Beauty for Ashes (39 page)

Philip pushed his plate away. “I daresay you would be, sitting on that fortune from your blockade-running days.”

Griff laughed. “I did all right, but the rumors of my vast fortune are highly exaggerated. Luckily, I already have everything I need to be happy.”

Philip went to the study and returned with a paper that he held out to Griff. “Here’s a list of things Mother wanted you to have. Father insisted that we keep them here until your return.”

Griff’s throat tightened at the sight of his mother’s small, neat handwriting, the ink faded now with age. He hadn’t let himself think of her very much in recent years, but now he remembered his mother as the epitome of a Southern lady—submissive, delicate, and except for rare occasions when she attempted to influence her husband’s choices, silent to the bone. At nineteen she had married Charles Rutledge and spent her life in the separate sphere of women, an ethereal presence in her sons’ lives, but always a loving one.

He scanned the list of silver pieces, jewelry, and personal items. Charlotte Venable Rutledge had wanted Griff to have the small things that meant the most to her. That legacy was more than enough for him.

“You’re entitled to it all.” Philip poked the fire. “You’re the eldest son. Mother left it to you. But I wish you wouldn’t take the sapphire and diamond ring.” He smiled fondly at Susan. “I have plans for it.”

Griff felt a stab of dismay. Father was barely cold and in the ground, and already an argument was brewing. He hated to appear greedy and unaccommodating, but his mother had worn that ring until her death. It was a little piece of her. And the stones reminded him of Carrie’s clear blue eyes. Lately he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

He shook his head. “I don’t want to appear selfish, but I can’t part with it.” He grinned as an extraordinary thought struck him. “Turns out, I may have plans for it myself.”

THIRTY-TWO

“Come on in here, girl.” Mrs. Whitcomb held the door open and motioned Carrie into the Verandah’s dusty parlor. “Land’s sakes, but you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Carrie handed the older woman the loaves of bread. She covered the jewelry box with the towel and set the basket aside. “I’m glad to see you too.”

Mrs. Whitcomb plopped onto the settee in the parlor and picked up her knitting. “Things haven’t been the same around here since you and Rosaleen left.”

Carrie’s heart jolted. With everything that had happened lately, she hadn’t had time to think about Rosaleen. About the near certainty that the woman was Sophie’s mother. About the effect such news would have on Sophie and on Ada. About what Nate must be feeling.

“Have you heard from Rosaleen since she left town?”

“Not a blessed word.” Mrs. Whitcomb shook her head. “I could wring that woman’s neck for the way she treated Nate Chastain. She used him is all. And the poor man is taking it hard.” She patted Carrie’s hand. “But let’s not talk about her. Tell me, how are Mary and the baby?”

“They’re well. James Henry is growing like a weed.”

Mrs. Whitcomb’s knitting needles clicked as she started a new row of stitches. “It’s such a shame your poor brother didn’t live to see that child. Tell me, Carrie. How are you getting on?”

“To tell you the truth, things are just about as bad as they can be. I’m selling off some land—if Wat Stevens still wants it.”

“That’s too bad. Henry Bell set a lot of store by that farm of his.” She regarded Carrie over the top of her spectacles. “Whatever you do, don’t let Wat cheat you, girl. He’s a shrewd one. And he has the scruples of a horse trader.”

Carrie nodded. “I’m on my way to the bank. I’m hoping Mr. Gilman will advise me on what the land is worth.”

Mrs. Whitcomb rose. “That’s a smart idea. That man has a heart of stone when it comes to lending money, but he won’t steer you wrong. You got time for tea?”

“I’d love some, but I’m afraid I don’t have much time. Maybe another day?”

“Whenever you’re in town, stop by. My new tenants keep to themselves. It’s lonely here since Rachel moved to North Carolina and Lucy lit out for the west.”

Carrie smiled at the mention of the irrepressible Lucy. “Is she happy in Montana?”

“I’ve had only one letter.” The innkeeper chuckled. “I reckon that could signify she’s either too happy to write or too miserable. But I suspect she’s busy. Ranchin’ ain’t an easy life—as I am sure Ada Caldwell can tell you.”

“Ada loves it, though.”

“Ada would love any place Wyatt Caldwell hangs his hat. I swear, I never have seen two people more in love than them two. Well, you take care and I’ll see you next week. Maybe then you can stay longer.”

Leaving the Verandah, Carrie hurried along the sidewalk to the bank, her basket bumping against her hip. When she passed the post office, the clerk tapped on the window and motioned her inside. She pushed open the door.

“Got a package for you, Miz Daly. From that photographer feller up in Buffalo.” He handed her a flat envelope. “The one that was here taking pictures of folks during Race Day.”

“I remember.” Both she and the boys had been in high spirits that day. Amazing how one’s life could go from light to darkness in the blink of an eye. She tucked the package into her basket. “Thank you.”

“No trouble. And, Miz Daly? I want to say again how sorry I am about Henry. He was a good man.”

“Yes, he was.” She left the post office and started to the bank.

“Carrie?” Deborah Patterson hobbled toward her, her good arm outstretched in greeting. “I tried to catch you at the Verandah just now, but you’d already left.”

Carrie clasped her friend’s good hand. They’d seen too little of each other these past weeks. “How are you?”

“Very well. It’s Mr. Chastain I’m worried about.”

“What’s the matter with Nate? Is he ill?” With a start she realized she hadn’t seen him since Christmas. Not even when Henry died. Odd indeed.

Deborah drew her onto the bench outside the barbershop. “He’s fine in body, as far as I know. It’s the dear man’s spirit I’m worried about.” She nodded to a farm wife headed for the mercantile. “For a while after his wife took off, he started coming to church every Sunday. But he hasn’t been to services in nearly a month.”

“Neither have I. I know I should. Mary and I take turns reading Scripture on Sundays, but it isn’t the same.”

“No one expected you to come so far in the middle of winter, especially with a little baby.” Deborah patted Carrie’s hand. “Besides, our Lord says that when two or three gather in his name, he’s there too. But now that the weather is improving—”

The train whistle sounded. Mr. Gilman drove up to the bank and got out of his rig. Carrie clasped Deborah’s hand. “I’d love to talk longer, but I have business at the bank.”

Deborah nodded. “I wish you’d go see Mr. Chastain. He needs a friend.”

“I will. Soon.”

“But he’s hurting now. Please say you’ll go, just for a moment.”

Carrie studied Deborah’s face. How did she retain such love and trust in God when life had given her every reason not to? “All right. I’ll go now. Before I see Mr. Gilman.”

“I knew you would.” Deborah smiled and stood. “I must go. Daniel’s waiting for me to help ready the church for Sunday’s service. He’s surely wondering what happened to me.”

She waved and headed up the street. Carrie picked up her basket and crossed to the bookshop. The door bell chimed softly as she went in. She glanced around. The curtain was drawn against the light. Books lay in untidy piles against the walls. The shelves held a jumble of books, chipped coffee mugs, papers, flattened cartons, and empty sacks. Half of the hand-lettered labels she’d made were missing. She stared, sick with disbelief. All her work, destroyed.

“Nate?” Standing on tiptoe, she peered into the gloom.

He shuffled to the counter, India at his heels. He fumbled in his pocket for his spectacles and put them on. “Carrie. What do you want?”

“I don’t want anything. I was in town and realized I hadn’t seen you for a while. How have you been?”

He waved one hand. “What do you think?”

She wanted to cry. “Oh, Nate, what has happened to you?”

“Rosaleen Dupree happened to me, that’s what.”

“I take it she hasn’t come back.”

“No, and I hope she doesn’t.” He indicated a thick stack of papers on the desk beneath the window. “Can’t make heads or tails of my account books. And money is missing from my bank account too.”

“You don’t think she stole it?”

“Maybe she paid off my creditors with it, but I sure can’t find a record of that.”

“Well, if she didn’t pay them, you’ll hear about it sooner or later.” She opened the curtain, tidied a stack of books, and brushed at the dusty counters with her fingers. What a mess.

“Leave it.” Nate covered her hand with his own. “I have coffee in the back. Want some?”

Deborah was right. Nate needed her. Mr. Gilman—and Wat Stevens—would wait. “All right.”

He filled their cups and they sat by the window, she in the chair, he perched on the corner of the desk. She couldn’t help noticing the dark circles beneath his eyes. He’d lost weight too.

He glanced at her basket. “Still baking bread for Mrs. Whitcomb?”

“Yes. I delivered an order this morning.”

“I’m sorry about Henry. I should have paid you a call.” He gulped his coffee. “I don’t know why I didn’t.”

“That’s all right. Deborah Patterson delivered the ham you sent. I appreciate it, Nate.”

He nodded. “I should have done more to help you. Not that I have any money, but there are other things—”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

He toyed with his empty cup. “Do you ever regret the way things turned out? Between us, I mean.”

She scooped India into her lap. “The night you brought Rosaleen to the Verandah—”

“I made a mess of telling you about the marriage. I’ve regretted it ever since.”

“It was a shock. But then I realized that the plans we made grew out of other people’s expectations rather than our own.”

“I thought that too, at first. But now I realize how deeply I cared for you. I reckon I made a mess of telling you that too.”

“Yes, you did.” She smiled. “But really, it’s all right. I suppose I took you for granted too.”

He nodded. “It’s dreadful, isn’t it? Being without the person you love. I never understood just how much you missed Frank, but now—”

He took her hand, and alarm bells sounded in her head. Was he about to kiss her? She set India onto the floor and stood. “Nate, you mustn’t—”

“Carrie?”

“You’re married now. And I—”

“I know. You’re in love with Rutledge. I saw it in your face the day Henry and Mary got married. Whatever chance I might have had with you disappeared the day he got off the train.”

“I was going to say that I hope you won’t let Rosaleen’s absence ruin the good life you built here. That I treasure you as the good and dear friend you’ve always been. As I hope you will continue to be.”

“I see.” He blinked as if waking from a dream and picked up their cups. “Well. Just . . . look at this place, will you? I reckon I’d best get to work. Get the ledger sorted out.”

“I wish I had time to help.”

“Nope. You saved my bacon once, and I let all your hard work go to waste. It’s time to stop feeling sorry for myself and get on with things.” He smiled, looking more like the old Nate. “Friends?”

“Always.” She kissed his cheek and picked up her basket. “I should go.”

Five minutes later she was seated across from Mr. Gilman. He listened intently while she outlined her plan to sell off some land.

“I need some advice on what to charge.”

He rubbed one hand across his face. “That’s a hard question. Bea Goldston sold off her land in Two Creeks for six dollars an acre. But that was before this depression got so bad. These days there are plenty of folks who already have more land than they know what to do with. No sense in farming it with prices as low as they are.”

“I see.” She opened the jewel case and set it on his desk. “Then I need to sell these. We—Mary and I—thought they’d make a nice present for Mrs. Gilman.”

He picked up the bracelet and turned it toward the light coming through his office window. “It’s a nice little trinket.”

“A trinket? These have been in Mary Stanhope’s family for three generations.”

He fingered one of the earbobs. “That doesn’t make them worth anything.”

“But they’re rubies. Set in gold. They must be worth something.”

He fished a pair of spectacles from his pocket and put them on. He placed the necklace on his white handkerchief, unfastened the clasp, and turned it over. He picked up his letter opener and made a tiny mark on the clasp. A sliver of the metal curled onto the handkerchief. He pointed. “See, underneath this gold plate is plain old tin.”

“But the rubies—”

“Are made of colored paste. I’m sorry. These are worthless.”

Fakes. She swallowed. “Are you sure?”

He returned the jewels to the case. “Over the years I’ve bought more than a few baubles for my missus. I’ve learned how to tell imitations from the real thing.”