Dorothy Clark (16 page)

Respect...trust...love... Respect...trust... love... The three words whispered through her mind in a rhythm that blended with the rumble of the buggy wheels as she drove away.

Chapter Twenty

S
adie creamed her freshly washed face and neck, rubbed more cream on her arms and hands, then slipped her ecru poplin dress on and shook the long skirt into place over her petticoats.

Outside birds twittered and sang their morning songs. Sunlight glowed in the east, slanted in the window and pooled on the floor at her stocking-clad feet. She tugged the bodice of the dress into place at her narrow waist, secured the joining hook then fastened the small horn buttons that marched single file up to the high collar.

A rising breeze riffled the hems of the curtains. She glanced out at the brightening sky, then looked down at the garden path. Cole would be coming soon. Her stomach quivered at the thought of facing him. She’d hidden here in her room again last night when he’d come to help her grandfather into his bed, but that couldn’t continue. Poppa and Nanna would start to wonder, though they couldn’t become any more confused than she. If she were right...Oh, she had to be wrong. Otherwise the situation would be...would be...
untenable.

She turned back to the mirror, stared at her image and frowned. She looked like a
wren.
Everything about her was brown...colorless. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown eyebrows...flat, dull
brown.
Like a piece of wood. Why couldn’t she have curly black hair like Callie? Or blue-green eyes like Willa?

And her
dress.
The kindest way to describe it was plain. And brown. Well, not quite, but it was
tan—
like the underside of a wren’s body. She eyed the high collar and tugged at the elbow-length sleeves. Her teaching position at the seminary had not lent itself to fashionable displays and her gowns were all unadorned and serviceable. Today, she wanted something more. Something flattering like Willa’s yellow gown. Or stylish like the red dress Callie had worn.

She stepped to the wardrobe and scanned the contents as if she didn’t already know perfectly well what was there. She pulled the pale green gown off its peg, held it out in front of her and studied it. Perhaps if she added a lace collar? And a bit of trim on the sleeves...

The sound of boot heels striking the porch steps floated in her open window. She glanced at the sky, still dark in the west. Cole was early again. And she was unready to go downstairs. Was that by design? And what did that matter? Either way, it showed clearly that she had been wrong in her interpretation of the way he’d looked at her. Obviously, her nerves had gotten in the way of her common sense that evening. She’d been concerned over nothing. She’d no need to hide from him—except from embarrassment.
That
was a relief.

She hung the gown back on its peg, closed the wardrobe and walked back to the washstand. She’d been concerned that—if she had been right—Cole would no longer come around when Poppa needed his help. And, of course, Nanna enjoyed his company. She didn’t want to deprive her of it. That was what had been upsetting her. Through no fault of her own—had she been right—she would have been the cause of more hurt for them.

She blew out a breath, held her arms above her head and twirled. Finally, she had figured out what had been disturbing her. It was liberating. And she’d no business envying her friends either. Didn’t it say something in the Bible about not comparing yourself to others lest you become dissatisfied? God had made her the way He chose. If that was like a wren, she would be content. She yanked off the ribbon confining her hair, shook it loose, then grabbed her brush and stroked through the long, thick mass.

The low rumble of Cole’s deep voice came up the stairs. She stopped brushing and listened. Had he noticed her absence? Was he asking after her? No matter. She looked back to the mirror and wound her hair into a thick coil on the crown of her head, jabbing in hairpins to hold it in place.

She turned away, then turned back. Why shouldn’t she indulge her own vanity? She selected a tan ribbon that matched her gown and wound it around the base of the coil, tied it into a bow and let the ends dangle down to her neck. Nice. But not enough. She stared at her reflection and sighed. If only she had a brooch. As if wishing would help! She snatched up a narrow dark-brown ribbon and fastened it around her neck with a neat bow at the front of the collar, just where her pulse had throbbed when Cole—

She whirled from the mirror and headed for the chair to put on her shoes. One was missing. She went down on her knees and found it under the bed. The distinct clicking of her grandfather’s rolling chair sounded as she put on her shoes. She was ready.

The back door opened and closed, and the sound of boot heels thumped down the porch steps and faded away. So Cole was not staying for breakfast today either. That was good. Her grandparents were becoming too dependent on him. Someday he would meet a young woman, start his own family and no longer come around.

She rose, stepped to the window and looked out toward the woods. Perhaps that was why he’d accepted the Conklins’ supper invitation instead of dining with them as usual the other night. And Chloe Conklin was probably the reason he had cut his hair and shaved off his beard. Yes, that made sense. He had made that change to his appearance after he’d stopped the Conklins’ runaway carriage, and Chloe was a very pretty young woman.

Anger knotted her stomach. So much she had once wanted from life had been stolen from her. She reached up and removed the ribbon at her throat, tossed it onto the nightstand and headed for the stairs to join her grandparents in the dining room.

* * *

“Come in, Mr. Aylward.”

Cole stepped into the bank president’s office and scanned a knowing gaze over the wood-paneled walls and bookshelves. All of the wood in the American Founders Bank of Pinewood had come from Manning Townsend’s sawmill. The door closed behind him and he made a quick assessment of the man who stepped to his side. He’d seen him around the village, but never this close up. Ezra Ryder was near to his age, an inch or so shorter, and he’d guess fit under that gray suit.

The man offered his hand. “Ezra Ryder, Mr. Aylward.” A grin slanted his lips. “In case you’re the only resident of Pinewood who doesn’t know who everyone else in town is.”

He liked the direct look in the banker’s blue eyes. “Cole Aylward.” He matched Ezra Ryder’s grin and grip.

“Have a chair, Mr. Aylward.” The banker motioned toward two chairs and walked around to seat himself behind his desk. “Now, tell me what brings you to see me?”

Friendly, but straight to business. He liked that, too. It let you know where you stood. He sat in the chair closest to the desk. “I want to make arrangements to take out a bank note for Manning Townsend. I manage his businesses since he took ill.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that. What is the amount you wish to borrow?”

“Forty dollars.”

“And when do you want it?”

“As soon as I can get Manning in here to sign for it.”

“That’s not necessary. I know you by reputation, Mr. Aylward. Your signature is all that will be required.” Ezra Ryder opened a drawer in his desk, pulled out a paper and began writing.

Cole maintained the polite expression on his face, but it took an effort.
I know you by reputation.
Your signature is all that will be required
. He felt like shouting. He’d worked so hard to overcome the stigma attached to the Aylward name and he’d succeeded. At least as far as business was concerned. He sat a little taller, listened to the scratch of the nib over the paper.

Ezra Ryder applied the blotter and turned the paper toward him. “These are the terms of repayment.” He dipped the pen in the ink bottle and held it out. “If they are agreeable, you will sign here, Mr. Aylward.” He indicated the place.

Cole leaned forward and took the pen, offering a silent
thank you
for the old Jewish storekeeper who had taken an interest in him and taught him to read and write and cipher as a kid. He read the agreement, signed his name and handed back the pen. “Would it be possible for me to get a forty-dollar draft made out to a Mr. Robert Eastman in Brunswick, New Hampshire right now? I’ll pay the fee.”

“Of course.” Ezra Ryder blotted his signature and set the note aside, pulled another paper from another drawer and began to write. “I was going to take a ride out to the Townsend place later in the hopes of seeing you, Mr. Aylward.”

“Me?”
The response was startled out of him. He frowned. “Mind if I ask what for?”

Ezra Ryder blew on the paper, handed it to him, then leaned back in his chair and fixed his gaze on him. “I wanted to talk with you about this rolling chair you made for Manning Townsend.”

“The rolling chair? How do you know about that?”

The banker laughed and leaned forward. “Mrs. Ryder is a childhood friend of Sadie Spencer. The subject came up when they were visiting the other day.”

“I see.” He frowned and scrubbed his hand across the back of his neck to stall for time, but couldn’t figure where the conversation was headed. “What did you want to know about the chair?”

“Everything.” Ezra Ryder rose and came around his desk, turned the other chair to face him, sat down and leaned forward. “Look, Cole—do you mind if I call you Cole?”

“No.” He looked straight in the banker’s eyes, saw interest and subdued excitement and waited.

“Then I’m Ezra. Now, as I was saying...Miss Spencer told Mrs. Ryder this tale about you making a chair with wheels and gears and a lever that Manning Townsend pulls to propel himself about. Is that true?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that, but yes.”

Ezra shot to his feet and paced around the small office. “So Manning Townsend, who has no use of an arm and a leg, can move himself around by using your chair?”

“Yes.”

Ezra dropped back into the chair and leaned toward him. “Can you make another?”

* * *

There was no sewing for her to repair tonight. Nanna had enjoyed a good day. Sadie gathered the checkers off the game table and put them in the drawer, eyeing the candle in the pewter candlestick sitting on the game table’s pull-out shelf. It had started guttering and needed to be replaced. But the candles were in the butler’s pantry, and that meant she had to walk down the hallway past Poppa’s bedroom. Past Cole.

She stepped to the doorway and listened, then turned back into the sitting room. He was still with her grandfather. There was no mistaking his deep voice. She would get the new candle tomorrow.

A quick glance around the tidied room showed there was nothing to do now but wait. She crossed to the chest under the front window, snuffed the oil lamp, then moved to the table at the end of the settee and did the same. Darkness settled into the room, broken only by the golden pools of light from the candles on either end of the mantel. She would snuff them and go upstairs as soon as Cole left.

She brushed a tendril of hair back off her forehead and wandered about the room, stopping by the window beside the fireplace and gazing out into the dark night. How mighty was the hand that hung that sliver of moon and the stars.

The melancholy she’d been fighting all day washed over her. “Almighty God, thank You for blessing Willa and Callie with love and happiness. I’m truly happy for them.” Her throat squeezed, choking her words. “I know I’m only a mortal and should not concern myself with things above my understanding...But, Lord, why have I been denied my dream? Why have I been given fear in place of love, and turmoil in place of happiness and contentment? What—”

“Sadie.”

Cole.
Had he overheard her? Must she continually embarrass herself in front of him? She blinked her eyes clear of moisture and turned, thankful she’d snuffed the lamps. “Yes?”

He started into the room, then stopped. “I’ve come to thank you—again.”

“Thank me?” She lifted her chin and stepped away from the window. “I’ve done nothing.”

“But you have. You told your friend Mrs. Ryder about the rolling chair I made for your grandfather.”

It was so unexpected she forgot and looked at him. His dark gray eyes were fastened on her. The nervous quivering took her. She swallowed and wiped her palms down the sides of her long skirt, averting her gaze. “I don’t understand. What has my talking to Callie to do with anything?”

“I went to the bank today to take out the note and send for the clapboard machine.”

She looked back at him, the question in her eyes.

“Yes, I was given the note—and the bank draft. It’s on its way to Mr. Eastman.”

His smile quickened her pulse. She turned and moved back by the fireplace. “I’m so glad. But what—”

“Ezra questioned me about the chair.”

His boot heel thumped against the floor.
He was coming into the room.
She concentrated on what he’d said. There was more—and it was good. She could hear it in his voice.

His boot heel thumped against the wood again. She took a breath.

“He asked me if I could make another one.” His boot brushed over the carpet.

He was getting close.... “Why?” The word came out a whisper.

“He said he’d never seen or heard of such a chair and he wants to take it to New York City to show to some businessmen he knows. He’s certain they’ll be interested in selling the rolling chairs in their stores.”

“Cole! That’s
wonderful.
I’m so—” She spun around, looked up. The lamplight shone on his face, made a tiny shadow of the dent in his chin, brightened his eyes. His eyes... She tried to swallow, to speak, but her mouth was dry. She grabbed a handful of her long skirt to keep from raising her hand to cover the wild, breath-stealing dance of her heart. “—happy for you.”

“Thank you, Sadie.”

His low, husky voice stole the strength from her knees. She braced her hand on a chair back and nodded. The silence that stretched between them felt like forever. At last he turned away.

She watched him walk from the room, his back straight, his shoulders squared. His footsteps faded away down the hall, and the back door opened and closed.

Her knees gave way and she sank to the floor, moving her head slowly from side to side, denying what her heart whispered.