6

Two months later

Seated in the dining room one week after the successful opening of Bennington Place Maternity Home, Olivia sipped her coffee and took a moment to reflect on the whirlwind mixture of highs and lows that had taken place over the past two months.

One of the highs, of course, was the realization of her dream, the opening of the maternity home. It had been a day to remember, with a fancy ribbon-cutting ceremony and refreshments for the select group of invitees who had attended.

Not long afterward, however, Olivia had experienced one of her worst lows on the occasion of Matteo’s first birthday. She spent most of the day crying, reliving every moment of the precious time with her newborn son, and the heartbreak of having to relinquish him to the Children’s Aid worker. She couldn’t help but wonder where he was now. Had his new family thrown him a party? Bought him presents?

In the midst of Olivia’s melancholy, Ruth had been wonderful. She had instructed their cook to bake a small cake in the boy’s honor, and after dinner that night, Ruth had placed a candle on top of the cake, and the two had celebrated Matteo’s special day. Remembering her son that way had helped Olivia feel closer to him and eased the raw ache in her heart just a little.

With a sigh, Olivia shook off the sad memories and looked across the table at Ruth. Gratitude filled her heart. Gratitude and . . . affection for the woman who had accepted a stranger into her home without judgment or condemnation.

Olivia might not have wanted to be Ruth’s salvation, but Ruth had definitely turned out to be hers. She’d saved Olivia from the ashes of destruction and breathed new life into her soul, giving her the opportunity to turn her hardships into something that could benefit others.

“I still can’t believe Bennington Place has become a reality,” Olivia said. “And that we already have two residents.”

Since their official opening one week ago, two women had found their way to them: Margaret, a young girl of eighteen, and Patricia, a woman in her mid-twenties.

“I know. And it’s only the beginning.” Ruth reached over to squeeze Olivia’s hand. “I’ve been rattling around this old house by myself for years now. Despite several offers to buy the property, I just couldn’t let it go.” She smiled, her gaze scanning the dining room’s velvet wallpaper. “Perhaps I was meant to put the house to good use and allow its loving walls to shelter those in need.” She pressed her lips together. “I think Henry would have agreed that Bennington Place is a fine idea.”

“I’m sure he would.”

Over the past weeks, Olivia had discovered that Ruth Bennington was a force to be reckoned with once she put her mind to something. She’d jumped right into making renovations to the house, hiring a contractor to add a new bathroom and reconfigure the layout of the bedrooms to make more room for potential residents. They now had six guest quarters with two beds each to start, plus a nice suite for Olivia. Still, it had involved a large outlay of money—one she hoped Ruth wouldn’t regret should the venture not go as planned. But the dear lady had assured her it was a risk she was willing to take.

“By the way, I’ve heard back from Dr. Henshaw,” Ruth said, stirring sugar into her coffee. “He’s agreed to be our doctor on call and is willing to offer his services for a small fee.”

“That’s wonderful. I know he’ll treat the women with kindness.” Just like he treated me. “But will he have time with working at the hospital as well as seeing his private patients?”

“He’ll make time. Mark Henshaw is a remarkable young man. Not only is he raising his younger brother, he also volunteers his services to those living in the Ward.”

“That is impressive.” Olivia knew the area well. Her parents thanked God every day that they hadn’t ended up in those slums like so many other immigrants.

“Of course,” Ruth continued, “we also need to find a reputable midwife. And hopefully our upcoming fundraiser will bring in a group of benefactors to help cover our operating costs. Speaking of which . . .” Ruth pushed the morning paper across the table with a broad smile. “We made the front page of The Daily Star.” She pointed to an article underneath the latest war news.

A photo of Bennington Place accompanied a caption that read Local Widow Opens Private Maternity Home in the Heart of the City.

Ruth beamed. “The reporter promised the story would be visible, but front and center? How marvelous! Think of how many people will learn about us now.”

Nerves skittered up Olivia’s spine at the thought of the extensive publicity their new venture would receive. It had taken every ounce of Ruth’s persuasion to ensure the reporter didn’t use the term unwed mothers in the headline, which might have garnered a negative reaction from the community. They certainly didn’t need that as they strived to get their project off the ground.

Olivia scanned the printed words beneath the photo, anxious not to find any mention of her name. She let out a relieved breath. As promised, she was only referred to as Mrs. Bennington’s partner. Olivia didn’t want anyone to associate Ruth’s name with a woman who’d been arrested and incarcerated at the Mercer Reformatory.

Ruth rose to clear the breakfast dishes from the table. “I do wish you would take more credit for our venture,” she said, as though reading Olivia’s thoughts. “After all, this is your vision more than mine. All I did was provide the location.”

Olivia stood and refolded the newspaper. “You did much more than that. Not only did you provide the capital for the renovations, but you also opened your home and your heart to me. I don’t know where I’d be without you.” She blinked hard as she pulled Ruth into a hug.

“You’re the one who saved me, Olivia dear.”

“Then for that, I’m grateful. You have too much life in you to give up.”

Ruth laughed. “God willing, I’ll have enough energy to see this project through.”

“You better.” Olivia grinned. “Because I can’t do all this by myself.”

Darius entered his office on the eighth floor of the downtown building and set his briefcase on top of the mahogany desk. As he did every day, he inhaled the smell of leather and ink and let out a satisfied sigh. This was what he’d been working so hard for. This beautiful office with its view of the city signified he was well on his way to the bright future he’d envisioned for himself and Sofia.

“Any idea what’s got the boss all worked up?”

Darius turned to see his colleague Kevin Caldwell in the doorway. His blond hair was more disheveled than usual, as though he’d been running his hands through it.

“No, I’ve been out most of the morning.” Darius crossed his arms. “What’s going on?”

“I swear there’s steam coming out of Walcott’s office.”

“Maybe I should schedule another meeting off-site.” Darius grinned. Their boss’s temper was nothing new. Each employee learned to deal with it in their own way. As the newest member of the Walcott team, Kevin had not yet found a coping method. Darius slapped the man on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. Whatever the problem, it will likely blow over by tomorrow.”

A door slammed down the hall. “Reed. My office. Now!”

Darius winced. “Then again, tomorrow is a long way off. Wish me luck.”

“You got it, pal.” Kevin poked his head around the door, looked left and right, then scurried off.

Darius braced himself as he approached the boss’s office and knocked on the door.

“Come in.” The familiar bellow allowed his nerves to ease. If Darius had committed some grievous error, the command to enter would have been laced with profanity.

“Is there a problem, sir?”

The older man turned toward him. “You tell me.” He slid a newspaper across the polished surface of his desk.

Darius moved forward to pick it up. After the first glance at the war headlines, he couldn’t determine what had Walcott so hot under the collar, but then the photo of a house caught his attention.

“The Bennington property.”

Mr. Walcott scowled. “How long have I been trying to get Widow Bennington to sell to me?”

“Years?”

“More than I care to count.” Mr. Walcott slapped a palm to the desktop. “And now this ‘young woman’ they mention in the article has convinced her to open a maternity home. Of all the harebrained—”

Darius glanced at the man’s reddened complexion and frowned. “Come on, sir. It’s not worth having a heart attack over.” Lately, with the man’s burgeoning waistline and his fiery temper, Darius feared for his superior’s health.

“What would make a woman pushing seventy want to play nursemaid to a bunch of pregnant women?” Mr. Walcott paced the area behind his desk. “She should be sitting in a rocking chair on a porch somewhere, knitting or playing bridge.” He smashed a fist into his palm. “None of this makes a lick of sense.”

Darius had to concede the man made a valid point. Still, getting upset enough to turn his face that shade of purple was a bit excessive. “Why don’t we sit down? Let’s put our heads together and see what other options we have.”

Walcott pierced him with a hard stare. “You think we still have options?”

“Of course we do. The Bennington mansion isn’t the only viable property in town. We can find another space worth purchasing.”

“I don’t want another property. That estate is in the perfect location. Think of the building complex we could put up there. I’ve had the blueprints for Walcott Towers in the vault for years, waiting for the Bennington property to open up.” Walcott rubbed his chin, a determined look coming over his features. “But you’re right, Reed. We still have options.”

Darius’s stomach began to churn. He knew that look, and it usually meant trouble.

“You are going to use your charms to convince Ruth Bennington that this maternity home is a terrible idea and that she should sell her house to us. With what I’m willing to pay her, she could open three homes in another part of town.”

Darius bit back an immediate rebuttal. What his boss said was true. If Mrs. Bennington sold to Walcott Industries, she would get top dollar and could easily open a more modern facility somewhere outside the heart of the city, which would make more sense for that type of establishment. How did the caption under the photo phrase it? A home for underprivileged women.

Darius held back a snort of disgust. He wasn’t an idiot. This so-called maternity home was meant to harbor morally corrupt women whose foolish life choices had landed them in trouble of their own making. Wouldn’t they rather be hidden away on the outskirts of town?

He skimmed the rest of the article. Black-tie event. $25 a plate fundraiser. Investors welcome. Proceeds will be donated to Bennington Place.

So Mrs. Bennington was looking for financial aid. That meant the whole enterprise could be on shaky ground.

“Did you read the entire article?” Darius asked.

“Of course I did. Why?”

“It sounds like the lady needs more capital and without it, she might not be able to stay in operation long.” Darius raised a brow. “We could use the black-tie event as an opportunity to warn any potential backers away from this venture.”

“Hmm. Good point.” Walcott plopped back onto his leather chair and rubbed his goatee, a sure sign that the cogs were turning. “Get yourself a tuxedo, boy. You and I are going to this shindig. Between the two of us, we should be able to persuade anyone foolhardy enough to attend not to waste their money.”

Darius kept his expression even, masking his dismay at having to attend another tedious affair, not to mention having to find suitable attire, since his usual good suit wouldn’t do for this event. Plus, it would mean another night he’d have to disappoint Sofia.

“In the meantime, I want you to pay the widow a visit. Get a feel for what’s really going on there and make a case for why she should consider selling. Use those persuasion skills you’ve picked up on our dime.”

Darius forced his lips into a smile, though it felt more like a grimace. Mr. Walcott took every opportunity he could to remind him that Walcott Industries was paying for the business courses he took on Saturday mornings—courses he needed to eventually earn his degree, which would hopefully merit a large raise, or maybe even a promotion. “Fine. I’ll call and arrange—”

“Don’t call. She’ll only refuse to see you. Go over unannounced. You’re much more likely to get in that way.”

Darius nodded. “Fine. I’ll go first thing tomorrow.”

He tugged his tie loose as he left the room. Arguing with a stubborn old widow would likely be a colossal waste of time, but if it kept the boss happy, then Darius would consider it a win.