At Love's Bidding (32 page)

“Hey, mister.”

Wyatt skidded to a stop and pulled the picture around to face him. Had he just heard that aloud?

“Excuse me?”

He turned to find two of the newspaper boys who frequented the Wimplegates' corner, watching him warily.

“Sorry, mister. We wouldn't have bothered you, but we're walking home and thought if you had a buggy available, you might want to share a ride.”

Wyatt studied their scuffed shoes and tattered woolen britches with renewed interest. He needed to get some work clothes and put his fancy clothes away for the time being—just as soon as he had a room to keep clothes.

“Sorry, fellas. I'm down on my luck. Kicked out with nothing but the clothes on my back and this humdinger of a painting.”

The tall one whistled. “Tough break. Well, you might as well walk along with us. Where you staying?”

“I wish I knew.”

The boys exchanged glances as they fell in together. “If you'll be needing a place, we can show you where to lease a room. We'd let you stay with us but there's not an empty space on the floor.”

Wyatt had come from humble people, but he'd always had space, even if he had to sleep outside. “I think I can pay for a room, but not for long. I need to find work.”

The little one piped up. “You're too big to sell papers.”

“Big enough to do a lot of work, though,” the tall boy said. “Anything you're good at?”

He'd given up his gavel, but he still knew a thing or two about animals. “I can handle livestock, horses, that sort of thing. I don't know how much call you have for that in the city, though.”

The two boys stepped aside. Wyatt stopped and watched as they consulted each other. The smaller one chewed his fingernails, then with a grin made a suggestion the older boy approved of. A slap on the back and they returned to him.

“You helped us out when you could, now it's our turn.” The kid's face widened in a confident grin. “You just stick with Connor and Franklin, and we'll take care of you.”

One week later

“It's about time someone acknowledges the years I've spent honing my taste.” Grandfather held the door open for Father before entering the warehouse. “The curators at the Athenaeum know art when they see it.”

Miranda looked up from her notes on a man's leather and gold nécessaire traveling kit to watch the men enter.

“Once again you've proven yourself a connoisseur of the first rate.” Father winked at her.

“What's this about the curators?”

Grandfather fiddled with his cufflink. “I was just telling your father that the Athenaeum, the pinnacle of style and taste, is going to display my apple dolls in an exhibit on American craftsmanship. Miranda, you must prepare for another trip. Everyone will want one of those dolls, and the only way to ensure their production is to oversee it ourselves. If we take the morning train to New York tomorrow . . .” He stopped to frown at her notebook. “Aren't you finished yet? Your mother sent us to bring you home for dinner.”

“Just this one last item.” She drew a deep breath over the
gold-fitted jars and bottles for a last whiff of the colognes they formerly carried.

“Well, I'll meet you at the house.” Grandfather reversed course. “I have to get Patrick to pack my bags if we're going to be ready in time.” He exited as if he were trying to get out of the way of an oncoming train.

She'd just put the finishing touches to the catalog description and closed the notebook when Father spoke.

“Don't you want to accompany Grandfather back to Pine Gap, Missouri?”

Miranda's fingers turned as numb as ice cubes. The lid to the nécessaire fell shut.

“Are you really letting him go?”

“Careful there, Miranda, let's not destroy a Betjemann case over a joke. No, Grandfather isn't going anywhere, but I thought you might miss your friends.”

One friend in particular. Somehow knowing that he was no longer in Boston made her lonelier than ever.

“He'll write once he gets settled,” she said. “Getting over the court's decision will take him some time.”

She pushed the drawers of the nécessaire closed. They slid like they were floating on air. The drawer for the shaving tools was the last she closed as she wondered if Wyatt had allowed his beard to grow back. Her fingers traced the smooth knobs on the nécessaire. He should have a case this nice, with pomander and cologne and . . .

Her father cleared his throat. Miranda looked up, startled to find him watching her.

Her mouth popped open. “But, but the gallery . . . are they really displaying the dolls?”

He raised an eyebrow before answering, but she couldn't
read his thoughts. “They are. Those dolls aren't as worthless as we'd assumed.”

“Aren't you afraid that's going to encourage him?”

“Your grandfather needs some encouragement. The road ahead isn't going to be easy. Much like another, much younger fella you're worried about.”

Silently she moved the nécessaire to its place with the other auction items. If only she'd hear from Wyatt, but when he was a poor man before, she hadn't been much help to him. When he'd asked for her love back in Pine Gap, she'd rejected him. He had no reason to think she'd do differently now.

But would she if he asked?

They left the building together. Miranda tied her bonnet ribbons into a half-hearted bow and took her father's arm. Ralphie saw her from across the street, but instead of merely waving, he dashed through the traffic.

“Miss Wimplegate! Miss Wimplegate!”

“I do wish he'd be careful,” she gasped as he darted around a fire wagon.

Ralphie doffed his hat as he skidded to a stop before her. “Miss Wimplegate, I saw your friend.”

“My friend?” She looked at her father, whose eyes twinkled like Grandfather's used to with Betsy.

“Mr. Wyatt—the rich bloke who got kicked out of his family. You told me he'd gone back home, but he's here. He found himself a job around the corner from me in West End. Got himself a room there, too, but he doesn't have that fancy carriage anymore.”

“He's here? In Boston?” The air tasted like dust. She couldn't catch her breath. She knew Father was leading her to the steps, but until she felt the cold of the concrete seeping through her skirt, she didn't realize she was sitting down.

Father sat next to her, patting her hand as her view cleared. Her eyes fell on Ralphie, twisting his hat as his chin trembled.

“Now, now,” Father said. “No use in getting upset, young man. Miss Wimplegate is recovering quickly. You did her no harm.”

Wyatt hadn't left and he was living in the tenements? So many emotions—relief that he was near, sorrow that his circumstances had been so reduced, disappointment that he hadn't called on her.

“What's he doing?” she asked. “Why is he here?”

“He's working at the livery stable,” Ralphie answered, “taking care of the horses. Mr. Fillmore even took him to the country when he went to buy new stock. Said Mr. Wyatt was a good judge of horses and a fair barterer.”

Wyatt, who threw the Stuyvesant parlor into a tizzy, was back to dirtying his hands at the livery stables?

“Fillmore's Livery?” Father said. “I know it well.”

While Father asked for more particular information, Miranda's thoughts reeled. No longer an Ozark auctioneer, no longer a Boston heir, Wyatt was still who he'd been all along—an honest, hard-working, and loyal man. Miranda never could imagine living in Missouri, and she would've felt like a hypocrite seeking him when he was wealthy. But now she could appreciate him for the man he was—and that man was wonderful.

“Thank you for the information,” Father said.

Ralphie slapped his hat against his thigh before pulling it back over his head. “I didn't mean to scare her. Just thought she'd like to know.” His young eyes were still filled with concern. Miranda reached up and grasped his grimy hand.

“Thank you, Ralphie. Your news means more than you can know.”

He beamed at her before skipping away, his newspaper bag bouncing against his hip.

Wyatt was here. She could find him.

A calm determination settled over her. What would her parents think?

Her father cleared his throat. Miranda's eyes lowered as she waited for his pronouncement.

“I've never seen you quite so overcome,” he said. “I take it that the news holds more significance than one might suspect?”

Miranda pressed her lips tightly together. Would Wyatt want to see her? She realized it didn't matter, he was going to. She would find him and see if there was any way she could . . . help him. And maybe his little room wasn't so bad. Maybe she'd find a simple charm about the tenements. Maybe she'd learn that it was possible to keep a level of civility even in those dark alleys.

“I've watched you grow up, Miranda,” Father said, “always wishing that you felt more confident expressing yourself. Yet here you are, and I'm afraid the next words out of your mouth are going to mean that I've lost my little girl.”

Miranda laid her head on his shoulder, unconcerned about the questioning glances of the pedestrians streaming by. “I'm always your girl, Father, but I think I'm done being little. It's time for me to grow up. If it means facing heartbreak, then that's just the cost of being brave.”

He nodded, his chin sagging against his chest. Then, with a sigh, his head popped up. “Taking care of your grandfather is growing more and more taxing. I don't know how I'll manage him in addition to all my duties at the auction house. I've been thinking about hiring a new partner.” He squeezed her hand and his face broke into a grin. “You wouldn't have any out-of-work auctioneers among your acquaintances, would you?”

Miranda smiled so big her cheeks hurt. She threw her arms around her father's neck and squealed.

“Easy there, child. Don't assume he'll want to work for us—the man has his pride—but as for the matter of your heart, if I'm not mistaken, he'll take any opportunity to settle that issue as soon as he's able.”

“But, Father, what about the LeBlancs? Won't they be furious if you hire a man they've publically denounced?”

He shook his head. “They've done no such thing. Cornelius reports that Frederic himself bemoans the fact that the court couldn't reach a satisfactory conclusion. The way is still clear should he uncover any evidence. No, I'm not concerned about the LeBlancs learning of his employment—I'm more worried about what your grandfather will say.”

Passing through the stalls, Wyatt did a last tally of the horses. Only the bay and the dun were left. The rest had been rented out, but it was time for him to grab a bite to eat before the carriages began returning.

More thirsty than hungry, he took a long pull from the dipper that rested in the bucket outside his room. Inside this barn, he felt at home. The teeming streets outside were as foreign to him as the bottom of the ocean, but the smell of hay and horses comforted him. The dipper landed in the bucket with a splash, then he pushed through the rough wooden door beneath the hayloft. As always, his eyes landed on Grandpère LeBlanc first, hanging over the head of his metal-framed cot. The bright colors of old Grandpa's fancy clothes glowed like a lantern in the simple room, but he didn't seem to mind.

I do hope your employer doesn
't see me in here. He won't appreciate you
consorting with unsavory characters.

“Unsavory? You flatter yourself. There are men on the other side of this wall that'd sooner kill me than say
Gesundheit
when I sneeze.” He smeared a thin pat of butter over his day-old bread. That and some jerky would have to tide him over. He was saving every penny he could for a better future.

Wyatt sat on his bed, leaned against the wall, and hung his heels off the side. This wasn't so bad. He'd made friends, was appreciated by his boss, and saw new opportunities for advancement every day. No longer tied to his father's dreams for him, he was free to try his hand at any task that caught his eye—any job that brought him closer to winning Miranda.

The strict discipline it took to only buy the cheapest vittles was nothing compared to the struggle of staying away from her. Every time he stepped out of the barn, his boots seemed to carry him away, often getting him as far as the State House before he caught himself and turned back to his new home. She would be fine without him for a little longer, but he was wasting away from longing. If only he could see her, talk to her, without having to explain his situation. How tempting to don his fancy duds and act as if nothing had changed. Just march into her auction house and pick up where they'd left off, but that would be dishonest. And to present himself in his ratty work clothes wasn't an option. She didn't want to see him like that. He couldn't offer her enough.

The knock on his door came completely unexpected. His boots thudded to the ground, and the metal frame creaked as he rose. As far as he knew, Mr. Fillmore had never entered the room since he'd moved in. What would his boss think of the bewigged gentleman hanging from his wall?