“I don’t mind. You’re so full of life, Merry-go-round. If we have a daughter, I hope she’s just like you.” Garnet reached for Meredith’s hand, and for precious seconds they clung to each other.
“Does everyone else know?” Meredith asked.
“No. We would have told Papa on the ride up here, but I didn’t want to tell Leah before you knew. You’re the oldest. I—I wanted you to be the first. It seemed right somehow.”
She mopped her face with the cloth and sat up, feeling amazingly better. Sloan had warned her that she would experience wild mood swings but—since all she’d endured for the past several weeks until now had been sleepiness and increasing nausea—she hadn’t really believed him.
“Well.” Meredith studied her for a bright-eyed moment, then leaned down and hugged her, very gently. “Thanks, redbird. And congratulations. I’ve been wondering when it would happen, I confess. You didn’t really think you could hide something like this from your big sister now, did you?”
“Yes. I did. Especially when Leah didn’t suspect, and we’re around her and Papa at least once a week. We don’t see you very much these days, after all.” Likely she’d see Meredith even less frequently in the future. Feeling weepy-eyed again, Garnet pressed the cloth to her hot cheeks until the urge passed.
“Meredith?”
“Hmm?”
“I—I’m not quite sure how to say this, actually.” Carefully Garnet sat up, relieved when neither dizziness nor nausea assailed her anew. She drew in a deep breath. “I’ve been debating with myself ever since I knocked on your door. Actually . . . I’ve been praying. I . . .” She stopped, then finished in a rush, prompted by that inner urging that wouldn’t leave her alone, “Please be careful, Meredith. Not just about Preston, but—your thoughts. Your attitude . . .”
“What’s wrong with my attitude?”
Garnet sighed. “I knew no matter how I phrased this, you’d be defensive.”
“I’m not defensive. Mercysake, but you’re sensitive. Oh, never mind.”
Meredith folded the cloth, placed it on the tray, then began stacking the remaining soda crackers in a neat pile. She wouldn’t look at Garnet. “You can’t help your sensitivity, any more than I can help the, ah, the defensiveness. Especially now, when you’re in the family way.”
“It’s not just me,” Garnet said. “Sloan feels the same way. You and Benjamin are so happy, and it’s an answer to prayer to see the two of you, full of love and confidence about the future. But for some reason I can’t explain—”
“Obviously.”
“I think you need to be careful.” Garnet swatted her sister’s arm. The tension that had sprung up between them faded. “Just stay close to the Lord, Meredith. I can’t explain it better than that, because I don’t understand any better than you, the workings of God’s mind. Just stay close to Him.”
“You’re sounding vaguely dramatic. Too much like me for comfort. Don’t worry. I’ll be careful about everything. But sometimes, don’t you think God wants us to just bask in all the wonderful things He’s done for us?”
Bask, but take nothing for granted, Garnet wanted to say. Instead, she smiled and hugged her sister, then left to hunt down her husband. Perhaps Meredith was right, and Garnet had fallen back into her old habit of doubting.
One more matter to pray over, Lord . . .
Benjamin and Jacob were sitting on a bench inside the gazebo, which was situated in the center of a swath of green behind the hotel. Through the tall windows of the hotel filtered the not unpleasant sounds of the string orchestra tuning their instruments. Voices rose and fell in desultory conversations, but for the most part it was possible to sink into the peaceful silence of a late summer afternoon.
Much preferable, Ben decided when he and Jacob met in the lobby, to the constant noise and interruptions if they remained inside. He could also see the relief on Jacob’s face when Ben suggested a walk. So they’d indulged in a stroll, or at least Jacob strolled while Hominy pushed Ben’s rolling chair—he refused to have it referred to as an “invalid” chair—content with idle remarks between themselves and other tourists strolling the green or lounging on blankets spread over the grass. Several guests spoke to Ben, but most of them merely nodded as they passed, allowing him and Jacob at least a semblance of privacy. Eventually they ended up at the gazebo. After a murmured word with Ben, the manservant left, promising to return in an hour.
“Wish you hadn’t gone to so much trouble,” Jacob commented after Fred Vance, president of a local bank, told Ben how much he and his wife were looking forward to the engagement dinner. “Not necessary. Why not just give the girl a betrothal ring and be done with it?”
“No trouble at all, Mr. Sinclair. Fact is, the staff would have insisted. They love your daughter almost as much as I do, you see.”
Besides, Meredith was in her element. She darted through the hotel like a gaily colored dragonfly, conferring with everyone from Charlie, the orphaned lad Ben had hired as a bootblack, to Gaspar, his autocratic head chef. Meredith of course enjoyed Ben’s lack of easy mobility and tried to take shameless advantage of it. Occasionally, when she thought he wasn’t aware of it, his affianced would add her own embellishments to some of Ben’s orders. Life with Meredith, Ben had decided long ago, would never be pedestrian.
“Mm,” Jacob said, a speculative gleam in his eye. “Well, as I told Garnet last year, there’s more to a good marriage than a man and woman deciding betwixt themselves that they can’t live without each other. Now I may spend most of my time with wood, but that doesn’t make me a blockhead. I know you didn’t bring me out here for a spot of idle chitchat.” Methodically he pulled out his watch, checked the time, then snapped the lid shut. “What was it you wanted to talk about? I’d say you’ve perhaps a quarter of an hour before your Mr. Hominy returns, possibly less if Leah tracks me down to make sure I’m not indulging in sinful culinary delights.”
He scratched his chin, then slanted Ben a thoughtful look. “Sloan’s a delightful son-in-law. There when the occasion calls for it—but not one for poking his nose in a man’s private affairs, don’t you know.”
“I promise to have a talk with Sloan to glean a few pointers,” Ben promised solemnly. “As for the other, yes, I do want to talk to you.” His ankle ached a little, and he eased his leg to a more comfortable position. “I’ll try to keep it brief.”
“Tell me what’s on your mind, son. Something about my daughter’s heartwood chest, wasn’t it?”
“Yes sir.” He contemplated the father of his future bride. Almost as much as he needed Meredith’s love and respect did he long for the same from Jacob Sinclair. “My father died in the War,” he said. “He left when I was six, after all my older brothers were killed. He was killed himself when I was seven.”
“I’m sorry, lad. ’Twas a bad thing, the War. I was not called to the battleground—they needed my skills to make and repair wagons, mostly for General Jackson’s troops.” Jacob’s gaze turned inward, and the gnarled fingers flexed around his upraised knee. “Lost all my tools and our first home, in ’64 in the Burning.”
“After the Battle of Fisher’s Hill? When Sheridan defeated General Early, then set the Valley ablaze?”
“You’ve a long memory, for a lad scarce old enough at the time to be out of short pants.”
“I was old enough to suffer grief,” Ben returned quietly. “And old enough to vow that, come what may, I would take care of my own.” Abruptly he changed the subject. “When I stopped by your house this past spring, I greatly admired its architecture. You built it, didn’t you?”
Jacob nodded. “Mary, my wife, saw the house plan in a magazine. I purchased the plan, but I built it myself. Took two years. She did love that house . . .”
“You did a nice job.” Ben contemplated the timbers that supported the gazebo’s ceiling. “I’ve always wanted to build. But seems as though I do better with the planning and leaving the construction to others.” But he had dreams, oh yes he
had dreams the size of Massanutten Mountain, and Jacob Sinclair figured in a large part of them.
“God gives us different gifts, each of them designed with a particular purpose, don’t you ken, for our ultimate good and His glory. I might have a way with a block of wood, lad, but without plans I never could have built that house my wife loved and you admired.” He paused. “You’re something of a dreamer as well as a planner, aren’t you,” he said then, and Ben almost tumbled off the bench in surprise. “Meredith used to talk about your resort hotels, when I was laid up with my blamed innards. Says you own six of ’em. She’s still upset over the one you lost.”
“I’m sorry for that. She understands me, you see.” An understanding born of love, along with a perceptiveness apparently inherited from her father. “I suppose it was almost like losing a child.”
Jacob straightened, leaning forward. “Now there I must disagree with you. There’s no comparison, in losing a bit o’ land, even all your material goods—and losing a loved one.”
“I do know that.” Bristling, Ben returned the level look with one of his own. “Are you worried that your daughter is marrying a man who covets his possessions more than his wife?”
“Should I be?”
“No.”
Forget perceptiveness. Jacob Sinclair was sounding more like a meddling old man, with the sensitivity of an anvil. Ben stifled the urge to tell him to keep his worries as well as his opinions to himself. What was Jacob expecting him to do, for the love of heaven? “Prove” himself like some ancient Greek hero? He glowered at the other man, wondering if Sloan MacAllister had faced the same hurdle.
The answer, when it came to him, was ridiculously simple. “You know, I have a theory about that old cookie cutter you placed in Meredith’s heartwood chest,” he said. “Why don’t I let you hear it?”
“I’d like that very much,” Jacob replied.
The two men regarded each other solemnly. Then Benjamin began to talk.
Forty-Nine
For two days after their extravagant engagement dinner, Meredith floated in a golden haze of happiness. A meal fit for royalty, she assured Gaspar at least twice a day. Served in surroundings worthy of the fanciest restaurants in New York, she promised Mr. Dayton, corroborated by Mrs. Vance, whose husband was president of the First National Bank. Best of all, her entire family had been present, wrapping her and Benjamin in their support and love.
As for Benjamin . . . well, despite being confined to his rolling chair, or balanced on crutches when he presented his former office manager as his wife-to-be . . . her beloved fiancé had dominated the crowded room. The two-hundred-year-old, diamond-and-pearl betrothal ring that had belonged to his mother could not compare to the expression on his face as he slid the ring onto her finger. He had, Hominy told her, spent years tracking down the ring, which his mother had sold after the War to buy food for Benjamin and his little sister.
When Benjamin finally traced it to a New Jersey banker’s wife, the woman had been so moved by the story that she had given the ring back to Benjamin, refusing to accept any payment. Benjamin stored it in a vault. “Sometimes,” he told Meredith, “I was afraid it would stay there. Then God brought you to me.”
He hadn’t been consciously aware of it, yet God’s unfailing love had shadowed her fiancé throughout his life.
For Meredith, the ring symbolized more than Benjamin’s public claim of the woman he’d asked to be his wife: Imbued in it as well were Benjamin’s honor, his determination—and love for his mother, whose faith had built a foundation on which Benjamin himself was finally able to stand.
Even when he was clinging to a pair of crutches.
It was amazing, Meredith thought on that blistering late July morning, the difference God made in her life as well, now that she had learned how to look for His hand in it.
“Morning, Miss Sinclair. You’re looking mighty fine this day, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Meredith smiled at Theo Kirculdy, the daytime manager of the hotel. “I don’t mind at all, Mr. Kirculdy. Isn’t it a beautiful morning?”
An answering smile flitted across the manager’s blunt-featured face. “Yes, miss.”
Full of her delight, Meredith promenaded across the crowded lobby, dispensing sunny greetings on staff and guests alike. Smiles and whispers followed in her wake, but she ignored them as a lady should, though a secret part would have enjoyed overhearing one or two of the whispers.
“Morning, Mrs. Biggs, Lowell.” She bustled across the suite of offices to her desk, retrieved her writing pad, and scanned the reminder notes she’d penned the previous evening. “Let’s see, Mrs. Biggs, looks like the first order of business is to check with the livery stable. There was some question about the availability of mounts.”
“I’ll mention it to Mr. Kingston. Ah, Miss Sinclair—?”
“If he’s too busy with Mr. Walker, I’ll run over there myself.” Meredith placed a check mark by her notation. “What about the other complaints . . . um, the laundress pressed creases in Mrs. Fenway’s dinner gown . . . strange odor emanating from the corner of the sitting room of the Royal Suite . . . several queries on specialty menu items—I’ll pass those along to Gaspar and Mr. Day. ”
“Miss Sinclair, Mr. Walker has requested—”
“Could you tell him I’ll be along in a moment, Mrs. Biggs? As soon as we go over these items, all right?
She scuttled across to Lowell’s desk. “Mr. Kingston, that letter from the Association of Architects in Philadelphia—they asked if Mr. Walker could be the keynote speaker?”
“Yes. The second week in September. He’ll be off the crutches by then. Miss Sinclair, Mr. Walker’s waiting for—”
“The second week in September?” Meredith glanced up from the pad. “That’s the week after the hotel closes for the season. He usually stays here for the kitchen cleaning and repairs before the dining room reopens, because—”
“Miss Sinclair.” Benjamin’s deep voice interrupted, its tone faintly ironic. “Drop your infernal writing pad and come into my office, before you cause Lowell and Mrs. Biggs acute heart palpitations.”
Meredith turned but refused to relinquish her hold on the writing tablet. “I—beg your pardon?”
Benjamin stood balanced on his crutches at the entrance to his private office. He was smiling the enigmatic smile, the one that instantly put Meredith on alert. For the sake of appearances, during working hours they kept their relationship scrupulously professional, not an easy task for Meredith when she wore a betrothal ring on her finger and her heart on her sleeve.
“What’s going on?” She scanned the uncomfortable faces of her fellow workers. “This is what we do every morning. Why would it cause . . . um . . . was it heart palpitations?”
Lowell’s neck and ears turned a dull red, and even Mrs. Biggs looked uncomfortable. “Well, now, my dear,” she said, patting Meredith’s hand, “I expect if you’ll accompany Mr. Walker back into his office, he’ll explain.”
Oh my, yes. Mr. Walker would most definitely have some explaining to do. Meredith barely restrained herself until the door closed behind them before she launched into a vigorous tirade rife with hand waving. Benjamin waited, hip propped against his desk, the crutches stacked at his side, his face inscrutable.
Realization seeped in after a while. “Leah’s had a talk with you, hasn’t she?” she demanded. “Primed you with suggestions along the lines of ‘how to quell Meredith on a rampage,’ or something? Both of my sisters do that—stand there smirking, not saying a word until I run down.” She folded her arms across her waist. Her lips twitched. “It’s very effective, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Are you finished?”
He was regarding her with a seriousness the occasion didn’t warrant, transforming her temper into alarm as wild possibilities crashed together in her mind. “Preston? You discovered something. That’s what this is all about.”
“No. Not entirely.” She watched Benjamin’s chest rise and fall,
and his hands gripped the desk with enough force to whiten his knuckles. “Meredith, I want you to move back to Sinclair Run.”
“What? Move back home?” She gaped at him. “But—why?”
“Because your living here distresses your father.”
“Of all the ridiculous . . . mercysake, Benjamin. He understands, he told me so himself. Nobody in the entire family objects. In fact, they all agreed it made perfect sense, particularly in light of Preston’s threats.”
Incensed, panicked, she began pacing. “Benjamin, you’re making me very nervous. Please tell me why you’ve manufactured this—this outrageous ploy. I love being your office manager; I love helping you; I love being here with you. I thought you felt the same.”
Abruptly an even more monstrous thought squeezed all the breath from her lungs. “You . . . Benjamin?” She swallowed hard, her heartbeat thumping in slow, painful thuds. Her right hand closed protectively over her left. “Are you saying that you . . . that you’ve changed your—”
Quick as a lightning stroke his arm flashed out. A single tug hauled her against his chest. One large hand cupped her chin, lifting her face. “Meredith.” He shook her chin gently. “Always the dramatist. But I don’t want to hear any more talk like that. Nor any thoughts, hmm? We’ll have a lot of disagreements over a lot of issues, you and I. But my love for you will not be one of those issues.”
Still holding her gaze, he released her chin to lift her left hand, his fingers brushing the ring. “With this ring,” he repeated, his voice low, “I have pledged myself to you, before man and before God. We’ll have a ceremony in your family church, come November. But Meredith, in my heart, you are already my wife. Don’t doubt my love, ever again.”
Meredith nodded, her throat too swollen with emotion to speak.
His face softened. He drew her up, unresisting, for a tender kiss, then held her at arm’s length, his gaze intent on her face. “Would you do something for me? Right now?” he asked almost whimsically.
Shenandoah Home (Sinclair Legacy Book 1) Page 41