To Mend a Dream Page 6

  “Which is precisely why I bought it. This house is starved for elegance. My future husband is an attorney for now. But someday he’ll be a judge, and I want this house to—”

  Having heard enough—for his wallet, his respectability, and his patience—Aidan stepped back to the front door and opened and closed it again, louder this time.

  Shushed whispers came from the parlor. Seconds later Priscilla waltzed through the doorway, arms outstretched as though they’d been separated for seven years instead of seven hours. She clasped his hand and offered her cheek for a kiss. He obliged, aware of Miss Anderson watching from the other room before she quickly looked away.

  “Dearest.” Priscilla linked arms with him. “You’re home early.”

  Along with surprise in her voice, he also detected another quality, one that had a definite note of falseness to it. Aided by what he’d just overheard, he found himself viewing the woman in a somewhat different light, and he realized he’d heard that tone from her before. Many times. “I wasn’t getting any work done at the firm, so I decided to come home and work here.”

  “Wonderful! I’ll ask Mrs. Pruitt to fix us some tea. We can sit on the front porch and visit for a while before you—”

  He gently squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry, Priscilla, but I have two very important cases coming up next week, and I must read through some briefs.”

  Her smile faltered. She removed her hand from the crook of his arm. “Of course. You’re busy. More so, it seems, than you were in Boston.”

  “That’s not true. I’ve—”

  Knowing Miss Anderson could hear their conversation, even without trying, Aidan urged Priscilla into the sitting room to their left, then eased the door closed.

  CHAPTER TEN

  AIDAN KEPT HIS VOICE QUIET, NOT WISHING FOR MISS ANDERSON to hear them. “Since you’ve been visiting, Priscilla, I’ve gone in late most every morning so we can spend time together. But I’m getting further behind, so—”

  “I didn’t realize spending time with me was such a burden, Aidan.”

  He looked at her. “I didn’t say that. What I’m saying is that my schedule here is every bit as demanding as it was in Boston.”

  “But there’s nothing for me to do here.”

  His laugh held no humor. “Quite the contrary, from what I’m seeing. You’re changing nearly every room in the house.”

  “And can you blame me?”

  Tempted to answer more honestly than was fair in the moment, he took a deep breath. “I don’t blame you for being lonely. You haven’t had the opportunity to make friends here yet.”

  “These people are so . . . different from us. The land is handsome enough, I guess, as you said it would be. But all the rest . . .” She bowed her head, and the silence completed her thought with unmistakable clarity.

  Still dwelling on the “different from us,” Aidan looked at the woman beside him and heard the echo of another conversation from years earlier.

  “My sweetheart, she’s a pretty little thing. Hair all buttery and golden, like wheat in the summer sun. And kind too. She’s a lady through and through, but she can hold her own, let me tell you that. Shoots as well as I do, baits her own hook. But can still cook up a mess of ham and biscuits the likes of which you ain’t never tasted up north. Let me tell you, Boston, you’re on the wrong side in more ways than one.”

  Had Nashville known what a gift he’d possessed? In his family? In his sweetheart? How fortunate he’d been? Most people went through life without a fraction of that depth of love and commitment.

  “But if everything in the world were such as this, where would the longing for heaven be?”

  Like guarding a priceless nugget, he’d carried what Miss Anderson had said with him, taking it out now and again, examining it, then tucking it away again for safekeeping. As he did now.

  It occurred to him then: he didn’t even know the woman’s first name.

  “Come back to Boston with me for a few days, Aidan. It’ll do you good.” Priscilla took hold of his hand, and her touch already felt foreign. “I know you miss it. I see it in your eyes.”

  Knowing what she was seeing wasn’t him missing Boston, but him missing Darby Farm—the way it had been before she arrived—he took his time in answering. “I can’t,” he finally said. “My job is here now.”

  “But you kept a home in Boston too.” Fragile hope lit her eyes. “And I know your former partners would welcome you back.”

  He looked at her, then slowly shook his head.

  “I leave in two days, Aidan. And I won’t be back for a month. Perhaps even longer.”

  He was fairly certain he heard an ultimatum, or at least a threat. What bothered him most about that was how unbothered he was by it. “I understand. So we’ll spend as much time together as my schedule allows before you leave.”

  Her jaw went rigid, and she turned to go. He debated whether to say anything further, then decided it was best to get it out now rather than for her to try and lay the blame with Miss Anderson for having revealed a confidence.

  “Priscilla.”

  She looked back.

  “Draperies and rugs are one thing. But not a stick of furniture leaves this house without my approval. Is that clear?”

  Her blue eyes went cold. “Perfectly,” she whispered, then left the room and wordlessly ascended the stairs.

  Feeling wearier than he had in ages, Aidan crossed the foyer and found Miss Anderson straightening the room, of all things. Taking books off the shelves and lining them up again, then smoothing her hand over the surface of the wood, presumably checking for dust. Although she seemed particularly intent on her job.

  “I do have a housekeeper, Miss Anderson.”

  The woman jumped nearly a foot into the air.

  “I’m sorry,” he offered, the look on her face so comical it tempted him to grin. “I didn’t mean to startle you. But . . . it seems I keep succeeding.”

  “Yes.” Hand on her chest, she laughed. “You do.”

  Her breathlessness told him he’d truly given her a fright. And as much as part of him wished he could ask her to stay and sit with him in this room and converse, or to walk outside with him to the old cabin, he knew better.

  He gestured. “Miss Sinclair has gone upstairs for a while. So it might be best if you—”

  “I was planning on leaving a little early today anyway, Mr. Bedford.”

  She quickly gathered her things and had opened the front door when the question he’d fought to sequester finally won out.

  “Miss Anderson . . .”

  She looked back.

  “You’ve worked here for several weeks, and I just realized—I don’t even know your first name.”

  She smiled, and he was certain the sunlight framing her from behind dimmed by a degree.

  “Savannah,” she said softly, then closed the door as she left.

  Several minutes passed before Aidan realized he was still standing at the front window, long after she’d turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

  Later that night, unable to sleep and feeling a pressure building inside him, Aidan rose and went outside to the second-story porch to get some air. He filled his lungs with the tantalizing scent of fresh pine, the summer sweetness of honeysuckle, and . . . the stench of skunk.

  He smiled, figuring that pretty well represented his life right now. And life in general. Some good along with the bad. But the bad surely made one more grateful for the good. And likewise, the bad surely had a way of ruining what was more pleasant.

  He looked up into the star-studded night, heaven’s canopy stretching forever all around him, covering him, making him feel both infinitesimally small and yet not without purpose. Because he was here among it all. And surely the One who had gone to such fantastic lengths to create this world wouldn’t have plopped mankind down in the midst of it only to leave him to flounder without meaning, without guidance.

  No, he’d been long convinced that the Creator had a ma
ster plan. Regardless of him not quite knowing what it was at certain times. Like at the present moment.

  Aidan walked to the porch railing and looked out into the darkness, wondering about the man who’d lived here before him. The last Mr. Darby. Had he ever awakened at night, unable to sleep, unable to wrestle the anxiety inside him into submission? Had that man ever stared across the fields as he did now, asking for the Divine to whisper wisdom and discernment?

  Nashville had spoken of having a girl back home. Someone much like Miss Anderson—Savannah—he’d bet. The way the soldier spoke about the girl, about his home and family, about the very land itself, had reached deep inside of Aidan that day and hadn’t let go. Not even hours later when, on the battlefield, he looked over to see Nashville take a bullet to the chest. The young man lurched forward and fell face-down into the field of wildflowers. Aidan fought his way through the fray, trying to get to him. And when he finally did, he turned Nashville over, only to find him gasping, a hole ripped open in his chest.

  Nashville tried to speak, but blood gurgled out in the place of words. Still, Aidan had read the look in his eyes. And there, in the midst of battle, he’d gripped Nashville’s hand, feeling the life slip from him, watching it pour from his heart. “I’ll see that sunrise, Nashville,” he’d whispered. “I’ll taste that peach cobbler again for you too.”

  Body shaking, gasping for breath and finding none, Nashville had smiled a smile that Aidan already found familiar. Then he’d breathed his last. And the light that had burned so brightly within his friend awhile before had snuffed out.

  His friend.

  They’d known each other for all of perhaps three hours. Yet in that short time Nashville had shown more love for his family and dedication to his country than Aidan had ever encountered, regardless of their differing views on the issues that had brought them there.

  Aidan wanted to know what that felt like. To love and be loved that way. Had he made a mistake leaving Boston to come here? He didn’t think so. Had he made a mistake asking Priscilla to marry him? Most definitely. But how to fix it?

  He didn’t quite know. But he was determined to find a way. He owed that much to Nashville’s memory.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE BLAST OF THE TRAIN WHISTLE SENT STEAM BILLOWING up against the pale blue of early morning. The air wasn’t cold, but Aidan thought he saw Priscilla shiver. And he felt a bit of one himself, though not because of fear or of any doubt of what he needed to do.

  On the contrary, after the night he’d spent on the porch, searching his own heart and seeking God’s, there wasn’t a shred of doubt left within him. And he was all but certain that down deep Priscilla felt the same as he did. If only he could get her to realize it.

  “You’ve changed, Aidan,” she whispered, her demeanor lacking its usual confidence.

  “We’ve changed, Priscilla.”

  She frowned and looked away. Her lower lip trembled. “My father . . .” She drew in a breath. “He was always so fond of you.”

  “As I was of him. He was a good man.”

  She nodded.

  “But, Priscilla, your father would have wanted you to love the man you’re going to marry. Not just be with him because your father liked him. Or because”—Aidan hurried to finish, recognizing by the narrowing of her eyes that she was gearing up for battle—“marrying him will offer you security. You have security, Priscilla. Your father’s estate will allow you to live comfortably for the rest of your life.”

  “But I want to be with you.”

  “No, you don’t,” he said gently. “You want to feel safe again. Something you haven’t felt since your parents passed. I know. I’ve felt what that’s like. It’s lonely, and can be frightening. Loss makes you reexamine your life, who you are, and what you really want. But that’s a good thing, however painful the personal revelation can be at times.”

  She looked up at him, and for reasons he understood, he didn’t see disagreement. Only fear.

  “What if”—her voice faltered—“when you look at yourself more closely, you don’t necessarily like who you see?”

  He smiled. “Then know you’re not alone. But also know that it’s recognizing your faults and being honest about them that’s the first step to overcoming them. To changing who you are, becoming who you want to be.”

  She returned a feeble smile.

  “I’m selling the brownstone, Priscilla. I’m wiring my broker as soon as I leave here.”

  She nodded. A tear slipped down her cheek. “I never did want to live in this city, Aidan.”

  “I know.”

  “But I also don’t want to be alone.”

  “And knowing you”—he pressed a parting kiss to her forehead—“and all the single men in Boston, I don’t believe there’s the slightest chance of that happening.”

  Now if only he could muster the same hope for himself.

  Leaving the telegraph office, Aidan headed to the mercantile only to find his way blocked by a freight wagon. He was maneuvering around it when someone across the street caught his eye. He slowed his pace, then finally paused.

  A young boy was unloading crates of potatoes, one at a time, from the back of the freight wagon, his progress slowed by the braces on his legs. But Aidan read unwavering determination in the boy’s halting stride.

  Another boy about the same age and with a shock of red hair worked alongside him, carrying two crates at once but more slowly, even stopping occasionally to jaw with some buddies who stood off to the side. But not the crippled boy. Back and forth he went, in and out of the store, unloading goods, steady and right as rain.

  One of Red’s friends said something to him on his way out, and Red and his buddies laughed. The tallest one in the crowd held a forefinger to his mouth, then followed him to the wagon, and—

  Realizing what the bigger boy was about to do, Aidan tried to get there in time. But couldn’t. A shove from behind sent the lame boy sprawling, and the crate of potatoes went everywhere.

  As Aidan reached the scene, another man strode from the store and the instigators took off. All except for Red. The man grabbed the coworker by the arm, apparently having seen it all unfold.

  “You’re done, Walters! Now get yourself out of here. And don’t be askin’ me for another job!”

  The lad wisely obeyed, and the man, his Irish accent thick, reached down to help the boy to his feet.

  “I’m all right.” The boy waved off his help, but the clank of metal against metal as he tried to straighten his braced legs suggested otherwise. His face and neck were a deep crimson. “I’ll pick them all up and wash them, Mr. McGrath.”

  The man hesitated, then nodded. “Good man, Andrew. We get knocked down, but we get right back up.” The man tousled the boy’s hair, which drew the ghost of a smile.

  Andrew righted the crate, and a few passersby helped toss some potatoes in. And despite sensing the boy’s desire to make his own way, Aidan couldn’t resist helping too.

  “Catch,” Aidan said, tossing a potato his way, already guessing at the lad’s dexterity.

  With quick reflexes, Andrew caught the spud in his grip. And smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

  “These for sale?” Aidan eyed the potatoes, impressed. Scarcely a bad mark on them.

  “Yes, sir.” The boy pointed. “You can get them by the crate here. Or out at Linden Downs by the wagonload.”

  Aidan nodded, recognizing the name of the farm from dealings in town. “I’ll remember that.”

  “You’re not from around here, are you, sir?”

  Aidan smiled, appreciating the respect in the boy’s voice, while clearly hearing an opinion. “No, I’m not. I’m from Boston.”

  “Where Paul Revere’s from.” Andrew’s face lit. “And the two lanterns, telling the British were coming by sea.”

  “That’s right.” Impressed, Aidan studied the boy. About eleven or twelve, he guessed. The lad’s chambray shirt, though slightly worn at the elbows, was of fine stitching, and his b
ritches, a little short, boasted the same quality tailoring. But it was the maturity in the boy’s manner that impressed him most.

  “Having lived in Boston, I’ve actually ridden the path Revere took that night. All the way up to Concord.”

  Fascination swept Andrew’s face. “What’s it like up there? In Massachusetts.”

  “It’s nice.” Aidan looked toward the hills of green. “But I think it’s prettier here.” That earned him a grin. He offered his hand. “Mr. Aidan Bedford.”

  The boy rubbed his palm on his pants before accepting. “Andrew Darby, sir.”

  Aidan’s grip tightened subconsciously. “Darby,” he repeated.

  The boy nodded.

  “Well . . . Andrew, I’ve enjoyed our discussion.” His thoughts racing, he released the boy’s hand. “You certainly have studied your history.”

  Andrew shrugged. “My sister Savannah makes me. Sometimes it’s not so boring though. But I wouldn’t want her to know that.” Grinning, he gestured back to the wagon. “I’d best get back to work, Mr. Bedford. Thank you again, sir, for your help.”

  His thoughts having moved beyond racing to fully broken rein, Aidan finally managed to respond. “My pleasure, Andrew. My pleasure.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SAVANNAH STOOD IN THE MIDDLE OF THE CENTRAL PARLOR and studied the draperies, knowing Miss Sinclair was going to be more than pleased. The most complicated and ornate of all the window coverings in the house, these had turned out even finer and more elegant than Savannah hoped, though pressing the endless folds had taken hours, and her back was still paying for it.

  She gestured. “Let’s bring the rod up about an eighth of an inch on the right, Freddie.”

  “Yes, Miss Darby.”

  Savannah winced at the name and glanced toward the front hall. Mrs. Pruitt was the only other one in the house, and she was busy in the kitchen. Still . . .

  “Like I told you, Freddie, you don’t have to call me Miss Darby here. It’s just us. And I’ve known you since before you were born.”

  The boy, a little older than Andrew, grinned as though he’d just been handed a bag of penny candy. “Okay, Savannah.”