don’t ever swallow bitterness, Benjy-love. Spit it out, and let the water of life fill you with hope. With acceptance. People do evil things, sometimes for causes they believe with all their hearts,” she’d reminded him over and over, all of them red-eyed from grief after the news of his father’s death. “And God’s people suffer alongside unbelievers. But God is faithful, Benjamin. His love makes us able to bear the rest. Promise me that you’ll remember. All pain is bearable, if we remember how much God loves His children. Promise you’ll be faithful too. You’re not just Horace Walker’s only son now—you’re a child of God as well. Don’t let either of them down.”
It had been a weighty burden for a small boy, but Ben never questioned the responsibility, even when he held the dead body of his little sister in his arms. He’d learned honor from the cradle, been weaned on respecting and protecting women as a God-ordained dictate. And until an hour ago, he’d never said or done anything to shame his parents’ memories.
Groaning aloud, he jackknifed forward and buried his face in his hands. He wished he could bury the memory of Meredith’s fragile, frozen face, all her color and glorious temper vanquished. Because of him. He was thirty-three years old, and for most of those years he’d lived a life of quiet resilience and nonaggressive determination.
He kept his emotions ruthlessly suppressed, because excessive emotion led to rash decisions. Rash decisions led to measures that could never be undone, like the actions by his father and brothers that had taken their lives, and ultimately his mother’s in grieving herself to death.
He had known from the first time he laid eyes on her that Meredith’s nature would lead her into trouble; her feelings spilled over everyone around her, as uncontainable as soap bubbles in a playful wind. He shouldn’t blame her for responding to Clarke—especially when Ben’s insane concept of chivalry precluded making his own interest more obvious.
That’s right, Benjamin. Blame it on someone else—salves your pride a bit, right? If he’d given in to his baser needs, perhaps Meredith wouldn’t have succumbed to a man who had led her down a sunlit path straight into quicksand.
“Mr. Ben, it’s been an hour. Come along with me. No sense grieving out here all alone.”
Ben patted the rock. “Then grieve with me a spell. I’m not ready to go back.” His gaze shifted to rove over the spring-colored meadow. A cottontail rabbit loped across the fresh carpet of grass and clover. White and pink confections of dogwood blossoms peeked from between stately trunks of pine and budding hardwoods, vying with the riotous purple of the rhododendrons. “It’s hard . . . letting go.”
Admitting it out loud helped cement the necessity in his mind. But it didn’t stop the pain from searing his insides.
“You could still fight him in court. We found enough evidence of coercion and intimidation in his acquisition of the properties, ’specially that patch of land with the mineral springs owned by Mrs. Oppenheimer.”
“Remember what we discovered in Washington? Money will buy anything but a good night’s sleep. If Clarke’s willing to stoop to lying and intimidation to achieve his ends, it means he’d employ similar tactics to keep the truth from coming to light. He’s got that fine, upstanding reputation to maintain. You and I, now, we might have bent a commandment or two over the years, but I learned a long time ago that I’m not willing to use power or money—whatever the reason—if I can’t go to bed at night with a clean conscience. That means Preston would win any court battles.”
He ran his fingertips over the rough surface of the stone, a wry smile weaving through his words, “Besides, Mrs. Oppenheimer’s a widow. She doesn’t have much left but her dignity. If word gets out that she was gulled, or worse—bullied, into selling her property to a man revered throughout the northern Valley, who do you think will suffer?”
“ ’Tisn’t fair.”
Ben eschewed correcting his old friend. “Life isn’t.” He turned sideways, drawing up a leg and propping his elbow on the bent knee. “In all the years we’ve been together, we’ve never talked about religion. What do you think about God, Hominy?”
“Not much, I reckon. Your mama and daddy set a lot of store by their faith. My mama did too, but all it ever got her was a cross made out of sticks propped over her grave. My pa now, before he was a slave, he was a Chickahominy brave, remember. For whatever reason, reckon I tend to place more stock in the faith of my father’s Chickahominy ancestors.” He regarded Ben soberly. “Why are you asking?”
Ben pulled a wry face. “Trying to make sense of it all. If God has some grand scheme in mind, He hasn’t shared it with me. Not that I’ve asked,” he added after a moment.
For a while they sat, listening to the birds, soaking up the majestic silence that nonetheless brought little peace.
“Meredith believes in God,” Ben finally said. “I overheard her talking to Mrs. Biggs a couple of weeks ago, sharing that she believes God brought Preston Clarke into her life.”
“Then let him have her.”
“I . . .” he closed his eyes but still couldn’t banish the sight of Meredith’s defeated expression when she at last accepted the uselessness of pleading her innocence. “Hominy . . . what if we’re wrong about her?”
His companion snorted. “I was waiting for this. You want me to find out, don’t you? You refuse to believe the evidence in front of your eyes. You heard same as me the testimony of two men, one of ’em a—what’d you jump for?”
“That phrase.” Ben stood, restless, a nagging unease pushing its way to the surface. “It’s from the Bible. Elrod—the cousin who took me in—read passages of Scripture to me every morning for the three years I lived with him. There’s a scene. Jesus was defending himself to the religious leaders, claiming God as one of his witnesses, himself as the other. I didn’t understand, since our legal system nowadays wouldn’t allow such a tactic. There’s no way Jesus could ‘prove’ God’s testimony. Elrod and I used to debate about it.”
“Didn’t work for Jesus, did it? They killed him anyway. Be that as it may, old Mr. York and the surveyor Mr. Clarke hired, they’re the ones proving Miss Sinclair’s guilt.”
“I know. I also know this whole setup bothers me the same way. I don’t trust Ellis York or that snot-nosed surveyor who claimed Meredith knew what was going on. How credible were the ‘witnesses’ who testified against Jesus at His trial?”
He smacked his fist against his palm. “It’s just that every time I think about her cozying up to Preston Clarke, it makes me want to smash this boulder over somebody’s head.”
Hominy’s deep brown eyes regarded him quizzically. “Mr. Ben, I might be mad as fire over wh
at Miss Sinclair done, but I draw the line at murder.”
“You saphead! If you think—”
The blaze of fury ignited so swiftly and burned so brightly that it wasn’t until Hominy stood up to wait, his own arms dangling loosely, that Ben’s sanity clicked back into place. Appalled, he realized that he, too, was standing. He stared at the handful of Hominy’s starched shirt crumpled inside his fist, then up into his friend’s unflinching eyes.
With a hoarse apology he opened his hand, tottered backward two steps and dropped down to the boulder again. “I can’t believe I did that,” he said, and shuddered. “God in heaven . . . I can’t believe I did that.”
“Don’t worry about it, Mr. Ben. You didn’t do anything.”
Ben lifted his head. “Didn’t do anything? Hominy, I almost hit you!”
“ ‘Almost’ don’t matter. Fact is, you caught yourself.” The leathery black palm descended on his shoulder and briefly squeezed. “Trust me, Mr. Ben. I’ve seen a lot in my years—a sight more than you even. Known a lot of sorry men. Fewer I’d tip my hat to. But you’re one of them. You’re a good man, and you know I call it as I sees it, with you.”
Hominy hesitated, then added softly, “And I’d have let you take a swipe to help the pain. That’s all it is, Mr. Ben. You’re fighting soul-pain. It doesn’t get much more hurtful than that.”
“I’ve never felt like this before.”
“Well, now, as to that, even with all those pretty ladies hankering after you over the years . . . I never saw one of them bring the gleam to your eye I saw when you looked at Miss Sinclair. Take a spell to get over it.” He pursed his lips, scowling as he tugged his ear. “Get over it faster, I’m thinking, if you build here anyway. You’ve poured your heart into the plans. Won’t matter what kind of fancy hotel Preston Clarke puts up next to yours. No matter how many pockets he lines or officials he bribes, he’ll never be able to create what you could, Mr. Ben.”
“He’s got something I want even more.” Ben rose and headed back down the slope. “But there’s nothing I can do about that, other than what I’m going to do.”
And when that matter was taken care of, he was going to pay a visit to Jacob Sinclair. Meredith might be lost to him now, but in all his life Ben had never been able to let go of anything or anyone for whom he had assumed responsibility. Only after talking with Meredith’s father and testing a few truths of his own would he eventually be able to relinquish the woman with whom he had fallen in love.
Forty
Preston owned a four-story brick building on Piccadilly Street, with a suite of offices for himself on the main level. Mr. York’s law office occupied two rooms on the third floor. Disapproval radiating from the stiff set of his shoulders, after a clipped farewell he left Meredith with Preston’s secretary.
Equally stiff, Meredith stood in front of Luther Platt’s desk, her fingers clutching the fringe of her shawl. She was unable to summon a coherent sentence.
“Mr. Clarke is in a conference,” Luther finally said. He meticulously capped his fountain pen and laid it aside. “I don’t believe he was expecting you?”
“I’ll wait.”
“Mr. Clarke is not to be interrupted, and this conference might last until six. After that he has a dinner engagement. Why don’t you leave a note? I’ll see that he receives it.”
After he’d read it himself, Meredith knew. “I’ll wait, however long.”
Without conscious thought she wandered over to the alcove where she and Preston had enjoyed tea four days earlier. The memory mocked her. Meredith sank down on the posh French sofa before her legs betrayed her. Luther was an obsequious toad, resentful of her not only because of her relationship with Preston—but because she was Benjamin Walker’s office manager, a position that placed her above Luther.
No longer was she Benjamin Walker’s office manager.
A chill from her bones spread outward. She pressed the soles of her muddied Oxford tie shoes together, concentrating on lining up the toes as though precision mattered. The same sense of unreality had enabled her to sustain her poise for the endless five-mile carriage ride back to town with a frigidly silent Ellis York.
He had treated her like a criminal—Don’t think about Mr. York. Think about—an image of Benjamin Walker surfaced in her mind, brutal in its clarity: the contempt that darkened his eyes to indigo; the power of the arms that had trapped her inside an angry cage.
All Meredith’s muscles clenched in a spasm of denial.
In the space of an hour she had lost her job, Mr. Walker’s respect, and a lot of her confidence. A show of righteous anger might help, yet even that avenue offered scant consolation. After the anger was spent, she’d still be unemployed and shattered.
Her wrists ached. She stared dully at her clenched hands. Preston. All she had to do was hold herself together for Preston. Somehow he would resolve everything. The charges against him were absurd. Mr. Walker must have misunderstood. It must be the lawyer’s fault; that was the answer. Mr. York was withholding information for some reason. He had bribed that surveyor, the one with the drippy nose. Yes, that must be it . . .
All that property. Surely Preston had purchased it as part of his and Mr. Walker’s joint venture. Meredith vaguely remembered hearing Preston talk about a land purchase, but she’d no idea where the acreage had been located.
Still, she should have confronted Benjamin Walker, instead of allowing him to badger her into a state of near insensibility. And she should have defended Preston, as well as herself.
Benjamin had called her a liar.
He didn’t believe in her innocence. He’d questioned her integrity, shamed her not only in front of Hominy, but three other men, two of them utter strangers. Long ago, Lamar Aikens had shamed her when he suggested that she become his mistress, because he claimed that marriage was unnecessary for two independent minds such as theirs. Yet Benjamin Walker’s allegations hurt Meredith far more cruelly than Lamar’s tawdry proposal.
It was one thing to have been perceived as a naive country girl. It was entirely another to be wrongfully accused of a perfidious act.
Her stomach twisted like a pretzel, nausea roiling greasily. Meredith held herself still, breathing in shallow, unsteady puffs. She felt as though she’d been plunged inside a thick cloud, unable to see and with nothing to grab on to, to find her way.
Outside, late afternoon light deepened to luminous amber. Pedestrians strolled past the large window, oblivious to her turmoil. Gentlemen in dark suits and bowlers, farmers in overalls . . . a mother wheeling her baby in a perambulator. A couple, the woman’s hand resting on the arm of her escort. They stopped a little beyond Meredith when a breeze knocked her hat askew. His expression tender, the man solicitously restored it to the proper angle, while the woman blushed and laughed.
The icy knot that had lodged beneath Meredith’s breastbone bristled with needle-sharp spikes. All of them felt as though they’d pierced her heart. Preston, please hurry, she thought, watching the couple until they vanished from her line of sight. She needed his devotion, the admiring gleam of his warm brown eyes. More than anything, she needed his reassurance—and an explanation.
Wrapped in misery, Meredith waited for the time to pass. Waited for the pain to diminish. Waited . . .
“My dear . . . what on earth? It’s going on seven o’clock. Mr. Platt, I trust you have an explanation for this.”
“Your instructions specifically forbade interruption, Mr. Clarke. Miss Sinclair, however, insisted on waiting.”
“Preston,” she was vaguely astonished at the scratchy sound of her voice, “I must talk with you.” She glanced around. “Your conference . . . where . . .”
“They left through the side entrance. My dear, you’re trembling. Has something happened? Platt, a glass of sherry—”
“No. Nothing. Thank you.” Meredith clung to Preston’s hand a moment. “I—can we talk? In private?”
A flicker of something indecipherable came and went in his e
xpression. “Of course. But I’m afraid I don’t have very long, my dear. I have a dinner engagement which regrettably does not include you.”
“I’m hardly in any shape for company, so it’s just as well.” She watched his mouth curve in a smile. He lifted her hands and pressed a light kiss to her knuckles. “Preston—” Her throat clogged, and she stifled the sob of relief that struggled to escape.
“Ah. Obviously something has upset you. A family crisis? No? Then it must be—Mr. Walker.”
Meredith shuddered. “Preston, this needs to be discussed in private.”
“You’re dismissed, Platt,” Preston ordered without looking away from Meredith. “In the morning, we’ll discuss your shabby treatment of Miss Sinclair.”
“Yes, Mr. Clarke.” Voice and face wooden, the secretary lifted his hat off the rack and left without another word.
Preston steered Meredith inside his office, which reeked of cigar smoke and liquor. Seemingly indifferent to the impropriety of it, he led her to a leather chair. “Sit here. I’ll pour you a drink. Yes, yes—of water. I know how you feel about strong spirits. I trust you’ll refrain from preaching while I imbibe.”
He was pouring liquid into crystal tumblers while he spoke, the light sting of his words jarring. Vaguely alarmed, Meredith took the glass he offered and thanked him. A sensation of plunging off a craggy mountain cliff made her lightheaded.
Something was wrong.
Preston tossed back a mouthful of amber liquid. “What has Walker done to you, hmm? No, let me guess.” He stood over her, sipping his drink and watching her through hooded eyes. “You’re covered with road dust, which tells me you’ve been traveling. Out to the Poplar Springs site?”
“Yes.” She wrapped her hands around the cool glass, pressing the surface with her fingers. It felt real, tangible. God? Help me. “Preston, what I was told”—she raised her head and forced the condemnatory sentence out—“is true, isn’t it?”
It was all there, no longer disguised. The aura of triumph in his face, the glittering malice in brown eyes that for weeks had bathed her in nothing but admiration. Respect. How could she have been deceived so completely? Why would God put her through this humiliation again?
Shenandoah Home (Sinclair Legacy Book 1) Page 33