To Mend a Dream Page 4

  “Miss Anderson.”

  Savannah’s head came up. “Yes, ma’am?”

  Miss Sinclair frowned. “Are you well? You seem . . . preoccupied today.”

  “No, Miss Sinclair. I mean, yes. I’m feeling quite well.” Or had been until she remembered how Mr. Bedford had done his best to try to set her at ease after she’d stood there practically ogling the man. Reliving the moment sent heat coursing through her. Though not warmth of a pleasurable nature—like yesterday.

  Thankfully, she hadn’t seen him since.

  Now if she could only manage to sew every new set of draperies in the house and install them before he got home today, she could leave here, never come back, and everything would be fine.

  But everything wouldn’t be fine. Because she was no closer to fulfilling her main reason for being here: finding the box her father had hidden. So she’d simply make it a point to see him as little as possible, which could prove to be a challenge since this was his—

  “Miss Anderson.”

  Savannah refocused and swiftly gathered from Miss Sinclair’s irritated expression that the woman had asked her a question. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Would you mind saying that again, please?”

  Miss Sinclair sighed, then repeated the question slowly, as though addressing a halfwit. “What do you think about my newest purchase?”

  Only then did Savannah see the very interesting portrait by which the woman stood. The hopeful anticipation in Miss Sinclair’s features clearly conveyed what she wanted Savannah to say. Although Savannah was at a loss as to how to exile thoughts of kissing the woman’s fiancée, she did know how to handle this particular question. And with complete honesty. Years of experience decorating for eccentric personalities had prepared her well.

  She tilted her head to one side. “That is one of the most thought-provoking portraits I’ve ever seen.” She only hoped Miss Sinclair didn’t ask her what she thought it was. If she did, Savannah’s nearest guess would have to be . . .

  No, she couldn’t even hazard a guess. She wondered if Mr. Bedford had seen it yet, doubting it would be to the man’s taste. Which, thinking of him again, only resurrected her former mantra.

  “Can you hang the portrait for me, Miss Anderson?”

  Hang a portrait? Was the woman serious? But Savannah swiftly realized she was. And since keeping this job was paramount . . . “Yes, ma’am, of course. I’ll get the tools.” Savannah turned to leave the sitting room.

  “Miss Anderson.”

  Hearing a trace of condescension in the woman’s tone, Savannah paused in the doorway.

  Miss Sinclair shook her head and gave an airy laugh. “Do you even have the slightest idea of where the tools are kept?”

  Realizing what a mistake she’d been about to make, Savannah let out a breath. Of course she knew where they were. She’d left the remainder of her father’s hand tools on the lower shelf of the cupboard off the kitchen. But from this woman’s perspective . . .

  Savannah covered the near mistake with a smile. “I thought surely Mrs. Pruitt would know.”

  Miss Sinclair stared, her eyes narrowing the tiniest bit. “Very well. See to it, then.”

  Savannah skirted down the hall, wondering if the woman suspected anything and vowing to be more careful. Enlisting the housekeeper’s assistance, she found the needed tools and supplies and set to work. After measuring twice, she gripped the hammer and nail and struck her mark true and firm, just as Papa had taught her.

  Before she and Carolyne and Andrew had vacated the house over a year ago, she’d managed to pack a few of her father’s hand tools for her younger brother. Right now he only used them on occasion to repair his leg braces. But someday he would appreciate having them for the heritage of skill and craftsmanship they represented.

  Her parents had left such a precious legacy for their children. One she’d been reminded of yesterday. “Don’t allow the world to teach you theology, Savannah. It’ll not teach you right.” She could hear her father’s voice and see his smile even now, his large hand resting atop the family Bible. “Take it directly from the Source instead.”

  “Are you certain you can manage it?”

  Seeing Miss Sinclair struggle with the cumbersome gilded frame, Savannah smiled. “Yes, I’m certain.” Lugging around her heavy sewing satchel had its advantages.

  Mindful of how much the portrait likely cost, Savannah made certain the wire had caught on the nail before letting go. She stood alongside Miss Sinclair and eyed it. Then smiled.

  “It’s slantindicular,” she said, aware of how Miss Sinclair was looking at her.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said it’s slantindicular.” Savannah crossed the room and nudged the portrait up a little on the right side, then walked back, thinking of her brother Jake and about how he used to make up nonsensical words and phrases. “It means it’s slanted.”

  Miss Sinclair looked from the portrait to her, then back to the portrait again. “You Southerners are a strange breed, Miss Anderson.”

  Savannah didn’t know whether it was the wary tone Miss Sinclair used when saying it, or if it was the woman’s proper Northern accent, but she laughed out loud.

  And was still smiling when she walked home briskly that afternoon, keeping watch for a black stallion and the master of Darby Farm.

  Later that night, as she helped Carolyne with her French and answered Andrew’s questions as he struggled with Macbeth, Savannah thought again of what Mr. Bedford had said about a haven. She was grateful the plot of land meant something to him and hoped he would decide as her father and her mother’s father had in regard to tilling it: that there was plenty of cultivated land on Darby Farm. Best leave that foretaste of heaven alone.

  Thinking about her maternal grandfather made her think of her mother, which brought a sense of melancholy. She wished again that the two could have made peace with each other before her grandfather passed.

  “Savannah?”

  Seated by Carolyne on the girl’s bed, Savannah looked across the room at her brother. The careful way he’d said her name told her he desired her full attention.

  “I was at the mercantile today, and Mr. Mulholland asked about you.” Brows knit together, he hesitated, then glanced at their younger sister, whose head was still buried in the textbook. “He asked if you were going to stop by the store anytime soon. He said you hadn’t been by in a while to . . . visit with everyone.”

  Clearly hearing what he wasn’t saying, Savannah hated the worry edging his voice. She’d been able to hide the dire state of their finances from Carolyne, but Andrew was far too perceptive. And him working at the mercantile didn’t help. She knew Mr. Mulholland needed his money. The proprietor had been more than patient with her. But to inquire about it to Andrew? The boy already had enough burdens to deal with.

  “Not to worry.” Savannah pasted on a smile. “As soon as I finish the job I’m working on now, I’ll drop by and say hello to Mr. Mulholland and his family.”

  Andrew held her stare then discreetly reached down and touched the braces on his legs. “These are fine,” he said softly. “I really don’t need any new—”

  Savannah silenced her younger brother with a look, her throat straining with emotion. “We’re going to be fine,” she mouthed, then swallowed hard.

  As though sensing something, Carolyne peered up at her. Savannah smoothed a hand over her sister’s golden-blond hair and checked the girl’s writing on the slate. “Très bon,” Savannah whispered. “You’re almost finished. Continue, please.”

  With Carolyne’s attention refocused, Savannah looked back at Andrew. “I’ll visit the mercantile again very soon. I promise. And yes”—she looked pointedly at the braces on his legs, loving her brother with a fierceness that sometimes surprised her—“you do.”

  Reading uncertainty in his eyes, she smiled to let him know everything would be fine, and remembered her mother doing the very same thing with her, even when Savannah knew otherwise.


  Later, once both siblings were in bed asleep, her gaze went to the drawer of the bedside table, and her heart to the letter within. She retrieved the missive, wanting to hold the stationery in her hand again and see her father’s handwriting. Her gaze moved down the page to the paragraph she’d thought of earlier in the evening.

  You will remember what we spoke of when last we were together, after the children were abed. I ask you again to forgive me for keeping what I did from you. It was most lovingly done. However, I understand how hurtful a revelation it was for you. It was never my intention to add to that past wound, my dearest.

  She turned the page. A heavy watermark marred the ink on the time-crinkled stationery, but the words were still legible. Besides, she knew them already.

  Your father was a most persuasive man, and even now I can see the determination in his eyes. Though I know the relationship between the two of you was never the same, I do believe your father entered eternity with overwhelming love for you and with a desire that you forgive him for the decision he made all those years ago. And I hope, my love, that you will. The longer I fight this war, and the more men I see taken so swiftly from this world to the next, the more I am convinced that harboring unforgiveness is a costly debt. One that is paid over and over not so much by the one needing forgiveness as by the one withholding it.

  The ink blotched the page as though her father had hesitated overlong in lifting the pen, and she wondered what her mother had felt when first reading his next words.

  What your father gave me—gave you—he did in a spirit of reconciliation, and I hope that in time you will receive his gift as such. Before I left, I placed it with the rest of our valuables for safekeeping.

  Andrew stirred, and she looked up to see if he’d awakened. Sometimes the pain in his legs kept sleep at a distance. But his eyes remained closed, so she continued reading.

  I’ll adhere to your wishes and will wait to share the story with our entire family once the boys and I return home. But know that this was far more than a simple gesture on your father’s part. It was an olive branch intended to heal, and I pray its roots spread deep and wide through our family. I left additional monies in the box as well. Save it if you can. Spend it if necessary. Even if the house is commandeered, it will be safe.

  Oh, Papa. Where did you put it? And what is in it? Money still, perhaps?

  Her mother had never said anything about it and had died so quickly herself. She’d been fine one moment, then complaining of a severe headache the next. Then she’d collapsed. When she finally came to, she’d been unable to move or speak, and within hours, even to breathe.

  She’d been gone by the next morning.

  Her throat tightening, Savannah didn’t reread the last paragraph of the letter, her father’s parting thoughts especially painful tonight for some reason. She slipped the folded stationery back into the envelope, then reached for the Bible. She laid her hand atop the worn black leather, much as her father had done, and wished she felt as confident about God’s providence as he and her mother had.

  She opened the Bible and took care turning the pages yellowed with time and dog-eared with a thirst for understanding and comfort. Contrary to the front and back of the book that contained the scribbled history of the Darby family, the pages themselves were clean and unmarked.

  Every night she read to her siblings and silently to herself. But that habit had slipped in recent years as work grew busier and time shrank by half. Some days the words spoke to her more than others. Though she realized this had more to do with her heart than anything to do with the Lord.

  The lamp oil burning low and the hour growing late, she returned the Bible to the drawer, then snuggled into the bed, weary from the long day. But apparently her body hadn’t informed her thoughts because they turned with startling clarity to Aidan Bedford. She could see his face. And how he’d looked at her yesterday. For a moment, her imagination almost convinced her she hadn’t been the only one doing the looking.

  Then her saner side resumed function. Why would a man like him look at a woman like her? On the other hand, how could a woman like her take a second look at a man like him? From two different worlds, they were.

  But she had to admit, even though the sensations she’d experienced had been one-sided, it gave her hope that maybe someday she’d find someone. A solid Southern man who would not only love her, but who would love Carolyne and Andrew too.

  As she willed sleep to come, the last paragraph of her father’s letter returned, insistent. But instead of seeing the words on the page, she heard the memory of her father’s resonant voice across time.

  When last you wrote, Melna, you told me you believed without fail that it was God’s design for me to see home again. I cling to that hope and your faith in it, for my own grows less day by day. I pray to God that I am wrong. But if I am not, and heaven is soon within my sight, know that with my last breath I will be thinking of you and thanking God for the gift of your love and for all of our children. Jake and Adam are doing well, fighting bravely, as you would imagine. Though I know they are frightened. As are all brave men, from time to time. I am attempting to keep them safe and am so proud of them both. They send their love.

  We all look forward to being home soon.

  With deepest affection,

  Merle

  She hugged her pillow close, her tears dampening the smooth cotton beneath her cheek. “I love you all,” she whispered aloud, hoping the hushed stillness might somehow cause her words to be heard in eternity, even as she prayed Eternity would answer.

  CHAPTER SIX

  FOUR DAYS LATER, THE FABRICS FOR ALL WINDOWS RECEIVING new treatments had been chosen, and Savannah had measured each of the windows numerous times, both for new shades and draperies. Then she’d measured them again to confirm her calculations. Save for one room she’d particularly avoided.

  As she stood outside of her old bedroom, Miss Sinclair’s current quarters, she felt much like the girl depicted in a novel by Lewis Carroll she’d recently read to Carolyne. Only there was no White Rabbit racing by with his pocket watch, and she knew with certainty she wasn’t about to tumble down into a curious hall full of locked doors of all sizes as young Alice had. Still . . . she felt a hesitance she couldn’t account for. Except that for all the dreams she’d dreamed in this bedroom, for all the paths she’d thought her life might someday take, very few had come to fruition.

  Hearing footsteps on the staircase, she guessed Miss Sinclair had returned early from her shopping trip, and she hastened to her task, smiling to herself as she playfully checked the bedside table for a tiny key like in the story.

  As she measured the windows and recorded the dimensions in her notebook, she waited for Miss Sinclair or Mrs. Pruitt to pop into the bedroom at any moment. No matter where she went in the house in recent days, one of the two women always seemed to be either in the room with her or in another close by. At this rate, she could come here every day for the rest of her life and never find what her father had hidden.

  She glanced about the room, noting the subtle changes from when she’d last lived here. The entire house had been given a thorough cleaning. Yet it was comforting to still see familiar scuff marks on walls and slight dents in the wooden floor that she’d personally authored.

  But the lacy undergarments peeking from the wardrobe and the black silk nightgown draped over the chair in the corner were most definitely new additions. She didn’t even want to think about whether Mr. Bedford had seen them.

  And yet, she did wonder.

  Purposefully refocusing, she moved to the next window.

  Draperies for the dining room were already being sewn in the shop in town. She’d stopped by before coming this morning to make certain her coworkers understood the instructions on the ruching and trim. For a Monday morning, and so early an hour, the shop had been in a flurry. But a happy one.

  To say Miss Hildegard was ecstatic with how the project was progressing was like saying a fish tended to
prefer water. And why not? Miss Sinclair was asking for nothing but the best. The cost of the rich blue silk for the dining-room draperies was more than Savannah earned in a year, never mind the beading and tassels. For that reason alone, she hoped Aidan Bedford was a wealthy man. Because his fiancée was spending money almost faster than she could keep tally.

  But his generosity to his future wife would also pay for Andrew’s new leg braces. “They’ll be much better and less cumbersome than your old ones,” Andrew had quoted the doctor.

  So thank you, Mr. Bedford.

  Though, much to her relief, she hadn’t been alone with him since that day by her grandparents’ old cabin. She’d seen him in the house along with Miss Sinclair or Mrs. Pruitt, and he’d acted completely normal. Whether it was just an act or he truly hadn’t noticed how taken with him she’d been that day, she was grateful. Either way.

  She stood back and eyed the double windows, still loving the curtains she’d sewn years earlier, although the blue-and-yellow floral was a tad girlish now. But they’d soon be gone. Because next on the list were the draperies for this room—soon to become the guest quarters—once Miss Sinclair approved the design. Miss Sinclair had requested that every room in the house be measured for floor coverings as well. Carpet was to be installed wall to wall in some of the rooms, and new Persian rugs had been ordered for others.

  Savannah had identified the woman’s taste early on, a skill honed from years of learning to set aside her own preferences and see the project through her clients’ eyes. Miss Sinclair loved everything French and expensive and “unlike anything Nashville has ever seen.” Savannah found it quietly amusing that so many of Miss Sinclair’s “unique conceptions” were nearly identical to drawings in the latest editions of Godey’s, Harper’s, or La Mode Illustrée.

  Personally, she appreciated fashion as much as anyone. But why was it that so many women, instead of listening to their own vision and creating a style unique to them, that fit their personal taste, let their style be dictated by someone in another part of the world? Say, Paris, New York, or . . . Boston.