7

The next morning, Olivia whipped the eggs into a frenzy in the ceramic mixing bowl, then poured them onto the hot skillet. It was the cook’s day off, and Olivia didn’t mind stepping in to fill Mrs. Neale’s shoes. In fact, she rather enjoyed it.

From the open kitchen window, the melodious sounds of the birds cheered her soul. Mornings were her favorite time of day, when everything seemed new and fresh, untainted by the events to come. She loved to sip her coffee as she helped in the kitchen and watch the sun rise over the hedges in the backyard, the stillness of the early hours creating a cocoon that suspended reality for a brief interval.

It was a time when Olivia could pretend that the tragedies in her life hadn’t happened and that she was still a young girl full of hope for the future. Not the jaded twenty-two-year-old she’d become.

The eggs sizzled and hissed, reminding her to stir them before they burned. Margaret and Patricia didn’t need their breakfast ruined, especially since Olivia was still trying to make a good impression on them.

Margaret sometimes seemed restless, unsure whether to stay or go. But Olivia hoped that with an outpouring of kindness, she and Ruth could convince her to stay.

She spooned the eggs onto a platter and turned off the heat. Glancing at the clock, she calculated the time remaining for the biscuits. Five more minutes should be perfect. Then she’d make tea for Margaret, who didn’t like her brew too strong. For Patricia, who preferred coffee, a fresh pot sat on the stovetop, filling the kitchen with a delectable aroma. Olivia had missed her favorite morning beverage while at the reformatory, where she’d been lucky to receive some lukewarm tea. Amazing how such small luxuries could be taken for granted.

The sound of chimes from the doorbell rang through the house. Olivia startled. Who would be coming here at this early hour? Her head snapped up. Maybe another woman in need had read about their home in the paper.

With fresh eagerness, Olivia hurried down the long hallway toward the front of the house, a fervent prayer on her lips. Lord, help me to be a welcoming face to whomever you’ve brought to us.

Putting on her best smile, Olivia opened the door. Her expression turned to a frown as she took in the dark-haired man on the porch. “Can I help you?”

The man scanned her from head to toe in one quick glance. Then his vivid blue eyes focused on her with an intensity that made her squirm.

“Um . . . yes,” he said. “That is, good morning. I’m looking for Mrs. Bennington.”

Olivia regarded the man’s pinstriped suit and the fedora perched at a jaunty angle over his forehead and stood more firmly in the door’s opening. “I’m afraid she’s not up yet. May I tell her who came by?” Hopefully he’d get her insinuation that it was much too early to be calling on anyone.

He chuckled. “Forgive me for arriving unannounced at this hour. But the matter I wish to discuss couldn’t wait. My name is Darius Reed. And I’d like to—”

“Olivia? Who’s at the door?” Ruth’s voice echoed from the hall behind her.

Olivia’s heart sank. Now she’d never get rid of him. Reluctantly, she opened the door wider. “A man named Mr. Reed. He wants to speak to you about something important. Or so he claims.” She speared the man with the glare she learned from Mamma when dealing with annoying customers.

The stranger only smiled. “Mrs. Bennington? My name is Darius Reed. I’d like to talk to you about . . . your new venture here.”

Olivia’s gaze narrowed. Something about that statement rang false.

Ruth stared at him, sizing him up, then nodded. “Very well, Mr. Reed. Join me for coffee?”

“I’d love to, ma’am.” He removed his hat and stepped inside.

Ruth turned. “Oh, forgive my manners. This is my partner, Miss Olivia Rosetti.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Rosetti.” He gave a slight bow, his eyes twinkling.

Obviously he expected her to be impressed, but she refused to be taken in by false charms. “Excuse me,” she said. “I have something in the oven.” Turning on her heel, she retreated down the hall to the kitchen.

Wisps of black smoke escaped from around the stove’s cast-iron door. No! Their uninvited guest had made her burn the biscuits. Grabbing a tea towel, she opened the door and waved away a wall of smoke, then grabbed the tray and set it on the stovetop with a sigh. All that remained were small blobs of charcoal. Definitely not edible. Everyone would have to settle for toast to go with the now-cold eggs. That and the leftover muffins from yesterday would have to do.

“Can I do anything to help?” A tentative voice came from the doorway.

Olivia swiped a hand across her forehead and looked up to see Margaret standing by the counter. Only eighteen years old, the girl seemed afraid of her own shadow. Olivia had yet to get her to open up about the circumstances that had brought her to Bennington Place, but she was patient. She’d wait until Margaret was ready to talk.

“How are you at making toast?”

The girl smiled. “I can manage without burning it.”

She handed the girl a knife to slice the loaf of bread. “Great. Because this morning I can’t say the same.”

Darius sipped the delicious brew and set his cup aside. “Best coffee I’ve had in ages,” he said to Mrs. Bennington, who was seated on the sofa across from him.

“All thanks to Olivia. She has a secret ingredient I’ve yet to get her to reveal.” The woman chuckled with obvious affection.

“A woman of many talents, I take it. Are you two related?” Darius had been astonished by the beautiful young woman who’d greeted him at the door. So much so that the speech he’d practiced on the way over had flown from his mind. Those big brown eyes under finely arched brows had mesmerized him, as did the upsweep of dark hair that accentuated those high cheekbones, those full lips . . .

Mrs. Bennington’s brows rose. “Do we look like we’re related?”

Heat crept up his neck. How did he answer that without insulting someone? Miss Rosetti definitely favored what he assumed was an Italian heritage, judging by her last name, whereas Mrs. Bennington couldn’t look more British. “It’s possible.”

“True. But no. We’re friends and now business partners.” She calmly set her cup on the coffee table. “What exactly would you like to know about our maternity home?” Her shrewd gaze landed on him without blinking.

“Well, for starters, I wanted to know what made you decide to start such a venture.” He didn’t add at your age, but she seemed intelligent enough to grasp his implication.

“I have my reasons. Personal ones that I need not disclose to you.” Her eyes narrowed. “May I ask what firm you represent? And what interest they have in our facility?”

He could lie. Pretend he was here as a potential investor. But lies didn’t sit well with Darius. If he expected his daughter to tell the truth, how could he do any less? He pulled a business card from his suit pocket. “I’m with Walcott Industries, ma’am. And I’m here to make you a proposition, one that could benefit you greatly and allow you to open two or more such maternity homes.”

The woman’s mouth turned down. “I highly doubt that, Mr. Reed, given the price of real estate in Toronto these days.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “That’s my point. If you moved your operation outside the city limits, you’d get a lot more property for your dollar. You could afford two houses easily with the profits you’d make from selling this place.”

A crash sounded in the hallway. Darius’s gaze swung to the doorway, where Miss Rosetti stared down at a platter of baked goods that were now scattered on the floor.

He jumped up and rushed to assist her.

Miss Rosetti looked past him. “Ruth, you’re not thinking of selling the house, are you?”

The older woman rose. “No, my dear. I most certainly am not.” She shot Darius a glare. “I was just about to inform Mr. Reed of that fact.”

He helped the younger woman scoop up what looked like blueberry muffins and heaped them on the platter, which had fortunately stayed intact.

“Please join us, Miss Rosetti,” he said. “I believe this conversation concerns you as well.” Perhaps she would see the merit of his offer once she learned all the details.

She set the plate on a side table and took a seat next to Mrs. Bennington.

Darius hesitated, gathering his thoughts before crossing the room. “I’m here on behalf of Walcott Industries to make you the following offer.” Reaching into his interior jacket pocket, he withdrew the papers that Mr. Walcott had drawn up. He placed them on the table in front of the women, then resumed his seat to wait while they read the short piece.

Miss Rosetti put a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide.

Mrs. Bennington, on the other hand, remained expressionless. A few seconds later, she straightened. “It’s a generous offer, there’s no denying that. Much more than the last time Mr. Walcott tried to entice me to sell. But you can tell your boss that my answer remains the same.” With one finger, she slid the paper across the table. “I respectfully decline.”

Miss Rosetti’s shoulders sagged in obvious relief.

“But why would you turn down that kind of money?” Darius couldn’t fathom her reluctance. She’d never get a better price for her property.

“This home belonged to my late husband and to his parents before him. It holds far too many memories for me to let it go.” Mrs. Bennington got regally to her feet. “I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time, Mr. Reed. Now if you’ll excuse us, we must get on with our day.”

His mind scrambled for something to make her change her mind. “Mrs. Bennington, if you’d just reconsider—”

“You heard her.” Miss Rosetti moved up beside the widow, color flooding her cheeks. “She said no.”

Interesting. It appeared the younger woman had taken on the role of protector. Not that Mrs. Bennington needed anyone to defend her. Which begged the question: What exactly was the relationship between these two?

“Good day, Mr. Reed.” Mrs. Bennington’s words were polite, but the look she gave him was pure steel.

Darius knew when to cut his losses. “It was a pleasure meeting both of you.” He gave a slight bow and left the room.

As he walked back to his car, his stomach sank. Mr. Walcott wouldn’t be happy at his lack of progress. Apparently Darius’s charms weren’t as effective as his boss had imagined.

Still, there was more than one way to achieve their desired outcome.

Darius’s thoughts turned to the black-tie event. Though he hated to give up an evening with Sofia, he had no choice. He needed to get to the bottom of this strange alliance, and by doing so, perhaps he could figure out a way to break it.