To Mend a Dream (9 page)

“Yes, Miss Sinclair. There's a . . . Widows' and Children's Home in Nashville that might be able to make use of the furniture. I could speak with the home's director, if you wish. But are you certain Mr. Bedford doesn't wish to retain any of it?”

Aidan's appreciation for the young woman increased tenfold.

“There's no need to mention any of this to Mr. Bedford, Miss Anderson. I'm still choosing the last of the pieces, but I'd prefer the new furniture be a surprise for him. Do you understand?”

Aidan rubbed the back of his neck, the muscles taut. Oh, it would
be a surprise all right. Or would've been. If she'd managed the purchase. Which she certainly wouldn't now.

Work in recent days had been unrelenting. Regardless of the personal grudge people in this town held against Northerners—to date, he'd been called arrogant, aggressive, and brutish—it appeared they desired those traits in an attorney. His desk was piled high with files, and his satchel bulged.

He'd finally left the office a little early in hopes of getting some work done in his study this afternoon. He sighed. Returning home was supposed to be a man's respite. But since Priscilla's arrival, it had been anything but. Between his attempts to avoid Miss Anderson while also trying to spend time with Priscilla, he felt a little like a prisoner in his own home. When Miss Anderson was in a particular room, he tried to avoid going in, while doing his best not to make it look intentional.

The young woman had done nothing wrong. It was
his
mistake. He was the one who had overstepped his bounds. Yet, if her behavior when he
did
see her was any indication, she seemed to have forgiven him completely, for which he was grateful.

And also not.

Because even as fleeting as those moments had been with her, and as silly as it sounded to him even now, he'd felt more of a connection with her in that brief space of time than he'd felt with Priscilla in months. Perhaps ever.

Which left him feeling like an entirely different kind of prisoner.

He glimpsed Priscilla briefly through the open doorway, her back to him. He'd told her she could redecorate, and it had seemed fitting since the house was going to be hers as well. But she was going far beyond anything he'd imagined. Replacing entire rooms of furniture? Furniture he liked?

“I found a borne settee this morning,” Priscilla continued, her voice overly dramatic as though she might swoon. “Rococo Revival period with rich damask fabric. I bought it immediately, of course, and believe it will work best right over . . .
there
. What do you think, Miss Anderson?”

The grandfather clock beside him ticked off the seconds.

“A borne settee?” Miss Anderson finally answered, her tone polite but clearly questioning. “That's a rather large and formal piece for a central parlor, Miss Sinclair.”

“Which is precisely why I bought it. This house is starved for elegance. My future husband is an attorney for now. But someday he'll be a judge, and I want this house to—”

Having heard enough—for his wallet, his respectability, and his patience—Aidan stepped back to the front door and opened and closed it again, louder this time.

Shushed whispers came from the parlor. Seconds later Priscilla waltzed through the doorway, arms outstretched as though they'd been separated for seven years instead of seven hours. She clasped his hand and offered her cheek for a kiss. He obliged, aware of Miss Anderson watching from the other room before she quickly looked away.

“Dearest.” Priscilla linked arms with him. “You're home early.”

Along with surprise in her voice, he also detected another quality, one that had a definite note of falseness to it. Aided by what he'd just overheard, he found himself viewing the woman in a somewhat different light, and he realized he'd heard that tone from her before. Many times. “I wasn't getting any work done at the firm, so I decided to come home and work here.”

“Wonderful! I'll ask Mrs. Pruitt to fix us some tea. We can sit on the front porch and visit for a while before you—”

He gently squeezed her hand. “I'm sorry, Priscilla, but I have two
very important cases coming up next week, and I must read through some briefs.”

Her smile faltered. She removed her hand from the crook of his arm. “Of course. You're busy. More so, it seems, than you were in Boston.”

“That's not true. I've—”

Knowing Miss Anderson could hear their conversation, even without trying, Aidan urged Priscilla into the sitting room to their left, then eased the door closed.

CHAPTER TEN

A
IDAN KEPT HIS VOICE QUIET, NOT WISHING FOR
M
ISS
A
NDERSON
to hear them. “Since you've been visiting, Priscilla, I've gone in late most every morning so we can spend time together. But I'm getting further behind, so—”

“I didn't realize spending time with me was such a burden, Aidan.”

He looked at her. “I didn't say that. What I'm saying is that my schedule here is every bit as demanding as it was in Boston.”

“But there's nothing for me to do here.”

His laugh held no humor. “Quite the contrary, from what I'm seeing. You're changing nearly every room in the house.”

“And can you blame me?”

Tempted to answer more honestly than was fair in the moment, he took a deep breath. “I don't blame you for being lonely. You haven't had the opportunity to make friends here yet.”

“These people are so . . . different from us. The land is handsome enough, I guess, as you said it would be. But all the rest . . .” She bowed her head, and the silence completed her thought with unmistakable clarity.

Still dwelling on the “different from us,” Aidan looked at the
woman beside him and heard the echo of another conversation from years earlier.

“My sweetheart, she's a pretty little thing. Hair all buttery and golden, like wheat in the summer sun. And kind too. She's a lady through and through, but she can hold her own, let me tell you that. Shoots as well as I do, baits her own hook. But can still cook up a mess of ham and biscuits the likes of which you ain't never tasted up north. Let me tell you, Boston, you're on the wrong side in more ways than one.”

Had Nashville known what a gift he'd possessed? In his family? In his sweetheart? How fortunate he'd been? Most people went through life without a fraction of that depth of love and commitment.

“But if everything in the world were such as this, where would the longing for heaven be?”

Like guarding a priceless nugget, he'd carried what Miss Anderson had said with him, taking it out now and again, examining it, then tucking it away again for safekeeping. As he did now.

It occurred to him then: he didn't even know the woman's first name.

“Come back to Boston with me for a few days, Aidan. It'll do you good.” Priscilla took hold of his hand, and her touch already felt foreign. “I know you miss it. I see it in your eyes.”

Knowing what she was seeing wasn't him missing Boston, but him missing Darby Farm—the way it had been before she arrived—he took his time in answering. “I can't,” he finally said. “My job is here now.”

“But you kept a home in Boston too.” Fragile hope lit her eyes. “And I know your former partners would welcome you back.”

He looked at her, then slowly shook his head.

“I leave in two days, Aidan. And I won't be back for a month. Perhaps even longer.”

He was fairly certain he heard an ultimatum, or at least a threat.
What bothered him most about that was how
un
bothered he was by it. “I understand. So we'll spend as much time together as my schedule allows before you leave.”

Her jaw went rigid, and she turned to go. He debated whether to say anything further, then decided it was best to get it out now rather than for her to try and lay the blame with Miss Anderson for having revealed a confidence.

“Priscilla.”

She looked back.

“Draperies and rugs are one thing. But not a stick of furniture leaves this house without my approval. Is that clear?”

Her blue eyes went cold. “Perfectly,” she whispered, then left the room and wordlessly ascended the stairs.

Feeling wearier than he had in ages, Aidan crossed the foyer and found Miss Anderson straightening the room, of all things. Taking books off the shelves and lining them up again, then smoothing her hand over the surface of the wood, presumably checking for dust. Although she seemed particularly intent on her job.

“I do have a housekeeper, Miss Anderson.”

The woman jumped nearly a foot into the air.

“I'm sorry,” he offered, the look on her face so comical it tempted him to grin. “I didn't mean to startle you. But . . . it seems I keep succeeding.”

“Yes.” Hand on her chest, she laughed. “You do.”

Her breathlessness told him he'd truly given her a fright. And as much as part of him wished he could ask her to stay and sit with him in this room and converse, or to walk outside with him to the old cabin, he knew better.

He gestured. “Miss Sinclair has gone upstairs for a while. So it might be best if you—”

“I was planning on leaving a little early today anyway, Mr. Bedford.”

She quickly gathered her things and had opened the front door when the question he'd fought to sequester finally won out.

“Miss Anderson . . .”

She looked back.

“You've worked here for several weeks, and I just realized—I don't even know your first name.”

She smiled, and he was certain the sunlight framing her from behind dimmed by a degree.

“Savannah,” she said softly, then closed the door as she left.

Several minutes passed before Aidan realized he was still standing at the front window, long after she'd turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

Later that night, unable to sleep and feeling a pressure building inside him, Aidan rose and went outside to the second-story porch to get some air. He filled his lungs with the tantalizing scent of fresh pine, the summer sweetness of honeysuckle, and . . . the stench of skunk.

He smiled, figuring that pretty well represented his life right now. And life in general. Some good along with the bad. But the bad surely made one more grateful for the good. And likewise, the bad surely had a way of ruining what was more pleasant.

He looked up into the star-studded night, heaven's canopy stretching forever all around him, covering him, making him feel both infinitesimally small and yet not without purpose. Because he was here among it all. And surely the One who had gone to such fantastic lengths to create this world wouldn't have plopped mankind down in the midst of it only to leave him to flounder without meaning, without guidance.

No, he'd been long convinced that the Creator had a master plan. Regardless of him not quite knowing what it was at certain times. Like at the present moment.

Aidan walked to the porch railing and looked out into the darkness, wondering about the man who'd lived here before him. The last Mr. Darby. Had he ever awakened at night, unable to sleep, unable to wrestle the anxiety inside him into submission? Had that man ever stared across the fields as he did now, asking for the Divine to whisper wisdom and discernment?

Nashville had spoken of having a girl back home. Someone much like Miss Anderson—
Savannah
—he'd bet. The way the soldier spoke about the girl, about his home and family, about the very land itself, had reached deep inside of Aidan that day and hadn't let go. Not even hours later when, on the battlefield, he looked over to see Nashville take a bullet to the chest. The young man lurched forward and fell face-down into the field of wildflowers. Aidan fought his way through the fray, trying to get to him. And when he finally did, he turned Nashville over, only to find him gasping, a hole ripped open in his chest.