To Mend a Dream (7 page)

CHAPTER SIX

F
OUR DAYS LATER, THE FABRICS FOR ALL WINDOWS RECEIVING
new treatments had been chosen, and Savannah had measured each of the windows numerous times, both for new shades and draperies. Then she'd measured them again to confirm her calculations. Save for one room she'd particularly avoided.

As she stood outside of her old bedroom, Miss Sinclair's current quarters, she felt much like the girl depicted in a novel by Lewis Carroll she'd recently read to Carolyne. Only there was no White Rabbit racing by with his pocket watch, and she knew with certainty she wasn't about to tumble down into a curious hall full of locked doors of all sizes as young Alice had. Still . . . she felt a hesitance she couldn't account for. Except that for all the dreams she'd dreamed in this bedroom, for all the paths she'd thought her life might someday take, very few had come to fruition.

Hearing footsteps on the staircase, she guessed Miss Sinclair had returned early from her shopping trip, and she hastened to her task, smiling to herself as she playfully checked the bedside table for a tiny key like in the story.

As she measured the windows and recorded the dimensions in
her notebook, she waited for Miss Sinclair or Mrs. Pruitt to pop into the bedroom at any moment. No matter where she went in the house in recent days, one of the two women always seemed to be either in the room with her or in another close by. At this rate, she could come here every day for the rest of her life and never find what her father had hidden.

She glanced about the room, noting the subtle changes from when she'd last lived here. The entire house had been given a thorough cleaning. Yet it was comforting to still see familiar scuff marks on walls and slight dents in the wooden floor that she'd personally authored.

But the lacy undergarments peeking from the wardrobe and the black silk nightgown draped over the chair in the corner were most definitely new additions. She didn't even want to think about whether Mr. Bedford had seen them.

And yet, she did wonder.

Purposefully refocusing, she moved to the next window.

Draperies for the dining room were already being sewn in the shop in town. She'd stopped by before coming this morning to make certain her coworkers understood the instructions on the ruching and trim. For a Monday morning, and so early an hour, the shop had been in a flurry. But a happy one.

To say Miss Hildegard was ecstatic with how the project was progressing was like saying a fish tended to prefer water. And why not? Miss Sinclair was asking for nothing but the best. The cost of the rich blue silk for the dining-room draperies was more than Savannah earned in a year, never mind the beading and tassels. For that reason alone, she hoped Aidan Bedford was a wealthy man. Because his fiancée was spending money almost faster than she could keep tally.

But his generosity to his future wife would also pay for Andrew's
new leg braces.
“They'll be much better and less cumbersome than your old ones,”
Andrew had quoted the doctor.

So thank you, Mr. Bedford.

Though, much to her relief, she hadn't been alone with him since that day by her grandparents' old cabin. She'd seen him in the house along with Miss Sinclair or Mrs. Pruitt, and he'd acted completely normal. Whether it was just an act or he truly hadn't noticed how taken with him she'd been that day, she was grateful. Either way.

She stood back and eyed the double windows, still loving the curtains she'd sewn years earlier, although the blue-and-yellow floral was a tad girlish now. But they'd soon be gone. Because next on the list were the draperies for this room—soon to become the guest quarters—once Miss Sinclair approved the design. Miss Sinclair had requested that every room in the house be measured for floor coverings as well. Carpet was to be installed wall to wall in some of the rooms, and new Persian rugs had been ordered for others.

Savannah had identified the woman's taste early on, a skill honed from years of learning to set aside her own preferences and see the project through her clients' eyes. Miss Sinclair loved everything French and expensive and “unlike anything Nashville has ever seen.” Savannah found it quietly amusing that so many of Miss Sinclair's “unique conceptions” were nearly identical to drawings in the latest editions of
Godey's
,
Harper's
, or
La Mode Illustrée.

Personally, she appreciated fashion as much as anyone. But why was it that so many women, instead of listening to their own vision and creating a style unique to them, that fit their personal taste, let their style be dictated by someone in another part of the world? Say, Paris, New York, or . . . Boston.

After all, a home belonged to the people who lived in it. Not to the world.

But she'd also learned in recent years that a house didn't necessarily make a home. People did, and the love they shared. Wherever Carolyne and Andrew were, that was where her home was now, and she was determined to be grateful, however challenging that was at present.

Certain she'd heard someone on the stairs moments earlier, she crossed to the door and peered up and down the hallway. But the corridor was empty. Apparently she'd been mistaken. Seizing the opportunity, she combed the room for loose floorboards or ill-fitting bricks in the hearth, just as she'd done in most of the other rooms in the house. She even reached beneath the larger pieces of furniture to see if her father had somehow secured the box to the underside of—

“Miss Anderson?”

Hearing Aidan Bedford's voice, Savannah froze on all fours in front of the wardrobe. Then she did the only thing she could think of: quickly tossed her measuring tape underneath. The round cylinder rolled clear to the back.

CHAPTER SEVEN

S
AVANNAH LOOKED UP, HAVING NO NEED TO WONDER IF HER
face was flushed. “Good afternoon, Mr. Bedford! How are you, sir?” And why on earth was the man home from work so early?

Still in his suit, and looking quite the successful young attorney, he tilted his head as though to better match the angle of hers. “I'm well, Miss Anderson. Question is . . . how are you?”

“Fine. Other than my measuring tape having gone for a little stroll.”

“Oh, please, allow me.” He crossed the room and knelt, facing her, then reached beneath the wardrobe. Just as swiftly, he grimaced and pulled his hand back out.

Savannah winced. “A spider?”

He shook his head, then grinned. “A joke.” He reached beneath the wardrobe again and a second later dropped the measuring tape safely into her palm.

Savannah laughed, finding his humor a little off center. And liking it.

He offered his assistance as she stood. His hand was warm and strong. And spoken for. Startled by the thought, she tucked the measuring tape into the pocket of her skirt and her hand along with it. Then she realized . . .

She'd never had a man visit her room before. At least not one who
wasn't a family member. It felt a little . . . impolitic. Especially when all she could think about at the moment was how striking Aidan Bedford was. With his dark hair cropped close, just above the collar, and his jaw closely shaven yet showing signs of tomorrow's beard, he had an air of sophistication about him. Some might even say arrogance. Which fit with what she knew of Northerners.

Yet he seemed polite enough and had a perceptiveness about him that must certainly aid his profession. An attorney-at-law, the man was no doubt good at what he did.

Which, thinking of what she'd just been doing, only intensified her unease.

His gaze moved about the room, briefly catching on the nightgown before he looked back at her. His expression sobered. “May I ask, Miss Anderson, what you're doing in this room?”

She eyed him. “I'm measuring for draperies and carpeting, sir.”

His eyes narrowed. “I was under the impression that
my
bedroom was the only room receiving alterations on this floor.”

She opened her mouth, then quickly closed it. It wouldn't be the first time a wife—or almost wife—had been caught redecorating a bit more than she'd admitted to her husband. Which made her wonder if Miss Sinclair had told him yet about the stonemason or the marble fountain to be situated in the front courtyard. Once the courtyard was designed and built.

Mr. Bedford smiled. “I'm sorry, Miss Anderson. Please forgive the statement. It's clear you're only doing as you were instructed.”

“Thank you, sir.” Seeing the tension behind his eyes, she heard it in his voice, too, which prodded her uncertainty. She might have been tempted to let it pass if not for the order she'd told Mrs. Hildegard to place for fabric last Friday. An order worth several hundred dollars. Savannah felt sick inside.

Miss Sinclair had guaranteed the order with Mr. Bedford's name, and Savannah had accepted. But if for any reason the woman changed her mind, Savannah knew it would cost her her job. And Andrew's leg braces. And her ability to pay the outstanding debt at the mercantile.

“Mr. Bedford . . .” She tried to soften her query with a smile. “All the fabric for the draperies Miss Sinclair commissioned has been ordered. Which means the shop will be responsible for the bill if—”

“Don't worry, Miss Anderson. I'll guarantee whatever obligation Miss Sinclair has made.”

Savannah breathed a little easier. “Thank you, sir.”

“But in the future, I would prefer all orders be paid for in cash.”

Understanding his meaning, Savannah nodded. “Yes, sir.”

He turned to go, then paused. “And just where is Miss Sinclair at present?”

Savannah hesitated. “She left awhile earlier, sir. She said she was going into town.”

He stared, waiting, as though certain there was more.

“To do some shopping,” she added quietly.

He nodded, and she noticed then the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes, as though something were weighing on him. Or had been for some time. But Aidan Bedford's business being none of hers, unless it involved fabric or carpet of some sort, she offered a quick curtsy, gathered her notebook and pen, and took her leave.