To Mend a Dream (10 page)
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.
T
HE 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”âAidan hurried to finish, recognizing by the narrowing of her eyes that she was gearing up for battleâ“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”âher voice falteredâ“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”âhe pressed a parting kiss to her foreheadâ“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, andâ
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 britches, 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.”
S
AVANNAH 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.”
“Better.” She smiled, then looked up. “Secure them there and we'll be done for the day.” And none too soon. Since Miss Sinclair had returned to Boston, Mr. Bedford kept longer office hours in town
and was rarely home before half past five. She always made it a point to be gone by then.
Although some days he surprised her by meeting her in his carriage as she walked back to town. Each time he insisted on taking her the rest of the way and acted the perfect gentleman. She enjoyed talking to him, and his slightly tilted humor always found its mark with her. She only hoped Miss Sinclair was deserving of such a man.
And that perhaps God had a man just like him for
her
someday.
The last two weeks had been so very pleasant working here, just her and Mrs. Pruitt. She felt as though God had given her a gift. Time to say good-bye to her childhood home and time to touch, one last time, all the tangible reminders of her family lineage.
