Leslie LaFoy (8 page)

“How do you live with that?”

Lindsay smiled tightly. “Rather uncomfortably. Agatha and Henry, on the other hand …”

“So if at dinner this evening I happen to look up and see a group of men carrying the furniture out of the drawing room I should—”

“Ask someone to pass you the bread and mention that you think the weather is quite nice for this time of the year.”

“What if they come for the dining-room table? And the plates and silverware?”

“Oh,” she replied blithely, “that would force the issue. Having your meal carted away does command attention and would make one wonder why it's happening. And one would naturally suspect that it would be because of finances. Rather than discuss that, though, Henry would likely insult someone and a screaming match would ensue. Agatha would become hysterical for some reason or another. In dealing with the two of them, the fact that the furniture is being taken away would be ignored. And when the final door is slammed, the MacPhaulls will have avoided any discussion of the fact that financial matters are less than perfectly ideal. As I said, Mr. Stennett, we do not talk about unpleasant realities.”

He expelled a hard breath and cocked a brow. “The MacPhaulls are in for a rude awakening. There's no way I can pretend that the circumstances are anything other than what they are. Billy died and left me to sweep up the debris. I intend to do it.”

Lindsay shrugged and looked out the carriage window, observing, “Then you're in for a few rude awakenings of your own, Mr. Stennett.”

B
EN
T
IPTON WAS
—although he tried to hide it—vastly relieved to learn that the change in company ownership didn't mean a change in his employment. He produced the books and stood ready to answer any questions Jackson might have. The ledgers were neat, Ben's columns straight and his numbers precisely formed. None of that made looking at the totals any easier. Lindsay had stood at the window for the entire two hours, presumably watching the traffic on
the street pass by. Whatever her thoughts on the task at hand, she studiously kept them to herself.

Jackson leaned back in the chair and contemplated the tin ceiling. “Ben?”

On the other side of the desk, Ben tore his gaze away from Lindsay and straightened his spine a notch. “Yes, sir?”

“In your estimation, when did the wagon begin to lose the wheel?”

He blinked, rocked back on his heels for a second, and then recovered enough to cock a pale brow and say, “I beg your pardon, sir?”

“When did the MacPhaull Company begin to move from the black into the red,” Lindsay clarified, her gaze still fixed on the world beyond the office.

“I'm the bookkeeper, sir,” Ben quickly countered, casting a glance her way. “It's not my place to offer such observations.”

Because they're not going to reflect well on my employer's business judgment
, Jackson silently added for him. It occurred to him that Lindsay had probably maintained her strict silence because she knew darn good and well what the books were telling him and didn't want to compound her embarrassment. In a perfect world, he would have anticipated the possibility of such an awkward situation and insisted on coming to the office without her. But the world wasn't perfect and he really hadn't expected to see anything approaching the disaster that had been so neatly and clearly laid out in front of him. But since the ugly truth had to be faced and put into words sooner or later, sooner was probably better.

“That might not have been the case in the past, Ben, but now's now and I want your opinion.”

The bookkeeper hesitated, glanced at Lindsay again, and then quietly cleared his throat. “I'll have to give it some thought, Mr. Stennett. The matter has never occurred to me and I'd prefer to give you a fully considered speculation later rather than a hastily formed and thus inaccurate one now.”

“Fair enough.”
And a damn fine job of dodging there, Ben.
“Your books look to be in excellent order. I can't see that I need you for anything else today. I'm assuming that
your wife is going to be putting your dinner on the table shortly and would like to have you there to eat it while it's still warm.”

Ben Tipton's shoulders went slightly less square and his smile seemed a little less forced than it had been all afternoon. “I'm not married, sir. But Mrs. McAbee, my housekeeper and cook, does expect me to present myself in a timely manner for all meals.”

“Then head on out for the day.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stennett.” He turned toward the window. “Miss Lindsay,” he said softly, “I hope that Mr. Patterson improves rapidly. If there's anything I can do, please don't hesitate to ask.”

Looking over her shoulder, she smiled stoically. “Thank you, Ben. I appreciate your concern.”

With an abbreviated bow to her, Ben took his leave, pulling the door half closed on his way out. Jackson wryly smiled at the gesture; how interesting that Ben thought to balance the need for privacy and propriety.

“He's conscientious and very loyal,” Lindsay said quietly. “Thank you for assuring him that his job is secure. Given the times, it would be terribly difficult for him to find another.”

“No point in cleaning house just to clean house. He's meticulous and knows the books. Both are assets I can appreciate.”

She didn't respond and in the silence he turned the ledger pages until he reached those concerning the drafts against owner equity. The numbers were the same as the last time he'd looked at them. “Lindsay? How do you pay for the food on your table?”

Lindsay leaned her forehead against the window glass and closed her eyes. Why had he started with the personal aspects of it all? The details of business transactions would have been so much easier to talk about. The coward's way was avoidance, though, and so she gave him the plain truth as dispassionately as she could, determined that he never know how big the knots were in her stomach. “I've been discreetly selling some of my mother's personal property, as well as household items we neither need nor want.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Six months.”

“And how much longer do you think you can keep doing it?”

“Perhaps another six, depending on the availability of buyers and the prices I can get from them.”

“And at the end of six months or the absence of buyers—whichever comes first—what are you going to do? Have you given that any thought?”

“Then I don't see that I'll have any choice but to begin liquidating some of the less profitable company assets,” she answered, giving him the answer she always used to reassure herself. But even as she uttered the words, she realized that her circumstances had changed so drastically that the strategy was no longer possible.

“Or at least that was my thinking when I actually owned them,” she amended, unable to hide her resentment. “Now that I don't, I really have no idea what course to take. I'm sure something will present itself; it always does.” In her mind's eye, she saw a battered wagon heading west into the sunset, a wind-beaten version of herself urging a pair of raw-boned oxen to take just one more step before dying. Damn William Lindsay MacPhaull. Damn him and his black-hearted minion, Jackson Stennett.

“How does Richard Patterson pay his way? I can see by the books that he hasn't taken a salary in over a year.”

Lindsay swallowed back her anger and forced dispassion into her voice and demeanor. “Richard has made some investments of his own over the years. I don't know precisely what they are, but they're apparently providing a sufficient enough return that he hasn't needed his salary from the MacPhaull Company. I've insisted, though, that we keep track of the money due him so that he can be paid in full when the Panic ends.”

“How long has he been managing the company? Since Billy hightailed it for Texas?”

“Even before that; years before I was born. As I recall the story, my father hired Richard before Agatha and Henry were born.”

“And so he's been riding along, doing his job out of a sense of loyalty to the company?”

She looked over her shoulder at him. As he had when questioning Ben, he leaned back in the chair and stared up at the ceiling. As she had countless times already that afternoon, she tried to see Richard sitting in his wheeled chair behind the desk instead of Jackson Stennett and couldn't. Angry with herself for the betrayal, she answered, “I think, Mr. Stennett, that it's more a case of Richard feeling a sense of obligation to my welfare.”

His gaze slipped downward to meet hers. “What about Henry's and Agatha's welfare?”

“Richard and I have a long-standing difference of opinion in that regard,” she admitted, looking back out at the street, her heart racing at the intensity of his attention. “Richard's frequently argued that they expect too much and give nothing in return. I, on the other hand, have issues of conscience with which to contend. They are my brother and sister.”

“What say do they have in the company affairs?”

“None,” she answered crisply. “It's as they prefer it. And to be perfectly honest, it's a blessing that they don't want to be involved. As Richard is fond of saying, neither one of them has the sense God gave a goose. On the one or two occasions when Henry made an effort to be a businessman …” She shook her head and quietly sighed. “The Todasca Canal Company is one of his projects. You've seen the report on its current status.”

“Do either of them have personal investments to provide separate income, like Richard?”

“Not that I'm aware of.” She felt rather than saw his gaze leave her, and her pulse began to slow in the long moment of silence hanging between them.

“I'd like for you to invite Henry to dinner tomorrow night. And make sure Agatha will be there, too.”

Oh, dear God. He had no idea what he was truly suggesting. She gripped the windowsill in an effort to steady her nerves as her heartbeat roared in her ears. “A family dinner is not a good idea.”

“Good idea or not, it's the best way to go about telling them that their fortunes have changed.”

“You can't force me to extend the invitations,” she countered angrily.

“No, sure can't,” he drawled. “But you can either have them over to dinner so they can be told in person, or I'll dictate a letter to Ben and have it delivered through the post. The choice of how they hear the news is up to you. But hear it they will.”

Lindsay closed her eyes and slowly counted to ten. How she hated him for the way he backed her into corners, for how he appeared to give her a choice when there really was none at all. Staring out at the street again, she asked through clenched teeth, “Shall I include Edith and the children in the invitation?”

“Edith, yes, but not the children. I suspect that things are going to be said that children probably shouldn't hear.”

That children shouldn't hear?
She
didn't want to hear the things that would be said. “Mr. Stennett,” she began, turning away from the window.

“Will you please stop calling me Mr. Stennett?” he interrupted, abruptly rising from the chair. “My name is Jackson. Shorten it to Jack, if you like.”

She watched him step around the desk and begin to pace the width of the office, his hands stuffed deep into his trouser pockets. She'd point out later the ramifications of addressing him by his Christian name. At the moment, she had more pressing concerns.

“I realize that the company assets are yours to do with as you please,” she said, “but I ask that you take into consideration the fact that Henry and Agatha have absolutely no ability to make a living on their own. They have no skills of any sort. If you were to cut them off from MacPhaull income, they'd be destitute within a mere thirty days. Please have a conscience and remember that Henry does have a wife and three children.”

“How old is Henry?”

“Forty,” she replied crisply, seeing the direction he intended to go and resenting the inherent soundness of it.

“Agatha is thirty-eight. And in the event that you weren't paying attention in the carriage, I'm twenty-five.”

“And if I were to cut you off from MacPhaull income, what would you do?”

Probably die somewhere on a godforsaken piece of prairie.
The idea was too full of hopelessness and self-pity and she rebelled against it. “I've developed a sufficient number of business relationships over the years that I could prevail on the kindness of someone for employment as a manager,” she countered defiantly. “I'd find a modest home to purchase and take Mrs. Beechum with me. I'll do quite well on my own. You needn't strain your conscience on my behalf.”

He stopped his pacing and considered her, his head tilted to the side. One corner of his smile quirked up. “How is it that you turned out to be so independent, while Henry and Agatha didn't?”

“That's a puzzle whose solution has always eluded Richard,” she supplied, deliberately sidestepping the issue. “If you should happen upon the answer, I'm sure he'd love to hear it.”

His smile faded. “The odds are that he's not going to get better, you know,” he said gently. “I've seen this before. He'll likely just lie there in that bed, fading a little bit every day until he and everyone else is praying for the end to come.”

Her throat closed, leaving her able only to nod in mute agreement and understanding of the only real certainty that lay ahead.

“Does he have any family?” Stennett asked softly.

Lindsay swallowed and forced words past the bruised and aching tightness. “None that I know of. If he has brothers and sisters, I've never heard him speak of them.”

“No children?”

“He never married.”

“Well, not to be indelicate,” he drawled, “but having children doesn't necessarily depend on taking a walk to the altar, you know.”

Lindsay clenched her teeth, angry at the very suggestion
that Richard could be so callous and irresponsible. “To my knowledge,” she replied icily, “no claims of patrimony have ever been made against him.”

He paused for a second or two, studying her, before he slowly asked, “Does Otis Vanderhagen handle Richard's personal legal matters?”

She stared at him, stunned, as his words echoed through her brain. “You're a ghoul!” she declared, stepping forward, her hands balled into fists at her sides. “Richard lies dying a hideous death and you're eyeing his estate!”